ABBITRAY

ABBITRAY
 
Why, oh why, didn't Great Aunt Claire tell anyone?
 
Now she's dead and no one will believe me.
 
Serves me right for snooping. I was curious to know what she had squirreled away in her attic, and I knew where her spare key was hidden, so I made a discreet visit. Or two. Okay, half a dozen. I really wanted to know more about my grandfather’s big sister. He never said much about her, and when he did, it was with the utmost respect, tinged with anxiety. When he disappeared three years ago, she was on my short list of suspects, but there were no clues to substantiate my paranoid ruminations.
 
Great Aunt Claire was just a tad eccentric, but we overlooked it because her cinnamon rolls were to die for, and she was very generous about sharing them with visitors.  
 
I enjoyed them as much as anyone, but I always hesitated before I bit into one. She was strangely evasive about her recipe, and I always suspected that there was a secret ingredient or two enhancing her culinary productions. Something that we might not be happy to know about. The older I got, the more I was inclined to wrap her offerings in a napkin, “to enjoy later”.
 
When I started my investigation of her house, I had no idea she had a deep dark secret she didn't want to take to the grave with her. She wrote a coded message and hid it in a book in her attic, confident that the family would paw through everything in search of priceless treasures. She might even have had an ulterior motive for teaching me me pig Latin when I was little. We had secret conversations about perfectly ordinary things like cows and jam and schoolteachers, and giggled a lot. But this message was nothing to giggle about.
 
Arleschay Dersonanay isyay away abbitray. Elphay imhay.
 
Charles Anderson is a rabbit. Help him.
 
Charles Anderson. My grandfather. Her baby brother. A rabbit. Really? 
 
His not-so-grieving second spouse, Ella, was still waiting patiently for him to be declared legally dead so she could access his RRSPs and go on a world cruise with her boyfriend. If it could be proved that Charles was still alive in the form of a rabbit, what would happen to his estate?
 
I knew I should leave well enough alone. But I couldn't.  
 
Time was running out. Uncle Mark, Great Aunt Claire's executor, had removed the items he considered of value, and commissioned a junk disposal firm to take care of the rest before the house cleaners came to prepare the property for sale. He was not one to worry about details like historical artifacts and tantalizing clues. Anything without commercial value was junk, and treated accordingly.
 
I had no desire to continue my investigation in the landfill, so I made the best possible use of the time I had. I ransacked Great-Aunt Claire’s place thoroughly for evidence of a resident rabbit. I peered into every dark corner and inspected every random sheet of paper, hoping for further clues. All my searching led me nowhere.
 
The day before the invasion of the junk disposal team, a rabbit came to my rescue.
 
He was sitting on the step of the back door when I slipped out the door, trying to be invisible. Even though Uncle Mark was planning to dispose of everything that remained in the house, it was off limits to everyone else. He enjoyed being in control. I wish he had turned into a rabbit instead of Grandpa.
 
“Grandpa!” I said softly. “Is that you?”
 
He said nothing.
 
“Flick your left ear for YES, and your right ear for NO,” I instructed, feeling like a complete idiot.  
 
His left ear flicked. My heart almost stopped.
 
Before I could say anything else, he squeezed between my legs and through the door, which was still ajar. He headed straight for the kitchen, with me hot on his heels.
 
After he made a couple of unsuccessful attempts to jump onto the kitchen counter, I lifted him up.  He edged over to one of the cupboard doors and stared at me expectantly. 
 
“There’s nothing here,” I said, opening the door. The shelves were bare…except for a battered canister labeled TEA. 
 
I put it on the counter and opened the lid. The rabbit stuck his face into it before I could investigate further, and then pulled back, sneezing repeatedly.
 
“Handle with care,” I cautioned him and myself before peeking inside. It was half full of a leafy powder, with a large tea ball and a folded piece of paper on top.
 
TIDOTEANWAY
 
I puzzled over that for a while. Finally, I decided that the word might be ANTIDOTE. Normally that would be ANTIDOTEWAY, but she must have decided that was too obvious.
 
IMMERSAY INWAY OTWAY UPSCAY OFWAY ISTILLEDAY ATERWAY ORFAY ALFHAY ANWAY OURHAY
 
Simmer in two cups of distilled water for half an hour.
 
I looked around the kitchen. There was no distilled water in sight, and all the saucepans had been removed except a battered one with holes.
 
“I have distilled water at home,” I said. “We’ll have to go there.”
 
I stuffed the tea canister into my tote bag. The rabbit was right on my heels when I walked the two blocks to my parked car. As soon as I opened the door, he jumped in and parked himself on the passenger seat.
 
I settled in my seat and closed the door. “Fasten your seat belt.” He showed no appreciation for my attempt at humour.
 
Second thoughts assailed me all the way home. My apartment building had a no pets policy. If I were caught bringing in a rabbit and claimed that it was my grandfather, I would be in deep trouble.
 
After I was safely parked in my spot, I stared at my passenger, who looked considerably calmer than I felt. “Are you sure you’re my grandfather?” I asked desperately.
 
His left ear flicked.
 
“Okay. I’ll have to hide you under my coat. If someone sees you, I’ll be evicted.”
 
No one saw me climb the stairs to my third floor walk-up, which was a good thing, because the lopsided outline of my belly would have generated some questions. I was shaking with relief when I finally locked my door behind us.
 
“I suppose you want me to make some of this … brew,” I said.
 
Left ear flicked.
 
“It could be dangerous. Are you sure?”
 
Left ear flicked.
 
“Okay,” I said. “It will take a while. Make yourself at home. If you need to use the bathroom, it’s right over there.” I pointed to the half-open door. I had no idea how a rabbit would make use of the facilities, but decided to leave that problem for him to solve.
 
My guest settled on the couch while I measured the distilled water, brought it to a boil, filled the tea ball with the TIDOTEANWAY, immersed it, and set the timer. The next thirty minutes were excruciatingly long.
 
When the timer dinged, I turned off the stove, set the pot on a trivet, and removed the tea ball. I sniffed the mixture suspiciously. It smelled of tree bark with an overtone of violets. Not great, but not the noxious mix had imagined.
 
I found a small bowl in my cupboard and held it up. “Will this work?”
 
Left ear flicked.
 
I filled the bowl and put it on the floor.
 
“Come and get it!”
 
It took over three bowls of brew before anything happened. I was ready to quit after two, but my guest insisted.
 
He was half-way through the fourth one when he collapsed on the floor, unconscious, upsetting the bowl. I cleaned up the mess and laid him gently on the couch.
 
“Sleep well,” I said gently. “We tried our best.”  I picked up my phone and googled “Animal cremations”.
 
I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and gasped. The rabbit was still unconscious, and unresponsive to my frantic questions, but there was a lot of activity going on under his fur.
 
The metamorphosis took about about half an hour. Then the rabbit’s mouth opened wide and a miniature woman crawled out, naked, leaving a pile of limp fur behind.
 
“Do you have a scarf or something I can wrap myself in?” she asked.
 
“You’re not my grandfather. You said you were my grandfather.”
 
“I thought you would be more responsive if you thought I was,” she said. “Just get me something to cover myself, and I’ll explain everything.”
 
I brought her my second-best scarf, navy imitation silk with an abstract pattern. She folded it around her.
 
“Who are you?”
 
“Your grandmother, Madge Anderson. Gramma Margie.”

“You can’t be. She’s dead. I was at her funeral.”
 
“Charlie just pretended. He bribed the funeral director. It seemed like the least embarrassing way out of his dilemma.”
 
“You turned into a rabbit?” I knew that was impossible, but it was the only explanation that made sense, and the newcomer was the spitting image of my beloved Gramma.
 
She nodded.
 
“How?” I asked.
 
“Claire’s cinnamon buns – remember how delicious they were?”
 
“Oh yes,” I breathed. “Real mood-boosters.”
 
“She added special herbs to make them irresistible. Unfortunately, she did not realize the consequences of an overdose.”
 
“Shape-shifting?”
 
“Charles was out of town, and I suspected that he was seeing someone else. I was massively depressed. Claire came over for tea and brought a dozen cinnamon buns. She had one and I had one, and we talked for a while. After she left, I had another one. One thing led to another, and I ate them all. When Charles came home, I felt on top of the world. We went to bed together and had glorious sex. When I woke up, I was a rabbit.”
 
“I remember now. Grandpa got a pet rabbit after your funeral. They went everywhere together. It disappeared after he married Ella.”
 
“She was jealous of me. And I wasn’t too fond of her either. He just married her because he needed somebody to cook and do his laundry. So I left.”
 
“And then—“ I guessed. “Then Charles got depressed and binged on Claire’s cinnamon buns.”
 
“Yes. He went looking for me and found me. We have a burrow on Claire’s property. She was mortified when she figured out what happened, and started working on an antidote. But Charles wouldn’t touch it. He said he was perfectly happy living the simple life with me. I reminded him that rabbits have a much shorter lifespan than people, but he didn’t care.”
 
“But you wanted more …?” I hazarded.
 
“Yes. When Claire died, I thought all hope died with her. But I noticed that you were coming to the house, so I took a chance. Thank you.”
“You’re less than two feet tall,” I said. “How will you manage?”
 
“I don’t know. But it’s better than being a rabbit.”
 
“What about Grandpa? He’ll miss you.”
 
“I’m sure he’ll find a replacement. If he really cared for me, he would never have married that witch.”
 
So now I have a canister of herbal TIDOTEANWAY, a Lilliputian roomie, and a story that is sure to land me in a psychiatric facility. Gramma Margie is eating everything in sight, and assures me that she will grow to normal size in time. Even if she doesn’t, I’m glad she isn’t dead. I always feel happier after talking to her. She’s better therapy than any number of cinnamon buns.