by Don Calame
Hank gives the baby’s back a few taps. Baby Robbie whimpers even louder.
“You have to jiggle him a bit,” I instruct.
Hank holds the doll out to me. “Why don’t you do it? We wouldn’t want to cheat you out of the experience, now would we?”
The plane starts picking up speed. Racing down the runway.
“Oh, boy,” I say, pressing back into the seat. “We’re going.” I clench my eyes shut. “Could you hold him for takeoff, please? I have to . . . focus. I don’t really love flying so much.” I swallow. “I’ll take him back when we’re in the air. I promise.”
I sit stock-still. Eyes closed. Doing my best to look terrified.
To my right, I hear my baby crying. Louder. And louder.
I open one eye and see Hank frantically jiggling and patting the weeping doll.
Hank looks at me with a pained expression. “He’s not wet. And you just fed him. I don’t know what he wants.”
And just like that, Robbie blows his baby brack all over Hank’s shoulder, the snotty, sepia spew oozing down his back.
“Lovely,” Hank says, cringing.
I reach my hands out. “Here, I’ll take him.”
“Sure,” Hank says, looking into the infant’s suddenly silent, sick-smeared face. “After I take the barf shower and get him all settled down.”
In response, Baby Robbie shoots another powerful geyser of hurl all over the front of Hank’s shirt.
“Jesus.” Hank holds the baby out like it’s radioactive. “It’s like this thing’s possessed or something.”
The lady in the powder-blue jumpsuit sitting next to Hank looks even more horrified than he does. She hugs the window, trying to avoid any collateral damage.
Charlie’s got his camera out, snapping a series of action shots, the flash popping over and over again. “This is exactly why Ms. Drizzler wants us to do this exercise,” he says. “To show us just how difficult it is to be a parent.”
Hank pulls a face. “Yeah. I can see how it would be an effective mode of birth control. Here. I’ve done my tour of duty for the day.” He hands the baby off to me, then removes the barf bag from his seat-back pocket and uses it to wipe the brown sludge from his doused shirt. “At least it’s a short flight.”
Yes, but it’s going to be a long week, Hank.
A very long week.
When we arrive at carousel number three, everyone from our flight is greeted by someone — with hugs, kisses, and whoops of delight.
We, however, are met by no one. Our representatives from My Woodland Trek Adventures — the grinning, chapeaued, and bevested greeters from the website — are missing in action. According to the description, they were meant to meet us “with snacks and smiles” before dumping us off at some lake where our “beautifully restored” bush plane is awaiting our arrival.
“They’ll be here,” Hank says, reading my mind. He flips his wrist to check his mega-watch. “Maybe they got caught in traffic.”
“Or were killed in a fifty-car pileup,” Charlie offers as he removes his surgical mask and gloves.
“Right,” Hank says. “Though, unlikely.”
“Not as unlikely as you’d think,” Charlie corrects. “There were nearly six million car accidents last year in the United States alone. That’s one every five seconds.”
“I’m sure our people are fine.”
“And I was sure my parents would be fine,” Charlie says matter-of-factly, “when they drove off for their anniversary dinner. But forty thousand people die in the United States from automobile accidents every year. That’s over a hundred people a day. One every fifteen minutes. It’s almost like a plane crash every twenty-four hours. Ponder that a moment. If a plane crashed every single day, do you think anyone would want to fly ever again? And yet we get into these rolling death machines willy-nilly. Even if our hosts do arrive, it’s entirely possible we’ll be killed on the drive to our next destination. It might actually be better if they don’t show up.”
Hank’s eyebrows are squished together. “Wait, what was that about your parents?”
“Charlie’s parents died in a car crash,” I say, feigning impatience. “Five years ago. I told you that.”
“What? No. I don’t . . . think so.” Hank swallows. “Jesus, Charlie. I’m so sorry.” He looks at me. “I really don’t think you ever said anything about that —”
“Yes, I did,” I lie. “When I asked you if Charlie could come on the trip, I said it would be really good for him to be around a father figure, since Mom’s been his only real parental influence for the last five years. Well, and his grandparents, of course, but they’re, you know, old.” I sigh. “I guess you weren’t listening.”
It feels wrong using Charlie’s parents’ accident as a way to make Hank feel terrible. But it was Charlie’s idea, and he claims they would’ve fully supported us in our efforts to rid the Weekes family of the detestable dentist.
Hank turns to Charlie. “I really am very sorry. I honestly don’t recall . . . I mean, I think I would have remembered that . . . God . . .” He runs his hand through his hair. “I feel awful —”
“It’s OK, Mr. Langston,” Charlie says. “I’m sure you’ve had a lot of things on your mind lately, what with the wedding planning and the fun camping trip and all.”
Just then the conveyor belt on the baggage carousel groans to life. As Hank hauls our packs from the conveyor, Charlie digs around in his carry-on, finds a small brown dropper bottle, and surreptitiously hands it over to me.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I announce as soon as I pocket the bottle. I hold the Baby-Real-A-Lot out to Hank. “Can you take Robbie?”
Hank grimaces. “Maybe Charlie would like a turn.”
Charlie holds up his hands. “I’m going to have to respectfully decline. I took my turn the very first week of school, before the filthy masses got their paws on it. And even then I wore rubber gloves the entire time. But now that thing is a festering petri dish teeming with untold quantities of bacteria. I’d sooner suck on a kitchen sponge.”
“Right.” Hank sighs. “OK. Give it to me.” He yanks the baby from me.
“Careful,” I say, glancing at my ID bracelet. “Abuse points count double.”
“I’m not abusing him,” Hank says. “However, if he poops his diaper again, I won’t be changing him. He’ll have to wait until you get back.”
“But that’ll raise my neglect score,” I say.
Hank cocks his head. “Well, then, you’d better make it quick.”
“Jeez,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “I sure hope you and Mom aren’t planning on having kids.”
If Hank isn’t questioning his parenting abilities now, just wait until I treat him to a lungful of Liquid Limburger.
On my way back from the bathroom, I stop by the newsstand to pick up some supplies for a future incursion: a mini-sleeve of sour-cream-and-onion Pringles, some Skittles, a bag of barbecue Fritos, some beef jerky, a pack of peanut butter cups, and a 3 Musketeers bar. The trembling old man behind the counter screws his face up and gags when my cheese-scented armpit stink hits him, but I pretend to be oblivious.
By the time I return to Hank and Charlie, the baggage claim area is nearly empty and they’ve taken up a perch on a bench by the door.
I plop my bag of goodies on the seat beside Hank, making sure not to stand too close — not yet.
“He started fussing again,” Hank says, leaning forward and handing Robbie over to me. “Didn’t soil his diaper, though. I checked. He probably just needs some rocking or burping.”
“Thanks,” I say. I glance at the blank screen on my ID bracelet and saucer my eyes. “Holy crap! Did you . . . Did you hit him? Or drop him or something?”
“No,” Hank says, shaking his head. “No way.”
“Why am I’m getting a ‘gross mistreatment’ warning?” I lie, tapping the empty bracelet display. “Apparently, I’ll be receiving a visit from child services.”
“Nothing happe
ned,” Hank insists.
“Well, something happened,” I say, unwrapping the blanket to check Robbie for damages. As soon as the blanket’s removed, the doll’s left leg falls off, clattering to the floor. “Jesus Christ, Hank! You dismembered him!”
“I did nothing of the sort. I swear!” Hank looks over at Charlie for support. “We just sat here, right? Tell him.”
“Hank held the baby very gingerly, Dan,” Charlie says.
Hank looks up at me. “See?”
“At least whilst I was here,” Charlie says. “Of course, I did spend five minutes hacking the ‘Healthy Choices’ vending machine. They were pretty tricky with their codes but, as Benjamin Franklin once said, ‘Energy and persistence conquer all things.’” Charlie holds up a pack of apple chips and an organic pomegranate juice.
“I can’t believe this! I’m totally screwed. Not only am I going to fail Life Skills, but I’ll probably get detention for damaging him.” I snatch up the leg and try to fit it back into place. As I do, one of his arms drops off.
The three of us stare as the little baby limb rattles on the linoleum.
“OK,” Hank says, rubbing his face. “Obviously, the doll is defective.”
“He was fine when I took him home.” I glare at Hank. “Are you sure nothing happened? Maybe you bumped into something. Dropped him when you were putting him down.”
“I never put him down,” Hank says, exasperated. “I held him gently the entire time.”
“Sure, OK,” I say, my voice laced with suspicion. I bend over and snatch up the arm. “Although . . .” I gesture with the tiny appendage. “Now that I think about it, you were pretty annoyed when I asked you to look after him. I’m just saying.”
Hank blinks at me. “I’d never hurt your baby, Dan. Doll or otherwise. He must be damaged from all the students handling him.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I push the limb back into its socket, then wrap the blanket back around the baby and sit down next to Hank. “Though I doubt Ms. Drizzler will buy that excuse.”
I lean back and start rocking the baby in one arm. “So, any word from our escorts?” I scoot closer to Hank and rest my free arm on the bench back behind him.
“I tried calling the number I have, but —” Hank’s nose spasms. He coughs and shifts over a bit. “I just . . . got their voice mail. We should be OK, though. I confirmed everything before we left.” He coughs again, then “casually” looks over his shoulder at the teeming rain outside — away from my eau de armpit. “Probably just got held up by the weather.”
“Over a quarter of all car crashes are weather related,” Charlie informs us.
Hank nods. “All we can do is hope for the best.” He grabs his copy of Outdoor Life and opens it. “Let’s just relax and . . . enjoy the nice Muzak for a while.” He turns so that most of his back is to me.
After a couple of minutes, I manage to get Baby Robbie to sleep. I place the doll on the seat beside me, then pull out my dummy sketchbook and pencils from my bag. Might as well get some work done while we wait.
I turn to a clean page near the back and start in on some drawing, angling the sketchbook so that Hank can’t see my real sketches if he glances my way.
The next set of panels is going to be a kick-ass action sequence: Princess Erilin and Sir Stan leading the Royal Infantry into battle with the Night Goblin and his army of Hobgobblers.
This scene is key. Every graphic novel needs a few really spectacular eye-catching moments. If I can get the details right here, I think I have a real chance of getting this book published. And wouldn’t that be supremely impressive to an art school admissions board.
Not to mention to a certain gorgeous girl I know.
I glance over and smile at the slumbering Baby Robbie, swaddled in the tiny sweater Erin knitted. With yarn she held in her very own hands.
And once again, I get a serious pang of guilt. If Erin had any idea what we’d done to her child so far — what we plan to do to him — she’d never forgive me. Charlie had better be right when he said he can reprogram my ID bracelet to make it look like Baby Robbie was nothing but pampered the entire week.
I’m about to return to working on my sketch when Charlie clears his throat dramatically, like he’s got a five-pound hairball stuck in his windpipe.
Hank and I turn and stare at him. Charlie smiles apologetically. “Sorry. This canned air is murder on my cilia.”
Hank turns back to his magazine, but Charlie holds my gaze, giving me a loaded look.
“You don’t want to harm your cilia,” he says, sniffing loudly. “That could be quite unpleasant.”
I gulp and put my sketchbook back into my bag.
I take a deep breath. “Hank?”
“Hmm?” Hank glances up from his magazine.
“I was wondering . . .” I start. “Do you . . . do you know how to dance?”
“Dance?” He peers at me. “What do you mean?”
“Dance,” I repeat. “You know. Like, with a girl.”
He laughs. “Well, I wouldn’t say I’m Saturday Night Fever good, but —”
“I don’t know what that means,” I say.
“Before your time.” Hank shakes his head. “Anyway, I do know a step or two. Why?”
“Can you show me?” I ask.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Show you?”
I stare down at the ground. “I just . . . the thing is . . . there’s this dance at school. And there’s this girl I’d like to ask, only I’ve never slow-danced before. So I was wondering . . . Can you show me how to do it?”
“Sure thing, bud,” he says. “Your mom and I’ll give you a lesson when we get home. We’ll have you in school-dance form in no time.” He leans back and raises his magazine again, like the subject is closed.
“Yeah, the thing is,” I say, “the dance is the night we get back.” I swallow. “Is there any way we could do it, like, now?”
Hank slides his eyes toward me. “Right now?” He glances around at the near-empty baggage claim area.
I nod. “If it’s too much of a bother . . .”
“No,” Hank says, clearing his throat. “It’s just . . . Well . . .”
Charlie leans forward. “I wouldn’t mind getting a few pointers myself.”
Hank sighs heavily. “I, uh, I guess I can show you guys the basics.” He places his magazine down and stands. “All right, let me think here.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “OK. So. You want to have very good posture. That’s key.” Hank straightens up and elongates his neck. “You’ll position yourself so you’re looking over the girl’s right shoulder. Then you want to get into hold. So the man’s left hand takes the woman’s right hand, palms facing each other.”
“Unless, of course it’s two men dancing,” Charlie corrects. “Or two women. We do live in the twenty-first century, Mr. Langston.”
“Right, well, in that case,” Hank says. “Whoever’s the lead dancer will use their left hand, while the non-lead dancer will use their right. Then the lead dancer’s right hand”— he curves his arm around his imaginary partner’s shoulder —“is placed on the non-lead dancer’s left shoulder blade. And the non-lead dancer puts her — or his — hand on the lead dancer’s right shoulder. Then you guide your partner in a simple box step in time to the music.” Hank starts dancing to the canned version of “Piano Man” playing over the airport speakers. “One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.” He stops and lowers his hands. “Just like that.”
“I’m not really sure I get it,” I say, standing and stepping into his personal space, my gamy bouquet billowing around my body like a stink cloud. “Can we practice it together?”
“Oh, um . . .” Hank says, blinking hard and taking a step back, casually rubbing his nostrils with the tips of his fingers. “Well . . .”
“I’m more of a hands-on learner.” I take a step closer and hold up my arms like I’m ready to dance with him, exposing my putrid pits to his face.
“I don’t think, uh �
��” Hank retches a little. “I’m not sure that . . .”
“You don’t want to help me?” I say, dropping my arms.
“It’s not . . . th-that,” Hank stammers, hacking. “It’s just that . . . It’s . . . Did you, um . . . This morning . . . When you got up . . . Did you put on . . .?”
“Did I put on what?” I ask, the picture of innocence.
He rubs the back of his neck. “You know what? Never mind.”
“I get it,” I say dejectedly. “It’s too much of a hassle. No big deal. I just won’t go to the dance. She probably wouldn’t have said yes anyway.”
“Wait, Dan,” Hank says, his voice all nasal, like he’s mouth breathing. “It’s OK. We can do this.”
“You sure?” I ask, looking all bright-eyed and hopeful.
Hank nods. “Mmm-hmm. But, uh, let’s make it quick, OK? In case our escorts show up.” He grabs my arms and repositions my hands, all the while holding his breath. “You be the non-lead first. Then we can switch.” He turns his head away from me, breathing the air from another direction. “That feel OK?”
“It’s a little awkward,” I say. I step even closer to him. “There. That’s better.”
“OK. Good.” He gags and clears his throat like he’s just sucked in an insect.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Fine, fine,” Hank says. “So, just follow my lead. As I step, you do the reverse. Got it?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Good.” Hank’s brow is beading with sweat and his complexion is pale. “Let’s . . .” He swallows. “Let’s give it a try.”
Hank starts to move me backward, then sideways. I make a point to step on his feet. We stumble. I fall forward and press my cheese-tainted body up close to his.
“Don’t fight me,” Hank says, wheezing.
“Sorry,” I say, and raise my elbows high like chicken wings.
Hank suppresses a dry heave. “Just follow my lead.”
As he guides me forward, I take an exaggerated step and “accidentally” knee him in the balls.