Cash Out

by Greg Bardsley

  And I realize I’m in way over my head.

  “What was that about?” Kate is holding Ben, soothing him. “You guys were out there for like an hour.”

  I push my hair out of my face. “We were just trading information.”

  I can hear Rod and Harry laughing in the boys’ room.

  “You look pale.” She studies my face. “Are you okay?”

  I look back into her eyes. Damn, she’s beautiful, and warm, and I wish we could go back to that time when everything was so easy and natural between us, when I could wrap my arms around her and she’d smile to herself and fall into me. Of course, life was so much simpler back then—before kids, before corporate, before we dove headfirst into the rushing white waters of our new life.

  “Not sure.”

  Light tapping on the front door. Kate and I glance at each other, then at the door.

  From the other side: “Yoooooooooooooooo-hoooooo?”

  Kate looks away and sighs.

  “What is it?” I snap.

  The door opens, and Calhoun eases his head through. “Morning, sugar pops.” He giggles and raises an eyebrow. “Mind if I come in?”

  I struggle to get up. “Actually, this isn’t the greatest—”

  He pushes through, looks around. “Well, well, well, isn’t this the little Taj Mahal?” He’s taking it all in, his eyes working fast; it’s the first time he’s made it inside our house, and he knows it’ll probably be the last. “Someone likes his Fancy Town.”

  He’s still wearing the robe, and he’s sipping coffee out of a plastic Goofy mug, ears and all.

  “Calhoun, we’re kinda dealing with a few things right now.”

  He puts his free hand on his hip and blows a raspberry at me, long and sloppy, spit spraying everywhere. His lower lip eases out as he waits for a reaction.

  “Calhoun, we just—”

  “So you decide to have a little party over here, and you don’t even invite little ol’ Calhoun, the man who saved your life?”

  Kate laughs, says, “Does this look like a party? Okay, sure, there’s vomit in the hallway. And, yeah, the cops came. But this isn’t that kind of party.”

  He closes his eyes. “One would have assumed you’d have me over for waffles and bacon this morning”—he tucks his chin, hopeful; opens his eyes, pleading—“considering I saved your little lover’s life.”

  “Well, we’re sorry, Calhoun. We just have—”

  “Calhoun!” It’s Harry in the hallway, waving him over.

  “Come see the LEGO city I built with Rod.”

  Calhoun looks at me, says, “I’d love to.” He marches toward the boys’ room, stops, and turns back to Kate with those pleading eyes. “Not even a little plate of Eggos?”

  Like scolding a dog: “Calhoun, no.”

  “Fine.” He gives us a final raspberry, real quick, and turns to Harry. “Your mommy no leggo her Eggos.”

  Harry smiles, not getting it.

  “But let’s see your LEGOs.” They laugh and pad down the hallway.

  Kate turns to me. “What did he tell you?”

  “Who, Calhoun?”

  “What? No, the detective.”

  “Oh.”

  She feels my forehead with the back of her hand. “I’m worried about you.”

  “I think I’m losing it.” Then again, I think, an hour ago some guy broke into our garage and tried to take my head off with a shovel.

  “Just stay focused a little longer,” she softens, “and then I’ll put you down for a nap.” She’s talking to me like I’m one of the children, and I have to admit that, on this day, I like it. “Danny Boy needs some sleep.”

  I nod.

  “And maybe some more Vicodin?”

  Another nod.

  “Mama’s gonna take care of you,” she says.

  Ben snuggles closer to her, sighs, “Mommy.”

  “Now tell Mommy what the detective said”—her voice hardens—“so we can get a plan going.”

  Down the hall, I hear Calhoun announce, “Potty break.”

  I shake my head, will myself to focus a little longer.

  “Long story short . . .” I lower myself onto the couch, hissing in pain. “The cop gets a lead on the bald guy, gets a positive ID on him, tells me he’s employed with a firm called Stanislau, which has offices in Grenoble, Munich, New York, LA, and San Francisco.”

  “And?”

  A loud noise in the bathroom. Heavy porcelain.

  Internal alarms go off. “What the . . .”

  “Danny, stay with me. What about this Stanislau?”

  I plod ahead. “I guess they’re some kind of high-end private firm—personal security, intelligence gathering. Like a CIA for top-tier companies—capital investment firms, venture capital funds, even some family trusts. Big money. Really big money.”

  Kate sits down with Ben, gazes at the wall. “Whoa. What the F?”

  “Bryant said he’d heard about a guy like this who’d turned some heads in San Jose—got detained for suspicious activity around a tech campus down there, but got himself released. So Bryant sends the Safeway pics down to San Jose PD—he’s got a buddy there—and they send back a fax of the guy’s business card.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me.”

  A loud crash from the bathroom.

  Ah, fuck.

  Calhoun. In my bathroom. Making too much noise.

  Kate says, “But he works for this security firm?”

  “Well . . . ” I get up and hobble to the hallway. God, my crotch hurts. “It looks that way.”

  She sighs hard, falls back on the couch. “What do we do?”

  I turn and head down the hallway. “We take care of a more immediate crisis.”

  I’m pounding on the door.

  Calhoun grunts, “Goaway.”

  I shake the door handle with both hands.

  Grunt. “Ineedsomeprivacy.”

  Rod joins me, squints at the door. “What’s the deal?”

  I yell, “Calhoun, are you upper-decking?’

  From the bathroom, a big sigh of relief.

  Rod juts his jaw out, tenses. “You want me to bust it open?” He steps back, ready to kick.

  I wave him off. I don’t need a broken door on top of everything else.

  Calhoun grunts, “Onemore.”

  “Calhoun, I’m gonna kill you.”

  “Antisocial”—big grunt—“ingrates.” Big sigh. Then another grunt. “Notevenawafflebreakfast—ahhhhhhh.”

  Kate arrives, carrying a hairpin. Rod snatches it and begins to pick the lock. In seconds it clicks, and Rod steps back, waves me in. Kate turns away, closes her eyes.

  I open the door a little.

  Grunt. “One-nnnnnnnn moooore.” Sigh and a grunt. “Justalittle”—grunt—“guy.” Big sigh.

  I push the door open. Calhoun is sitting on the exposed upper water basin of our toilet, his open robe covering the sides, his feet on the seat, his elbows on his knees, his face grimacing.

  Rage courses through me. “Calhoun!” I roar. “Off.”

  Harry runs into the bathroom and freezes in wonderment. “Wow.”

  Calhoun tries to close his robe, yelps, “Privacy! Privacy!” Closes his eyes, sticks his chin out. “Someone help me.”

  I want to throttle him, but I don’t want to get near him. Rod backs away, grumbling, “Gross.” Kate barges past us, her nostrils flaring. She grabs the plunger next to the toilet, winds up for a swing.

  Calhoun recoils, squeaks, “Don’t hit me, Mommy.”

  “Get”—she whacks him hard across the face—“off”—another whack, right in the chops—“right”—she swings again, he ducks, and she loses her balance a little, but comes back with a direct attack, covering
his face with the plunger and pushing his head back—“now.”

  He whimpers.

  She keeps the plunger over his face, pushes harder.

  We all see his pickle. Didn’t need to see that. Really, really didn’t need to see that.

  With her free hand, she grabs the lapel of his robe, and yanks him forward. He loses balance and tumbles off the upper deck, crashes to the ground, a mound of whimpering jelly.

  Kate takes the hard end of the plunger and jams it into his ribs. He stiffens in pain, yells out, “Mommy.”

  Kate screams like she did when she was in labor with the boys. “Out!” Jabs him again, even harder, and he balls up. “Out!”

  Rod takes Kate, and we lead her out of the bathroom.

  Slowly, Calhoun rises from the floor, pulls up his orange boxers, closes his robe, and makes baby steps toward the hallway. He stops and looks at us, eyes hopeful.

  “No Eggos?”

  Four

  I won’t describe the cleanup in too much detail.

  Suffice it to say that it involved an old pasta strainer and yellow rubber gloves, and that I nearly threw up in the process. Suffice it to say that, when my work was done, Kate had me deposit the strainer into a triple-layered plastic bag system which then was dropped into a paper grocery bag, which then was stapled and walked directly to the garbage. And suffice it to say, it made for some really weird dreams during the fitful two hours of sleep that followed—dreams in which Detective Bryant is leaning over me, repeating, “I want a piece of the action,” and then he turns into Crazy Larry, who leans in closer and says, “You will tell Kate I said hi,” and I straighten up and tell Larry to go away, and I turn back to my work, only to find Little Red upper-decking on my tank, snickering and snarling, repeating, “Fat hookers, fat hookers,” until I swat him on the head, which is when High Rider comes from behind, his eyeglasses enormous, says, “You have three days to clean out that tank, otherwise we will be forced to . . .” and Rod comes in, squinting, announcing that Crazy Larry is slow-dancing with Kate in the hallway.

  At which point, Harry bounces atop me, hollering, “Wake up, wake up.”

  “Ah, Harry.” I open an eye and moan. “Come back in ten minutes, kiddo.”

  Harry bounces harder. “No, Mommy said to get you up no matter what you say.”

  “Oh yeah?” I groan. My temples constrict, my crotch aches, and my body begs for more slumber. “Just a minute.”

  “No.” Harry is firm. “Mommy said she made a list for you, and that you need to get crackin’!” He claps, hard.

  I push him off and sit up, run a hand through my hair. “List?”

  “Yeah.” Harry is so fresh, so full of energy, and somehow seeing this makes me feel even more tired. “A list of things you need to do today.”

  Actually, that sounds okay. My mind is reeling, I’m confused and overwhelmed. My writer brain can only take so much before it really starts freaking out, like a hose that’s left spraying and flapping uncontrollably, chaos taking over. I need Kate’s sharp mind, her ability to stay cool during crazy times, her gift of supreme executive function, all those first-class leadership skills of hers that I wish I had.

  Harry looks at me. “Mommy says she’s going to give you a list that’ll make everything better.” He tenses, puts his hands out. “Stay right there.”

  He bolts out of the room.

  I wiggle to the edge of the bed. And then, out of nowhere, ripples of pain shoot down the insides of both legs, and up into my abdomen. I get a flash of Baldy kneeing me in the nuts at Safeway, that look on his face, those eyes too close together. I hiss and grunt as I ease my tighty-whities off, and let the gauze roll down my leg. I’m way overdue to ice my crotch, I think. Guess I got sidetracked.

  I don’t want to look down, but I know I’ve got to. And when I do, I wince.

  It’s a trippy sight. I’m bald, like a boy, but my scrotum is purple with yellow swirls, and it’s enormous. Testicles the size of peaches. I look away, but the damage is done. Nausea courses through my body; my head feels like it’s floating.

  I take two Vicodin, swallow them dry. “Honey, can you send Harry back with a bag of peas?”

  She hollers back, “Okay.”

  On the nightstand, my cell rings. I look at it; blocked number. Probably Fitzroy’s office calling about his speech for Florida.

  “Dan Jordan.”

  “Dan, this is Janice from Fi—”

  “Janice, I need to call you back.”

  Long pause. “Dan, I have some special instructions for how you need to execute the L18 as it relates to putting the P6s into the FOD.”

  “Janice, I’ll talk to you later,” I say, and end the call.

  I put the gauze back in place, pull up my tighty-whities, moaning through gritted teeth. Holy shit, I think. Thank God for Kate and her list, whatever it is.

  A minute later, Harry returns with a bag of peas under an arm, holding a pint glass of café latte in both hands, biting his lip as he stares at his payload.

  “Just what I need.” I bring him in and kiss his forehead. Love that kid.

  “Mommy says drink up and take a shower, then come out to the kitchen.”

  “Thanks, honey.” I take the glass, and its warmth soothes me. The aroma steams my nose, and I take a sip.

  He watches me. “Daddy? What are those red lines on your eyeballs?”

  “Don’t worry about that, honey. That just means I’m really tired.”

  He studies my face. “You look like you did when Ben was born.”

  I put the latte on my nightstand. “Let me see those peas, kiddo.”

  Harry hands them over, sticks a lip out, pouting hard.

  “Daddy?”

  “You okay, kiddo?”

  “I’m sad.”

  He holds his arms out for a hug, and I drop the peas and grab him. I knew that whole Daddy-in-the-squad-car scene would be too much.

  “What’s going on?”

  “No one’s letting me be me.”

  Huh?

  “What do you mean, kiddo?”

  “Like Mom . . . the other night . . . not letting me . . .” Harry buries his face into my chest and mumbles, “pick my nose.”

  “Harry. That was at the dinner table. You can’t pick your nose at the dinner table.”

  He pulls his face off my chest, looks at me. “Why not?”

  “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

  We hug a little more, and then I ask, “Who else is not letting you be you?”

  He tells me about school. Apparently, some of the rules and procedures and curricula don’t jibe with my expressive, language-oriented, naturalist son.

  Penmanship? The banal work of simpletons who obviously don’t care about more important things, like how volcanoes happen or how his “bug club” might someday be able to undermine the insecticide industry.

  Math? Don’t even go there.

  He says, “I wish school had just two subjects: talking and reading.”

  I nod in concession. He’s right—that would be nice.

  The caffeine and Vicodin kick in, and the shower feels great. I put on my FlowBid clothes—“hip jeans,” as Kate calls them, with a collar shirt tucked in—and reach for the peas.

  “Wait a second.” It’s Kate in the doorway, arms folded. “Maybe I should see how things are down there.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  She closes the door and approaches with a straight face. “Let’s see what the fuss is about.”

  “Believe me. It’s not something you want to—”

  “Sshh.” She’s already unbuckling me, her hips easing forward. “I was thinking, if it’s too nasty, I should call the doctor.”

  “No doctors,” I say. “Just peas and Vicodin.”

  She squats, pu
lls down my briefs, and gasps. “Oh . . . you poor thing.” After the initial shock wears off, she begins to inspect me like a concerned lab scientist—lifting, analyzing, craning for a closer look. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not right now, thanks to the Vicodin.”

  Still inspecting. “Maybe I should call the doctor.”

  “Honey. There’s no time for doctors.”

  She’s so gentle. “You poor thing.”

  After a while, I say, “You keep doing that, and I’m gonna get—”

  But it’s too late. My transformation has begun, and Kate shakes her head with a chuckle. “Oh yeah,” she mocks. “You’re really hurt down here. I can see that.”

  “You know it’s got a mind of its own.”

  I pull her up to me, fumble with her jeans. She laughs, grabs my hands. “No way.”

  “Honey,” I plead.

  Her lids are lower, and she’s looking at my hair, then my chin. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

  I laugh. “And what about you? This little inspection?”

  “I was worried about you, and this is what I get.” She pushes away, but lets me pull her back in.

  “Honey. C’mon.”

  She laughs, then whispers, “You’re awful.”

  I return to her belt buckle. “Don’t mess with the bull if you can’t handle the horns.”

  “I was thinking . . .” She grins to herself, then looks me in the eyes again. “What if I told you I kind of liked that?”

  “Liked what?”

  She lets me pull her jeans down and loop my fingers under her panties. “That badass side of you.”

  “Huh?”

  I tug at her panties, and she slaps my hands away.

  “What if I admitted I kind of liked that? The fact you beat up that tough guy? Protecting me and the boys?”

  I stand there, dumbfounded. All that time and money spent on Dr. Heidi Douglas, when all I had to do was beat up a hard man.

  “You sure this won’t hurt?”

  Okay, maybe it hurts a little. But do you think I’ll tell her?

  Afterward, in the kitchen, Kate gives me a spoonful of cod liver oil. “For that extra juice,” she says, and drops a handful of vitamins into my hand. “You’ll need every bit of it today.”