It seems like we’re on an amusement-park ride for toddlers, the Fleetwood rolling slowly along a winding cobblestone path through an enchanted world of blossoming pink and white rosebushes, finely trimmed boxwood shrubs, tinkling water fountains, babbling brooks, Dutch Colonial birdhouses, and even a few wild bunnies hopping across a deep green lawn. We complete a final twist on the path and roll up to the house; a silver Porsche with vanity plates (cnploy) is parked out front, and Cujo rouses in the back of a wagon, not unlike a Labrador that’s picked up the scent of the ocean. He rolls around and presses his fingers against the glass, laughing. “Mother lode,” he bellows. “Motherfucking mother lode.”
Ernie snickers.
Collin straightens and shouts, “I think they have a pool.”
“I want you boys on your best behavior.”
They whine.
“We’re going to see how Dad’s been spending our money since he left us.”
“Mama, are we going to get a present?”
“If I have well-behaved boys, they might get a present from the box. Yes.”
“No, I mean, a present from the house.” Cujo is salivating, swallowing spit. “Something we can take from the Warden’s—I mean, Dad’s—house.”
Mama sighs. “If you do what I say?” Long silence. “Maybe.”
From the back of the wagon. “What are we waiting for?”
“Mama,” I say. “This is getting crazy. When they find out—”
“Shut your hole,” Mama yells.
In the back, Cujo rocks so hard that the wagon bounces.
“Okay.” Mama kills the engine and struggles to turn and look Collin in the eye. “Are you ready to be my special clicker boy?”
Collin twinkles and nods.
She reaches into her fanny pack, pulls out the clicker, and tosses it over the seat. “You keep that handy.” Then to me, she adds, “Let’s take a look at the love nest.”
“Mama. C’mon. This has gone far enough.”
She tightens, pulls out my phone. “You want me to call your sister and put the kid on the line? That could derail everything, couldn’t it?”
I think of Audrey, feel that awful feeling of rejection all over again.
Then I think of living for free in Ana and Samson’s compound.
Then I think of quitting Robards International tomorrow morning.
So I open the door and put a leg out. “Okay, kids. Let’s do this.” The wagon explodes with excitement, and I hear myself hollering as they pile out, “Listen to your mother.”
* * *
Maybe it’s the liquor, but it feels like a dream.
I latch on to but a few things.
The front door is solid oak.
A housecleaner thinks I’m Dick Rayborne’s twin brother.
She leads us through a series of hallways.
“I think he’s in his office.”
A narrow, dimly lit staircase, tiny lights on each step.
On the wall, framed covers of Headcount.
More steps down.
Another hallway.
And then another door. Unlocks with her badge.
She stands there. “Just follow the lights.”
We descend.
So many steps down.
In this sweet “cottage”? Who would’ve thought?
A framed award—the headcount shrinker of the year—10k jobs.
We descend more and more.
A 1930s-era photo of expressionless teens in a sooty factory.
Collin says, “I feel weird.”
The tiny lights are getting dimmer.
A framed, two-page spread from a 1992 issue of Headcount. Dick is standing in the middle of a cluster of cars, arms folded, that toothy grin popping off the page. The headline announcing, it’s sunday morning, and his employee parking lot is packed—how he does it.
Farther down we go.
A framed essay in a publication called RIF, the headline teasing, peer group tension—how it can drive new levels of productivity—by dick rayborne.
Collin approaches, takes my hand.
“It’s okay, kiddo,” I tell him.
Finally we reach the landing.
There’s a water fountain. Tiny trickling.
It’s dark down here, like a dungeon. No windows, of course, and very low lighting. But we can see his desk, or at least part of it, a surface light illuminating an open laptop, everything else a silhouette. At the opposite end, stock prices stream across a small TV set. Mama stands over a table of framed photos. Dick with members of Congress. Dick in front of the New York Stock Exchange. Dick on the African plains with a dead lion. Dick with a dozen or so nervous teenage Chinese workers in blue shirts.
“Sorry, Uncle Rick, but I guess he does kinda look like you—a lot.”
Cujo and Ernie check behind a series of paintings on the far wall—lions eating limp, juvenile antelopes. Collin releases my hand, sneaks up on Cujo, tags him on the back leg, announces, “You’re it,” and tears back up the stairs. Cujo loses interest in his search, turns and chases after Collin. Ernie small-steps after them, his arms working hard, still clutching the barbecue prongs.
“Boys!”
Mama looks around. “Is this where you go to do your . . .” The light from the TV coats her glasses. “. . . darkest things, your most sadistic activities—your pleasures, huh? Is this where you plot to bring the employees of Robards International to their knees? At your feet?” Her voice sharpens, and she tightens, leaning in, the stock prices streaming across her lenses. “Is this where you get back at the world, Dickie, you sick . . . empty . . . sociopath?”
I know she’s talking about Dick Rayborne, but I feel a little guilty.
The boys thunder back down the stairs, and Collin leads them around the corner and into some kind of walk-in closet, hollers, “Whoa.”
I turn to Mama. “Okay, so what are we doing here?”
She looks at me, bites her lower lip, thinking.
“And I swear, if you don’t give me my phone back, I’m just going to leave.”
“This thing?” She peers into her fanny pack, struggles to pull out my phone. She studies it. “Looks like your sister called another eight times.” She glances up at me. “I can call Cujo over right now, have him call your sister back, put the kid on the phone, see how that goes.” The glasses regard me. “No?”
“Listen, Mama. Tell us what you want, and as long as it’s not too crazy, I’ll help. Then I need to take Collin and get going. It’s a very important day.”
She stands there, swaying a little, her jaw trembling. “I want my family back.” She looks away. “I want my goddamn family back.” She turns and shuffles toward the stairs. “Why did it all have to change?”
“Mama. C’mon. Would it help if I played along?”
She nods.
“Okay, listen.” I bite my lip, close my eyes—okay, here we go. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out, baby. You know we tried. I’m very very very sorry.”
She seems to deflate a little.
“But the past is the past. We both know we can’t go back.”
She nods, wipes her nose with her wrist. “But I can stop you from destroying more families.” She turns angry again. “Mr. Paperwork.” She considers it, then adds, “Plus, I have a new man. I couldn’t wait around for you forever.”
“Okay, baby.” I ask for her hand. “I might not want the details—that’ll always be hard. But I understand.”
This seems to please her.
“Now let me show you the house.”
“Boys, let’s go,” Mama says. “We’re headed back upstairs.”
They giggle.
“Quit your mischief and get out here.”
The rustle of metal, and more giggles.
“One . . . Two . . .”
Collin emerges from the dark wearing a steel collar attached to three thick shackles, steel wrist cuffs, and an oversize, crotchless harness. Chortling. When it sinks in, my body tenses and I lunge forward. “Collin, what are you . . .” But I can’t finish.
Cujo and Ernie step out of the dark, snickering. We all gasp.
Cujo sports a “spider gag,” which has turned the lower part of his face into a giant mouth hole. In one hand, he’s holding a studded spanking paddle. In the other, he’s tugging on a leather leash, bringing Ernie out of the dark. Collin lets out a wild laugh as Ernie tiny-steps into our full view, his head encased by a black, openmouthed slave mask, his neck encased by a spiked steel collar, his wrists cuffed behind his back, his ankles shackled together by a short metal chain. His prongs are tucked into his jumpsuit so the fork end nearly grazes his chin.
I’m speechless.
The mouth hole frames a dopey smile.
“Actually, we shouldn’t be surprised.” I look around, motioning to the items in Dick Rayborne’s HR dungeon. “Collin, you need to get out of that stuff right now. Put it all back.”
Mama shuffles up to me, whispers. “If this was what you wanted, you should’ve told me. You know I was always willing to try things. Remember that time in Turlock? With the turkey farmer?”
* * *
Back up on the main floor, I feel like I’m walking through the Pillsbury Doughboy’s house.
A plump older lady is baking cookies in the enormous kitchen, and the aroma seems to follow us as we explore deeper and deeper, discovering room after room of lemon-yellow walls, white crown molding, ten-foot picture windows, and crystal vases of freshly cut daisies, sunflowers, and carnations. A symphony of tweeting birds and babbling brooks eases out of an unseen sound system. The HR dungeon seems a million miles away, except for the fact that Cujo refused to remove his spider gag, and Ernie still sports his openmouthed slave mask, his grin more prominent than ever—those lips protruding excitedly—as Collin leads him by the hand. We’d managed to get everything off Collin except for his steel collar (Cujo lost the key).
Mama looks around in wonderment. “I couldn’t have guessed this.”
And then the hint of a woman’s voice.
We freeze, look at each other.
My chest tightens. He’s here. That Porsche outside? He’s obviously here.
From around the corner, a woman says, “Fertilization is absolutely critical.”
Mama keeps shuffling, and we keep following.
We enter a master bedroom the size of a 7-Eleven. There’s no one here. Then, from the master bath, a woman says, “I know this can cause an odor . . .” I look at Mama. Not sure I wanna hear this. “. . . but the benefits can dramatically outweigh the assault on your senses.”
“Okay.” Mama yanks the prongs from Ernie and shuffles to the bathroom.
From the bathroom, a man asks, “Gloria?”
Cujo follows Mama into the bathroom, and I quick-step to catch up.
“So if you can get over the odor, they’ll enlarge to proportions you never thought possible.”
Mama and Cujo disappear into the bathroom.
“Gloria, bring me another bowl.”
“Oh,” Mama says. “This is just choice.”
I ease into the bathroom. It’s enormous, of course. And white-tiled with peach walls and white trim. Sunlight is shooting though a wood-framed window, illuminating a giant bathtub overflowing with bubbles. Protruding out of the bubbles is Dick Rayborne’s balding head, facing away from us. Watching TV. Humming. Helping himself to a bowl of marshmallows placed on a chrome tub rack as the TV flashes an Angela Lansbury look-alike walking through an English garden. “Your noses may not love fish emulsion,” she tells us. “But your roses will.”
Mama takes Cujo by the hand and shuffles closer.
Dick Rayborne turns his head halfway—his chin in the air, his eyes shut—and barks. “Gloria?”
“Gloria?” Mama and Cujo step into Dick’s view, and he jerks so hard the bowl launches into the air, marshmallows shooting across the tub. Mama lowers her head, glowers. “Do we look like Gloria to you?”
Dick seems so scared, he’s speechless. And frozen.
Cujo takes the opportunity to tiptoe a little closer and retrieve a marshmallow from the rim of the tub. He fingers it through the spider gag and into his open mouth, realizes there’s no way to chew and swallow, so he forces a cough to launch it into the bathtub. Dick’s throat releases an odd noise, and he tries to recede into the bubbles, his eyes registering a look of utter horror as they settle on Cujo’s seafoam-green jumpsuit, and then on Ernie, who’s wandered into the bathroom giggling, wearing the slave mask, his hands out.
Another distress noise.
Mama stands over him, playing the role of an utterly baffled old lady. “Dick?” she rasps.
Collin reaches the threshold and stops.
Mama somehow succeeds in making her lower lip quiver. “Dick? I thought you were—” She places a trembling hand over her brow, lowers her head. Then she takes a peek at me, winking. “I’m so confused.”
Dick eases deeper into the bubbles.
“Mr. Rayborne,” I slur, swaying, “I can explain all of this.”
A hand eases out of the bubbles and floats toward a drink ledge beside the tub, only, there’s no drink there—just a black device with a small red button. So much for reasoning with him. Now it’s a matter of avoiding arrest. “Mama?” I say. “He’s trying to grab something there.”
Mama shouts at the bubbles. “You sent your little brother?” She glances at me, winks again. “Your little brother to clean up the mess you’ve created?”
The hand scuttles across the tile, searching for the device.
“Mama,” I say and motion to the hand.
Mama turns and huffs. She stabs the prongs into the hand, sinking the fork into the knuckles. From the bubbles, a yelp. The hand scurries back into the foam, the prongs trailing before detaching.
Mama sniffles. “You thought you could sidestep your responsibilities? Just send your bozo brother and try and fool an old lady? And not just any old lady, but the mother of your children. Come here, boys. Yeah, come over here. You, too, Collin. Someone help Ernie to the tub—he can’t see. Come here. There you go, honey. Yeah, so look at us, Dick.”
Dick’s eyes rise from the bubbles.
“These are our children. The fruits of our loins. You promised them the world, honey. You promised me the world. You sold us all on a vision we couldn’t resist.”
The scalp twitches, sinks deeper into the bubbles.
“Yeah, you sure fooled us, didn’t you?” Mama sharpens, taking an acidic tone. “Sold us—sold the world, really—on a lie. Only they don’t realize it yet, do they? But the boys and I? Your own brother?” She snarls and glares. “We know what kind of man you really are. We know you’re the man who abandoned the values essential to family. The man who shits on the world so he can . . .” She motions to the bathroom like a game-show host revealing a bounty of prizes. “. . . sit in his bathtub on a Tuesday eating marshmallows and watching TV while everyone else sinks deeper into a . . .” She puffs out her cheeks, bulges her eyes. “. . . an abyss. Layoffs. Pay cuts. Benefit cuts.” She lowers her head, shows her teeth. “Paperwork.”
Collin says, “Paperwork?”
“Yes, sweetie. Your dad here has created a lot of paperwork for people at Robards.”
Collin looks up to me. “Is that true, Uncle Rick? Paperwork?”
I open my mouth, and Mama says, “You bet it’s true, sweetheart. Your so-called dad in the tub here—”
“He’s not my dad, Mama.”
“Just humor me, kid.” She pulls up her pants, twitches her nose. “When your uncle and his friends at work see a doctor—when they have a boo-boo, or when their children have a boo-boo—the doctor will charge them a lot of money. That’s why they pay for medical insurance through their employer—in this case, Robards International. Most companies also help their employees pay for the insurance.”
Collin blinks and nods.
“Then, when they have a doctor’s bill, the insurance company pays for part and the employee pays the other part.”
“That sounds fair.”
“That would be fair,” Mama says. “The only problem is, your so-called dad in the tub here has worked with the insurance company to create a system that makes it hard for employees like your uncle . . . or Cujo . . . or Ernie to get reimbursed.”
“To get their money back?”
“Exactly.”
“What did he do?”
Mama says, “He created a system of paperwork that is so confusing . . . so complicated . . . so cumbersome and flawed . . . so annoying . . . that lots and lots of people just give up, or don’t give up but make a small but critical mistake along the way. And guess what?”
“Are Neanderthals covered?”
“Robards International and its insurance provider don’t have to pay their share. Meaning . . .” She tugs on Cujo, who’s unstrapping the spider gag from his face. “. . . employees like your brother here are effectively cheated out of their medical coverage.”
Collin looks at the bubbles, then at Mama, and then back to the bubbles. “Is that true?”
The bubbles shift.
Mama shuffles to the tub and reaches into the opposite end of the bubbles, yanks hard. The sound of draining bathwater pulls me back to the evenings of my childhood when I’d take long soaks as my parents watched the Nightly News.
“I think it’s time for Dickie to come out.”
* * *
A few bubbles remain stuck to Dick Rayborne as we escort the nearly naked executive to a vast area that looks more like the lobby of a midsize luxury hotel—plush sofas and chairs, yellow-white porcelain lamps, large oil paintings of stately properties in England, and a seemingly endless series of crystal vases and figurines on side tables and wall ledges. I am not sure what to feast my eyes on—this grotesque spectacle of decadence, or the sight of Dick Rayborne wearing nothing but a small, peach-white bath towel, his sagging, cottage-cheese breasts and arms slick with bathwater, his belly dripping over the towel, his head hanging low, his brows down in some type of embarrassed glare.
Mama shuffles up and prongs him in the throat. He recoils with a snarl.
“When you lived with us . . .” Another pronging, another snarl. “. . . you never needed . . .” She lowers her head, forces him to look her in the eye. “. . . maids and cooks and security men.”
He sways back from her and forces an uneasy grin, showing those enormous teeth. My lord, they’re huge.
“And knowing you . . .” Another poke—this time in the belly—and he steps back and rubs the area with his injured hand, dots of red showing through the tissue. “. . . you probably don’t give them benefits or a decent wage.”
Dick offers a weak, have-mercy grin, his eyes enlarging.
“Or any vacation days. Or sick days. Or holidays.”
Cujo announces, “I’m bored.”
Mama returns to Dick. “Send them home, honey.”
“Home?” His voice is weak and lispy—it’s not what I expected. “Send who home? I’m confused . . .” He bobs his head, and his eyes enlarge again, measuring, sensing, hoping. “Do I know you?” He recedes a bit, looks at her, then at me. “Were you all part of Wave 93?”
Collin looks at me. “Wave 93?”
“Sometimes a company will tell a large group of people their jobs have been elimated, and so they kick these people out. Robards calls these waves—endless waves. I think Wave 93 was last week.”
Another forced grin from Dick. Reddening jowls. “Those things are out of my hands.”
“Oh, no you don’t.” Mama wags a finger in his face. “No more running from your responsibilities, Dickie.” She lifts her chin into the air, yells, “Gloria?”
I grasp a sofa to stabilize myself—damn, those minis were a bad idea. “Maybe we don’t need more people right now, Mama.”
“Exactly.” Mama hollers into the air. “Gloria honey? Dickie needs you in the living room.”
From a distant room, Gloria hollers, “Coming.”
Mama turns back to Dick, reaches into her fanny pack, and pulls out my phone. Lifts it into the air with a trembling hand. Takes a few big breaths. Juts her jaw out. Slits her eyes. “This cordless telephone is loaded with dozens and—” She suppresses a burp, tries to catch her breath. “—and dozens of kinky photos of your HR dungeon and S and M playroom. Just the kind of photos that can go—how do you say?—bacterial on the computers.”
“Viral,” I correct.
“Viral,” she says. “Dickie, your kinky sex toys are about to go viral.”
Dick whitens.
“So when Gloria comes in . . .” She sharpens again, yells. “. . . you’re going to do exactly as I say.”
Dick has begun to pant. He looks to me. “If you’re on the Wave 93 roster, I can reinstate you.” He glances at Cujo, who’s struggling to remove Ernie’s slave mask. “Same with the conployees. Not a problem.”
A woman enters from the far end of the living room. I recognize her as the sweet-looking, plump lady who was baking cookies when we came in. Up close, she’s older than I’d first thought—easily in her midsixties—and her expression looks more like fatigue than sweetness. “Hello,” she says to us, forcing a smile. “I’m not sure we’ve met properly.”
“Listen, sweetheart.” Mama pumps the prongs in the air. “There’s a very logical reason you’ve never met us. We’re his family.”
Gloria looks at me, smiles. “I can see that.”
I didn’t need to hear that.
“Yes.” Mama seems to lose her train of thought, frowns, and whispers to herself before looking up. “Well, Dickie is hiding from his family. In fact, your boss is probably the least family-friendly businessman around.”
Gloria bows her head, steps back.
“Does Dick even know about your family, Gloria?”
Gloria looks at Dick, who shoots her that uneasy grin, his eyes sinking.
“Didn’t think so.” Mama points her prongs skyward. “Today is going to be a family day, Gloria.”
“Okay. Do you want a family dinner tonight?”
“No. Dick and I want you and the other employees here on the compound to take the rest of the day off. Okay? And spend some time with your friends and family. Or go get drunk or laid or whatever your thing is.”
Gloria brightens, looks at Dick, who nods reluctantly.
“That includes the security team, okay, Gloria? Those guys who clicked open the gate for us. Okay?”
Gloria checks with Dick, who seems to have frozen.
“Dick says, Do it.” Mama shuffles to Gloria, taps her on the shoulder with the prongs. “Have a wonderful day, honey. I mean it. And don’t forget to tell the security guys, okay?”
Gloria nods, removes her apron. “I’ll go tell them and the others.”
“You understand, right?” Mama softens. “Sometimes, a family just needs some private time.”
Gloria nods. “I have a fresh batch of oatmeal-raisin cookies in the oven, but I can—”
“Go, honey. Tell the others and go. Let those cookies burn to black little balls.” Mama turns to me, and nearly coos, her eyes twinkling. “It’s time for some family bonding.”
* * *
Dick says, “Just tell me what you want, and we can talk about it.”
“What I want is, Family Game Night.”
Dick gives Mama an oooooo-kay look, eyes widening, chin tucked in.
“I’ve got a new game, Dickie. It’s called Good News/Bad News.”
Dick bites his lip.
“Can you guess what the good news is, Dickie?”
“You’re not going to hurt me?”
“That’s not it. The good news is . . .” Mama digs into her fanny pack and pulls it out. “. . . I brought my laser pointer.” At the mention of the laser pointer, the boys go wild—Cujo running tight circles around the furniture, Ernie jumping for joy on the main couch, his little arms outstretched as he bounces higher and higher. Collin decides it looks like fun, and he gallops around the room—his knees high, his shoulders hunched, his eyes crossed—slapping his butt, hollering, “Laser pointer, laser pointer, laser pointer.”
Mama smiles to herself. “They still love this game.” She chuckles. “Here, Ernie. Take your prongs.” She adopts the baby voice. “Mama knows you like to have your prongs when we play Laser Pointer.”
Dick Rayborne sinks into his chair, clutches his towel. “Good news?”
“The boys love Laser Pointer because it involves . . .” She digs into her fanny pack, pulls out a wad of cash and two minis of Jack Daniel’s. “. . . prizes.”
The boys hoot and holler.
“So . . .” Mama pants and puffs as she struggles to put the cash and minis back into her fanny pack. “. . . the good news is, it’s time to play Laser Pointer.”
Collin tugs on her shirt and peers up. “What’s the bad news?”
“Well, for Dickie the bad news is . . .” Mama strokes the laser pointer and looks at Dick . “. . . we’re going to play it in his house.”
Dick forces a smile. “We don’t need to play Good News/Bad News. Or the laser pointer game.”
Eyes closed, shaking her head, Mama tells him, “I have a lot of questions about how things work.”
“Work? Where work? What do you mean, work?”
Mama looks at him, eyes twinkling. “Let’s play.”
“Mama.” I approach, touch her arm, concerned. “Let’s not get too—”
“Ready.” Mama thrusts the pointer into the air, stroking the button.
Ernie and Cujo stare at the laser pointer. Collin spreads his legs and slaps his butt.
“Set.”
Ernie squeals. Cujo freezes.
“Okay,” Mama squeaks. “Who wants to win a beverage?” The boys bark. “And a one-hundred-dollar bill?” More ruckus, and Mama scolds, “You boys better show your little brother how to play. You hear?” She sharpens. “Stay there, Dickie.”
“Collin,” I holler. “Be careful.”
“And . . . catch that light.”
A bright red laser dot dances in front of us—across the rug and over the coffee table and right by Cujo’s feet before darting away and settling on an empty yellow armchair. Cujo and Ernie nearly knock each other over as they bolt for the chair—Ernie hurdling the coffee table, Cujo upending it. Collin follows far behind, giggling.
Dick Rayborne sits up.
Ernie dives for the red dot and crashes headfirst into the armchair, stabbing it first with the prongs and knocking it over, tumbling end over end, clearing out a stand of vases near the hearth. The dot avoids him and bounces to the nearby lampshade.
“Dude,” I shout. “Watch it with the prongs. Stay back, Collin.”
Mama laughs and sings, “Weee-eeeeeeee,” as the dot dances about.
Cujo cuts through the room like a charging linebacker, swatting items out of his way as he closes in on the dot, his brows furrowed, his lips twisted in determination. Ernie approaches from the opposite end—that openmouthed grin widening, his enormous blues twinkling—and dives over a couch a second too late as the red dot bounces away and the lamp is knocked off the end table, shatters on the floor. Cujo tries to adjust but ends up spinning out of control and careens into a china cabinet, shattering the glass and collapsing shelves of crystal vases and antique china plates into a heap of shards. Collin runs after the dot as it dances over a series of French Impressionist oil paintings on the far wall.
“Help your brother,” Mama shouts.
Dick takes an acidic tone. “Okay,” he yells over the din, standing up, clutching his towel. “Come on.”
“Oh yeah?” Mama directs the laser dot onto Dick’s forehead. It takes but a second for the boys to correct course and head for him. “You have a problem?”
Dick sits down, Mama sends the laser dot back to the paintings, and the boys correct course yet again—but not before Cujo clears out a table of framed photos and sideswipes a vintage grandfather clock, the bells issuing a series of dongs as it crashes down.
Mama seems so pleased. “I saw this on a TV show called Too Cute.” Cujo slams into a painting, and Ernie swats at another lamp. Collin giggles as the dot dances around his feet, avoiding his stomps. “Only . . .” The dot leads Cujo into a canary-yellow wall, and the floor vibrates with his impact. “. . . it was with kittens.”
The carnage continues.
Dick pleads.
“Tell me,” Mama says. “Who’s Emma Flanduzi?”
Dick pulls at his face and wails. “Who?”
“Exactly.” Cujo slams into a hutch with porcelain piglets. “You nearly killed her with your goddamn paperwork, and you don’t even know who she is.”
“Wave 42?” Dick rubs his temples with open hands. “Was she on Wave 42? The one we laid off the day after her husband died?”
“Wrong.”
The dot leads the boys into the adjoining dining room, where Cujo takes down a chandelier and crashes atop a long table, wrestling with the fixture like it must be subdued. Mama keeps the dot on the chandelier and reaches into her pack, produces a click. “You did it, Cujo. You captured the dot.”
Cujo hoots, tosses the chandelier aside, and races to Mama. Collin and Ernie join, and all three slide to a stop, facing her—panting hard.
“Lady.” Dick’s so red, it’s like he has a rash. “Come on. Let’s be reasonable here.”
Mama’s digging into her fanny pack. “Cujo wins Round One,” she announces and hands him a mini and then a one-hundred-dollar bill. “But you two still have a chance. In fact . . .” She returns to her fanny pack, fingers moving slowly. “. . . Mama’s gonna give you each a five-dollar bill.” They jump up and down, and Cujo drains the mini. “For effort.”
The boys back away, keeping their eyes on her pointer.
“Okay,” Mama says. “Round Two.”
The red dot zigzags across a far wall, teasing the boys.
Dick says, “Let’s talk about this.”
The boys crash and slam and launch.
Mama suddenly doesn’t sound so senile anymore. “Tell me, Dickie. Why did have your computer whizzes cook up a software code that makes it so hard for employees to sign up for benefits that twenty-one percent of them now give up?”
Dick snarls, “You’re crazy.”
“Really?” Mama points the laser back to the oil paintings, and Dick yelps. “Is that why you recruited a select group of conployees to create your own ‘Special IT Projects Group’? Those young conployees—just boys, really—who’ve been planting glitches in your open-enrollment website for benefits. Little glitches that target one out of every fifteen employees who log on thinking they’ll enroll for medical, dental, and life insurance? Little glitches that follow said employees like herpes. It doesn’t matter if they switch out computers or file a ticket with IT, does it, Dickie? No matter what those poor souls do, where they go, or what kind of scan or scrub or vaccine—whatever you call it—their computers keep freezing over and over and over, every time they try to sign up for benefits, until most just give up.” Mama glowers at him. “And Robards International keeps the money.”
I’m not sure Dick hears her. He slips his fingers into his mouth and pulls down on his jaw as Cujo, Ernie, and Collin swat at the paintings—one after the other—in hot pursuit. The dot glides under the Steinway to the left, and Cujo scurries under the piano and takes out the far leg when he emerges from the other side, making the piano crash to the floor with an off-key slam.
“Dickie.”
“Okay, fine.” He shakes his face, balls his fists. “Fine. I hired a group. Yes. Fine. A couple of hackers. You happy?”
“They call themselves conhackers,” Mama says and points the dot at the peach drapes—Ernie charges into the drapes, gets tangled up, and pulls the whole mess (including the rod) off the wall. “Okay, next question.”
Dick Rayborne gets up, catches himself, and sits down. He snarls.
Mama sends the dot back into the dining room.
Dick pleads, “Just tell me what you want.”
Mama jerks the dot around, and the boys crash into each other before plowing into a serving cabinet—I hear splintering. “An employee must complete eighteen steps in order to sign up for 401(k) matching from Robards International.” She sends the dot back to the living room and settles it on the white mantel, then leads the boys from one end to the other—silver flutes and framed photos and crystal candleholders are either crushed or sent flying. “The launch sequence of the space shuttle was easier than the process you created, Dickie. A mind-numbing amalgamation of phone calls, computer forms, and old-fashioned paperwork—not to mention the heavy volume of slight procedural infractions that allow you to reject half the people who actually do complete the process, who are then instructed to start all over.”
Cujo plows into a giant bowl of potpourri, and Mama issues a click. “Boy, you are good at this game, aren’t you, Cujo? Come get your prize.” And then to me, she adds, “I found the laser is better than the bouncy ball. The laser keeps the action going.”
* * *
The boys are still panting.
Dick Rayborne seems woozy.
I still feel way too buzzed.
Mama says, “You’re a modern-day robber baron, you know?”
Dick surveys the damage and swallows hard—it looks like a pack of hyenas tore through the place. Hyenas on meth and NōDōz. Furniture in splinters. Broken glass. Ripped paintings. Shattered porcelain and china. At least a dozen cracks or indentations in the drywall. Stabbed or shredded fabric on the chairs and sofas.
Dick opens his mouth, makes a weird noise. Mama shuffles to him and stands over him. “The bottom line is, each time you prevent a hardworking employee from claiming her benefits, your bonus gets a little fatter.” Mama waits. “Doesn’t it?”
Dick shrugs.
“Answer me.”
Another shrug.
Mama sighs, reaches into her fanny pack. “I didn’t think we’d need to play another round of Laser Pointer.”
The boys stir, and Dick straightens. “Fine,” he snaps. “Fine. Yes, the bonus is higher. The less we spend on benefits, the higher my bonus.” He puffs out, chokes on his spit. “We live in America, you know.”
I hear myself saying, “America isn’t about ripping off hardworking employees.”
Dicks offers a mild sneer.
Mama says to Dick, “And it all stops today.”
He chuckles and reddens.
“You think I’m crazy, Dickie Boy, but here’s the truth.” She lowers her head, waits for him to make eye contact. “You’re going to hold an emergency meeting of the Robards International board of directors.” She looks at him. “Today.”
“Me?” Dick laughs and snarls. “You think I’m—”
“You’re an officer of the company, which means you can call a meeting.”
“Of the compensation subcommittee.” Dick is amused. “Not the entire board.”
“You’ll start there,” Mama says. “You’ll call the HR subcommittee of the board.”
“Compensation,” Dick corrects.
“Whatever you call it.”
Dick seems to brighten as it settles in. “I’ll need to come in to the office for that,” he says. “Solo.”
Mama studies him a moment. “I think it’s time for another round of Good News/Bad News.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“But you don’t seem to understand, Dickie.”
“I’m sure I can figure it out.”
“Let me help you.” Mama closes her eyes. “The good news is, Dick Rayborne will indeed go to the headquarters of Robards International this afternoon. And I won’t be there.”
Dick can’t suppress his grin.
Collin looks up at Mama, his eyes wide. “And the bad news?”
Mama turns to Collin. “Well, the bad news is for Old Dickie. That’s because we’re sending in a new and improved Dick Rayborne. That means Old Dickie—well, I’m afraid he’s not going anywhere for a while.”
Dick whitens. Collin crinkles.
“I don’t understand, Mama.”
“You see, honey, we’re sending in your uncle. Dickie’s brother.” She bites her lip, shakes her head as she thinks about it. “I just don’t trust Old Dickie.”
My stomach tightens. “I’m not impersonating this guy.”
She turns to me and softens. “Now listen, honey. You want to make a true difference in your lifetime? A real difference? You know, change the lives of tens of thousands of people—and their families?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Oh, it is. It’s as easy as walking into his closet, putting on one of his suits. Taking his badge. And his car. Using his phone to call his secretary, or whatever you call ’em these days. And then just marching in there and convincing the subwhatever to take a new approach.” She pauses, cocks her head, and sticks out her chin. “Otherwise, the boys and I might be forced to cancel your six o’clock meeting with your sister. Or we might decide to join you. Or stay out really late with Collin.” She sighs in mock concern. “Really late.”
“I can do it,” Dick says. “You don’t need him.”
I think about losing the house-sitting gig. It makes me want to throw up. “Mama, you want me to do something that is very illegal.”
“Listen,” she snaps. “What he’s doing is illegal—spiritually, in terms of what is right and wrong—regardless of what the lawyers say.”
Collin approaches, takes my hand in both of his. Looks up at me. “She has a point, Uncle Rick. Those things Mama was describing? They’re just wrong. Nobody should be allowed to exploit Neanderthals this way.”
Dick says to me, “You leave me here with them, you’re fired.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Mama says.
A deep chime echoes throughout the house, and I search for clues.
“Doorbell,” Dick says with hope in his eyes.
Shit. The police? Or maybe Dick’s security team didn’t go home after all?
Mama says, “Ignore that for a moment.” She glances at Dick. “We’re still playing Good News/Bad News.”
“That’s okay,” Dick says.
“Why do you get so stressed out?” Mama says, irritated. “It’s like I’m torturing you or something. Jeez. What a baby. I mean, every round starts with good news, doesn’t it?”
“She’s right.” Cujo finishes off his mini of Jack, shivers, and tosses the empty over his shoulder. “Stop the whining, dude. Mama, can we have a headlock party?”
“No,” Mama says. “Okay, so the good news is—”
“I think the good news would be if we get the hell out of here,” I say. “You know, before the police show up.”
“I think the good news would be if you shut your hole.” Mama turns back to Dick. “So, the good news is, I’m not going to make you come back to me. I’m sure you’re happy about that, since I’m certainly not what you want now that you have all this robber baron money and probably have this place brimming with young tramps. Yeah, I give up. After all the lies. After all those years of taking care of the kids while you’re out sucking the world dry. After feeling alone and neglected for so long, I give up, Dickie. You happy? I’m sure you are, because that’s what you wanted all along, isn’t it?”
Dick shrugs.
“So that’s the good news, honey. You’ve finally got me off your tail. No more nagging. Aren’t you happy?”
Dick looks at me, says, “Help me here.”
I give him my I’m-powerless look.
“Of course . . .” Mama raises a brow, slows down. “. . . the game is called Good News/Bad News. So . . . I do have a bit of bad news.”
Dick clamps onto his bath towel with both hands.
The doorbell rings again.
“The bad news is, when you leave a vibrant woman alone like that, she begins to appreciate—how shall I put it?—previously unwanted male attention. If you know what I mean.”
“Of course I do,” Dick says, “That’s fine with me, lady. Seriously. I haven’t been around, so you hooked up with a few fellas.”
“I don’t think you fully understand.” There even seems to be a bit of compassion in her voice. “Yes, I have taken a lover. But that’s not the bad news.”
The doorbell rings a third time, followed by three tight knocks. Mama looks to Ernie. “Will you get that for me, sweetie?” Ernie yanks his prongs out of the leather armchair and meanders around a corner toward the front door. “And let me tell you, he’s really kind of a dreamboat. Such a nice body for an older fella. Looks like he could be in a magazine advertisement for cologne or teeth brightener. And sharp as a tack, too.” She squinits at a thought, whistles to herself. “Crazy smart. And not conniving smart like you, but a-thousand-thoughts-a-second smart.”
“That’s fine,” Dick offers. “I mean, it was inevitable. Yes, I’m hurt. But I’ll get over it.”
We can hear Ernie open the front door.
“Yes, good for me. And good for my body, too, because let’s face it. My lady bits have been hungry. I mean, really famished.” She looks at Collin, turns back to Dick with a sneer. “They’ve been malnourished for a long time.” She lowers her eyelids, looks at Dick with satisfaction. “And let me tell you, my new fella knows how to hump a lady.” She looks at Dick, waiting for a reaction. “He knows how to feed those ravenous lady bits.” She smiles, winks, and whispers, “How to make a tired old woman scream.”
Dick seems happy. Relieved. “Well,” he says, quick and nearly jovial. “That is some bad news. I have to admit. I don’t like the idea of another man having you—whoever you are. Umm, what I mean is, it’s hard to let go.” He shoots me a look—This lady is crazy.
Around the corner, footsteps.
“He doesn’t like pillow talk,” Mama says. “But after a good fucking . . .”
I twist Collin around by the shoulders. “Go see if Gloria left any cookies in the kitchen.”
“. . . I really just want to talk as I wait for him to recharge—that is, if he’s not on Viagra. Well, anyways . . .”
Collin scampers away, and I holler, “Don’t go too far.”
“. . . he prefers to sit there in bed smoking his pipe, thinking, and I—Well, I guess I got to talking one afternoon. Because, we hump in the afternoon.”
Ernie quick-steps back into the living room, and Mama says, “Was that him, honey?”
Which is when he appears. An older guy—sixty, sixty-five—walking slowly toward us in flip-flops, a skin-colored Speedo, pukka shells, and an opened blue dress shirt. Lots of oil on his legs, stomach, and chest—and I’m hit with an oddly soothing waft of cocoa butter.
“Larry,” Mama gushes. “Speak of the devil.”
Larry has thinning, dirty-blond hair and a tightly manicured beard. He looks good—fit, spry, and handsome—and yet I can tell there’s something terribly wrong with him. Maybe it’s those deep brown eyes that seem to look right through you. Or maybe it’s the empty grin. Or the twitching fingers. Or the fact he has a buck knife strapped to the side of his Speedo—his skin-colored Speedo.
Dick Rayborne squirms.
Mama looks at Larry and beams. “Come over here and plant one on me.”
Larry just stands there, so Mama shuffles over to him, wraps her arms around him. Larry doesn’t respond—just stares at Dick with that creepy look on his face. “He does this sometimes,” Mama says. “I think it’s just because he’s got so many big thoughts racing through that brain of his. I don’t push him—I just let him think.”
Larry looks at Dick. “Is this him?” he says, his voice sharp and even. “The individual from Human Resources?”
Mama runs an open hand down Larry’s stomach. “That’s him, honey.”
Larry seems to vibrate as he stares at Dick.
“You remember, right, honey?” Still stroking his stomach, watching his face. “My ex. The one who abandoned his family.”
Larry says, “The individual who likes paperwork.”
“That’s right, baby. The one who drove me to you.”
“Paperwork.”
Mama releases Larry, turns to me. “The paperwork thing really bothers Larry.”
His voice is tight. “I don’t like HR.”
Mama studies Larry. “I wanted you to confront Dick as my lover, baby. Tell him what you’ve been doing to me. Tell him what a jerk he is.”
Larry seems to have gone stiff as he gazes at Dick Rayborne.
“He gets—I don’t how you’d describe it.” She looks at Larry. “I’m afraid Larry gets—how shall I say?—activated.”
Dick’s eyes are troubled. “Activated?”
“Yeah, see? Look at him.” She turns to Dick. “He’s activated.”
“Activated?”
“He really didn’t like it when I told him about the paperwork.”
Dick forces an uneasy grin. “It’s business.”
“It’s people,” Mama says.
“I do not like . . .” Larry’s voice is so light and thin. “. . . those who create unnecessary paperwork.”
“So they can cheat people out of medical coverage,” Mama adds.
Larry hums as he stares at Dick.
“Oh yeah,” Mama says to me, nearly amused. “Larry’s activated.”
Ernie and Cujo circle Larry as if he’s a curious ice sculpture. Finally, Cujo looks to Mama. “What do you mean, he’s activated?”
Mama says, “Do you remember when you were just a little squirt and Daddy brought home that lizard?”
Cujo looks at me and grins. “Sure.”
“And do you remember how Gustav reacted?”
“Gustav?”
“Gustav,” Mama snaps. “The goddamn family cat.”
“Oh yeah,” Cujo says, giving me the eye, smiling. “That’s right. Sorry, Mama. I can’t believe I forgot that rat Gustav.”
“Cat,” Mama yells.
“Yeah, right. Cat.”
“You don’t remember?” Mama smiles at a memory, shaking her head and closing her eyes. “Your dad over there bringing that lizard home, and you kept it in that cage? And every time you’d let Gustav into your room, he’d just go sit on top of the cage and stare at the lizard—What you’d name him?”
“Suzie?”
“No, that wasn’t it. Anyways, any time we’d try to touch Gustav, he’d swipe us with the claws. And then he started spraying and hissing. And then finally we brought in that veterinary student from down the street, and she said the lizard—the reptile—had ‘activated’ the predator inside Gustav.”
“So . . .” Cujo scratches his crotch. “. . . the reptile ‘activated’ the cat—I mean Gustav?”
“For Gustav, seeing the reptile just flipped a switch.” Mama says this so empathically, it’s like she’s talking to a weeping toddler. “There was nothing—not a cotton-pickin’ thing—anyone could do to deactivate Gustav. He wanted that reptile so bad.”
Cujo looks at me, grinning. “It’s okay, Mama. I understand.”
“And yes, Gustav eventually did eat that lizard.”
“That sucked,” Cujo declares with a smile. “I was bummed.”
“Which is why it’s important to understand what’s happening here. Larry’s activated right now. Think of him as Gustav. And Dick here as the reptile.”
Cujo gives Larry a long look. “What happens when he’s activated?”
“There are some things,” Mama says, “that you don’t need to worry about, you hear? And there are some things regarding your father and me . . .” Mama rests a frail hand on Cujo’s shoulder. “. . . that you boys don’t need to know.” She gazes into space. “You boys should be enjoying your childhood. You should be focused on being kids.” She shuffles to Ernie, puts an arm around him, and squeezes. He produces a giant smile—fat folds everywhere. “It’s your job as healthy, rambunctious boys to challenge the rules—to push back. To test us and see where the limits are.”
“We like pushing the limits, Mama.”
“I know you do. And it’s your dad’s job—and my job—to deal with adult things.” She turns and twinkles at Larry, then at Dick. “Things about lovers and such.” She blinks and turns back to the boys. “So why don’t you go explore? I understand there’s a nice pool in—”
“Pool?” Cujo bellows.
Collin comes tearing around the corner, cookie in his mouth. “Pulllll?”
“Yes, a pool.”
The boys tear out of the house.
I holler, “Just be safe.”
Mama says to Dick, “The funny thing is—this carnality that Larry and I share? This passion? The lust? The animal nature of our relationship?” She zeros in on Dick, squinting. “It’s not like anything you and I had—ever.”
Dick tries to reason with Larry. “I don’t know this woman.”
Larry stares.
“I suppose you’re right,” Mama says. “In a way, you really don’t know the new me. I’ve changed, honey. That’s what happens when you neglect a woman in her prime.”
“I’m sorry, lady.” Dick seems to be getting really annoyed. “I’m really really sorry, okay?”
“Do you remember my fantasies, Dickie? How sometimes I wanted to experiment a little? How at first I gently suggested but then begged you to try some new things, to have a little fun?”
“Lady, come on.”
“How I’d tell you I’d be okay if . . .” She whispers with a giggle. “. . . we brought someone else into our bedroom?”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Yes you do. And how you’d always say there was something wrong with me? Well, listen.” She leans in, raises her voice. “There was nothing wrong with me. I just wanted to explore.”
Dick gives me the please-help-me eyes. “Well, I was wrong, apparently. And I’m sorry.”
“Good, because today . . .” She giggles. “. . . you make up for it.”
“Lady—”
“Because Larry here? He likes to watch.”
“Watch?” Dick seems to freeze. “Who watch?”
“Larry watch.”
“Larry watch? Larry watch what?”
Mama shuffles to Dick, takes his hand, and pulls. “You and me,” she says and tugs again. “Larry’s a watcher. And he’s gonna watch you and me do it one last time. Because, hell, you owe me that much.”
“If you think I’m going to bed with you guys . . .”
Larry pulls out his buck knife, approaches Dick Rayborne.
“And yes,” Mama says. “I still get gassy when things get hot, when I get a little stretched out. But that doesn’t slow Larry down. He says it’s natural—means I’m really turned on. So I suppose you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”
Dick looks to me. “Help me,” he snaps. “Or you’re fired.”
But what the hell can I say? I’m in a tough spot, too.
Collin wanders back in, tugs on my shirt. “Uncle Rick,” he says. “Cujo’s doing a number two in Dick’s rose garden.”
Mama turns to Larry. “I’m gonna get myself started in the back bed.” She digs into her fanny pack, pulls out a small baggie of brown pills, and tosses it to Larry. “Make him swallow one of those, and bring him back there in ten minutes.”
Okay, this is getting weeee-ird.
Larry takes the bag and examines the pills. Slowly, he nods.
“Uncle Rick?”
Mama says to me, “Come.”
I bark out a “ha” and fold my arms. “I’m not getting you started.”
Collin says, “It’s good to care for your elders.”
Mama gives me the eye. “I’m talking about the closet back there, you twerp. You need to familiarize yourself with his wardrobe.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“But once I do get going,” she says, “be sure to keep the boys out back in the pool. I don’t want any interruptions.”
“You think I’m going to dress up as Dick Rayborne?”
She stops and pokes me in the chest. “Not ‘think.’ I ‘know’ you will.”
“You’re nuts.”
“Actually, Uncle Rick. I don’t think she’s nuts at all.” Collin peers up at me, zeros in with those eyes. “Did you hear everything she was saying during Good News/Bad News?”
I just look at him.
Collin adds, “Or in the bathroom? All those people he’s being mean to? He doesn’t play fair. Someone needs to step up.”
Mama lowers her head, searches my eyes. “What do you think this has been about? You think we’re all just screwing around here?”
Collin tugs on my sleeve again. “You didn’t realize this was about something much, much bigger than fun with Neanderthals?”
“I . . . I just—”
“I—I—I—I.” Mama crosses her eyes, mocking me. “Listen. You’re going to put on one of his suits, take his Robards badge, get his cordless telephone, grab his keys, and you’re going to drive yourself over to that dump, and you’re going to call a meeting with that subcommittee of the Robards International board of directors, and you’re going to confess everything—all the tricks, all the games, everything. You’re going to get their approval to dismantle Dick’s ‘paperwork’ system. And then you’re going to resign—as Dick.”
“You’re crazy. I’m not—”
Collin grabs my arm and squeezes. “Uncle Rick, don’t you understand?”
I pause to take a breath and let it out. “Understand what, honey?”
“That this is your moment.” He leans in. “In your life.”
This hits me, and I stand there. What did he just say?
“What do you mean, in my life?”
Collin says, “In leadership, they call this a defining moment.”
“In leadership?” I squint down at him. “Defining moment?”
“My dad always talks about his defining moment. When he came in and told these bosses they should fire ten thousand people. He says that was his defining moment, because it boosted profits and they created new jobs in China, and they gave him more money. He says it was his opportunity of a lifetime. He’s very proud.” He stops and thinks about it. “But I’m not sure I’d be proud. And I know you wouldn’t be.”
“Well . . .” I choose my words carefully. “Your dad and I are different folks, kiddo.”
“Exactly.” He squeezes again. “Which is why I think this is your moment. This is your chance to doing something big. Something that will help lots and lots of people—people who need help. My dad helped the bosses, but I think you can help even more people.”
I start to feel something. Deep inside me.
Mama says, “The kid is one smart little shit, wouldn’t you say?”
I’m kinda frozen, but I manage a slight nod. The kid is special.
“And take it from an old gal with too many regrets. You have a choice. I mean it. And I’m telling you—you will always look back at this moment. You will go back and think about it. And it will come out of nowhere and hit you. This moment will become a part of you. Because you know you have this opportunity. And if you don’t do the right thing, you will be filled with regret.”
My emotions are swelling. Holy shit, they’re right.
“Do the right thing, Uncle Rick.”
I look into Mama’s eyes, realizing, She’s the last thing from crazy. Has she been fooling me all day?
“Seize the moment,” she says. “Do the right thing, and never regret this moment for as long as you live.”
A bolt of electricity shoots through me, and I feel my chest rise.
Collin pulls on my shirt again. “Uncle Rick?” He peers up at me, so earnest. “Can I do cannonballs in the pool?”
* * *
When I walk out of Dick Rayborne’s enormous closet, Mama is already under the covers. Her glasses are off, and her eyes are half closed. It sounds like she’s nearly purring, and I notice her clothes piled beside the bed, her fanny pack on the nightstand. “Listen, honey.” She’s nearly breathless. “Go tell Larry and Dick to get in here.”
Despite it all, I take a look at myself in the mirror—and what I see shocks me. Dick’s dark blue Italian suit and light blue collar shirt look pretty good on me. And I realize, I look more like Dick Rayborne than ever before.
“Hey,” she snaps. “Stop gazing at yourself and tell Larry I’m ready.” She lowers her head back onto the pillow, pulls her shoulders up, and closes her eyes, a grin forming. She allows a little moan, says, “Mama’s all—mmmmmm—warmed up.”
What the hell am I doing?
“And tell him to go to the kitchen and fetch some cooking oil.” Another moan. “We do the ancient Japanese art of body-to-body sliding massage.”
“Mama, let me ask you something.”
“That body? Maybe you noticed. Larry’s a juicer. A big juicer. I swear, that man juices five or six times a day. Gives him lots and lots of energy for all kinds of home projects.” She giggles and whispers. “It also gives him lots and lots of great big boners.”
I turn to her. “How am I supposed to call an emergency meeting with the compensation subcommittee?”
“You’re Dick Rayborne.” Mama twitches. “You have your badge, your cordless telephone.” A gasp. “You have everything you need. Figure it out, honey.” She quakes. “Now go fetch my fellas.”
I head for the bedroom door, stop, and turn back one more time. “You’re not senile and confused. You’ve been mapping this out for months.”
“Honey.” Another twitch. “I’m seizing the moment.”
Whatever. I turn to leave.
“No regrets for me, Rick.”
“Okay, whatever.”
“Because we’re never gonna survive—and I mean it—unless we get a little crazy.”
I stop in my tracks.
Was that Seal?
“Mama’s ready,” she rasps. “And tell Larry to bring that mouth-gag thing.”