Captain Dreamboat

by Tawna Fenske

  “Pry away,” he says. “Want to know if that was the best blowjob of my life? The answer is yes. Wait, no, the answer is oh-my-fucking-God, yes.”

  I feel myself blushing to the roots of my hair, but I’m not embarrassed. It’s honestly a relief to speak this frankly about a sexual encounter. Besides, what woman doesn’t want to hear she’s got skills that make a man glow like Jon is right now?

  “I liked it,” I tell him honestly. “If you’re thinking it was some sort of chore or duty or that I spent the whole time making my grocery list in the back of my mind, that’s a resounding no.”

  “The grocery list hadn’t occurred to me,” he says. “But I’m glad.” He’s quiet a moment, paddle resting across his knees as we drift along the surface of the lake. “Maybe it’s a control thing.”

  Are we still talking about blowjobs? “What’s a control thing?”

  “The reason I’m so hell-bent on helping,” he says. “Maybe it’s less about being kind and selfless and more about being a control freak.”

  I frown, resting my own paddle across my knees. “Has it occurred to you that maybe you’re just a good guy?”

  He shrugs and glances out over the water. “It’s never that simple. If you think about it, wanting to help people is a selfish thing.”

  Now he’s really lost me. “What are you talking about?”

  “When it comes right down to it, isn’t my volunteer work just a way to feel good about myself? It’s selfish at the core.”

  I sigh, tamping back my irritation. “Is there a reason you’re determined to see the worst in yourself all the time?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe because I’m waiting to turn into my father.”

  There’s a vulnerability in his eyes that steals my breath away. I know I should turn around and pay attention to where the canoe is headed, but I can’t look away from him. “I never knew your father, obviously,” I tell him. “But from where I stand, you’ve got more in common with my father.”

  He idolizes my dad, so this should be a good thing. I brace myself for the hero worship, for the smile in his eyes.

  But Jon just looks at me. “Why do I get the feeling that’s not a good thing?”

  The intensity in his gaze makes me look away. I turn and dip my paddle in the water, conscious of the fact that we’re drifting closer to shore. “My father’s a two-time Nobel Prize winner. He was honored in Time magazine as one of the world’s most influential people.”

  “And yet his visit has you tenser than a cat in a rocking chair factory.”

  I bite my lip, not sure whether to smile or be startled by his perception. “Maybe that’s what happened to Jessica’s tail.”

  He laughs, but it’s a stilted laugh. Not his normal full-bellied laughter. “Could be.”

  “Have you ever noticed how many English idioms center around cats?” I ask. “There’s ‘raining cats and dogs’ and ‘cat got your tongue’ and—”

  “Have you ever noticed that you default to language analysis or spouting data when you’re nervous or emotional?”

  I have noticed, though I didn’t think anyone else had. I pivot on my seat again, unable to stop looking at him for more than a few seconds. That’s how strong this connection is between us. “You’re right. I’m nervous about my dad’s visit.”

  “It’s more than that,” he says. “Want to know what I think?”

  Always. More than anything in the world, I want to know what goes on in that beautiful mind of his. “I’m not sure.”

  “I think in a weird way, we have different versions of the same issue.”

  I turn fully on the seat, no longer focused on where we’re headed. “How do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m petrified of becoming my father,” he says slowly. “And you’re petrified of dating yours.”

  Damn. His words suck the breath from my lungs, and it takes me a few heartbeats to find my voice again. “So, where does that leave us?”

  “With some seriously fucked up daddy issues.” He laughs, somehow able to find the humor in something that’s not all that funny. “But I get it,” he continues. “This is why we can’t get involved. Why this can’t go beyond a fling.”

  He’s saying exactly what I’ve said all along. Just parroting my words back to me, agreeing with everything I’ve asked for up to this point.

  So why does it sting so much? Why does the pit of my stomach feel like I’ve swallowed a lead ball?

  “Whoa, heads up!”

  Jon jams his paddle into the water as I spin on my seat to face forward. Too late, I realize we’re on a collision course with a peninsula of land jutting into the lake. Worse, there’s a big group of people clustered around two battered green picnic tables. They’re laughing and eating and not looking much like they want a pair of party crashers.

  I stab the water again, working with Jon to back us up. From the corner of my eye, I see a white-haired gentleman lurch up from the table and teeter toward the water’s edge. He lifts one shaky wrist to point at us.

  “Angela!” He’s clutching a chicken drumstick in one hand, and he shakes it like a conductor’s baton. “You made it. Everybody, Angela’s here.”

  I look behind me for another arrival, but nope. It’s just Jon and me.

  Jonathan shrugs, then waves to the group. “Howdy, folks,” he says. “Sorry, we’ll get out of your h—”

  “I knew you’d be here, Angela.” The old guy is still waving his drumstick around, and now he looks misty-eyed. “They kept saying you couldn’t be here, but you wouldn’t miss my eighty-fifth birthday.”

  I’m staring at him trying to decide how to respond when a second man gets up from the picnic table and takes the old guy’s arm. “Pops, we’ve been over this,” he says. “Mom died in 1998. Remember? You were on that cruise to Alaska when she—”

  “Mom, welcome!” A sandy-haired woman in khaki shorts bolts from the table and runs toward Jon and me. She’s got the same blue eyes as the old man, but hers are frantic and wide as she sprints to the lake’s edge. Her red T-shirt bears a smear of mustard on one shoulder, and she charges into the water without kicking off her sandals. As Jon and I stare, she wades knee deep into the lake and grabs the front of our canoe.

  “I will give you a hundred dollars to play along.” Her voice is both a whisper and a shout as she looks into my eyes and grips our bow so hard her knuckles go white. “My father has advanced dementia, and this is probably his last birthday. He thinks you’re my mother, and there is absolutely no harm in playing along. Please.”

  The tears shimmering in her eyes tug the corners of my heart, but it’s the determined jut of her jaw that gets me moving. I scramble out of the boat, casting a quick look back at Jon. “What are the odds I’d be asked twice in a month to play someone’s wife for medical reasons?”

  He blinks. “What?”

  I’m already turning back to the woman, peering behind her to the old man standing on the shore. His arms dangle helplessly at his sides, one hand still gripping the forgotten chicken leg. The younger guy—his son, I’m assuming—is giving some kind of pep talk I can’t make out, but I catch the word “dead.”

  The old man’s lip trembles, but he’s shaking his head. “Angela,” he says. “I know it’s her.”

  I hold my hand out to the woman in the water, and she lets go of our boat to shake it. “Blanka,” I tell her. “But you can call me Angela.”

  Relief floods her face as she pulls me in for a hug. “I’m Cindy.”

  “What’s his name and how long have we been married?”

  She releases me and glances back at her father, frown lines creasing her forehead. “Archibald,” she says. “But my mom called him Archie.” She bites her lip. “He might think this is 2019, or 1985 or 1943, so there’s really no telling how long he believes you’ve been married.”

  Clearing her throat, she calls back to her father, who’s still on the shore with a hopeful expression. “Hang on, Dad,” she calls. “Mom just needs to grab some
things out of the boat.”

  “I’ve got it,” Jonathan says, already clambering out of the canoe and tucking his paddle under the seat. “Go. I can handle this.”

  I shake my head, knowing damn well the canoe weighs more than he’s supposed to lift, even with the stern still in the water. Shoving my own paddle under the yoke, I snag the handle at the front of the boat and drag it ashore before he can make a grab for it.

  Cindy sloshes along beside us like she’s afraid we might change our minds and paddle away. “Thank you so much,” she whispers, swiping the back of her hand over her eyes. “Let me just grab my purse, and I’ll get you some cash.”

  “No need,” I assure her as I beach the canoe. I glance back at Jon, aware that this isn’t how we’d planned for Self-Care Sunday to unfold. “Are you okay with this?” I ask him. “We can paddle afterward.”

  “Are you kidding me? It’s great.” The admiration in his eyes is ten times more intense than what I saw there in his bedroom the other day. He’s more awed by kindness to confused old men than he is by fellatio, which says something about his character.

  I turn back to Cindy and catch her arm. “Wait. Anyone else whose name I should know?”

  She nods toward the guy clutching her father’s arm. “My brother the realist is Damon, and my husband in the blue T-shirt is Brady.”

  A bearded guy in blue waves from the picnic table, looking mildly puzzled. But he’s already grabbing two more paper plates from a stack, ready to play along even if he’s not sure what’s happening. As we trudge ashore, several relatives call out their greetings.

  “Angela. Um, good to see you again.”

  “Hey, Ang. I like your hair like that.”

  Adjusting my ponytail, I nod in greeting and head right for Archie. He’s watching me with hopeful eyes, and I stretch out my hand with the broadest smile I’ve got. “Archie.” I take his gnarled fingers in mine. “It’s so good to see you again.”

  His smile is like a light blinking on in a dark attic. Rheumy blue eyes glitter as he pulls me to him for a bony hug. “I knew you’d come,” he says. “Over here. I saved you a spot right next to me.”

  “I’d love that.”

  We link hands and head for the picnic table as Jon and Cindy’s voices murmur behind us. I can’t make out the words, but I love the note of awe I hear in Jon’s voice. The way he’s watching me like I’m his favorite woman on earth.

  I hate how much I love it. How completely it fills the empty space in my chest.

  Archie leads me toward the picnic table and makes like he’s going to pull out my chair. Only there’s no chair, so we do this awkward dance trying to get back behind the bench.

  “Thank you,” I tell him when we’re seated side by side with a befuddled array of relatives. “What a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “It’s my birthday,” Archie announces proudly. “Eighty-five.”

  “I know.” I put an arm around his bony shoulders and offer a little side hug. “Happy birthday, honey.”

  The endearment flows naturally, and I cross my fingers it’s the right one. That Archie and Angie weren’t the kind of couple opposed to pet names the way my parents are.

  But Archie just beams and takes a bite out of his drumstick. “No one’s spanked me yet.”

  “Oh.” I’m not sure what to say, but Cindy takes the cue as she settles into a spot beside her husband.

  “We’ll save the birthday spankings for another time, Dad,” she says. “Have some more potato salad.”

  Archie deems this a fair substitution, because he holds up his plate before turning back to me. “Do you remember when we first met?”

  I nod, hoping someone will throw me a lifeline. “I do. What do you remember?”

  “We were at a lake just like this one. It was springtime, and you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

  Fondness clogs my throat, but Damon the Downer offers his own mumbled account from across the table. “It was the ocean. And autumn. And—”

  “Shush.” Cindy hands me a paper plate piled with my own servings of chicken and potato salad, then passes one to Jonathan. “What else do you remember about that day, Dad?”

  “It was hot as hell, I’ll tell you.” He turns and gives me a bashful look. “‘Scuse me, I know you don’t like it when I swear.”

  “Not a problem.” I take a bite of my chicken, warming to the idea that this genial octogenarian and I are a happily wedded couple. “I remember you looked so handsome.”

  He grins again, and this time there’s mischief in it. “You said you liked a man in uniform,” he says. “That’s why you let me kiss you on the first date.”

  My God, I might die from the sweetness. I glance across the table at Jonathan, who’s doing his best to blend in with the family. He’s gripping a smiling sliver of watermelon and throws me a wink as Archie keeps talking.

  “We danced all night, didn’t we?” Archie’s face is clouded in the bliss of memories, his food forgotten for now. “You remember the song?”

  “Of course I do.” I rest a hand on his arm. “Hum it for me?”

  “We’ll hum together.” He launches into a tuneless rendition of something I can’t identify. I do my best to keep up, going low and high when Archie does. The melody is familiar, but I have no idea what it is.

  “‘We Will Make Love’ by Russ Hamilton,” Jonathan supplies, throwing me another wink. “My grandmother loved that song.”

  “So did Mom.” Cindy sniffs, then seems to catch herself as her gaze lands on me. “Didn’t you love that song?”

  “I sure did,” I tell her. “Still do.”

  I take a bite of my chicken. It’s crispy and full of flavor, homemade instead of store-bought. I could get used to being part of this family.

  Archie’s still nodding along with the silent music as he studies Jonathan across the table. I’m trying to come up with some explanation for Jon’s presence here when Archie does it for me.

  “You were none too pleased I met her first that night.” His conspiratorial tone gets Jonathan nodding in agreement.

  “No, sir,” he says. “But I’m glad you got her.”

  “Wouldn’t have happened at all if you weren’t there to save my life.” Archie takes a bite of drumstick, and his dentures wobble in his mouth. “Pushing me out of the line of fire the way you did.”

  “Best move I ever made.” Jon doesn’t miss a beat as he takes another bite of watermelon. “Yours was a life worth saving.”

  Archie grins, seemingly unaware that his top dentures are sagging on one side. “We sure had us a time with that—what’s the word again?”

  “Military ball?” Jonathan tries.

  “Nah, the French word.”

  “Fete?” Jonathan tries. He glances at Cindy, who gives a small shrug.

  Archie shakes his head and the top dentures droop lower. “Nah, the other French word.”

  “Soiree,” I offer, shifting easily into the familiar language. “J’adore danser avec toi.”

  I pray that’s right—that Archie and I really did love dancing together.

  But he shakes his head and frowns. “Nah, that’s not it.” He runs his tongue over his teeth, shoving the top row of dentures back into place. “Hang on, it’ll come to me.”

  Determined, I give it another shot. “Le festival? Le petite réception?”

  Archie’s blue eyes flash, and he snaps his fingers. “Ménage á trois.” He bangs a hand on the table, jostling his drumstick off the plate as he throws an arm around me and tips his chin at Jonathan. “Man, the three of us had one helluva time. There was Angie, spread out like a—”

  “More chicken anyone?” Cindy bolts up and grabs the Tupperware container in the center of the table. “We’ve got breasts, thighs…” She trails off, perhaps realizing another dish might be less suggestive. “Or watermelon?”

  Damon the Downer jerks a thumb in the direction of the three teenagers gawking from the other end of the table. “Why don
’t you go play in the water or something?”

  Grumbling a little, the kids scamper off while Cindy busies herself loading Archie’s plate with a slice of chocolate cake. “Here you go, Dad,” she says. “It’s Mom’s special recipe.”

  “Oh yeah?” He grins at me and gives a nudge with his elbow. “Is it that one you always made with real flour instead of that almond crap because you said Cindy’s faking the gluten allergy?”

  I grimace and shoot Cindy an apologetic look. “Archie,” I chide patting his knobby back. “You’re such a kidder.”

  “Life of the party,” Jonathan puts in, hiding his laughter behind a drumstick. “You always had the best jokes.”

  “Yeah,” Archie agrees, smiling at the shared memory as he stabs into his slice of cake. “Like how we told Damon I’m his dad, but really we don’t have the foggiest who slipped one past the goalie. I mean we were all so drunk—”

  “Okay, moving on.” Cindy shoots an uncomfortable look at Damon, and I can’t help noticing he’s the lone brown-eyed family member at this table full of blue-eyed blondes. Yikes.

  “This chicken sure is good, Cindy,” I say, floundering for some safe topic of conversation. “You’re a terrific cook.”

  “Thanks,” She glances at her husband. “I had the good sense to marry a guy who cooks like a dream, since I can’t boil water to save my life.”

  “You got that right.” Archie laughs and sucks the dentures back into place with a big glob of chocolate against his gums. “That three grand we paid him to go out with you was money well spent.”

  Cindy’s brow furrows, but Brady jumps to the rescue before she can follow up that line of conversation. “Tell us about your favorite birthday, Archie,” he says, steering the conversation back onto neutral turf. “Maybe from when you were a kid.”

  Archie mulls that over, chewing his chocolate cake with deep reverence. “That year Cindy turned six. You remember that, sweetheart?”

  Cindy nods as tears flood her eyes again. “You guys got me that bicycle I’d been begging for.”

  Archie pats her hand and stabs another piece of cake. “Taught you to ride it at the end of the driveway.”