by L. E. Rico
“Hey, Jax? Buddy?”
The redhead—a “mini me” of his mother—twists in his seat.
“What Unca Sock?”
“Where’s baby Jesus’ head?”
His green eyes narrow, and his mouth sets in an angry line across his face.
“No. Baby!” The two words come out as a screech that makes Pfefferpuss and me both wince.
“Jackson,” I say more sternly this time, “where did you put baby Jesus’ head? Father Romance is going to be mad if you don’t tell us. Baby Jesus needs his head, Jackson, so he can see the four wise men…”
“Three,” Phyllis corrects me. “There were three wise men.”
She rolls her eyes and mutters something under her breath. Probably something about Lutherans…but I can’t be sure.
“Sorry. Fine. He needs to see the three wise guys when they show up with their frankfurters and myrr—”
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Phyllis does the best facepalm I think I’ve ever seen. It actually makes a slapping noise. “Wise guys and frankfurters? Really? No wonder this child is such a little devil! Clearly there’s no one at home who’s able to offer any kind of spiritual guidance!”
Before I can slam her with the witty, withering reply that I’m still concocting in my head, someone clears their throat behind us.
“Everything okay in here?”
The voice is deep, rolling into the room like an unexpected fog bank. When I turn to look, I don’t recognize him. Not that I know everyone in town, but this guy would be hard to miss. He’s tall and broad with dark hair and a slight snarl to his lips. When he walks toward us, I notice he’s got a slight limp. The sleeves of his shirt are pushed back up onto his forearms, and I can just make out the bottom of a tattoo—something with wings. If I had to guess, I’d say he was about my age—except older. He’s weathered and more than a little rough around the edges—like he’s seen a little too much. Military, maybe? Biker gang? Hired hitman? I don’t know what, but there’s definitely a darkness to him that I can’t put my finger on. A darkness that puts him squarely out of place in this sunny, happy little classroom filled with handprint turkeys and macaroni Christmas trees.
And right now, all that creepiness is headed straight for the kid.
“Ummm—we’re fine, thanks…” I rush to say, hoping he’ll change course and I won’t be faced with the prospect of getting my butt kicked when I’m obligated to intervene. But I’m not that lucky.
The guy ignores me, heavy boots stomping across the linoleum as I look to Phyllis helplessly. Now she could take him—I have no doubt about that. But she doesn’t look the least bit concerned. Me, she thinks is going to send Jackson on a one-way trip down under. Mr. McScaryPants over here, she doesn’t bat an eyelash at. What gives?
“Do you know him?” I whisper.
That’s when the unimaginable happens. Phyllis Pferffernusse actually cracks a smile. A real smile—not the condescending one that she’s usually got pasted on—but a smile that reads as sweet, proud, adoring.
Adoring? Who is this woman? And, more importantly, who is that dude?
“He’s my nephew, J.B. He’s just out of the military, don’t ya know, and he’s staying with me for a spell,” she explains, her tone as totally transformed as her expression.
Okay, so…not an ax murderer, then. Still, I’m not comfortable as he stands there, looking down on Jackson, who—to his credit—is offering up a glare that would intimidate a Navy Seal. Which this J.B. may very well be.
“Hey there, little man,” he says to the child.
No response.
“So…what’s with the baby head?” he tries again.
“He’s not going to—”
I’m stopped, mid-sentence, when the man shoots me a nasty look and shakes his head.
“All righty then…” I mutter under my breath.
“Noooooooo baaaaaaaby!”
Another ear-splitting proclamation.
“Why?” J.B. asks simply.
Why, indeed. No one’s bothered to ask the kid that question, and now I’m astounded as he actually seems to consider it.
“Cause the baby train can’t have Mama. She’s my mama.”
“Oh, yeah?” J.B. continues. “You think the baby…train…wants your mama?”
Jackson nods solemnly, and the man drops down on his haunches so that the two of them are face to face.
“So, listen, buddy, that baby train isn’t just for your mama. That baby train’s for you, too.”
Jackson’s eyes narrow suspiciously, but he doesn’t respond to this crazy notion. I have no idea where Phyllis’ nephew is going with this, but I think I’m about to find out.
“Oh, yeah! See, you get to be the big brother train. And that’s real important. You have to show the baby stuff like…where to pick up the passengers. And teach the baby stuff like how to honk the horn. And…you get to be the boss. Cause you’re the big brother train!” As he says the last three words, J.B. uses his sizeable index finger to poke the toddler in the chest. “You understand?”
“I’m da big brother train…” Jax says more to himself than anyone else.
“Exactly! You’re the big brother train.”
“It’s my baby train too.”
The guy nods, his scruffy face breaking into a wide grin.
“Yeah, man! Your baby train.”
I’m astounded. It’s like watching the pied piper spirit away all the children before my very eyes. This gruff, slightly scary—okay, very scary—guy has just done the impossible. He’s reasoned with a three year old. And he’s won.
“My baby train!” Jackson squeals with sudden delight. “Myyyyyy baby train goes choooooochooooo!”
“That’s right! Choochoo! See, you’re going to be a great big brother train!” J.B. beams at the little boy. “Now…can you tell me where you put Jesus’ head? Cause he’s not your baby. He’s Father Romance’s baby, and he’ll be mad if he has to put baby Jesus in the manger without his head on.”
Without so much as a complaint, Jackson is up and scampering across the room to the big metal trashcan in the corner. Scraps of construction paper, discarded wrappers, and a half-eaten apple fly to the floor until Jackson emerges, triumphantly clutching the severed plastic head of our Lord and Savior in one of his chubby hands.
“Baby Jesus head!” he exclaims. “I got da baby Jesus head!”
“Good job, little man. Now come over here and gimme five!”
J.B. holds up one large hand, and Jackson runs over to slap it with his own tiny one. Then he chortles with delight as the big man proceeds to tickle the boy’s sides until the Jesus head hits the floor and bounces several feet away. When he’s done, J.B. straightens up, grabs the head, and hands it to his aunt.
“There you go.”
Phyllis leans over and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, dear.”
“Wow—yeah—thanks, man…” I start to thank him, but another sharp look cuts me off. How does he do that?
“Dude! The kid may be three, but he ain’t stupid. Stop talking to him like he’s still in diapers and he might start acting like it.”
And with that, J.B. walks out the door, the clop of his boots echoing through the cinderblock-walled hallway.
I look at Jackson, who’s moved on to coloring, and then to Phyllis.
“So…by any chance is your nephew looking for work?”
Chapter Fifteen
Jameson
December
Our cozy little Irish pub has transformed into a winter wonderland—the rafters dripping with snowflakes and the garland strung in and around every rounded surface in the place. There are not one but three Christmas trees this year, each one with a different color scheme. And a steady stream of holiday music flows through the speakers from morning to night.
Except it doesn’t feel especially Christmassy to me. Not when I’m as big as an orca whale and putting off enough heat to melt the ice on Lake Superior. And on top of everythi
ng else, my anxiety has gone into overdrive. I’m worried that Jackson will tank the Christmas Eve pageant by ripping the head off baby Jesus again or, God forbid, somehow manage to torch the mini Messiah’s swaddling clothes with the Advent candle. They’ve only just got the sanctuary back up and running, and I’ll die of mortification if my son puts it out of commission again.
I’m filling jars with candy canes to set out on the tables when I hear the bell over the front door of the pub tinkle. Or, in this instance, slam haphazardly into one another in a loud and unpleasant fashion. When I look up, I see Henny, waddling toward me.
“Henny!” I drop what I’m doing and come around the bar as fast as my own swollen cankles will carry me. “What on earth are you doing here? You should be home in bed!”
“Hennessy, for God’s sake, wait, will you?” Bryan pleads as he rushes in behind her.
“Bryan! She can’t be out like this!” I scold him. “It’s like ten degrees outside! And the ice…”
“Don’t you think I know that, James? We got into an argument, and she decided she just had to get out of the house. When I refused to take her, she waited till I got in the shower and then she called an Uber!”
Well, that explains why he’s standing here with sopping wet hair.
“Henny, why didn’t you just call? I’d have come right over,” I tell her as Bailey rushes to pull up a chair for our insanely huge sister.
Our insanely huge, insanely furious-looking sister.
“What’d he do now?” Walker asks, sounding not so much accusatory as resigned. We’ve all grown accustomed to Bryan’s over-the-top baby antics at this point.
“Go ahead,” Hennessy instructs her husband. “Go ahead and tell my sisters what you bought for our children.”
All eyes swing to the father-to-be as he starts to turn a raging shade of scarlet. He looks down at his feet and then up again.
“Oh, jeez, will you just spit it out already so we can get her back to bed before she pops?” Walker grumbles.
“I…uh…well…I read about this thing…you see, it serves a dual purpose. It keeps the baby warm while helping to keep their environment nice and clean…”
“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad,” Bailey pipes up, trying to soothe Henny’s ruffled feathers. “What’s wrong with that, Hen?”
“Show them.”
Hennessy’s tone leaves no room for argument in the two words, and poor Bryan looks as if he’d rather get swallowed up by a sinkhole right now than do what his bride is asking of him. Finally, he reaches into the deep pockets of his parka and pulls out an identical item from either side.
“What are those?” I ask, leaning in to get a closer look. “Are they…are they onesies? ‘Cause they look like onesies…”
“Uh-uh,” Walker disagrees. “Those are cleaning mitts. Look at the little orange fiber finger thingies. I use those to clean the windows in the spring…”
“They’re both,” Henny snarls. “You put them on the baby and then put the baby on the floor. Whenever they roll or move…or whatever, they become little tiny dust mops. And he got even bigger ones for when they start to crawl!”
Walker, Bailey, and I are all tilting our heads from side to side, brows furrowed in concentration as each of us tries to imagine this bizarre item in practice.
“I…uh…I suppose…” I start and then stop before finally looking at Bryan. “Sorry, Bryan, I got nothing,” I apologize, shaking my head and shrugging at the same time.
Walker snorts once and walks away, shaking her head as well.
Bailey plucks one of the odd items from our brother-in-law’s still-outstretched hands and turns it over and over, examining it from all angles. When she’s done, she returns it to his parka pocket.
“Yeah…no,” is all she says before turning to follow Walker back to the bar.
“But they’ve got such great reviews…”
One sharp glare from Hennessy is all it takes to stop Bryan in his tracks.
“I’ve had it!” my sister says with a little too much volume. “No more, Bryan, you hear me? No more Tubby Tummies or super strollers or gummy embryos…”
There’s no way I can’t interrupt that ridiculous statement.
“I’m sorry, did you just say…gummy embryos?”
“Oh! Oh, yeah! Gummy embryos, James! He thought they’d make for a nice change from the bubblegum cigars that guys sometimes give out after a baby’s born!”
This isn’t good for her—getting her blood pressure up like this. I know that the hormones are really magnifying her feelings right now, but she’s got to calm down. And fast.
“Hennessy, please, just take a beat, will you? Take a deep breath. It’s not good for you to get so upset. I’m sure this is all just a misunderstanding. Right, Bryan? You’re just joking, aren’t you, Bryan?” I say, leaving a breadcrumb trail so big that even Helen Keller could follow it.
“Uh…yeah… Yes. Yes!” Bryan says, catching on gradually.
“A misunderstanding? Jameson, you haven’t had to live with this craziness for the last five months! Every day there’s another package on the doorstep, and every day, he’s got some new—”
She’s been speaking so intently that when she stops, the silence is nearly deafening. I don’t immediately realize what’s happening as I see my sister sitting there, face pale, mouth open in shock, until she looks down and stares at a puddle that’s formed around her feet.
“Oh! Oh my God! Henny, your water broke!” I say with excitement—and edged with fear.
She shakes her head, but her expression doesn’t change.
“No…no, it can’t break now. I’m not due yet…not for another three weeks…”
“Yeah, well, tell your kids that,” I say, springing into action. “Bailey, you go to the house and pick up the bag—”
“I don’t have a bag!” Henny whines miserably, all her anger now replaced by angst. “I thought I had more time!”
“Okay, so, grab her some underwear—the granny panties, not the lacy kind. Also, a robe and some socks. Toothbrush. Hairbrush. Phone charger…I’ll text you anything else I think of. Oh, here…” I toss her my keys. “I’ll ride over to the hospital with Bryan and Henny. Walker, you stay here. I think you can probably manage with just Carly and Donovan tonight, but call someone else in if you need to.”
“Yeah, but text me, James, like every hour!” she insists.
“Yup. Will do. Now let’s get moving, Bryan—we need to get Hen to the hospital before her contractions start…”
“Too. Late.” My older sister is gripping the edge of the table, her face devoid of color.
Oh, yeah. Now the real fun begins.
“James…” she says when the worst of it has passed.
“What is it, sweetie?”
“James, I’m scared…”
Hennessy’s voice is a shaky whisper filled with tears.
“I know. But Bryan’s with you, and I’m with you. It’s really common for twins to come early—and you’re in the safe zone now. Thirty-seven weeks isn’t even considered premature. Now, come on, let’s go find out who’s been cooking in there all these months! I want to know if I’ve got nieces or nephews…or one of each!”
Hennessy shoots Bryan a look. A guilty look.
“What? You know already! Don’t you?” I accuse and see it immediately on their faces. “I can’t believe you! You were so adamant about being surprised that I decided not to find out my baby’s sex!”
She looks at me and shrugs, a sheepish smile on her face.
“Sorry about that, James—” She’s cut short by another contraction.
“I’ll get the car…” Bryan calls out over his shoulder as he rushes toward the front door.
“Hey, wait,” Walker calls out after him, “leave me those onesie wipe things. Someone’s gonna have to mop up this mess your wife left on the floor…”
Chapter Sixteen
Scott
January
I can’t take
my eyes off the two boys. They look like matching garden gnomes, all swaddled up, their heads topped off with tiny knit blue stocking caps made especially for them by Julie Freddino of the Knitty Kitty. Henny is glowing—which is pretty amazing, considering what she’s been through in the last eighteen hours. I met up with them at Mayhem General Hospital—fully expecting to be sitting in the waiting room. Instead, Jameson pulled me into the birthing suite during the early, not-so-graphic part of the labor—with Hennessy’s permission.
I thought that was a little strange until I realized that James needed some back-up. Apparently, Hennessy had a few things she wanted to get off her chest before the kids came out of her irrational uterus or whatever the hell it’s called. For forty-five minutes, she chewed out Bryan in between contractions. For keeping the stupid Tubby Tumaroo, the cavalcade of nannies, and a gummy fetus—which I presume has something to do with the uterus thing—but decide not to ask, for fear someone will actually tell me.
Jameson and I spend those forty-five minutes trying to calm Henny and coach Bryan…occasionally swapping who got which service, depending on what was called for at the moment. Luckily for us, the labor got really active after that, and we quickly excused ourselves so they could get down to the business of bringing their children into the world.
But all seems to be forgiven now—Hennessy’s anger long forgotten as she holds one of her sons—Bud, I think—while Bryan holds the other. Actually, that one might be Bud. Or is it Mick? All babies look alike to me…and these two, being identical twins, are exceptionally baffling.
“I still can’t believe you named your children Michelob and Bud Weiser Truitt. You do know people are already calling them the ‘the Brew Brothers,’ don’t you?”
Henny smiles. “Sounds about right, doesn’t it, James?”
“Well, I suppose since the Whiskey Sisters are all grown up, maybe it’s time for the next generation,” she responds from the reclining chair the hospital has provided for us.
“What about you guys?” Bryan asks. “You could add to the trend, you know…maybe a little Guinness or Corona Clarke?”
Jameson looks horrified while I just snort and shake my head.