by Dan Taylor
Megan’s dad and mom give each other a look, half impressed, half freaked out.
I say, “Pleased to meet you, Barbara.”
“Nice to meet you, too, dear,” she replies.
I look to my right and find that Megan has a nervous smile on her face. The coffee’s messed up her jaw too.
“Why don’t you two come through to the living room,” Megan’s dad says.
We go through to a grand living room and sit on the sofas.
Charles says, “So, tell us what you’re studying, Josh.”
“I’m at medical school. Thinking of going the surgery route, maybe oral and maxillofacial surgery, but I’m still mulling over my decision.”
Her parents share a look, impressed. I am too, can’t believe I managed to pronounce that properly.
“Wow, you’ve got a real keeper here, Megan,” Barbara says.
“I have, Mom.”
We sit silently a few moments
Meeting the parents of a girlfriend is taxing. Add to that she’s a fake girlfriend who you’ve just met, you’re trying to pretend to be highly educated, trying to conduct an investigation at the same time, and you’ve got the makings for a Japanese game show.
Barbara says, “Josh, let me introduce you to these two.” Then slips out.
When she comes back, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. I can’t stop staring at her chest.
Through the side of her mouth, Megan says, “Josh, it’s rude to stare.”
But I can’t take my eyes away.
“These two bundles of joy are Cedric and Fredrick,” Charles says.
“You’ve named them?” I ask.
“Of course,” Barbara says.
“Don’t stare, Josh,” Megan says.
But I’m gobsmacked.
Charles fixes me with a warm smile, then says, “They’re my two bouncing bundles of joy.”
Held in her arms, cradled in front of her breasts, are two baby boys, identical twins by the look of them.
“Would you like to hold one?” Barbara asks. She doesn’t wait for a reply, but hands me Fredrick, or Cedric. She didn’t indicate which one is which when she said their names.
Barbara and Charles must be in their fifties, having had Megan in their early thirties. Though they look good for it—like Megan, they’ve had a lot of work done—I’m pretty sure that Barbara’s field is no longer fertile. Plus, Cedric and Fredric look like they’re from East Asia. Barbara passes me one, and I try to hold him, having only ever practiced on Randy, and that was years ago. Now the smile on my face is a full-blown imposter. Am I to assume these are Charles and Barbara’s babies? The silence in the room as I hold Cedric or Fredrick seems to be suggesting so.
Like a pro, Megan rescues me. “Mom and Dad adopted the boys from Mongolia. Their mother died in a moped accident.”
“Oh,” I say. What else can I? I rack my brains. “Fredrick’s a real cutie.”
Barbara is still standing, and she looks down at the one she was left holding after giving me one, says, “He is, isn’t he?”
Correcting my error, I say, “And Cedric, he’s also a little cutie.”
Megan says, “Honey, that’s Fredrick,” indicating the one I’m holding.
Now I’m really confused, and Charles can see it. He’s looking at me like I’m Megan’s mentally handicapped boyfriend. He’s smiling—and what a smile it is; Megan and he must have the same orthodontist—but he’s judging me with his eyes. In his mind, I can’t even remember the names of his two Mongolian identical twins. What hope do I have as an oral and maxillofacial surgeon?
I start to sweat.
“Let’s go through and make drinks for us, Josh,” Megan says, then takes Cedric or Fredrick from my arms, passes him back to her mom.
“Oh, we couldn’t let you do that, Megan,” Charles says.
“I insist.”
Megan pulls me up from my sitting position by my wrist, leads me through to the kitchen.
“This is going well,” Megan says. Sarcasm is firmly part of her range as an actress.
I whisper, “It’s the name. And the way your dad keeps on looking at me. He’s onto me.”
“What? Josh Trenton?”
“Yeah, it sounds so fake.”
“What the hell kind of name is Jake Hancock, anyway? Would that have been better?”
“Jake Hancock’s just a run-of-the-mill name. Would’ve fit perfectly.”
“It sounds like the name of an 80s gay porn star.”
“Forget the name. While we sat for hours in T-Boner, you might’ve mentioned that you had two adopted, identical Mongolian siblings.”
“I didn’t think it was that big a deal.”
“What else don’t you think is a big deal? What surprise is coming next? After dinner are you and your family going to start performing circus tricks?”
She doesn’t reply, just gives me a dead stare.
I sigh, then say, “Let’s stop arguing. This isn’t productive.”
While she starts making drinks, I can see that she’s mad. She’s making an effort not to look at me. This gig is going south.
I say, “Look, I’m sorry about the circus comment. Just would’ve been nice to get vital bits of information.”
She stops pretending I’m not there, turns to me as she’s holding two cocktail glasses. “I forgive you.”
“I have to admit, I’m panicking a bit, Megan.”
“Here, try this.”
Megan breathes in and out quickly, then takes one deep breath, holds it, then exhales. She says, “It’s a breathing technique I learned in acting class.”
“It looks a lot like Lamaze.”
“It’s totally different.”
I raise an eyebrow, skeptical. But I give in, start her technique. When I’m done, I say, “What do you know, it worked. And I’m pretty sure I’m prepared for childbirth, if that were ever to arise.”
“See.”
Megan looks happy with herself.
I’m calmer now, but I have to admit that I’m no Denzel Washington, not even compared to Megan. She’s handling this situation a whole lot better than I am. Compared to Megan, I’m more like Brendan Fraser.
I look at the ingredients and bottles on the kitchen worktop. There are eggs, a bottle of Grand Marnier, Port, pineapple, Baby Bells, and fig chutney.
“Are you making sandwiches as well as drinks?” I ask.
She giggles. “No, silly. I’m making Pineapple and Cheese Martinis. It’s the family drink.”
This evening is getting weirder. But I’m pretty sure I can last the rest of it, then get a good night’s sleep, to regroup for tomorrow. As long as there aren’t any other surprises.
“That’s it, now, isn’t it? There are no more turds in the punchbowl.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know. I heard it in a movie. No more surprises?”
She puts her hand on my shoulder, supporting me. “No more surprises, I promise.”
She’s finished the drinks, now, and I’m relieved to see that the Baby Bells aren’t an ingredient in the drink, but are to be eaten while we drink them.
I take two deep breaths and pick up two of the drinks. I ready myself by saying, “No more surprises.”
As I go through the kitchen door, Barbara calls over, “Come here, Josh. Come and take a look at the Bengal tiger we’ve adopted.”
9.
THE BOOKS HAVEN’T adopted a Bengal tiger. Not in the traditional sense. They’ve paid some money to receive a stock photograph of one, and a certificate to say they’ve adopted it.
I’m pretty sure I’ve seen the same photograph on Wikipedia. I’m a bit skeptical about the name of it, too. Mr. Bobo doesn’t sound like a name anyone sensible enough to own a Bengal tiger would choose.
The drinks are a hit. After I’d gotten over the name, I found them quite agreeable. Megan brought in the other ones, and her father went to get one, but she pulled it away, set it down in front of me
. Giving a different one to him. After half an hour, I found out why. She’s really growing on me, Megan. Sensing I needed something to alleviate my anxiety, she mixed up a souped-up version of the family drink for me. Let me tell you, it could have powered a space shuttle to the moon.
After three more, helped somewhat by her father’s choice of mellow jazz, I’m practically comfortable. But I have a job to do. So far I’ve learned a lot about Mr. Bobo, but I don’t think his made-up biography is going to help in my investigation.
“So tell me, Charles, when did you guys move to Rodeo?” I ask.
He goes to speak, but Barbara, now drunk as well as super happy, interrupts him, “Was it ninety-five, Charles?” For some reason she finds this funny.
Charles doesn’t. His brow furrows. “More like ninety.”
I usually write things down in a notepad. But, unable to get one out, I have to repeat Confusion over when they moved three times in my head.
I turn to Megan, a stupid grin on my face. Now she’s frowning. She says, “I was three when we moved.”
I ask, “Pardon me?”
It’s Cedric and Fredrick all over again.
“You pulled a funny face, nodded your head. You were working out how old I was when we moved, weren’t you, Josh?”
“…Right.”
Barbara hasn’t noticed the awkwardness of the conversation. In fact, I don’t think she notices much of anything, with whatever medication she’s on. But Charles has.
Steadying the ship, I put my hand on Megan’s, say, “It’s this weird thing I do. Mom drilled me on arithmetic too much when I was a kid. Whenever the opportunity arises, I compulsively do the math.”
Charles looks skeptical. “Right.”
For a man who thinks he’s adopted a Bengal tiger called Mr. Bobo, Charles Books is a perceptive man. He’s seen right through my bullshit. If his magnificent, piercing eyes are anything to go by.
I make a mental note to stay relatively tight-lipped the rest of the evening. Tomorrow’s another a day.
My phone starts ringing. I pull it out of my pocket, see that it’s my sister.
“Excuse me while I take this.”
I go through to the kitchen, accept the call. “Hi, Sis.”
“Uncle Jake. It’s me,” Randy says.
“Hi, kiddo. What can I do for you?”
“Mom’s really upset. Can you please talk with her?”
I sigh. “Now’s not the best time.”
“Oh, okay.”
I’ve got a weak spot for that kid. Before he hangs up, I say, “Okay, put her on.”
I hear the phone getting banged around, then silence.
“I don’t want to speak to you, you cock-sucking whore’s son,” Mary says.
“Jesus, Mary. Is Randy out of the room?”
One of Mary’s symptoms isn’t compulsive OTT profanity, at least her doctor didn’t say so when I asked him about it. But Mary had never said a swear word until she got MS. I suppose Mary’s just angry at the world, and I can’t blame her.
“Are you there, you great splodge of jism?”
I pull the phone away from my ear, disgusted.
Then I speak, “I’m here. I’m thick skinned, Mary. But how would you feel if you got pulled into Randy’s kindergarten because he’d repeated what you’d said? Sure as hell, lawn-nose would come down on you like a ton of bricks.”
Mary laughs, and it reminds me of the old Mary. She says, “It’s just difficult, Jake. I haven’t come to terms with the fact I’ll never be a well woman again.”
“I know it’s difficult.”
“My symptoms have gotten worse today.”
“It’s fucked up, but what can I say?”
“You can say…fuck knows if I know.”
She’s angry again.
“Calm down. You’ve just got to suck it up, for Randy’s sake. It’s a real shit thing that’s happened to you. God knows I wouldn’t be strong enough to deal with it. But I know you can.”
I think I’ve talked her ‘round. But it turns out I haven’t. “I can’t feel my cunt today, you brick-shitting dingleberry eater.”
“What the fuck, Mare?”
“Go to hell, Jake.”
I have no idea what a dingleberry is, but I’m pretty sure it’s not something pleasant to eat.
“I’ll phone you tomorrow, and we can have a proper chat.”
Mary breathes deeply into the receiver. “Okay, Jake.”
I hang up.
It’s been a trying evening, to say the least. Hopefully Megan can steer us home in terms of conversation the rest of the evening, rescuing us from any trouble I might get us into.
I go back through to the living room.
Charles says, “So, Josh, why don’t you tell us the ins and outs of becoming an oral and maxillofacial surgeon.”
10.
GOD BLESS HER, Megan rescues me from the ensuing disaster. She feigns tiredness surprisingly well for an actress whose most challenging gig has been pretending to be a young lady in an advertisement whose sole concern is the whiteness of her teeth. She yawns like a pro, too. I bet if she and Robert De Niro were to having a yawning contest, she’d win hands down. She’d make everyone in the room watching the contest yawn like emphysematous sea lions, sleepy as hell. Which is what happens when she starts yawning ‘round the dinner table. We’re still to eat dinner, so we’re not able to escape just yet, but it makes Charles decide to go easy on me until we can escape away to the bedroom.
We’re in the bedroom now. Megan’s performance was so convincing, I forget that it was a performance, and I’m surprised when I find her bright eyed and bushy tailed, wanting to engage in conversation.
“What the hell was that, Jake?” she asks.
It’s a good question. See, this is the first time I’ve been deep undercover. I’ve played roles before: a janitor hanging ‘round, slowly mopping while listening in to a pertinent conversation; a college professor with bushy stick-on eyebrows, smoking a pipe, watching the toy boy lover of an aging actress; a circus clown practicing handstands, watching how a prospective nanny interacts with children. But this is the most challenging yet.
It’s late, and I am tired. I’m usually a humble man, but I can become prideful when I’m sleepy. “It wasn’t that bad. My performance could do with some fine-tuning. But overall, I’d give myself a B plus.”
“A B plus? You were a car wreck.”
“It wasn’t quite De Niro in Godfather Part Two, but it wasn’t far off. Nothing a bit of spit and polish can’t fix.”
“You need an entire bottle of Turtle Wax. We’re talking Andy Garcia in Godfather Part Three.”
I take a sharp intake of breath. “Take that back.”
“It’s true, Jake.”
Wanting the conversation to end, I give in. I’ve always known how to get what I want from women, and you can be damn sure I know how to make one go to bed without saying another word. “Fine, Megan. Andy Garcia.”
She stomps off to the en suite, toiletry bag in hand. I open the suitcase, looking for mine. While rifling through the hideous clothes Andre selected for me, I come to the jewel in the crown that is Andre’s taste in undercover clothing, the pajamas and slippers. I don’t want to sleep in the same room as Megan half naked. Upon seeing me this way, things would get messy. But the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about. The pajamas are lilac satin and, to make matters worse, he’s got my initials in embroidery over the breast pocket. Not Josh Trenton’s, but Jake Hancock’s. But I’m a professional, so I put them on, along with the slippers, to cover up my really handsome feet.
Megan returns, scowling until she sees what I’m wearing. “Ha, you look terrific. In the morning, I’ll lend you my dad’s Japanese bathrobe to finish off the outfit.” Her mocking eyes move downwards. “And Hugh Heffner phoned. He wants his slippers back.”
“Keep making jokes.”
“I will.”
“Brush your teeth with…Brighter White?”
> “I did actually. It’s good toothpaste.”
“So that’s why they hired you. There wasn’t much acting involved.”
“Enough so that you couldn’t have managed it. Shall I watch the door while you brush yours? Just in case my dad comes in, catches you all flustered, brushing your nostrils instead of the traditional place.”
I’m silent, too tired to argue. I check my phone, see that Gerry has left a message.
“I’m just going into the bathroom to make a call.”
“Who are you phoning, your girlfriend?”
I don’t do jealousy, especially from pretend girlfriends, so I ignore her.
“How’s it going?” Gerry asks immediately upon answering.
I whisper, “She’s a real little firecracker, this Megan Books.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“That is how it’s going.”
She sighs. “I’ll rephrase it. What have you learned?”
“I’ve found out that I’m spending the weekend with a family of nutcases.”
“You sound angry, Jake. Someone hurt your pride again?”
I know what she’s implying. When she refused to sleep with me, I became similarly angry.
I ask, “If you were to choose an actor to compare me to, who would it be?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“Just answer the question.”
“Will I get the status report if I do?”
“Yes.”
“Then Bo Derek.”
“I knew I could count on your support.”
“Jake…”
“I’ve learned very little. There’s something dodgy going on with the year they moved to Rodeo. But that could’ve just been the fact that Megan’s mom is higher than Snoop Dogg at the Urban Music Awards.”
“You’ve only got two days, Jake. Make them count.”