Reginald’s Saturday Morning Surprise

By Rachael Watson

“Reginald!”

At ten years old, I was well-versed in my mother’s acoustic range and recognized this dangerous pitch. I peered out from under my covers—the clock announced “8:00 a.m.” in bright red. On a Saturday morning. Why was I already in trouble?

Panic pulsated through me. I sprang out of bed, landed with two feet solidly on the hardwood floor, and raised my hand in a crisp salute. Mother opened the door. At sight of my soldierly pose, indignant anger brewed in her eyes. I yanked my hand back down.

“Reginald? What do you have to say for yourself?” Mother had been in the kitchen; I could tell by her orange flowered apron and the smell of burnt pancakes that wafted in with her.

“Is this about the tadpoles?” I’d offered tadpoles refuge in our fridge from the unseasonable heat yesterday, to avoid a boiled catastrophe. It had required emptying out the pickles to find a suitable jar, but no one ate pickles in our family anyway.

“Tadpoles? No, it’s about that.” Raising her spatula, with crispy burnt pancake bits clinging to it, she pointed behind me.

I turned my head, clearing the sleep from my eyes. The top of a massive wooden object loomed outside my half-open window, framed by rippling white curtains. It was a horse. Its nose filled my window, giant twin nostrils resting on the ledge.

“Oh, that.” Not the tadpoles.

“How do you explain it?” Her strained voice warbled.

“Expertly crafted. Approximately the height of a two-story house, solid wood, perhaps built to imitate an animal of the equestrian family.” I strove to be factual.

“I can see all that, Reggie. How did it get into our backyard? On today of all days, too!”

“I cannot say how it arrived. Wait, what is happening today?” Anything but Aunt Gladys visiting with her pungent perfume.

“Your father’s university coworkers are coming over—the entire philosophy department!” It occurred to me that they were probably better qualified to argue the origins of the particular species in our backyard than I was, but I chose not to share that opinion.

“For breakfast?” I tried to divert her thoughts from the massive lawn ornament.

“Brunch!”

“Brunch? Why not dinner?” An honest inquiry, I was truly perplexed.

“Who knows with these academics, Reginald? You have exactly fifty-five minutes to get rid of that.” She wiggled her spatula toward the horse, then slammed the door shut.

I frantically ran to the window and shoved it fully open. Large, beady glass eyes stared at me from their perch at the top of the enormous nose. This was not the weekend mischief I had anticipated.

The detail on this wooden specimen was impressive. The horse even had a flowing chestnut mane. I clambered out the window, knobby knees and elbows catching on the harsh edges, and launched myself onto the apparatus, landing smack between its eyes. Scrambling up the forehead and down the neck, I settled on the broad space of its back.

Next door, my neighbor Carlos leaned out of his bedroom window. His eyes bugged out at the sight of me on my steed. I waved, and he quickly retreated inside, shutting his window.

“Fifty minutes, Reginald!” My mother yelled from the kitchen window, fanning smoke from the charred bacon.

I carefully inspected my ride for any clue regarding its purpose. On the right hindquarter, I saw Epeius expertly carved. Sounded Greek to me. Perhaps the maker?

Inspired by the hollow wooden horse myth, I decided to knock.

Knock, knock, knock.

Pigeons cooed mockingly from our fence.

Knock, knock, knock.

My knuckles smarted.

The word Epeius creakily lifted into the air, and a man, diminutive in stature, peered out from a hidden hatch.

“Yes?” His accent was thick, and he appeared dressed for battle, wearing a bronze helmet with a red plume waving in the breeze.

“Good morning. May I ask what you’re doing here?”

“We’re a gift for you!” A second man enthusiastically popped up beside the first, helmet askew. “Happy Birthday!”

“It’s not my birthday.” I blinked.

The first man shoved his unhelpful comrade back down the hatch. “Sir, where are we?” He lifted his chin confidently, but I saw confusion in his eyes.

“North America.” I decided any more particulars wouldn’t be helpful. He looked around, a deep furrow forming in his brow.

“Could you direct us towards Troy?” he inquired over loud whispers from inside the horse.

“REGGIE! They’re all early!” Mother frantically bellowed from the patio door. She wouldn’t be able to see the Greek from her angle. Regardless, time was up. I could not easily manipulate the clock or this wheeled monstrosity full of confused ancients.

The Greek leaned forward. “Your commanding officer?”

“Worse, my mother, and she is not pleased.”

“Did you lose her goats?” The second Greek had escaped from below again.

“I’m ruining a breakfast party with important guests.” I put my head in my hands. Hopefully none of the guests wanted pickles.

“A gathering at breakfast?” The first soldier frowned in dismay. His compatriot seemed equally appalled.

“Academics.” I shrugged, and they nodded empathetically. Their sympathy presented an opportunity, and I abruptly decided to seize it. “Men of courage, I require your assistance. Provide it, and I pledge to find a way to return you to Troy.”

The two Greeks put their helmets together and privately consulted. I glanced down, checking for stray professors.

“We will help.” The first man solemnly placed his hand over his breastplate.

“Yes, but what should be done about your mother’s goats?” the second man chirped.

My mind whirred, a solution forming. It required curtains.

That is how my mother came to have a performance of Homer’s Iliad featuring myself, my curtains, and thirty ancient Grecians as brunch entertainment. The academics marveled at the actors’ impeccable costuming and enthusiastic depiction of Troy’s demise. To my great relief, no one asked for pickles.

Eventually, the horse was gifted to the correct recipients.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rachael Watson has spent her whole life hopelessly lost in the world of stories. From a sobbing sixteen-year-old finishing The Return of the King by J.R.R. Tolkien, to dancing on stage professionally, to creating bespoke adventures for her children, she enjoys pulling on the imaginative strings of “what-ifs” to see where the unraveling takes her. Rachael drinks her coffee black but loves a milky cuppa Yorkshire tea.

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