The Super Sundae Bowl, however, isn’t available for regular customers to use as they pleased. This neatly pressed waffle-cone bowl (twice the size of the common-folk bowl) is reserved only for people celebrating their special day with Renaldo.
Getting one would make Patrick insanely jealous. That made me feel a little better.
The perky hostess showed us to our table, one of the few still open. Renaldo’s buffet stretches from one end of the restaurant to the other. I’d had a plan in mind all day for my multiple visits to the food.
Plate #1 would be my warm-up. At the far end is what Uncle Mike calls the rabbit food — a section of lettuce with an assortment of dressings and toppings. The appetizers are next: wings, fries, tater tots, and my first stop, the nacho bar.
Plate #2 is always my favorite. The pasta station occupies more real estate than anything else. Each noodle can be drenched in whichever sauce you want. At the end of the station is the crown jewel of the pasta section: the macaroni and cheese. It’s creamier than the box stuff from home and tastes so much better when scooped from the steaming metal tub.
Plate #3 is from where my parents usually go first. The meat station is what really classes up the place. Sure, there’s fried chicken, but you can get fried chicken anywhere. What you can’t get anywhere is freshly sliced ham. The chef uses his butcher knife and medieval fork to slice it to specified thickness.
Everyone can get what they want at Renaldo’s. The rabbit food satisfies the dieters, the abundance of pasta and ice cream makes kids happy, and the dads get fresh-cut meat. This place has always made me smile. It’s a magica —
“Hey, Jimmy!”
Patrick.
Just what I wished for.
“Hi, Patrick” squeezed out of my half smile. I didn’t see the rest of them, but it was common for Patrick to run ahead of his family. I honestly didn’t know how he hadn’t been hit by a car yet.
“Hi, Patrick,” Mom said. “You excited to eat here?”
Patrick responded with an impression of some kind of animal. It resembled a dog’s movements but a tiger’s growl, so I wasn’t sure. It was just wild and crazed. Dad tried to make a guess.
“Whoa! Look at the hungry wolf! Hope there’s enough food for this wolf,” Dad offered, attempting to be funny. Patrick stopped his panting and pawing to correct him.
“I’m not a wolf. I’m Bobby the Pig. And I’m hungry!” he said between animal noises. I think he was trying to snort, and instead it came out like he was in pain.
Patrick did that sometimes. He liked to be other people or, in this case, an animal. Last summer he decided he was a king for a week and only responded if you called him “Your Highness.” He also belched through dinner, ordered his parents around, and threw things he didn’t like.
Aunt Rose, Uncle Mike, and Sofia came in and spotted us immediately.
“Hey! Happy birthday, big guy!” Uncle Mike said with a high five.
“Hi there, eight-year-old! I can’t believe it! How’s your birthday been so far?”
“Hi, Aunt Rose. It’s been good. I got a new wa —”
“Food! Bobby the Pig want food!” Patrick had a charm about him that eliminated small talk. I actually didn’t mind this time. I wanted to start my three-plate rotation just as badly.
Patrick loved buffets, and Renaldo’s brought out one of his true talents: eating. He wasn’t a big kid, by any means, but, wow, he could put food away. His insides must have had secret compartments or something. I had no idea how five plates of food could fit inside his wiry frame, but they always did.
We ate until each of us had at least two cleaned plates taken away. The dads made multiple trips to the ham chef, the moms took in the pasta, and Sofia cleaned out the fries. Then there was the pause. The pause that came when everyone’s trip to the buffet had stopped and the only thing left was ice cream.
This was my time. The macaroni had created a soft cushion in me to catch all the ice cream I could eat. Thanks to the Super Sundae Bowl, it would be a lot. Dad walked to the blue-eyed hostess and pointed in my direction. She briskly moved to the kitchen and returned, holding the waffle bowl like it was a birthday cake. To me, it was.
“Here you go, birthday boy!” she said, placing the work of art in front of me. It was bigger than I expected and sparkled with a glorious display of sugar crystals.
“Look at that. . . . Let’s get a picture of the birthday boy and his dessert,” Dad said while rummaging for his phone.
“Bobby the Pig wants ice cream!” Patrick cried out, clanging his hooves on the table. My precious waffle bowl shook from the vibrations, and I gripped it like a wounded bird. “Ice cream! In a bowl like that! Now!”
Uncle Mike stepped in before the animal got loose.
“OK, OK, Patrick, why don’t you go with your sis —”
“I’m Bobby the Pig!”
Uncle Mike clenched his jaw the way he always did when Patrick acted out. He was weighing his options.
I was done being polite.
“Go be a pig somewhere else. This is mine,” I snapped without caring how it sounded. It was my birthday. Maybe being rude to Patrick was what I’d wish for. Mom quickly saw to it that wish wouldn’t be granted.
“Jimmy!” she snapped with a glare. “That is not polite. If you want any ice cream at all, you will —”
“What? Act like a pig and yell at everyone?” This made no sense to me. I didn’t do anything wrong, and somehow Patrick was the one she was worried about. It was my birthday. For once she could worry about me instead.
It was less than a second before she retaliated, but I savored that time as if it were my present.
“Jimmy! Enough! Your aunt and uncle came here to celebrate your birthday, and this is how you act?” Her eyes flashed with anger, but at least I’d gotten her attention. I’d learned at a young age this was the only way to get noticed with Patrick in the room.
“Me? How come Patrick’s allowed to act like a pig?” I wasn’t yelling, but I was getting louder. Aunt Rose put her hand on my shoulder.
“Patrick is just excited for you. That’s all. He just gets excited,” she told me as if I were the only one who didn’t see it. “Let’s all just get some ice cream and then we can hear your birthday wish. Sofia, Patrick, why don’t you go ahead and fix your sundaes.” She motioned to Uncle Mike for help. He was breathing heavily, his attention fixed on Patrick.
Mom was still hurting me with her angry eyes. Fine. I wasn’t going to say any more. I’d be in trouble later, but for the moment, I just wanted my birthday sundae.
“Just go with your sister to get your ice cream. Jimmy will be right with you,” Uncle Mike said, trying to keep Patrick contained.
“Pigs are hungry! Bobby the Pig wants a bowl like that!”
Oh, no.
“That’s it. You want any ice cream at all?” Uncle Mike’s voice was getting louder, but I don’t think he realized it. “If you do, you’re going to listen to me.” A lady sitting behind him turned in our direction. “Got it?” His hand was on Patrick’s shoulder.
Patrick broke the grip and made his way to the ice cream. Sofia followed his lead.
“Patrick, be sure to help your sister,” Aunt Rose calmly called out as her son ran away.
“I don’t need help!” Sofia barked without even looking back.
I let the two of them go ahead while protecting my precious waffle bowl with both hands. Then Mom gave me the look that I knew well. It meant I had to pretend I wasn’t worried that Patrick was about to ruin things.
“Go ahead, Jimmy. Go with your cousins.” Her head was half-cocked like the hostess’s had been earlier, but she wasn’t smiling.
Oh, boy. Here’s hoping.
I gathered my prize and held it close to my chest. With cautious steps, I made my way to the ivory handles of soft-serve delight. Sofia’s bowl was already poured and overflowing on one side. Patrick hadn’t been quick enough in helping her with the dismount. She did her best to fit as m
any gummy bears as possible on top and made her way back to the table. Patrick turned back to me.
“We need to fill it up with both flavors . . . this high,” he said, his eyes wide, staring at my hands.
“That’s all right. I just want vanilla.”
That was a lie. I had every intention of making the perfect swirl, but I was too afraid Patrick would try to help and break my Super Sundae Bowl. “I’m just going to do vanilla and load up on hot fudge.” That wasn’t a bad compromise from my original plan.
“No! We have to try it! You only get those on birthdays and you’ve got to try!” I couldn’t tell if he was excited or angry.
“Um . . . I just want vanilla, OK?” I looked toward the table for help. Sofia had all the adults’ attention on her gummy-bear creation. I was on my own. Patrick had a hand on each of the levers.
“No, see? I’ll pull both and you move the bowl really fast under them and then we can both share it!” He was getting louder. The ham chef straightened up and looked in our direction.
“I just want vanilla,” I said again, with a little more force. This was my birthday. I wanted ice cream the way I wanted it.
“Bobby the Pig is hungry and wants both kinds in a big bowl!” He took his hands off the levers and stepped toward me.
It was faint, but I could hear Uncle Mike call out “Paaa-trick” in that elongated way. It didn’t help. It only turned more heads. Aunt Rose was still admiring Sofia’s dessert creation. She wouldn’t look, even though I knew she could hear Patrick.
“Use your own bowl. This one’s mine!” I said, louder. This was my birthday. He was not going to ruin it. Unless he tried to grab my bowl.
Which he did.
“No! It’s mine!” I yelled, gripping my waffle bowl with protective hands. Patrick grabbed it, too, and wouldn’t let go. If I used any pressure, my Super Sundae Bowl would break.
“Let go! Patri —”
“I’M BOBBY THE PIG!”
The train had left the station.
Patrick clenched his fists, and with them went the structure of my Super Sundae Bowl. This time I heard Uncle Mike loud and clear. Everyone did.
“PATRICK!”
He didn’t even finish saying his name before Bobby the Pig showed his animal side. In a single motion, he spun, put his head down, and darted for the exit. He made it about three tables before his unstoppable force met a very movable object.
The hostess had walked over to help and was directly in the animal’s path. Her feet left the floor like she was on skates, and the only thing that broke her fall was the silverware counter when the back of her head hit it. I pictured the blue getting knocked from her eyes. Dad jumped out of his seat to help her. She didn’t move.
Uncle Mike ran after Patrick. Aunt Rose went after Uncle Mike. Sofia followed with her ice cream in hand. Mom went to help Dad with the hostess.
Everyone in the restaurant watched. I stood still, holding the crushed remains of my birthday.
One of the Renaldo’s workers came out and helped the hostess to her feet. She wasn’t able to stand on her own and winced with pain. Dad kept apologizing to her and tried to explain what had happened. I don’t think she heard anything he said. Mom motioned for me to come over.
It was time to go.
“Come on, we’re going to wait outside and let Dad pay the bill.” Paying the bill seemed to be a low priority compared to the injuries and mess Patrick had made, but I knew that was an excuse. She wanted to get out of there quickly. All the other diners’ eyes focused on us while we made our way to the exit. Renaldo’s suddenly seemed much larger — and the exit much farther away.
“Where did they go?” I asked once we were outside. It couldn’t have been more than two minutes since Uncle Mike had chased Patrick out the front door.
“I don’t know,” Mom breathed out. “I don’t see their car, so —”
“So Uncle Mike must have caught him?”
She didn’t respond for a second. Then, looking at the doors of Renaldo’s, she said, “I guess so.”
Mom didn’t like to talk about a Patrick aftermath. Any investigating on my end was always dismissed. But if I couldn’t have ice cream, I at least deserved to know what was happening.
“Do you think Patrick will be in trouble?”
“I . . . I don’t know, OK?”
I hoped he’d be invited to her next birthday. He could wreck it, then I could act like it was no big deal.
We got home and Dad poured himself a bourbon. He usually does that when he’s had a long day at work. I always know it’s a good idea to busy myself in my room for a while when the bourbon comes out.
And then Mom and Dad talked loudly.
“There’s something wrong with him! He doesn’t just need a ‘swift kick in the rear’ like Mike thinks. He needs help!”
Bourbon isn’t a whisper-inducing juice.
“That’s not for us to say, Art! You can’t tell someone how to raise their kids! You can’t tell them they’re bad parents!”
I’d heard this argument between Mom and Dad more than once. It usually ended with Dad saying, “It’s only going to get worse,” and Mom insisting he leave it alone. Not tonight.
“If Mike is too proud to help a kid that —”
“Too proud? He’s a paramedic, for Christ’s sake! He helps people for a living! You think he doesn’t know how to help his son? You think Rose doesn’t —?”
“I think your sister has her head in the sand all day and waits for someone else to fix everything!”
“Stop it! Rose works very hard and knows Patrick is a little hyper and ca —”
“A little hyper? That kid’s off the charts! I wouldn’t be surprised if he has bipolar or something that he can’t —”
“Oh, really, doctor? You have him all figured out? All kids get a little worked up sometimes. He just needs to —”
“He needs more than what they are doing!”
“You don’t know that! You don’t know if something is wro —”
“I know our son had his birthday ruined! I know that he’s upset and didn’t want Patrick there tonight! But, no, we can’t ever do anything without your sister!”
I heard Dad storm upstairs — and Mom start to cry. That was the worst it ever got. I don’t know how much further it would have gone if we hadn’t gotten the call.
The phone rang twice before Mom answered. It was Uncle Mike. He was at the hospital.
Mom’s crying turned hysterical. She couldn’t even talk and gave the phone to Dad. He spoke slowly, focused. One word at a time.
“Yes” followed by “OK.” Then the only complete sentence before hanging up: “But everyone is alive?” He put his hand on Mom’s shoulder. I knew that whatever had happened was bad, but I was grateful it made them stop fighting.
“Jimmy, get Mom’s purse for her. We need to go to the hospital.”
“What hap —?”
“Now. I’ll tell you in the car.”
On the drive, Dad explained more. There’d been an accident. Uncle Mike said they were all alive and unharmed. By the time we arrived, he, Aunt Rose, and Patrick were finished getting checked out, but they were still waiting for Sofia.
They said she hit her head pretty hard. Uncle Mike said it was all his fault. I heard him tell Dad he was still yelling at Patrick to be quiet when he missed the stop sign.
While Sofia’s head injury didn’t cause any brain damage, it was enough trauma to have lasting effects.
She lost ninety percent of her hearing from her injury.
Had my uncle known that his words before being hit by that truck would be the last his daughter would ever hear, he likely would have chosen something other than screaming, “Shut up.”
Uncle Mike never forgave himself for the accident that hurt his daughter.
He never forgave Patrick, either.
The wake officially starts at one o’clock. I have this image in my head that since a wake is to respect someone who died, the
doors will open to a mass of people waiting outside. But instead, like most parties I’ve been to, people don’t show up right away. A few neighbors come shortly after one o’clock, along with some friends of my uncle’s, but not many others.
Thirty minutes later, the wake begins to get crowded and everyone seems to know their place.
Uncle Mike, Aunt Rose, and Sofia are standing to the right of Patrick’s coffin. Enough people arrive to form a line along the wall next to them. Mom and Dad seem to be in charge of thanking everyone. They collect a group after they’ve paid respects to Patrick, thank them for coming, and wait for the next group. It reminds me of a checkout line.
I stay close to my parents and let them do the talking. I have no idea what you’re supposed to say at a wake. People are now coming in faster than they’re leaving. The sight of this traffic coming my way doesn’t ease my anxiety or make my pants feel any less constricti —
“Hello.”
I turn to see the owner of the familiar voice. Greg Karlov?
“It is good to see you, Jimmy. I am very sorry about your cousin. Please accept my condolences.”
That’s how Greg speaks. No contractions — and like he’s been rehearsing lines off a script all day. He always struggled to make friends, but I don’t think he cared. He acted as if he knew something the rest of us didn’t, like our futures were all going to be awful and his wasn’t.
“In case you do not remember, this is my father.” He gestures to the man behind him.
I’m shocked he’s here. Greg Karlov has been one of my classmates since kindergarten and is truly one of the weirdest people on earth. He wears camouflage something every day, and when he isn’t in school, he’s searching for fossils by himself in the woods. He was in my homeroom last year, but we don’t even have any classes together in eighth grade. We’re not friends. He certainly wasn’t friends with Patrick. Really not someone I feel like being polite to at the moment.
“Hi, Greg. Thanks for coming. Hello, sir,” I say to his father. His dad has that same look in his eyes as Greg does — a piercing stare that has always made me uncomfortable. Seeing Greg stand next to his dad is like seeing an apple next to an apple tree.
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