By David Dumouriez

Well, LeeAnn had always had an exemplary sense of humour. No banter was too zany; no prank too complicated or too lame. That was just the way she was constructed, and the characteristic that made her popular from her childhood until the approach of her dotage.

Although she was seventy-four now, the youngest members of her family sought her out in preference to those who were less than a third her age. OK, her legs had gone a bit, but that irrepressible sense of fun was undiminished. 

“Let’s try it out on Gran-Gran,” was the typical prelude to the latest magic trick that one of the twins had learned, or any riddle that was currently going around sixth grade. And if there was anyone who would have appreciated it more than LeeAnn, then that person wasn’t to be found in a 200-mile radius of the Valley, that’s for sure.

LeeAnn lived alone now, having been widowed for nearly five years. She herself would have insisted that she didn’t mention Frank that much, but others might have said otherwise. Mostly, he was the butt of her jokes. The fall guy. “The old buzzard,” as she referred to him. In fact, listening to her, it seemed as if she’d barely liked him at all, so much so that her daughter, Sammy, had even started to re-evaluate her parents’ relationship and, with it, her entire childhood.

And so it came to pass that the accumulation of LeeAnn’s incessant Frank-bashing gave the twins an idea. In truth, he was more just a bald guy in a picture than anyone they could actually identify with. They’d ‘met’ him — if that was the right word — but they didn’t remember him as a living, breathing human being. Which made it all the more fun, then, to recreate him out of a state of oblivion!

“Oh, she’ll love it,” said Zack.

“She really will,” Jen agreed.

“Should we tell Mom?”

Jen thought it over. “Nah, better not. She’s not like Gran-Gran. Or us. It really missed a generation with her.”

Zack laughed. “Poor her!”

Of course it required research. But research was absolutely not a problem for Zack and Jen. Come on, their father, Jerome, was the Chief Robotics Designer for Myron Carse!

Yes, that Myron Carse. One of the richest men on the planet. The Myron Carse who developed and discarded, developed and patented, then developed some more. Robots, AI, that was all old hat to Myron. He was more into the universe nowadays. But the priceless junk scattered around the house provided an endless opportunity for the twins!

They looked at every picture of Frank they could find. 

“Hmm …” Jen muttered. “Not much of a looker, was he?” 

And trawled through any home video they could get their paws on. 

“Why is he always asleep?” Zack enquired. 

“Drunk probably.”

And, behind LeeAnn’s back, they managed to gather together a few rudimentary items of clothing.

“Did he always wear a dirty old cardigan?” Jen asked with disgust.

“Seems like it.”

“Anyway, makes our job easier.”

But it was easy enough anyway. Jerome had inadvertently done the hard work for them. For all they had to do, in short, was to command one master robot to command another robot to replicate a deceased human. From there, the final twist was up to them. To paraphrase CarseInc’s famous slogan, the only limitation was the imagination of the users. 

“We couldn’t! Could we?”

“No. No, I don’t think so. Could we?”

As ever, the consensus was that, whatever they came up with, Gran-Gran was going to have the greatest guffaw of her already laughter-packed life.

“Halloween? Or Frank’s birthday?” 

Zack gave it very careful thought. “So that’s October 31st, or …?”

“… er, let me check … Oh, that’s a coincidence! October 24.”

The twins looked at each other, then said in unison: “October 24!” 

Well, it was closer!

***

So they invited LeeAnn over to the house. That was the simplest way. However, they were a little surprised when she said she didn’t feel up to it. It didn’t sound like her at all and they even guessed it was another of her jokes.

“Not to worry,” Jen said. “If Gran-Gran won’t come to the party, then the party will come to her!”

Zack gave her a double thumbs-up.

And it was at times like this when you were glad you had access to a stolen supermarket trolley. The twins loaded ‘Frank’ into the back and wheeled him on the short journey to LeeAnn’s house.

“She’s just going to love it.”

“You’re right, Jen. It’ll make her day.”

So the way they planned it was this: they’d put ‘Frank’ right in front of the door, ring the bell, retreat, then wait for the fun to kick off.

Inside, LeeAnn was deep in her favourite chair, looking thoughtful as she focused on a picture that she was holding.

“A fine young man,” she murmured. “A fine young man …” Were her eyes moist?

Just then the doorbell rang. Once. Twice. Thrice. She didn’t want to get up, but… 

And when she opened the door, well, when she opened the door, she saw Frank standing there. A stunted version of him, perhaps. But it was Frank. Unmistakably Frank. Dressed as a buzzard. In a cardigan.

“Merry Christmas, dear! Ho ho ho!” (Well, it was the best voice sample they could get at short notice!)

LeeAnn shrieked. And howled. Then her face went into a kind of grin and tears began cascading down her cheeks.

“Surprise!” the twins shouted as they emerged from the bushes.

But it was too late. LeeAnn was down on the carpet. And she never rose of her own volition again.

***

Some months later, when the furore had abated, and the blaming and shaming had lessened, the twins managed to rationalise the event. 

“At least she died laughing,” Zack said.

“It’s what she would have wanted,” Jen replied.

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