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As a young duck, Donald relished in the unknown. Creatures of archaic origins and Beagle Boys crunched under his temper. This was an appropriate method in approaching a life like his. He had known pretty and fickle women. He still felt the sting of her slap on his right cheek as she sped off on her unicycle. Zealous protectiveness was a hindrance to his adventurous lifestyle.
All it had taken to reverse twenty-five years of reckless, impulsive, and heartbreaking behavior was a lunar goddess' spear, a missing twin sister, and three, suddenly orphaned, toddlers.
His misadventure filled world had thrust him into another he was ill prepared for.
He fought the Beagle Boys until his knuckles were bruised bloody. A kraken's tentacle was frozen in his freezer, preserved for a late night snack. Donna's scent, the touch of her feathers, and the sound of her voice were recalled in fond abstract. It was how most old flames existed in memory.
Donald handled it. He handled it and came out on top. He handled it and came out on bottom.
All it had taken to reverse twenty-five years of reckless, impulsive, and heartbreaking behavior was a lunar goddess' spear, a missing twin sister, and three, suddenly orphaned, toddlers.
Della sold him his greatest misadventure, and what she left behind too tiny, too fragile, and indescribably heavy for him to handle on his own.
Two weeks passed.
Two weeks was not long enough to declare her dead. It would take the DPD and FBI seven years to officially declare Della Duck dead, when none of her living relatives were able to provide evidence to the contrary.
But it was still early for Donald to presume her as such. It had happened in a moment, a flash, and pebbles stood by in its wake. He didn't need more to declare anything else.
Two weeks passed, but not in silence.
For two weeks journalists hovered near the mansion, as close as they could get without welding the iron gates. For two weeks investigators, police officers, and FBI agents hounded them for information. She had been a decorated officer of the United States Air Force. Her uncle was the richest duck in the world.
Donald watched the commotion as if he were in the movies. He sat and watched, unable to alter any scene, unable to do anything. When asked, he provided information. His information was truthfully scant.
Once his inefficiency was realized, nerves compelled his stomach to lurch in anger. The lead investigator winced at the vomit staining his leather shoes. Donald didn’t apologize. He wasn’t sorry.
Two weeks extended to a month, a month into six months. There were social worker visits. An innocuously kidnapped judge made the final verdict. Paperwork needed to be signed. Living in the mansion wasn't an option, and when he slammed the door, when he gathered the last of their toys Della had left at the mansion, Donald didn't look back.
He drove his car to Hookbill Harbor. He made home there, and that's where home was. He shuttled away every little thought, every little complaint, but he couldn't forget a matter of unattended business.
"You can't do it alone, Donald." Goofy wasn't an expert, but was the closest to an expert he could afford. Mickey wasn't available. Not that he wouldn't come. If Donald asked, he'd be at the house boat in ten minutes, and Mouseton was a forty-five minute drive. His willingness wasn’t a question.
Donald needed endurance. He needed someone to handle it, and Goofy could.
"Well, yeah, I have." Goofy swaddled Huey in a red blanket, gently rocking him back into his cot beside Dewey and Louie. He usually sensed when the hand holding his spine was about to release. It was the trigger to set him off, but Huey stayed quiet, sucking his thumb as Goofy tucked him in.
"You don't have to." Donald stared down at his coffee. Hazelnut cream and sugar lightened the shade, and on the side, the mug read I Love Utah. He couldn't bring himself to drink despite the clinging bags underneath his eyes, "And besides, Maxie will be hanging with Peg and Pete, and you said Grandma Duck was willing to babysit."
"Yeah, Goofy, Grandma is ninety-seven years old.”
“And doesn't look a day over 53."
“I don’t have to go. Scrooge’s paying the rent as far as I know.” The warmed coffee nipped at his bill, “Plus, he probably owns the complex by now.”
“It isn’t like he’s going to take her things out, is he? And didn’t you say you needed to get more of the boys’ things?”
Donald groaned, “Then I’ll buy more things, Goofy.”
“With what money?” Where others would’ve stopped in horror as Donald flinched, Goofy continued without much thought. His coffee mug swished around, spilling drops on the napkins on the table, “Free baby stuff is free baby stuff, and it ain’t really free, it’s theirs. And you’re going to need a lot of it.” He nodded sagely, gulping his coffee down without pause.
Admitting fault was easy when it was Mickey, "I suppose you're right." It was easier to forget how practical Goofy was.
“Maxie hasn’t been put down for his nap yet, and I reckon he’ll be napping by time I get back, if Pete has anything to say about it.”
Goofy finished his mug and dipped into the sink. Staring at his own, Donald realized his mug wasn’t even half-empty.
St. Canard was where Della F. Duck stationed following her honorable discharge from the United States Air Force. Grebe Grove was located in St. Canard’s Seventh District. Far from the hood, far from the suburbs; it was practically smacked in the middle of the metropolitan madness. It was how Della liked it.
Donald understood, or he thought he did. Della's apartment was more of a base than a home. Her pride was the red tape surrounding her infinite admiration and affection for Scrooge. It was the reason why she refused to move in with him despite the advantages it offered.
Her reasons didn't phase Donald when he knocked on the landlord's door. Those intrusive thoughts didn't bother him as the landlord handed him a copy of the keys. These formal, proper, and mundane tasks were tedious to her, and would've bored her to tears, or possibly death. Whichever one came first, she used to say.
Donald asked about rent. “Oh, no, we’ve already received a more than sufficient amount.” That explained things. What about her P.O. Box? “It does need to be re-freshened. No one has stopped by to clean out the junk mail.” Calling the post office made it to the middle of his list, and he didn’t feel up to reminding them if they’d forgotten. He certainly didn’t want to explain the circumstances. He wasn’t sure how well communications were with Duckburg and St. Canard. He didn’t intend to find out.
He wanted to clean the essentials.
He hadn't visited in over a year, and this meant he couldn't recall with clarity what the apartment was like before. Plastic toys were stacked to the sofa's side in the living room. Plastic toys were littered in front of the television. A small table stood in the kitchen, four seated. A stale oceanic freshness carried through the air vents.
Goofy came behind him with the totes, buckets, and bags, "Gawrsh, looks cleaner than I thought."
"Hey!"
"Della wasn't a cleaner, Donald." He started with the living room, picking and choosing the toys on the floor, "Someone got here before us. Who'd you think?"
"Cleaning crew Scrooge hired." Scrooge would spend, occasionally, if it meant squashing his guilt, or that was what passed through Donald's mind as he went to the bedroom.
Goofy was right. She cleaned the boys' room, made sure every single item was in its place, and he expected that. His sister was a cluttered minded woman, and she maintained a respectable distance between her boys and her clutter. But her room. Donald paused and sighed. Her room was a labyrinth of old papers and dusty books. It didn't matter she had been missing for six months. This disaster of a room preceded it by at least several years.
The living room was untidy. The boys' nursery was tidy. To compensate the balance, Della's room was ruthless. Books on top of books piled came to gether on the floor, and each book was decorated with neon-colored sticky notes. He noticed the scribbled handwriting, and kicked towards down to make it to the room's opposite side.
"Jeeze Dumbdella," he grumbled and plopped down on the bed. A soft crunch welcomed his bottom, and his eyes widened at the weak fabric. What he sat on wasn't cotton, or wool, or even a blanket. Standing, he realized his sister had traded her comforter for maps, and the maps were heavily outlined in red markers. These weren't average road maps. Her maps charted the stars and identified its correlating constellations. Lunar phases waxed and waned on the crinkled paper, and a pin dropped in Donald's throat.
He wasn't like Della. His adventures craving were moderate at best. The passion wasn't ingrained in his identity as it was for his uncle and sister. He could survive with or without it, and had decided, immediately after, that living with it wasn't worth it. The mundane protected them, kept them safe, and Donald didn't mind it not being his first choice as long as it was his last choice.
He closed the door quietly. Goofy tumbled on a squeaky toy in the living room, but hadn't said anything in alarm. An attempt to respect Donald's distance for the time being. He locked the door and pressed his back on it.
Scrooge could've hired a cleaning crew, or Della's cleaning habits had marginally improved over the years. The room's chaotic organization suggested the former. If Scrooge was responsible as Donald suspected, the instructions were most likely severe and exact.Clean all the other rooms. Clean the kitchen and the nursery, straighten up the living room (but not too much), live enough to suggest someone lived in this apartment, but don't go in her room. Leave her room be.
White ink gave the charted constellations their celestial glow. His fingers traced Orion, Cygnus, Lyra, and Ursa Major. It hadn’t taken long for his finger to drop helplessly on the paper.
He saw her.
He asked a question. He was concerned. He was afraid. “You’re no coward, Donnie,” she’d clasp his hand, and led him to the plane, “never think that. You’re the bravest duck I know.”
It wasn’t about that.
Louie said his first word, and she missed it. He held his bottle in his hand. The milk reached the bottom of the bottle, only a thin ring, and he blinked at Donald, “ ‘ilk, Unca’ Don.” He said it with such clarity and understanding, shaking the miniature bottle in his hand as Donald felt the breath leave his lungs in excitement.
An unintentional diversion; he knew one when he saw one. His questions were met with easy dismissal, or a foolish distraction that supplanted his concern. Only she and Scrooge knew the full extent of her project, or whatever it was intended to be. Donald understood. Their relationship was a of a different kind, and Donald came to terms with this a long time ago. Their secrecy was frustrating, but this project wasn't any different from the other missions they accomplished as a team.
Or so Donald believed.
The constellations and their inked stars were imprinted on Donald's mind. Her pursuits were suspicious under casual observation. Fanciful adventure was a flame, and like an eager moth, she gave herself to its fire. Did she regard the consequences left in its wake? Donald didn’t know. She didn’t always think far enough ahead.
Footnotes were scrawled in tinier hand writing. He'd need a magnifying glass to read some of them. Stars were enclosed in circles. What was this? Donald narrowed his eyes. Red ink clashed with white. He moved to the front of the bed, and lowered his body onto the paper without tearing it. It yielded to his weight fantastically. He forced his concentration on the tiniest script on the map. In red ink the tiny, bold letters stood out around the moon, and Donald sucked in a painful breath.
"The Spear of Selene may control the tides, control the rotation of the moon and its stars. What else can it do? Ask Uncle Scrooge.”
Goofy liked doing laundry. He presumed the unsettling quietness was worthy of investigation, but he knew Donald. Donald was going to let him know.
A slammed door startled Goofy.
He folded onesies in red, blue, and green. He folded sweater vests in pink, teal, and celestial blue. He also folded a lime green, zigzagged patterned sweater vest large for a duck of Della's size. He nodded with a smile and patted the sweater vests to the side. He shot off the sofa and straight to the ceiling, clunking his head on the unsurprisingly hard surface. By time he fell back onto the sofa, with minimal damage to his cranium and ceiling, Donald was at the front door, red-faced and heaving. Goofy didn’t get a chance to ask a question when Donald told him in a barely controlled his, “We’re going back.”
Goofy instantly assessed the situation. His friend's hot sauce tinted feathers and rabid dilation verified the situation's urgency. He carried the children’s essentials in the totes down the stairs. He hadn’t forgotten the specialized soap set for their downy feathers. He counted the steps as he tried to keep pace with his friend. He was going to have to drive back to Duckburg, and that was exactly what he told him.
He stuffed the totes and other essentials in the trunk. Donald, to his credit, saw the sense in his suggestion, and he clenched his fists to where the knuckles popped like ringing bells.
“I need to speak to my uncle.” He buckled his seat belt and said no more.
St. Canard to Duckburg was a thirty-minute drive on a good day. It was approximately an hour and a half drive during morning and afternoon traffic. For the pair, the drive was about forty-five minutes. The morning traffic was weak by time Goofy maneuvered onto the freeway, and it lessened into streaky lines ten minutes after ten.
Donald didn’t look at Goofy. He didn’t look ahead. His anger pinched the nerves underneath his coat of white feathers. He and Scrooge hadn’t spoken to each other, not since the court date, which was over six months ago. His gripped the side door handle until it burned, and tried to wash the pain away. Calm was what they needed during the drive, and Goofy, yes Goofy, was driving the car. He was driving the car because Donald was angry, and an angry Donald wasn’t safe for drivers.
McDuck Manor stood on top of the hill. Most people would’ve awed at its spectacular beauty. The landscape was meticulous kept, and whenever the sun descended on Duckburg, it was as if a golden halo glowed behind its massive form. It was beautiful. Donald admitted.
But it was a stain on his conscience.
Goofy put the brakes near the speakerphone. Donald unhooked his seat belt, crawled over the space, and pressed the button, “Mrs. B, it’s Donald. Open up.”
“It sounds like you’re recovering."
"Hanging in there. Is Uncle Scrooge there?”
Her voice crackled through the inter com, “Yes, yes, he is.” The gates parted to give them access, and Donald returned to his seat.
Goofy shared a worried glance and drove ahead, “What’s the worse that can happen? Gawrsh, last time didn’t you throw a chair at the wall?”
“It was a stool."
Mrs. B greeted them stiffly. On the intercom her tone was as impeccable as ever, unwavering steel. The slight difference were the lines bagging under her eyes, which she cleverly rubbed at when she caught onto his stare. Walking behind her, he was positive he detected a whiff of soy formula, and when she stopped at the stares, she gave him a stare capable of petrifying him on the spot.
“A lot has changed in the past few months, Donald. Your uncle is in his study. I’m sure you know where it is.” She looked to Goofy and smiled softly, “You could’ve brought your boy, Mr. Goof. Either way, I have tea in the kitchen, would you like some?”
“Gawrsh, I certainly would, ma’am.” Goofy patted his shoulders encouragingly, and followed Mrs. Beakley to the kitchen.
Donald’s first day at the mansion was similar to this. The foreboding staircase appeared taller than it was back in those days, and her strong grip had taken hold of his hand. She led the way, and he kept pace behind her. In a fit of excitement she broke into a sprint to his personal library not lying beneath the Money Bin. There was so much to see, so much to learn, and he had been willing to learn them, on his own and with her.
Back on Grandma Elvira’s farm, three children were snuggled in an old, homemade crib. Oblivious to the problems of the adult world, oblivious to how their problems connected to them, they slept soundly. His anger settled inside him like vinegar and oil. He’d climb those steps alone today, and alone after that.
Newspaper clippings piled on the floor. The portraits on the walls were shifted crookedly with dust lining their frames. Crouched at his desk, Scrooge relied on the weak desk lamp instead of the great ceiling light. His personal study was in disarray. It was a stark contrast to its usual immaculate organization.
Scrooge didn’t raise his head from the desk, “Got another chair, boy? Your shoddy aim nearly made a hole in my wall.”
"It was a stool, and it depends on how you answer my questions."
“Go on with it!” He snapped, eyes glancing at him in a hard glare, “I don’t have all day. I need to sign these reports before noon.”
It wasn’t right. Donald stared at his uncle. His hunched back, groggy eyes, even the grimace didn’t sit right on Scrooge McDuck’s face. His ruffled feathers were suited to his dingy blue robe another contrast to the red coat Donald was familiar with.
An old man, Donald thought. A tremor went down his spine.
His life expanded close to a century, and would, possibly, expand even longer. Donald knew his uncle as his mother’s older brother. He was Downey and Fergus’ oldest child, and their only son. Unlike similarly wealthy people, he didn’t bother to cover his age with cosmetics. His cane and spectacles didn’t make him old. Healthy, active, Donald knew his uncle was old, but he was never old to him.
Not until now.
His ruffled feathers, dingy robe, baggy eyes, and disorderly study were symptoms of a greater issue. Time hadn’t aged Scrooge McDuck.
Donald sighed, “What were you doing with the Spear of Selene?”
“What?”
“What were you doing with the Spear of Selene.” Exhaustion pushed his anger down, “I know you know, Scrooge. I know you know more than I do, and I know you what happened to her. So tell me, now.”
Scrooge’s withering glare was all Donald needed, “I don’t know. She didn’t tell me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s the truth!” The desk rattled under the weight of his fists, “She didn’t tell me what her plans were. She didn’t tell you what her plans were, and no matter how angry you are, blaming me won't change the fact that she is gone."
“But -,”
“She’s gone, Donald.”
Anger abandoned the old man sunken in his chair. The persistent resilience that sustained him came undone. He pinched his eyes, shutting them tight against the lamp light.
“There’s nothing left we can do,” he said hollowly. He cupped his face into his hands, shoulders trembling, and Donald stood helplessly, unable to say anything.
Admittedly, anything else said could’ve made it worse.
Donald refused to believe him. He refused to see the sense in his words.
The faulty construction of words were not right on his uncle’s tongue. It was more than its content, more than how it was uttered, Donald realized. His uncle accepted less than. He never accepted anything less than what was deserved, and his compliance to this turn of events unraveled what a near century of strife failed to do.
Donald couldn’t stay. He couldn’t stay surrounded by the man’s treasures and paintings, reminders of a life now buried in the past.
Head on the passenger window, he let the city pass him by. He let the manor fall behind him, to be another reminder of a forgotten life.
It was a forty-minute drive to Grandma’s farm in late afternoon traffic.
Goofy didn’t attempt to start conversation. Cars honked at them, and they were ignored. Pedestrians shot the car dirty looks, and Goofy waved obliviously at them. Donald was relieved he graduated from his youthful driving mindset.
“You were right.”
“Huh?”
“It could’ve gone worse.”
“Did you throw a chair?”
“No, but I think throwing a chair would’ve been better.”
He sighed at the wheel, making a slow turn onto the front yard, “You’re right. Next time, I’ll give a chair to throw, sounds fair?”
“Thanks, Goofy.”
Uncle Eider was at the kitchen sink washing the few dishes used for lunch. He told them the boys were put down for their nap twenty-minutes earlier and that Grandma was in the old nursery with them.
“Watching ‘em like a hawk, Donnie.” He slapped his back and shook Goofy’s hand, “We’ll get the stuff out. Go on and check on ‘em.”
Donald winced at his uncle’s strength. Uncle Eider tended to forget the power in his hands. Goofy followed him outside where the totes and bags waited on the freshly cut grass, and his familiar shout, “Gus, get yer lazy butt outta the hen house,” comforted him somehow.
Formerly Grandpa Humperdink’s workshop, the wood twiddling workshop was renovated to accommodate Eider's birth.
Donald extracted those memories of his grandfather. Callused fingers reached to the sky to grab a straw hat caught in the wind. The same hands held him to their bony waist as they walked to the pig pen. A scratchy beard tickled the top of his head, and a sharp shout of surprised pain came when he reached for the beard, pulling firmly on it.
The memories were short, faded, but tangible enough to remind Donald they were real. Humperdink Duck had held his grandson in his arms for a time, and for a time, he loved him.
Della was not as fortunate.
The boys' memories were too fresh to remain intact throughout the years. She was fated to corrode and crumble in their back dropped memory. Denied this small consolation, there was nothing to compensate what they wouldn't remember. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to feel.
"Have you eaten, Donald?"
He blinked, "What?"
Grandma Elvira rocked Huey in the rocking chair. He realized he was sitting in the old bed pushed from Uncle Eider's old bedroom. Donald shook his head, "No, I…I had breakfast, Grandma."
"It's after three o'clock." She tutted quietly and shifted Huey into her other arm, "You still need to eat, and you still need to rest. I could hear you from the kitchen, dragging your feet like a jackass."
"Grandma…"
"Well, it's true." She sighed, "Now, now, don't look at me like that. I've done this before, and I'll probably do it again with their kids."
It was easy to forget. It was easy to push away the bad and see only the good, to bury the bad and dig the good out. He stared at his grandma and breathed hollowly, sucking a sharp breath that made his ribs clutch in pain.
"How'd you do it?"
"Hm?"
"How'd you do it Grandma?" Back hunched, his face drooped into his hands, "I don't know how. I don't…I don't think I can."
She continued to rock. Huey's quiet breaths filled the silence, and she cupped the toddler's head, "I didn't have a choice, Fauntleroy."
"What?"
"I didn't have a choice," she stared at Huey, at his brothers sleeping in the crib, "and neither do you."
"But I -,"
"No more buts, Fauntleroy." Her hard stare scolded and cradled Donald as her arms cradled Huey, "We're Ducks. Family helps family."
He nodded, "Yes, ma'am."
"Now, get it to bed. You sleep when they sleep." She ceased her rocking and tucked Huey beside Dewey, "They gave your Uncle Eider a run for his money."
Grandma brought the comforter to under his chin, a warm hand pressing on his forehead before the door closed.
One half of his heart was swept away in lunar light. His breathing slowed. He was alone. What was he supposed to do now, without her steady calm? He turned on his side, facing the crib.
Their soft, gurgling breaths filled the room. With the lights off and curtains closed, very little could be seen. Shadows revealed tiny hands clinging to one another, tiny chests rose and fell.
In the stillness of the nursery, in its quietness, he was not lonely, and so, Donald slept.