Popped Off

by Allen, Jeffrey

  She sauntered off to join our daughter in the pool.

  6

  We returned home to find my parents sitting on the front porch, huddled together, staring intently at a laptop.

  My father looked up as we approached. “Oh, thank God you’re finally home.”

  My mother’s face took on a grave expression. “We need your help, Deuce.”

  I glanced at Julianne, who stared worriedly at them.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. “What is it?”

  My father threw up his hands, then shoved the laptop over to my mother. “This stupid Facebook! It makes no sense!”

  I exhaled, relieved that no one was dying.

  We ushered them into the house, and while Julianne and Carly went to the kitchen, I settled onto the sofa with my parents.

  It was great living so close to them in Rose Petal. Most of the time. They were terrific grandparents and never failed to help out at a moment’s notice. They lived to spend time with Carly and were dropping not-so-subtle hints about child number two. We were happy to help them out, as well, when they needed it. Watching their house when they went on vacation. Helping my dad with projects. Normal, everyday things that we most certainly took for granted.

  But technology . . . well, technology, I was afraid might be the end of all of us.

  It had started with cell phones. They were vehemently opposed to them. We finally convinced them that if they were going to watch Carly for us, they needed to have a cell phone. So we got them one. Just one. Which they didn’t share, because my dad refused to learn how to use it.

  And they were resistant to computers. They didn’t see the need for e-mail and the Internet. At least until Carly came home and said she wanted to send them an e-mail. They went shopping for a laptop the next day.

  So now they had caved under the peer pressure that can only be created by fellow grandparents looking to brag about their grandchildren. Which meant they were attempting to integrate themselves into Facebook.

  It wasn’t going well.

  “Okay,” I said, kicking off my sandals and settling into the sofa. “What’s the problem?”

  My father made a face. “Facebook is the problem.”

  My mother frowned at him, then looked at me. “Well, I have a few questions.”

  “Okay.”

  “This news feed thing,” she said, much in the same way someone might say “snake” or “feces.” “It’s trying to tell me what to do.”

  “No, it’s not, Mom.”

  Frustration screwed up her face. “Well, not tell me what to do, but it wants me to comment on the things my friends have put on here.”

  “Right.”

  She looked at me nervously. “What happens if I don’t?”

  “Don’t comment?”

  “I don’t want everyone in the world reading what she has to say,” my father piped in. “No reason for that!”

  “Well, if you don’t comment, they will take away your Facebook account and they might come take your computer.”

  My mother sat up straighter.

  “Like hell they will,” my father said, raising an eyebrow. “Any of them Facebook fellas show up at my door and try to take away my computer . . .”

  “Dad, I’m kidding,” I said before he laid out his entire plan to defend his home from the evil Facebook fellas.

  My mother stared at me disapprovingly. “Deuce.”

  “If you don’t want to comment, Mom, then don’t.”

  “I don’t have to?”

  “No.”

  “But the box is there, telling me to comment.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  She exchanged a look with my father, skeptical and nervous.

  Social media was not created to cause this kind of anxiety.

  “Well, how do we block everyone from seeing what she wrote?” my father asked.

  “You can’t. If you post a comment on someone’s wall, all their friends can see it.”

  “We don’t know all their friends.”

  “So?”

  “So they don’t need to be reading what your mother is writing.”

  “What exactly is she going to say, Dad?”

  “Her comments!”

  I took a deep breath and tried to remember how foreign this was for them.

  “Let’s say your friend posts a picture of a new grandbaby,” I said.

  “Lorraine,” my father said with a sneer. “That woman thinks all her grandkids are like gold bars. She’d absolutely post a picture. Even if the kid looks like a possum.”

  My mother nodded in agreement.

  “And let’s say that, for once, you decided to be polite,” I continued. “And you decided to say something like ‘He’s so cute’ or ‘She’s adorable.’”

  “Fat chance unless you like possums.”

  “Right. But we’re pretending that you are normal and civil and don’t tell people their grandchildren look like rodents.”

  My father rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

  “So if you said something like that, why would you care if anyone else read that?” I asked.

  They again exchanged anxious looks, before my mother said, “Well, I don’t know.”

  “It’s like being at a cocktail party,” I explained, trying to find a comparison that would resonate. “You’re just having polite conversation. So as long as you are polite, it doesn’t matter who reads what you write. You aren’t giving out your bank account information or Social Security numbers.”

  “But what if someone does ask for my bank account information or Social Security number?” Mom asked.

  “Say no.”

  She stared at me, completely puzzled.

  “Mom, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” I said. “If you just want to view other peoples’ pictures or what they have to say, that’s fine. You don’t have to do anything. I promise.”

  “I wanna block people,” my dad said. “I got a list.”

  “They’ve probably already blocked you, Dad.”

  “They better not have!”

  7

  My parents stayed awhile longer, mercifully occupied by Carly rather than the nuances of social networking. Julianne invited them to stay for dinner, but my mother had left something in the oven before the Facebook emergency led them to our home, so they politely excused themselves.

  We ate dinner in quiet, all three of us worn out from the afternoon in the heat and water. I took Carly upstairs for her bath while Julianne cleaned up the kitchen. Carly’s eyes closed as soon as her damp hair hit the pillow. I planted a kiss on her forehead and clicked off the light.

  I dialed Victor as I collapsed onto my own bed.

  “Doolittle. Go.”

  “You are ridiculous.”

  Victor was not amused. “What do you want?”

  “I have a question for you.”

  “Go.”

  “Do you just lay your phone on the floor? Because if you tried to put it up on a counter or table, I don’t see how you’d get it back.”

  The click was loud in my ear, but worth it.

  I dialed again.

  “Look, Winters, if you’re just calling to make short jokes, you can shove them up your—”

  “Easy. I’m just messing with you. I actually have a real question.”

  “Make it fast, moron.”

  “I don’t know Huber at all. Where do we start?”

  I could almost feel him smile through the phone. “Oh. So you need my help now?”

  My joke seemed less funny now. “I suppose.”

  “You suppose. I wanna hear you say it.”

  “It.”

  “Try again, funnyman.”

  I clutched the phone in my hand and silently cursed my big mouth. “I need your help.”

  “Why?”

  I swallowed hard. “Because I don’t know where to start on a guy I know nothing about.”

  His chuckle resonated through the phone. “I just recor
ded that.”

  “Whatever.”

  “That’ll come in handy someday.”

  “You gonna answer my question or not?”

  He cleared his throat. “You start digging.”

  “Digging?”

  “Yeah. We gotta get a picture of him before he disappeared. Doing that will help us know where to look.”

  “What if it doesn’t?”

  “It will.”

  “But what if it doesn’t?”

  “It will.”

  I rolled my eyes at his confidence. I didn’t think it was that easy. And God help me if he ended up being right.

  “Okay,” I said. “So where do we start digging?”

  “Friends. Family. Coworkers. We’ll get his phone records. E-mails. It ain’t that hard. Even for a bozo like you.”

  He made it sound easy, but I wasn’t so sure.

  “So here’s your first assignment,” Victor said. “Start poking around all those soccer people. Find out who saw him last. Who talked to him last. Whose Facebook wall he posted on last. All that crap. You do that and I’ll give you a gold star.”

  “Do you pay full price at the movies?” I asked. “Or do you get the kid discount? And do you use those plastic booster seats so you can see over normal-sized people?”

  The click seemed even louder this time, and that pleased me.

  I lay on the bed for a few minutes, enjoying my juvenile humor, then pulled out my laptop from the bottom of my nightstand. I lifted open the top and found my way to Facebook.

  I was indifferent toward Facebook, and most of the time I felt like the only one. All my friends were on it constantly, and Julianne rarely went more than, oh, six minutes without checking it on her phone. I found some things funny and enjoyed seeing the pictures that other people posted, but I didn’t feel the need to share every moment of my life with my so-called friends.

  But I wondered if Moises Huber did.

  I logged into my dusty account and typed his name into the search bar.

  The third profile that popped up was for a Moises Huber in Rose Petal.

  Investigating was apparently easy.

  I clicked on his profile, and the entire thing opened. Nothing tucked behind any sort of privacy setting. Julianne, ever the lawyer, was always yelling at me about my privacy settings, but given that I didn’t post anything of significance, I couldn’t have cared less who was looking at my pages. It seemed far too complicated to figure out how to throw up walls.

  Although I assumed my father would have it figured out soon.

  The profile picture was of a soccer ball. It listed his birthday as August 3 and his relationship status as single. He had 247 friends. I recognized a few of them. He liked to play one of the Mafia games that made no sense to me but that I was always being invited to play.

  I clicked on his wall, and his activity seemed sporadic. He’d post a couple of times in a day and then disappear for a week. He seemed to be a casual user, much in the same way that I would log on if I was on the computer, but made no concerted effort to do so otherwise.

  I looked at the last post.

  It was from four days ago, which would’ve been a day before anyone last saw him.

  See you tonight! someone named J. MacDonald had posted. We’ll have a blast!

  J. MacDonald’s profile pic was of a bald eagle, which I was sure had some significance to J. MacDonald, but none to me. I scrolled down the page to see if MacDonald was a regular poster on the wall, but I didn’t see anything else.

  I clicked on J. MacDonald’s profile, but this person was apparently very familiar with Facebook’s privacy settings. I got a message stating that J. MacDonald shared information only with friends.

  So there.

  “Are you asleep?” Julianne called from the hall.

  “Nope. On Facebook.”

  “Oh.” She stepped into the doorway. “Maybe I shouldn’t interrupt you.”

  I looked up from the computer.

  She was back in the black lingerie. She’d added black, thigh-high boots.

  She perched a hand on her bare hip. “I can leave if you’d like. . . .”

  “No!” I said, pushing the laptop onto the floor.

  I was willing to risk computer damage for phase two.

  8

  Julianne was out of bed before I was Monday morning, and I woke alone, tangled in the sheets, her black lace bra draped strategically across my forehead.

  My wife. Lawyer. Mother. Seductress.

  She and Carly were both in the kitchen when I wandered downstairs. Carly smiled at me as she worked on a piece of toast. Julianne stared into her oatmeal, perplexed.

  “Daddy’s up!” Carly yelled. “Lazy pants!”

  “Easy.” I ruffled the top of her head. “Your mom kept me up late last night.”

  I looked for a reaction from Julianne, but she continued eyeing her oatmeal.

  “I have swimming today, Daddy.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m gonna do a cannonball. Okay?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, sliding into the chair between them. I nudged Julianne. “Good morning.”

  She set her spoon down next to her bowl and folded her arms across her chest. “I’m not pregnant.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know.”

  I lowered my voice. “We just had sex last night. How can you possibly know?”

  She looked at me, annoyed. “A woman knows these things.”

  I knew better than to argue. “All right.”

  “Why is it taking so long?”

  “I kinda like that it’s taking a while.”

  Her lips puckered. “Didn’t take this long before.”

  I could see her thoughts developing, and it sent chills up my spine. She was about to embrace her own special tunnel vision with regard to getting pregnant. I tried to stave it off.

  “We haven’t been trying that long, Jules,” I said. “Really.”

  “I think we need to get serious about this.”

  I swallowed. “Get serious?”

  She leveled her eyes with mine. “Yes.”

  Julianne was a lot of things, and nearly all of them were fantastic. Better than I deserved. But she was also a perfectionist, and she didn’t tolerate failure. Ever. I beat her at Scrabble one time. She wouldn’t play with me again for a month. Then she suggested we play.

  She won by 271 points. Because she’d spent the month reading the Scrabble dictionary.

  She didn’t lose and she didn’t fail.

  “What’s pregnant, Daddy?” Carly asked, stacking her bread crusts on her plate.

  “It’s when you have a baby,” I said.

  “Mommy’s gonna have a baby?” she said, grinning. “Yay!”

  Julianne stood, took her bowl to the sink, then turned back to face me. Her expression was a mixture of resolve and grim determination, similar to what I imagined the leader of SEAL Team Six’s looked like right before they stormed bin Laden’s hideout. “Yeah. Mommy’s gonna have a baby.”

  It was time to get serious.

  9

  Carly cannonballed straight into the pool for her swimming lessons, soaking the instructor and her classmates and earning a stern talking-to from the now doused instructor. She snuck a look back at me through the window to the waiting room where I sat to see if she was in trouble.

  I winked and gave her a quick thumbs-up.

  I had forty-five minutes to kill while she learned the finer points of swimming like a human rather than a puppy dog. As usual, I was the only male in the room, the rest of the waiting parents being moms who were either just coming from or on their way to spinning class or a tennis match or whatever else the moms of Rose Petal did during the day. I was an anomaly in Rose Petal—a father who stayed at home—and was regularly viewed with a raised eyebrow whenever I ventured somewhere new during a time of the day when most other dads were at a desk.

  But I’d been a regular at the swim school now fo
r a while, and the staff and the parents were used to seeing me sit and watch and make polite chitchat. So they left me alone and didn’t feel the need to call the police and alert them that a pedophile might be on the loose.

  I was scrolling through e-mails on my phone when the door to the waiting room opened. Victor Anthony Doolittle strode through it, acting like he owned the place. He eyed several of the women, then settled on me and found his way over.

  “You take your kid to an indoor pool? In Texas?” he asked.

  “Yes. Because one hundred and twelve degrees is not a comfortable temperature to learn in.”

  “Sissy.”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Looking for you,” he said, dragging a chair up next to mine and climbing up into it.

  “I hope the front desk didn’t think you were late for class.”

  “You’re so funny, I forgot to laugh.”

  “No one says that anymore.”

  “I just did, ya moron.”

  I shook my head. “What do you want? And how did you know I was here?”

  He made a face as if I’d peed on his shoes. “Please. I know your schedule better than you do. I can find you anytime I need to.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “I know your wife’s, too,” he said, raising an eyebrow and grinning.

  I reached over and tilted the chair back, threatening to let it go to the floor. He fell back in the seat and braced himself with his hands. “What the—”

  “Do not talk about Julianne,” I said. “You know the rules. You ogle my wife, I will hang you from a nail somewhere.”

  “All right, all right,” he said, still bracing himself. “Set the chair back down, and calm down.”

  I set it down.

  He ran his tiny hands over his shirt and rolled his eyes at me. “Can’t take a joke at all anymore.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Got a little bit on your missing soccer coach.”

  “He’s not a coach. He’s the president”

  “Whatever. Soccer is for Euro pansies, anyway.”

  I sighed and watched Carly dive into the pool. Her arms chopped through the water like windmills, and she was first to the opposite side.

  “So this Huber,” Victor said. “I got into his e-mail.”