Mitochondrial Curiosities of Marcels 1 to 19 Read Free Page A

like cigarettes. Thank god he didn’t quit smoking because how lame would that be, to quit and die anyway. I try to make my face heavy against the computer keys.
    A new chant starts up, something like
parcha parcha oh oh oh
. It’s now or never. The cardboard box is easy to open but there’s a black plastic box inside that’s not, then there’s the plastic bag of ashes all sealed up with a metal tag. Dad, I hope this doesn’t screw up your next life. The tag’s impossible and the chanting’s almost in my ear, so I stab a pen into the bottom corner of the bag and pull until there’s a decent hole. His coffee cup is empty, hopefully because it was a fabulous final cup. There’s dust and panic but I get three quarters of a cup of Dad before the invasion.
    It’s one of my quicker exits. Rita and I slip by each other, her looking at the suitcase I’m carrying in one hand, me focused on keeping the cup in my other hand out of sight. There are longsticky words, but no one tries to hug me, and I get to the kitchen unscathed.
    I think seriously of taking his cappucino machine, but it takes up half of the counter, so, really. There’s a toonie on the table and also Rita’s purse. It’s more of a bag, really, no major clasp on top or anything. Anyway, Rita’s all about Buddhism which I think means nothing’s real. Also, don’t be attached.
    So, wow. Five tubes of Lancôme lipstick. Two things of pills, possibly convenient, but no, she’d notice. She’s got coupons and a daytimer, her phone and a book that features a suspiciously happy woman on its gold foil cover.
Heavenly Riches
. Talk about tacky. One zippered pocket with change. The other one jammed with paper. No, not paper. Well, yes, paper – but envelope paper. Two teeny white envelopes. For me. Me, Rita, not you. One envelope is empty with symbols on the front, which I so totally get. The other is blank with something small and hard inside. Thank you, Dad. Thank you. A key. A tiny key. Way to go. I totally get this, Dad. First clue, last clue. We’re in business.
    â€˜I can take the bus,’ I tell George, but all five guys get up at once and put their coffee cups together on a side table. ‘Take ’er easy, buddy,’ they say to each other and everyone pats George’s shoulder and nods at me. My face is wet, so I must be crying, but my mind’s too fixated on the key for emotions. I’ve got to move. The last thing I see in House of Rita is Leonard’s grey sweater hanging on the coat rack. Outside, I let the cold air snap me into place. George comes out, and I give him the suitcase and say I’ll be right back. ‘All set?’ he says when I come back out with the sweater. He’s wiping his eyes and I don’t have to say anything all the way home.

The Treasure Hunt
    Go ahead, people. Scoff. Treasure Hunt sounds très lame, I’m not saying it doesn’t, but who cares about terminology. Treasure Hunts mean 1) several clues in public places; 2) random prizes; 3) fun!; 4) secret cleverness. My father was a TH genius. This afternoon, most of him was sprinkled around his barbecue, but some of him was sprinkled around:

    That was the main clue he left me. That and a key I shouldn’t get too excited about but am because that’s what you do when that’s all there is. It’s hanging around my neck until I find the lock. In Churchill Square (Get it? Church + hill + square), I look under the trees, on the stairs, all over the statue and find the usual sinister nothingness the square is known for. What finds me is the saddest security guard in the world. ‘Looks like we’re getting more snow,’ he says. I sprinkle my cup of Dad as I go. Talk about poignant. I check all the old places. Nothing.
    For your own TH:
    1. Put Clue 1 on Facebook or hand it to people if everyone’s starting together. Let’s say Place 1 is the