He drove on through the rolling flatness of the country towards Minnesota. Recent snow had covered everything, giving it a peaceful appearance, but left the road a bit slick. Max's attention was running on reserve and was only sustained by the excitement that grew as he recognized certain landmarks: a town called Blooming Prairie, the signs, which towered above him and indicated the crest of a flood in 1972, as he crossed the river, and the Dairy Queen, where his school bus had miraculously stopped one warm spring afternoon.
Finally he was on the home stretch. He turned into the long drive, went up the hill, and pulled to a stop. Before he felt ready to get out and reacquaint himself with his legs, he looked around at the quiet grounds and the massive brick building where he had begun his life. He took a deep breath, got out of the car and walked toward the door of the old house, returning home now to start a new life.
He saw that the door was obscured by a cloud of light snow. As he approached, the snow settled slowly and a figure in boots emerged. The figure leaned on a shovel and looked at him from between a red scarf, drawn high on the nose, and a wool hat pulled down to, but not over, the eyebrows. Max saw the eyes grow wide and then he heard a muffled voice shout the words, "Mr. Max, you're back."
The snowman was revealed to be Victor, who, for as long as Max could remember, had been his father's assistant. Even as a child, he had thought of Victor as impossibly old and yet here he was, throwing snow all over the place and lifting him off the ground in his embrace.
Max had always believed that Victor had another name and that C.J., as a joke, just called him Victor, after Victor Frankenstein. When he was young and hanging around the garage, Max would hunch himself over and limp to Victor's side and ask, in a hoarse voice, "Tonight, Master? Tonight?" And Victor would turn to him and, stroking his thin mustache, answer, "No, Igor. How many times do I have to tell you? Tomorrow night!"
Once inside the big house, Max dropped his suitcase and coat next to a collection of canes standing in an ornate champagne cooler. Victor removed a few layers of clothing, looked into the mirror, and tried to arrange his hair. He shook his hands at his side to get his circulation going. Max saw that he was impossibly old - round face with uncountable wrinkles, wild white hair and eyebrows, large hairy ears, a couple of chins, and piercing eyes of deep blue.
Victor was neither thin nor heavy but he was very tall and stood with a posture that made Max, who was no slouch, stretch a bit. Though Victor was old - how old Max had no idea - he seemed to have more energy than Max or anyone Max had ever met. Victor bustled around for a moment getting warm and then he drew himself together and seemed even taller.
In a strong voice, he said, "Max, it's good to see you. I've been waiting for you. I knew that you'd be back after you got all that stuff out of your system. Thank God, you're done. Now we can get back to work. It will be just like the old days."
Max was about to say something but Victor interrupted him.
"Max, let me do my Holmes on you." He stepped back and turned his searchlights on the young man, who, with a smile, executed a graceful twirl and took a few steps back and forth.
"Ah ha!" Victor exclaimed dramatically. "Uh huh. Your name is Max Colvin. You are twenty-eight years old. You have dark hair and brown eyes. You are of a respectable height, though you could do without a few pounds. You have a gracious, casual manner. Your shoes need polishing. Your expression, right now, is a mix of tolerance and amusement. You have one suitcase and no hat and you are still driving that old car. Quite astute of me, eh?" He chuckled. Then he held out his hand to stop any further developments and said, "But now, for real."
Victor closed his eyes. His white eyebrows huddled in concentration and then, as if he were in truth shining a light, he opened his eyes and said, "You have been reading a book you aren't sure you want to finish. Last night, no, yesterday at lunch, you had Moo Shoo Pork and perhaps a glass too much sake. You've had your hair cut for the first time in a long while. You still play the guitar. You have no girlfriend. You've eaten more than your fair share of candy and you recently had a cold." He smiled, quite pleased with himself. "How'd I do?"
Max shook his head, unbelieving. "Amazing. What's the secret?"
"It's elementary, my dear Max. When you are as old as I am, you know a few things."
"Just how old are you?" Max said, casually.
"I'm not telling, you crafty little boy. I'm trying to create a sense of mystery. Is it working?"
Max's mother joined them at this point and, without a word, embraced him and held on to him tightly. Max looked over her gray curls at Victor whose old eyes seemed to be suddenly watering from the heat in the great hallway.
His mother had changed little in the six years he had been gone. It's true her hair was grayer but her eyes shone in the same way and her voice was clear and conveyed a strength that warmed his heart. She had been alone these last six years but that had not stopped her from moving forward. In her letters, she had kept him up to date on her activities. She had traveled on horseback through the mountains of Peru. She had taken up painting and one of her bright landscapes was a prized possession of Max. She also oversaw the organization that had resulted from C.J.'s many inventions. She had kept her curiosity intact and her calm energy seemed endless.
She welcomed Max home with an obvious delight and after they had talked for a short time and after she had gotten a good look at him, she, with a mother's firmness and affection, sent him straight to bed for a most needed nap.
That night, over dinner, Max filled his mother in on the state of his health and the state of his love life, the two things she was most interested in. Neither took much explaining.
"I can drive all night without going off the road and I haven't had a cold in two years." He knocked lightly on the table.
His mother nodded her approval and asked, "What about love, Max?"
"Mom, I only saw three girls the whole time I was in Wyoming."
"Tell me about them."
Max was embarrassed.
"Max, you know how I feel about romance."
"Mom, this was not romance. One worked at the Frosty Freeze and had a boyfriend named Big Darryl. And the other two were twins who blinked a lot. All three of them chewed gum constantly."
"Well Max, there's someone out there. I know it. Just keep looking."
He then repeated the reasoning he had put forth in his last letter concerning his decision to return home and pursue what seemed to be his destiny. He looked at his plate. He thought it odd that his destiny should end up in the same place where he had started out, but he was young and had a lot to learn. His mother patted his hand and said as much.
She told him that his room was ready and waiting for him but Max surprised her by saying that he would be staying out in the garage with Victor, if Victor would have him. He had decided that if he was really going to pursue this inventing, then he must be ready at any hour of the day or night for inspiration to shake him by the shoulders and shout at him, "Get to work." She was sorry he would not be staying with her, but she understood and approved.
The garage was actually a separate building set off from the main house amid a green cloud of pine trees. It was long and low and built into the side of the hill with a rough stone foundation and several chimneys. Both his father and his grandfather had spent their entire working lives in this building. The thought sobered him a little.
The inside of the garage was a well-lit, high-ceilinged cavern on whose floor rested a maze of workbenches covered with what, to the untrained eye, appeared to be an unlimited collection of junk. The walls held several large blackboards covered with inscrutable equations and short inspirational messages like "I wouldn't trade spots with a leopard" or "Blackjack's Pizza 338-2453". There was an odor to the place that had always been like perfume to Max and the room, even when empty, seemed to hum with activity.
Upstairs there were two rooms and a bathroom. These had been Victor's living quarters since before Max was born. Now, if Victor agreed, he would have company.
After dinner, Max walked through the cold dark air to the garage to ask Victor if he would like a roommate. As he stood before the big door, he shivered a little with anticipation. Then he knocked loudly and entered.
The place was exactly as he remembered it except that there seemed to be even more junk inside. He remembered his father once saying to him, "Max, someday this will all be yours." At the time, Max had laughed and his father had also. But now, it really was all his and he didn't know if it wasn't more of a burden than a gift.
He had just started looking for Victor at one end of the huge room when, with a loud noise and a rush of air, the old assistant flew past him, screaming with an insane pleasure and flapping his arms like a bird.
Max ducked and started laughing. It was good to be back...
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