Then she went into the bedroom and shut the door.

Mickey seemed dazed. “I used to like iguanas.”

“We’ll be okay.”

“My head hurts.”

“Take your medicine,” said Wahoo.

“I threw it away.”

“What?”

“Those yellow pills, they made me constipated.”

Wahoo shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

“Seriously. I haven’t had a satisfactory bowel movement since Easter.”

“Thanks for sharing,” said Wahoo. He started loading the dishwasher, trying to keep his mind off the fact that his mom was about to fly away to the far side of the world.

Mickey got up and apologized to his son.

“I’m just being selfish. I don’t want her to go.”

“Me neither.”

The following Sunday, they all rose before dawn. Wahoo lugged his mother’s suitcases to the waiting taxi. She had tears in her eyes when she kissed him goodbye.

“Take care of your dad,” she whispered.

Then, to Mickey, she said: “I want you to get better. That’s an order, mister.”

Watching the cab speed off, Wahoo’s father looked forlorn. “It’s like she’s leaving us twice,” he remarked.

“What are you talking about, Pop?”

“I’m seein’ double, remember? There she goes-and there she goes again.”

Wahoo was in no mood for that. “You want eggs for breakfast?”

Afterward he went out in the backyard to deal with a troublesome howler monkey named Jocko, who’d picked the lock on his cage and was now leaping around, pestering the parrots and macaws. Wahoo had to be careful because Jocko was mean. He used a tangerine to lure the surly primate back to his cage, but Jocko still managed to sink a dirty fang into one of Wahoo’s hands.

“I told you to wear the canvas gloves,” scolded Mickey when Wahoo was standing at the sink, cleaning the wound.

“ You don’t wear gloves,” Wahoo pointed out.

“Yeah, but I don’t get chomped like you do.”