The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee Read Free

into this world on a sea of love. You cruised through calm waters and berthed, with scarce a ripple, into our hearts.” He started to reach over again, but thought better of it. “And there, my sweet mariner, you remain. Docked in love.”
    At one time Rich Uncle Brian was just Uncle Brian. But then he became rich and bought a yacht. Since then he occasionally uses nautical imagery, some would say to excess. I’m surprised he doesn’t call me his sea cucumber.
    I finished my burger and digested his remarks. They were easier than the burger.

    â€œDad?” I said. “Mum says I came into this world accompanied by pain, blood, and tears, yet Rich Uncle Brian says I cruised through calm waters and berthed in everyone’s hearts. Who is right?”
    I’d had to tap Dad on the shoulder and get him to take off his headphones. He was sitting in his office in the shed.
    Dad spends a lot of time in the shed. He leaves for work at seven-thirty and doesn’t come home until five at the earliest. Dad is self-employed. He has a white van with HOME BYTES custom-painted on the sides. Underneath there is a picture of an electronic gizmo and smaller letters: COMPUTER UPGRADES AND REPAIRS. I COME TO
YOU . He sometimes does work for the local government, but mostly he visits people’s homes and fixes their computers.
    When he gets home he heats up his dinner in the microwave (Mum is usually in bed by this time) and then sometimes he takes his remote-controlled airplane to our local park. He likes his remote-controlled plane. Dad says he enjoys the way he can control everything that it does. He says it is a welcome contrast to the rest of his life, but when I ask him to explain further he never says anything.
    Occasionally I go with him and watch the plane as it ducks and weaves around the branches of the trees. It is relaxing. Most of the time, though, I don’t watch the plane. I watch Dad. His head arches back as he follows the flight pattern and his hands move quickly and with assurance over the control pad. He never talks and his eyes are always toward the sky.
    Normally Dad’s muscles are tight and his eyes are sad, like those pictures of abused puppies you sometimes see in advertisements for the SPCA. They look resigned to the harshness of life, as if ill-treatment is an inescapable fact. But when he flies . . . when he flies, his muscles unknot and his eyes soften. He has the appearance of someone entirely at peace.
    Most evenings, however, he heads out to his office in the shed. It is a cozy office, even though every surface is littered with machine bits. There is a bar fridge in a corner, and he often has a beer while he types away on one of the computers. He has two huge screens on his desk. I don’t know why he needs two. To be honest, I don’t reallyknow what he does in there all the time. But sometimes I like to watch while he works.
    The computers don’t have the same effect on Dad as the plane. His shoulders are hunched and one foot taps away on the concrete floor. So I don’t really watch him. One of his machines has a clear plastic case with lights that flash on and off and I fix on that. The colors are red, blue, orange, and green and they make patterns that don’t repeat. They are beautiful and much better than television.
    Dad looked at me. His headphones hung around his neck like strange jewelry.
    â€œYour uncle Brian . . .” he said. If I was being particularly literary, then I suppose I should write “he spat.” But I couldn’t see any phlegm, so I think I will err on the side of precision. Dad took a deep breath and started again. “Your uncle is not the most reliable person in the world.” Dad never refers to Rich Uncle Brian as his brother, or Brian, or even Rich. It’s always “your uncle.” They have a history.
    â€œYes, but what’s
your
view, Dad?” I asked.
    His eyes flicked to the