“Okay.”
“It’s been a crazy year, and we just need to recharge, you know?”
Staring into space. “Uh-huh.”
“So we are planning to take five weeks in Greece this summer. Samson has his sabbatical this year, and—”
“A recharge?” I say, snapping out of it. “Five weeks?”
“Exactly. Maybe six weeks, we haven’t finalized things. But the point is, this is really just for Samson and me. You know? We just really need to unplug, recharge, spend some Ana and Samson time.”
For six weeks? I snap out of it. What planet do they live on? What kind of person has my sister become that she actually desires to spend six weeks alone with Samson James Barnard IV, who might be the most out-of-touch and boring person I know? Ana Theresa Blanco avoided bores at all costs.
“So we’re wondering if Collin could stay with you until we return. Maybe Samson and I can plan a layover at SFO on the way back, and just pick him up.”
I’m sure Audrey would totally get off seeing me as a devoted, cool uncle, and therefore it would be only a matter of time until she and I are in bed, and she’s laughing, and her toes are in my mouth, and she’s saying, Let me take the kid for a few days.
After a while, my sister says, “Rick?”
I hear myself mumble, “Just trying to process all this.”
More movement in the bushes, but I don’t care. My mind is scrambling, thinking of how I’ll quit. My god, how I’ve wanted to quit.
Is this really happening?
“Rick?” Her voice is meek and slow, just like it always was when we were kids and she had to fess up to something. “I have to admit. I’m a little nervous about this.”
“What? You mean, being away from Collin so long?”
“No.” She sounds so serious. “The house.”
“What do you mean, you’re worried about the house?”
“I need to be able to trust you with it. You know? Nothing like that time you had those Raiders fans at your condo.”
Ana Theresa Blanco was a Raiders fan.
Ana Barnard does Pilates.
“Yeah, no Raider parties,” I say. “I’ll honor whatever rules you want.”
Really slowly, she says, “I just need to be able to trust you—to keep things secure. And I’m not talking about what you think I’m talking about.”
I don’t even want to think about that, that thing I did that changed our lives. It hurts too much to think about that. I blink my eyes and shake my face.
“This is all about the house. Okay? And trust.”
“I understand.”
I stand there and gaze into space, a smile forming. I can’t believe this is happening. I am going to quit Robards International and live an easy life in a $5 million Woodside mansion, where I will pen an antimeeting manifesto for the ages.
“Rick?”
I snap out of it. “Yep, I’m here.”
“In fact, maybe you could come over tonight, and we could talk about all of this. I’m sure that would do it for me.”
My vision is a blur now. Still smiling. “Sure.”
“In fact, if you are going to go take Collin out of school—after the SAT Prep . . .”
“Of course. After the SAT Prep.”
“. . . maybe we could talk about the plan.”
“That works. Say, six p.m.?”
“Perfect.”
I am practically singing. “Okay then.”
“Rick?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
That’s always great to hear.
“I love you, too, Ana.”
More movement in the bushes. Mama? Gingerly, I head in that direction, pushing through more shrubs. “Listen, we’ll discuss it tonight. Don’t worry, I’ll keep the house totally safe, and I’ll follow your rules.” Beneath the thick carpet of dried leaves, my foot slips under a rope or a cord, and I nearly fall on my face.
“Rick?”
I stand up and run my foot through the leaves, looking for the obstruction. Finally I reach down and pull up an orange extension cord—a recently bought extension cord feeding straight into that cluster of bushes over there.
What the . . . ?
“Rick, where are you?”
I follow the extension cord. “Never mind that. I’ll bring Collin home tonight by six, and then you and I will put this issue to bed, to your liking. But I can’t stick around too long tonight—hot date.”
“Okay.”
“And, Ana?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m just so—I mean, I guess I just—”
“It’s okay. I know.”
Which is when I push through another thicket and stumble out the other end, crashing into a sea of empty beer cans so deep I can barely feel the ground.
Someone’s talking.
Daffy Duck?
A moment later, I’m sitting upright in the sea of empties. And I’m speechless.
It’s so much to take in. There’s the set of old mattresses surrounded by thousands of empties. There’s the fat and juicy tri-tip roasting on a Weber grill. There’s the homemade contraption directly above the grill—three small electric fans dispersing smoke in a variety of directions. And in the middle, placed atop a stack of milk crates, is a small television flashing remarkably sharp images of Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck enjoying an easy conversation over Chinese takeout.
What the . . .
From under the cans, a tinny voice calls out. “Rick?”
Shit. Ana. I squint down at the cans, listening for my phone.
“Rick?”
I turn right and slip my hand under the cans, feeling for my phone. And somehow, I find it. To limit the noise, I pull it out slowly. It’s silent here, except for Bugs and Daffy. “Hey there,” I say into the phone, like nothing’s happened.
“Rick, you okay?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine.”
“Where are you?”
I gaze into the air, forcing a smile. “Just the grocery store.”
“That didn’t sound like—”
“Just a little collision with a stack of lard jars.” I force an annoyed sigh. “I’ve got a few cracked jars here.” Another annoyed sigh. “There’s lard everywhere.”
“Lard jars? What kind of grocery store—”
“Listen, I should find a clerk to clean this up.”
She’s laughing. “Watch where you’re going. See you this evening.”
Too late for that, I think, as a bald, pudgy man emerges from the bushes, shooting through the empties with unsettling speed. I don’t realize he’s wielding barbecue prongs until he’s pressing them into my neck.
Which is when I hear a series of clicks.
From somewhere unseen, Mama adopts a syrupy tone. “That’s a good boy,” she drawls. “You really have learned your clicks, haven’t you, Ernie?”
Ernie produces a happy noise, presses the prongs deeper into my neck, and I stiffen and grimace. Determined not to move my head, I dart my eyes up to him and do my best ventriloquist impersonation. “Easy, fella. I’m not a tri-tip.”
From the bushes, three metallic clicks.
He steps back and withdraws his prongs. And I finally take a breath.
Mama’s shaky voice is getting closer. “What a good boy you are.” Four more clicks. “Come and get your goodie, Ernie.”
I turn around, and there’s Mama—her body twisted into that permanent hunch, her veined hands slowly dipping into her giant fanny pack and reemerging with some type of jerky. I realize I’m just sitting there, frozen in disbelief.
“Mama, I have to say—this is a whole new level of crazy for you.”
Slowly, she looks up and inspects me through her glasses, her eyes enormous. “Do I know you?”
I laugh. “Mama, c’mon. No games today. I’m here, just like you asked.”
“Games?” Fists on her hips, mouth twisted in old-lady aggression. “Aren’t you the king of games, Dickie? Paperwork games?”
I laugh. “Mama. C’mon. No role playing today. I’ve got way too much to—”
“And now here you are: Dick Rayborne, snooping in on my boys. Trampling through the Playroom.”
“The caveman lady. Sabine Rorg-something. C’mon, Mama.”
She winks and shakes head. “You really are like a pig, aren’t you, Dickie? An insatiable appetite. Want want want. Take take take.” She scowls at me. “Haven’t you taken enough, Mr. Paperwork?”
“Mama, c’mon. What are we doing here?”
Mama reaches into her fanny pack and produces three tight clicks; they’re different from the ones before, and Ernie charges across “the Playroom,” sending cans everywhere, an eyebrow arched. I recoil and holler, and he slides to a stop in front of Mama. She reaches into her pack and pulls out a mini bottle of Jack Daniel’s, the kind they sell on airplanes. Ernie snatches the bottle, twists off the cap, and drains it, tossing the new empty over his shoulder.
It’s like she’s talking to a tired old dog—slow and low. “That’s my Ernie. It took a while to learn your clicks, but you stuck with it, and now look at you, earning all kinds of goodies from Mama.” Ernie waits for more, but she puts a hand out as if to say, Not yet. Then she produces three more clicks.
“Cujo,” she squeaks. “Come see Mama.”
Nothing.
Ernie moans for another bottle.
She cocks her head, listening. “Cujo? Don’t you worry about this mister here. Mama’s gonna make sure. Mama’s gonna make sure Dickie doesn’t get you fired.”
That gets me. I look at Ernie and realize he’s wearing a seafoam-green jumpsuit, the requisite uniform for a certain type of employee at Robards International. I give Ernie another look, meet his crooked gaze—that eyebrow still arched, that little mouth turning crooked, contorting his enormous jowls as he begs for another mini. And I feel a chill.
Conployee.
“Cuuuuuuu-jo. Mama’s gonna make sure Dickie plays nice.”
“I’m happy to meet your friends, Mama. But I need to get my nephew. And I need that introduction to the caveman professor. You promised.”
“Cuuuuuuu-jooo?”
Nothing.
She pokes into her fanny pack and pulls out a third clicker—this one’s orange—and produces three wooden clicks. Ernie squeals and tiny-steps closer. She reaches into her fanny pack and produces another airline bottle—this time, Wild Turkey—and a thick, marbled cube of cured meat. Pork belly? Ernie snatches them out of her shaky hands, makes a happy noise, and plunks down onto his mattress.
“Cujo?”
To the left, a heap of leaves and twigs eases up from the earth, and I notice the large manhole underneath it. I jolt and step back as an enormous, bald-shaven man emerges, the tattoos on his scalp and neck contrasting boldly against his seafoam jumpsuit, a black beard coming to a point near his collarbones, his dark brown eyes watching me closely. He offers an uneasy smile.
“That’s my boy,” Mama says, stretching the words. “Come get your goodies.”
Cujo approaches with caution, watching me closely—my lord, he’s huge. He takes a bottle and a slice of pork belly, still watching me, ready to bolt.
“Don’t you worry about Dickie here. Mama’s gonna take care of this.”
“Dude.” I pull out my wallet. “I’m not Dick Rayborne. Read my driver’s license.”
She’s shaking her head, her eyes closed. “Cujo?”
His voice is thick, deep, and wet. “Yes, Mama?”
“Do you recognize this man?”
“I suppose I do, Mama.”
“And who is he?”
“Well, Mama . . .” Cujo glances at me, looks at Mama. “You’re looking at the Warden.”
“The Warden?”
“It’s what we call him.”
“Rayborne?” Mama says. “Dickie Raynorne? Your VP of HR? The king of paperwork? You call him the Warden?”
“Yes, Mama.”
I’m pleading now. “Mama, c’mon. Just tell me what you want.”
“Cujo?”
“Yes?”
“You seem frightened. Is there anything you want to tell Mama?”
Cujo looks at me, nods. “It’s just . . .”
“It’s okay, sweetie. You can tell me.”
“It’s just that the Warden—I mean, Mr. Rayborne. Well. It’s just that we’re out here, and . . . well . . . we’re supposed to be . . .” He nods toward the campus. “. . . in there.”
We watch as Ernie rises from his mattress, his eyes on the Looney Tunes, and stabs the tri-tip with his prongs, the meat sizzling on the grill.
“Don’t worry about that, honey.” She turns to me, thins her eyes. “Mama’s gonna take care of Dickie here.”
“Mama, I can’t get fired for bad behavior. If I get pinched, my parole officer will find out, and I’ll be toast. Back to house arrest.” He offers some very sad eyes. “Or maybe even back to San Quentin.”
I clasp my hands for emphasis. “Guys, I promise. I’m not Dick Rayborne, and even if I were him, I wouldn’t rat on you.” I look at Cujo, searching for a trace of reason, and offer my wallet. “Dude, look at the driver’s license.”
Cujo stiffens, backs up. God, he’s massive—six-foot-five, maybe, and close to three hundred pounds, with dark, curly hair sprouting out from his collar and cuffs. He offers a polite smile. “Sorry, Warden, but I’m not getting my prints on your wallet.” He lumbers back to the manhole, parting the sea of empties, and squeezes in. He turns and looks up at me, his eyes hopeful. “We’ll just go back to work. C’mon, Ernie. We’ll go back the way we came, right back up this old pipe—it’s nice and dry, so our threads never get tarnished, so no need to worry about damage to company property. Don’t worry about a thing, Mr. Rayborne. C’mon, Ernie.”
Mama snaps, “Boys, don’t go anywhere. You might need to help your Mama today.”
I look at Cujo, then at Ernie. “She’s your mom?”
Cujo’s frown turns into a grin. “That ain’t our mom, dude.” His face softens as he looks at Mama. “We were just chillin’ here one day—taking a break, just for a few minutes, Warden, I swear—and Mama here just walked in on us.”
Mama smiles at the memory. “I’d come to spy on this bird,” she says and jerks her thumb at me.
“And I guess she just took a liking to us.”
“Because it was clear,” she says to me. “These boys lacked the kind of parental guidance and love that sets a man on his way for the rest of his life.”
Cujo meets my eye and smiles. “Empty nester,” he whispers and chuckles. “It’s awesome.”
Mama puffs. “And I was appalled, Dick. I was appalled at what they told me. This whole operation you created. A really rotten thing, all around.”
“Mama, please. I mean, fine—I’ll be Dick. But this is my last chance with Audrey.”
She waves me off. “I bet your mother would be ashamed if she knew what you’re up to.”
That feels like a punch in the gut, and I snap, “Don’t mention my mother.”
Her face softens, and she mutters, “Fair enough.”
My cell rings, giving all of us a jolt. I pull it out of my pocket: Audrey.
“Don’t you dare answer that phone. We have work to do.”
“No, it’s Audrey. The girl.”
“The girl?” She looks to Ernie. “Get me that phone.”
Ernie rushes over, presses the prongs into my neck, and snatches the phone.
“Let me see that.”
“Please don’t.”
He hands it to her, and she clicks the clicker, awarding him another mini of Wild Turkey.
“Please.”
She pokes at the screen and puts it to her ear. Pulls it away, frowns at it, and puts it back to her ear. “Hello?”
I wave my hands and whisper-yell. “Don’t say anything.”
She scrunches her face and looks into space, listening. “Who’s this?”
I bend over, wincing. “Pleas
e. I might be able to quit and write—”
“Yes. Well, I’m having a few words with your secret lover. . . . Yes, that’s right.”
“Mama, please.”
“Me? . . . I’m his wife, you tramp. . . . What? Yes, his wife. Well, ex-wife, I guess. And I’m standing here with our two boys. I’m sure he didn’t tell you about them, either. Did he?”
I reach for the phone, and the prongs ease deeper into my throat.
“And I wonder if you have any idea what your secret boyfriend does here at Robards International. . . . What? . . . Because I think you might be shocked to hear what he’s doing to these kids, including my two boys. . . . Yes, well, I’m afraid he can’t come to the phone right now. We’re trying to resolve some of his behavior issues. . . . Who? . . . What? . . . Collin? . . . I don’t know who that is. Sounds like one of your lover’s cronies. . . . And I am afraid we have to go. . . . What? . . . No. I said he needs to pay back his debt to society, and he needs to make things right. How do you hang these things up?”
I feel nausea setting in. I take a knee in the empties.
* * *
Mama is standing over me, her camel toe way too close, but I don’t have the energy to care. In one brief phone call, she’s managed to jeopardize my best girl opportunity in years—the promise of finally dating the woman who turns my insides to goo, who gives me an instant boner, who makes me feel like a new person. How many times does a guy meet a woman like that? How many times does a woman like that actually agree to date a guy like me? Hell, maybe that was enough right there—that call. Maybe Audrey now thinks I’m a freak with an even freakier ex. Is it possible she might actually believe I have kids? After all these years of knowing me and my family, she couldn’t possibly think I have an ex and kids. But could Audrey call my sister and tell her about my freaky friend, and could that possibly jeopardize my opportunity to house-sit and quit my job?
Okay, I’m overthinking this.
Mama says, “You want your phone back?”
We look over to the mattresses, where Cujo is splayed out talking into the phone. I can’t hear everything, but he’s saying things like “Do you like to party?”
I bury my face in my hands.
“If you want that telephone back,” she says. “If you ever want to introduce your nephew to Sabine Rorgstardt, you need to do some things for me.”
The Bob Watson Page 6