The summer before third grade, my sister and I joined forces for a project of the ages—a fort that would leave the other kids speechless.
We moved earth and scavenged wood. We sawed and hammered. We paused and schemed. In all, we worked dutifully for more than two weeks, forgoing our normal summer routines (fighting over TV channels, finding sly new ways to tell on each other, and playing with our own friends) as we relished in a rare and wonderful moment in our relationship, the outside world suddenly seeming distant and muted in the midst of our unprecedented creation, our newfound cooperation, our moment of mutual admiration. This special thing we had going—not the fort, really, but this new peace between us—it was obvious and apparent, the questions thumping heavily overhead. Why weren’t we annoying each other? Why weren’t we arguing over every step of the project? Why were we enjoying this?
Neither of us said a word about it. That would have ruined everything. And deep inside, I think we knew that this moment, it was delicate and fleeting, like a towering house of featherweight cards, bound to collapse at some point. But until then . . .
About four days before the start of school, we stopped and surveyed our creation. It was nearly time to host an open house for Mama, Papa, and some of the neighborhood kids. But we both recognized a problem—the moat encircling our fort was deep enough and symmetrical, thanks to Ana’s direction during the trenching. The problem was that the soil kept absorbing the water.
Ana folded her arms in that way of hers. “We need a liner.”
I looked up at her. “A what?”
“A liner. A plastic sheet to keep the water from soaking into the dirt.”
That night, after dinner but before baths, I slipped out and took a ride on my bike. The air was thick and cool as I glided toward the construction site near the school. They were building houses there, and I was sure I could find some sheets of plastic used to cover mounds of dirt, or something like that. By the time I got there, my heart was pounding, my skin perspiring more than it should. My breathing grew shallow as I found a long black sheet of plastic and tried to roll it up into something I could handle on the bike ride home.
Until someone gripped the back of my neck, and I let out a yelp.
A deep voice. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Hand still gripping my neck, scaring me into paralysis. “I . . . I . . .”
“I’ll tell you what you’re doing. You’re trespassing.”
I tried not to cry, but failed.
“And you’re stealing.”
I was crying so hard, I couldn’t get a word out.
“You’re the one who’s been stealing two-by-fours, aren’t you?”
I gasped for air. “I . . . I . . .”
And then a thud, and the subsequent spray of dirt clods.
He released my neck, and I dashed away.
His voice was tight. “Okay, that’s it.”
I turned and got a look at him. He seemed a little older than my dad, with a big stomach hanging over tiny hips. Under the bill of a Peterbilt cap, his eyes glowered, seemed almost red. He pointed at me and yelled, “Get over here.”
And then another dirt clod, nailing him in the jaw.
My sister stood atop a nearby dirt mound, winding up for another overhand throw, her upper lip curled so high it seemed to press against her nose. “Don’t you ever touch my brother.” Her voice may have been weak and breathless, but her body language was just the opposite. She charged off the hill and let loose with a third dirt clod, which forced him to duck. “My dad is gonna kick your ass.”
We pedaled home faster than we knew we could, our legs pumping furiously, an odd silence settling in between us. Finally, as we turned onto our street, looking back one last time, Ana said flatly, “You shouldn’t have done that.”
It seemed to Ana that I was always doing “that”—that stupid thing that screwed everything up, that turned a good day into a bad dream, that ruined nice moments and rare instances of good fortune. My heart sank, because I couldn’t disagree with her, as much as I wanted to. How could have I known that, in just a few years, I’d screw up worse than either of us could’ve imagined.
Back at the house, Ana kept me in the side yard so I could catch my breath and stop crying. “It’s okay,” she whispered and hugged me, stroking my head. I let her take me in and hugged her back, squeezing hard. “It’s all over,” she soothed, “and we’re gonna be okay.”
Me and my sister—I’m not sure we’d ever been so close.
Then, from inside the house came the sound of our doorbell.
The last four days of summer I spent in my room—grounded.
Ana spent them at the city pool with Heather Haley.
Four months later, in the dead of the winter night, I got up to use the bathroom. A storm had come in, the wind rustling trees. I stopped at the window looking out to our backyard. The hard rain came in at an angle, pelting everything. It made me feel warm and safe inside, everyone snug and settled in their rooms as the world outside fell into the cold grip of winter. I stood there and settled for some reason on the lonely, desolate shape in the far corner—our summer fort, abandoned and unfinished. Forgotten, it seemed, from a time that felt so long ago.
* * *
And now—all these years later—here I am.
Trespassing.
Again.
Hell, this is beyond trespassing. This is breaking and entering. Is this a felony? I shove my hands into my pockets; there’s no way I’m leaving my prints here. I look to the family room; Ernie is on the floor in front of the television (more Looney Tunes) with a salad bowl of milk and Froot Loops. In the hall bathroom, Cujo is using my phone, talking to someone between grunts. Mama approaches from behind, slides her spindly arms around me, and presses her camel toe against my butt. “It’s so nice to have you home with us for a change,” she rasps with a little thrust.
I decide maybe I can get somewhere with her if I play along.
“Baby,” I say. “You know that everything I do, I do it for you and the boys. Every minute I am not here, I am working hard to put food on this table.”
“I guess . . .” She squeezes and thrusts. “. . . it’s just nice to be in a family home—a home that isn’t empty.”
It definitely is a family home. The walls are nicked and peppered with long, dark streaks, and a bookcase is packed with photos of brown-haired children playing at the park, walking to school, splashing about in the pool, pausing to pose in front of the Disneyland gates. In the kitchen, a high chair is pressed against the table. In the family room, Ernie sits crisscross applesauce amid an assortment of Tonka trucks and Lego toys.
“Baby, why are we here?”
Mama presses her cheek to my back and moans. “It’s been so long.”
“Baby,” I soothe, “not with the boys around. Plus, we’re on a mission.”
The hallway toilet flushes, and Cujo emerges from the bathroom with a skip to his step. I hear myself asking, “Did you wash your hands?” Cujo gives me a lazy sneer and sulks back to the bathroom.
Mama seems nearly breathless. “Let’s put a movie on for the boys and go to our room.”
Gently, I try to peel her off me, but she just moans and squeezes harder.
“Baby.” I pause really long. “You know this isn’t a good time.”
“Fine,” she says. “But there’s never a good time anymore.”
“You said if I came with you—if I helped you with something here—you’d connect me to the Sabine lady.”
More thrusts and some quivering. “I will, honey. I will. Just hold your horses.”
“Mama,” I yell, “what the hell are we doing here?”
“It’s not obvious to you?”
Cujo lumbers into the kitchen. “Mama, can Angel come over?”
“Obvious?” I say to Mama. “What’s obvious?”
“I just called her on my new phone,” Cujo says sweetly.
“Dude, I need my phone.”
Cujo cackles and proceeds to the family room.
Another thrust from Mama.
“What’s the point to all this?” Again, I try and fail to peel away her hands without damaging them—she seems so arthritic and brittle. “No, don’t tell me. There is no point, is there?”
Mama unlocks her hands and spins me around so we’re face-to-face. “Figure it out.”
In a matter of minutes, I find myself searching the kitchen. I don’t notice anything unusual here—standard family kitchen fare (plates, pans, spices, and cups of every kind in the cabinets, and an assortment of blue and orange Nerf gun toys strewn across the floor). Under the sink, I find a tidy stack of paper bags squeezed beside a crusty old fish tank—that’s odd, but people keep things in all kinds of unusual places. I stand up and stretch, looking at Mama, hoping for a hint. Hell, truth is, there’s probably no reason we’re here, except for the fact that Mama is basically bonkers and I’m too desperate to believe that she’ll actually help me with the Neanderthal expert.
Mama stands there, her arms folded, and sticks her chin out. “Keep looking.”
Cujo lumbers in and hands me my cell. “Angel’s stopping by.” He yanks open the fridge. “Just for a bit.” He pulls out a milk jug, twists off the cap, and starts to chug, sucking on the nozzle like a giant baby slurping on a bottle.
“What have I told you?” Mama says. “Don’t do that.”
Cujo keeps chugging.
Mama roars, “Use a cup.”
Cujo lowers the jug from his mouth—milk dripping from his beard—and releases a massive belch that echoes throughout the house. “Next time,” he says with a happy sigh and tosses the jug back into the fridge. He dance-walks out of the kitchen, leaving the fridge door open.
Mama looks away, muttering to herself. “Wild child.”
My cell vibrates with a text. Audrey?
It’s my sister.
HELP! Collin alone bus w/ Chinese tourists. Can u get him?
Mama approaches from behind, reattaches herself.
I text back, What? Where r u?
Mama lets her hands wander, and I decide, What the hell? Maybe she needs this.
Have appointment with dean of admissions—PRINCETON!!:) . . . Hard to resked. Can u get Collin?
Princeton? Did I mention Collin is eight?
Another text comes in: Mix-up at drop-off. . . . He lied to Jenny, said he was supposed to be dropped off at Westin Palo Alto for bus tour.
Jenny is my sister’s personal assistant.
But was a big lie. . . . Luke drop-off but NO MIND to check for REST OF CLASS—errrrr!!!
Luke is my sister’s chef.
School called, said he’s missing. How EMBARRASSING!!!
The hands rub my stomach then head south. I pull them back up.
Jenny called hotel. He’s on bus with Chinese tourists.
I tap back, Why the hell would he do that?
Mama gropes and moans.
No idea. . . . Can u help??? ☺ . . . He’ll be on bus for hours (headed to Vegas) unless you can get him. . . . I have Princeton phoner.
Maybe it’s not my place to say, but wouldn’t the average parent cancel what they’re doing and run out of the house barefoot—or in their underwear, or in whatever they’re wearing—and dive headfirst into their car, and subsequently break every traffic law known to man in order to pull their child off a bus full of strangers headed to Vegas?
Hotel can tell u where to intercept.
This is not the first time my sister has asked me to do something like this.
Can u help?
None of this makes sense, or feels right. An eight-year-old child lies about a field trip, gets on a bus full of strangers headed for Vegas. Is this the behavior of a happy child who is healthy and well? Suddenly my Neanderthal project seems like small potatoes. My stomach tightens as I tap, Of course.
☺ Merci.
I let out a frustrated sigh—Ana.
Mama quakes, “You feel the fire burning, too, baby?”
Thanks Rick. . . . You know today is just insane.
Oh yeah—today. Their last day in the States.
And I stand there wondering who’s going to help this poor kid for the next two years. Luke the vegan chef, who is somehow included in the relocation package? That scares the shit out of me—this kid doesn’t need vegan shakes, he needs love and attention. Audrey is not coming with them. While Ana and Samson James Barnard IV were happy to foot the bill for their vegan chef, they decided they could get a decent nanny for peanuts in Buenos Aires.
Just take him to school. . . . Call hotel for bus coordinates.
“Who’s that?” Mama slurs.
I tap back, OK.
I slide my phone into my pocket. “Let’s get cracking here,” I say. “We need to intercept a tour bus.”
“You want me to introduce you to Sabine and drive you to that bus?”
“Yes,” I snap and try to peel her off me. “I think we have a runaway.”
Mama lets go and motions to the kitchen. “Then keep looking.”
I move to close the fridge, but stop when I see an orange container in the vegetable drawer. I glance at Mama. “Is this it?”
“You’re—”
The doorbell rings.
Oh, crap. My stomach weakens and my skin cools. I’m toast.
Mama seems more surprised than concerned. “No one’s expected home for hours.”
Cujo bounces to the entryway and opens the door. I scramble for a place to hide.
Cujo hollers. “Angel’s here.”
Mama whispers, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about her.” She sighs. “I don’t think she’s a good influence.”
I hear myself say, “You really play house with these twerps?”
Mama deflates, looks away. “Don’t judge me.”
“Mama, can she come in for a while? Please?”
“I guess so.” Another sigh. “As long as she follows the rules.”
Silence.
“And no more alone time behind closed doors.” Mama takes on a stern voice. “I mean it.”
The front door slams shut. Soon the entry to the kitchen is filled by an enormous white woman in stained back-stretch pants and a giant white sweater. I’m guessing six-foot-something and at least 275 pounds. She’s sucking on a sixty-four-ouncer from 7-Eleven, grinning. “Hi, Mama,” she says, the straw still in her mouth.
Mama looks away, tired. “Hi, honey.”
Angel gives me a long look and tongues the straw.
“You kids respect the house rules, okay?”
“Sure, Mama.”
“And we’re leaving soon.”
Cujo pulls Angel away, says, “We never take long.”
I watch Cujo lead Angel to the other side of the house and decide, Time to get the hell out of here. I eye the orange object inside the fridge, step forward, and take a knee. Gently, I pull out the vegetable drawer to take a closer look. “There we go,” Mama says. “That’s it.”
Looking at the orange box, I realize it’s actuallya hard-plastic cooler no bigger than a loaf of bread—I didn’t know they made them that small. Transparent, industrial-grade tape has sealed the lid shut, and the latch is secured by a tiny padlock.
Okay, this is genuinely weird.
I peer up to Mama. “We really are here for a reason.”
She smiles and nods to the cooler. What’s in there? The possibilities race through my mind, flashing before me in nasty little bursts. Drugs. . . . Chemicals. . . . Extrajuicy organs. . . . Embryos. . . . Eggs from an extinct species. . . . A half-eaten chimichanga from Led Zeppelin’s 1970 U.S tour. . . . A prehistoric fish carcass. . . . Milton Berle’s boyhood tonsils. . . . Connie Chung stool samples, circa 1982 . . . I stare into space, wondering what any of this has to do with Dick Rayborne, executive vice president of Human Resources at Robards International. Mama is nearly panting as she points to the cooler. “Take that out and put it on the counter.”
I pull out my shirttails, tuck my hands underneath, and use the fabric as de facto gloves—again, I will not leave my prints anywhere. On the counter, I give the cooler a closer look. It appears like it could be something you’d bring to work for lunches, but I don’t see any of the usual branding, or any handle or strap for toting it around. But on the side I do notice a tiny white sticker with small, typed print—I lean in and squint at the text.
“What’s it say?”
I crinkle my brows. “Uganda.”
“Make any sense to you, Dickie?”
Under Uganda, there’s even smaller text:
24 kg
Grasslands
Extraction: Recovery
M // Olive
I straighten and turn to Mama. “Robards doesn’t make anything that needs refrigeration. And we don’t do any business in Uganda.”
Mama reaches into her fanny pack and produces two thin clicks. Almost instantaneously, there’s a loud thump in the TV room followed by the rapid patter of footsteps. In a blink, Ernie is sliding to a stop in front of us, panting, a crooked grin spreading across his face as he lowers the barbecue prongs to his side. Mama produces a mini of Jack Daniel’s and nods to the cooler. “Be a good helper boy and open that thing for Mama.” Ernie releases a happy noise and lifts the prongs. Within seconds, he’s working the fork end of the prongs into the padlock’s keyhole. Ernie hums to himself as he works the prongs, and Mama says, “It’s awfully quiet on the other side of the house.” She sighs long and hard. “Ernie, when you’re done with this, Mama needs you to go on a secret mission.”
Ernie works the prongs, releasing strange sounds of contentment.
“Okay?”
Ernie nods, and the padlock clicks open.
“What a good helper boy I have,” Mama says, playing up the sweet, frail granny voice. She offers the mini of Jack Daniel’s, and Ernie snatches it so quickly he’s like a cartoon. He twists off the cap and drains the mini, humming happily before succumbing to a rapturous shudder.
“Now, Mama needs you to go on that secret mission.”
He looks at her, his blue eyes enormous and eager.
She whispers. “Mama needs you to go see what Cujo’s doing and come back and tell me your secret report.”
Ernie makes a tight squeal. He hands me the empty mini, places the prongs on the counter, and falls to the floor to crawl under the kitchen table. On the opposite end, he reemerges triumphant, clutching a Nerf rifle, ready to fire, and tiptoes out of the room, giggling like a giddy six-year-old.
“We need to get going,” I say. “My nephew snuck onto a bus headed to Vegas.”
“Okay, let’s get cranking.” Mama joins me at the counter, breathing hard, and slides the cooler toward me. “Now that we have some privacy, let’s get the show on the road.”
I use my knuckles to slide it back to her. “I’m not having anything to do with this.”
Slides it back. “Too late, Dickie boy. We’re here because of you and your paperwork. So stop acting like a victim and open the goddamn box.”
I step back, looking at the cooler. Whatever it is, I know it won’t be good. Why else would Mama bring me here? I look at her and ask, “I do this, and then we get the hell out of here and we use your wagon to intercept the tourist bus?”
“Yes.”
“And you call Sabine what’s-her-name?”
“Yes,” she yells.
Then I have an idea. “Mama, we both know it’s wrong to leave any of our kids stranded.”
Mama allows a grin. “After this, we’ll go find Collin.”
My stomach eases, and I gaze down at the cooler.
“C’mon, honey.” Mama slides the cooler closer. “Before the boys start acting up.”
From the back of the house, the sounds of rapid dart fire and hard thumps.
I look down at the cooler, then at Mama—she’s right, we need to get out of here. With my hands under my shirttails, I find a steak knife from a drawer and use it to break the taped seal around the cooler lid. I pull out my hands and use the backs of my knuckles to lift the lid. I look in and—it’s a set of vials containing clear liquid. I glance at Mama for a clue, and she’s just standing there, arms folded, relishing my confusion. At which point, Ernie streaks in from the back of the house—that grin more crooked than ever—giggling uncontrollably as Angel rumbles after him in the largest thong I’ve ever seen, flopping and jiggling everywhere. Snarling. In the family room, she tries to corner him, but he easily slips away—again and again. Finally, Cujo emerges fully naked, still erect, clutching his own Nerf rifle, a toothy smile spreading across his face as he sneaks toward the family room.
My God, he’s hairy.
Cujo double-pumps the dart gun and snickers. “Where is he?”
“Okay, that does it.” Mama flips the cooler shut. “The boys have been cooped inside too long. They’re going crazy with cabin fever.”
I try to ignore the commotion in the family room. “But . . .” I nod to the cooler. “What’s in those?”
Mama blinks hard. “We need to take the boys someplace to get their energy out.”
I think of Collin. “Honey,” I snap, playing up the familiarity. “You’ve forgotten about Collin again. We can’t leave our Collin alone on a bus. It’s downright negligent.”
Mama shakes her head, disappointed in herself. “That’s right.” She balls her fists, lifts her chin into the air, and closes her eyes. “Okay,” she roars. “Everyone in the wagon and buckled up in sixty seconds. Or they don’t get a special prize from Mama.”
* * *
Sixty seconds later, the boys are in Mama’s Fleetwood, panting from the mad rush, and still giggling. Cujo works hard to squeeze his massive arms and chest into his jumpsuit, and when he does, the zipper chews up some of his body hair. Not that he seems to care, or even notice. Angel waddles out of the house half-dressed, clutching her shoes and stretch pants, still managing to take a pull from her sixty-four-ouncer. She brushes past me, stops, and leans through the open window on Cujo’s side of the wagon, the bottom of her sweater rising to expose the thong. Her thunder fills the Fleetwood and makes the glass vibrate. “Thanks for nothing, asshole.”
Cujo and Ernie giggle as Angel barefoots it across the street, cussing, and heaves her things into a dusty Trans Am. I lower my head and scan the neighborhood, see no one else. But God, we must be making a major scene here. I imagine dozens of busybodies watching from the safety of their living room windows, dialing the police or scribbling down Mama’s tags. Or, snapping photos. My heart pounds at the thought. Photos of me. Photos of me participating in a felony. What if my sister found out and I lost the house-sitting gig? Standing near the back of the wagon with Mama, I realize I’m holding the orange cooler. How in the hell did that happen?
Mama opens the back of the wagon, and I notice the frayed, sun-bleached baby on board sign on the glass. She takes a few hard breaths and nods to the back bay of the wagon. “Put that in here and take two presents from that container there.”
I don’t budge.
“C’mon,” Mama snaps. “The boys are getting restless, and we need to pick up Collin.” She opens a blue Tupperware container; it’s stuffed with dozens of shoe-box-size presents, each wrapped in kiddie paper with red and blue balloon designs. She pulls out two presents, says something to herself, like she’s doing math in her head and double-checking the numbers. Then she hands me a third present. “Give that to Angel for being a good girl today.”
Good girl?
I follow Mama as she shuffles to Cujo’s side of the wagon. “Now,” she says, her voice so sweet and fragile. “You both did a wonderful job listening to Mama.” They look up at her, silent and eager. “You picked up after yourself, you collected your belongings . . .” She nods to the barbecue prongs placed across Ernie’s lap. “. . . and you were good helper boys, getting everything done in time. So . . .” She eases the presents toward the window but pauses before Cujo can take them. “. . . just one more thing before you get your presents.”
Cujo moans.
Ernie growls.
“Cujo,” she says sternly. “I want you to buckle up.”
Cujo laughs. When he sees that she’s serious, he flops and moans.
“Now, don’t you pull that naughty stuff with me, mister. I’ll use the pepper spray again.”
“Mama,” he pleads. “C’mon.”
“Cujo,” she snaps. “I’m gonna count to three.”
“Mama. C’mon.”
“One.”
Cujo looks to me. “Warden, you don’t care about buckling up, do you?”
I say, “Are we really having this conversation?”
“Two.”
“C’mon, Mama,” Cujo pleads. “Lighten up.”
“Don’t let me get to three, mister.”
Silence, and then, “Mama.”
“Three.”
Cujo buckles up. “Gimme a break,” he mumbles.
“That’s a good boy,” she coos and eases the presents through Cujo’s window. With startling velocity, the boys snatch them out of her hands and begin to tear them open. I lean in and squint at the contents. Inside each box is a sealed slice of cured pork belly, a handful of Bazooka bubble gum, two cherry-flavored Tootsie Pops, a 7-Eleven gift card, a half-pint of Wild Turkey, a tin canister of Skoal, a crisp fifty-dollar bill, and three shiny silver dollars.
Ernie hums happily as he unwraps a Tootsie Pop.
Cujo enjoys a long pull of bourbon.
Mama closes her eyes and cocks her head, motherly. “What do you say, boys?”
Cujo pulls away from his bourbon and quakes. “Thanks, Mama.” Ernie pulls the lollipop from his mouth, releases a happy squeal, his eyes twinkling, and takes a pull from his own bottle, his round little body twitching in delight. A hint of joy spreads across Mama’s face as she watches the boys finger through their loot. She leans in and whispers to me, “It’s important to reward positive behavior.”
I scan the neighborhood again, still see no one. “We better get out of here.”
Mama nods, shuts the back hatch of the wagon, and nods to the remaining present in my hand. “Give that to Angel, and I’ll get the car started.”
“Okay, but . . .” My phone vibrates. “. . . let me just . . .” I squint at the screen—it looks like Audrey has called nine times. There are seven voice mails and four texts, but I’m not sure I have the stomach to go any further.
Angel starts the Trans Am, and the ground vibrates.
I stare at the phone, wondering what to do first.
“Honey,” Mama snaps. “C’mon.”
It’s too bad about Audrey, but I have to call about the bus.
“HONEY,” Mama roars.
I huff, put the phone away, and head toward the Trans Am. I’m in the middle of the street when it rockets from the curb, pulls an immediate U-turn, and accelerates toward me. I dash out of its path just in time as a monstrous arm shoots out of the driver-side window. In a flash, the present is plucked from my grasp as the Trans Am roars past me and accelerates out of the neighborhood. Mama yells from the wagon, “Honey, stop loafing around. The boys are getting restless, and we need to pick up Collin.”
I hear myself explode with rage. “Okay, okay,” I snarl, my tone acidic. “Just fucking relax.” I stop myself, take in a long breath, and head toward the station wagon. On the exhale, I hear myself muttering, “Nag, nag, nag.”
* * *
Mama’s driving.
The boys are in the back, trading prizes.
I’m riding shotgun, talking on the phone with a clerk at the Westin Palo Alto. “We’ve contacted the charter company,” the clerk says, “and they have spoken with the driver. They can confirm they have an eight-year-old Caucasian passenger named Collin. That’s all I have.”
“Can you tell me where the bus is now?”
“The dispatcher said they made a stop at the Facebook campus and spent a lot of time there—they did a tour—so they really haven’t gone that far.”
“How far?”
“They’re on 101, headed south. They just passed San Jose International.”
I cover the phone and bark to Mama, “We need to go south on 280. That’ll take us to 101, and we can jet south and maybe catch them.”
Mama snaps, “You think I don’t know the freeways anymore?”
The clerk gives me the number of the dispatcher. “It’s a white bus with a blue stripe down the middle. He said to call if you don’t catch up with them on 101, and the dispatcher can give you updated coordinates.”
By the time I’m off the phone, we’re already merging onto 280 South. Mama guns the wagon as she weaves through the lanes, the engine screaming, the boys hollering. “If they just passed the airport,” Mama yells over the din, “we might be able to catch them near Morgan Hill. Maybe Gilroy.”
It feels good that she cares, and that she’s dropped the role playing for a bit. “Thanks, Mama.”
“This is your runt nephew, on a bus packed with strangers. More than a few whack jobs, I’m sure. Headed for Las Vegas. Why didn’t your sister fetch after him?”
“Good question.”
“Why isn’t she having a heart attack?” Mama glances at me. “Or is she?”
I shake my head and sigh. “She isn’t.”
“Does your sister have some kind of issue?”
“We all have issues, Mama.”
She nods to that, says, “After this, you’re gonna help me with that cooler.”
I feel my chest tighten. “What about the Neanderthal lady?”
“I will introduce you to Sabine Rorgstardt once you help me with the contents of that cooler.”
I look at my phone. It’s already 10:55. How will I ever get everything done in time? In the next seven hours, I need to rescue my runaway nephew, help a crazy granny do something with a cooler of vials, speak with a Neanderthal expert at Stanford and convince said expert to change her plans so my nephew can have a “Neanderthal adventure,” convince my nephew’s nanny that he had an amazing time, get the kid home on time so I can show my sister I’m the perfect person to house-sit her mansion for the next two years, and somehow get to the Greek Theatre in Berkeley with Audrey before the English Beat takes the stage.
My phone rings—it’s Audrey.
I attempt to sound relaxed and carefree. “Hey, baby.”
Silence.
“Baby?”
Finally, a weak voice. “Rick?”
“Audrey.”
“Is that really you?”
I cover my mouth and huddle against my door. “Baby, it’s me.”
Another long silence.
“Audrey?”
Her voice sharpens. “What’s going on?”
“Audrey, I lost my—”
“Cool it with the dick pics, okay?”
“Audrey. That’s not—”
“And who’s your buddy?”
“Audrey, listen to me.”
“Who’s the grandma lady?”
“Grandma lady?”
“The lady who says you’re treating ‘these kids’ poorly? It was like she knew who I was. What does that mean? Is she talking about Collin?”
“Audrey, Mama’s just confused,” I blurt and realize what I’ve done and slap my palm to my forehead, cringing.
Mama glances at me, snaps, “Confused? That’s what you always say when I demand some attention, isn’t it?”
“Rick, who is that?”
“Audrey.” I can nearly see the gates of the Greek Theatre closing on me. “Please. I can explain.”
“That’s the lady who said you can’t be trusted.”
“No, she meant—Listen, Audrey. Yes, she’s the one. But she’s confused.”
Mama yells, “I’m not confused.”
“Audrey, Collin’s on a tour bus to Vegas. The boys are going nuts in the back. Mama gave them too much sugar and whiskey. We have a cooler of weird liquid in the wagon. We need to intercept the Chinese tour bus. An hour ago I was talking about P-FIDs in the HyperPHY.” I take a breath. “Angel came over and broke the house rules.” Another big breath. “I’ve just got a lot going on.”
Long silence. “Rick, where are you? You sound weird.”
“Audrey, listen. I’m sorry about this morning. Cujo the conployee got my phone.” Cujo cackles, wet and deep. “But everything is fine, Audrey. I swear.”
“Who was that?”
“Audrey, I’m getting Collin, and we’re gonna see an expert.”
“Rick.” Audrey’s voice is tight. “Maybe my little challenge is too much right now. Plus, my friend Megan called—she wants to get gyros tonight. Maybe we should drop the whole concert thing—I didn’t mean to stress you out. I thought you would’ve liked the challenge. You know, after all these years.”
“No,” I snap. “No. Everything is fine. Seriously, trust me.”
She pauses a moment. “Listen,” she says, “I really think—”
“Audrey, seriously. Believe me when I say I’m cool, we’re fine. I’m getting Collin, and we’re gonna have a great day. It’ll be cool. I’ll see you at my sister’s house tonight. You’ll see—we’re gonna have an amazing day, something special. And we’ll head out after that.”
This seems to resonate with Audrey. “Okay. Well, call me in an hour, okay?”
“Of course, I should have him off the bus by then.”
“Oh yeah,” Audrey says. “What’s this thing about Collin and a bus?”
I tell Audrey about my sister’s texts, and how Collin fooled Luke the vegan chef into taking him to the Westin Palo Alto for a fake field trip with Mandarin-speaking tourists. Audrey sighs and cusses. “Your sister texted you? She’s not going to get him?”
“No,” I say. “My question is, what kind of moron drops a kid off at a hotel for a field trip? When there aren’t any other kids nearby? And who wouldn’t at least walk him to the bus so he can sign him in?”
“Rick.” Audrey pauses a moment. “Luke makes vegan soufflés. That’s where his wizardry ends. I would have taken him to school today, but . . .” She clears her throat. “. . . I’m moving my things out.”
“That reminds me,” I say. “Why aren’t you staying to house-sit their place?”
There’s a long pause. “I just need to . . . I just gotta move on, Rick.” She clears her throat again. “I can’t believe he’s on a tour bus.”
We approach the freeway interchange, and Mama guns us onto 101 South.
I ask, “How did he even know about a Chinese tour bus leaving the Westin?”
“We drive by there every morning. He always talks about them.”
“Okay, but why would he even do something like this?”
“It’s never been this bad.”
“What do you mean? He’s done this before?”
“Rick . . .” Audrey pauses again. “You can’t see what’s happening?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Do you know what he did last summer?”
“You mean the rocket propellant?”
“No. I found him in the back. He was standing atop the retaining wall. And he was trying to make himself jump.”
“The retaining wall?” My stomach cools at the mere idea of Collin standing atop that retaining wall and staring down at the cobblestones a good fifteen feet below. “Collin is scared of heights.”
Audrey says, “He wanted to jump.”
I feel my face crinkle. “What are you talking about?”
Her voice goes tiny. “He wanted to break his leg. I found him back there, and he said he wanted to break his leg. I talked him down, and he’s crying, telling me he really truly wanted to break his leg, and I’m holding him, rocking him, but he keeps saying it. Keeps saying, if he breaks his leg, if he does something big like that—like that time he split his lip and Ana canceled the yoga and spent the whole day with him—if he really hurts himself, if he breaks his leg, then his mom wouldn’t just cancel her day and be with him; she’d cancel the whole week, maybe the whole month, and she’d be there when he woke up, would make him breakfast, would read to him, would help him with his homework.”
My chest tightens. “I . . .”
“That was on a Saturday. Samson and Ana had left to spend the entire weekend in Calistoga. You took him that night—”
“And I brought him home that Sunday night, and they—”
“Still weren’t home,” Audrey says. “So you got him ready for bed and fell asleep in his little bed.”
I recall a bedtime debate about whether Neanderthals would enjoy watching Downton Abbey.
“So when she gets home, I decide to tell her,” Audrey says. “And she just stares at me. Says, ‘I need you to take Collin to school this week,’ and she just leaves me standing there.”
“My sister doesn’t know how to connect,” I say. “Ever since the—” But I can’t say it, or just don’t want to say it. “And every year, she just closes up a little more.”
“And Samson,” Audrey says. “He’s the perfect partner for that, right?”
“The last thing Samson James Barnard IV wants,” I say, “is someone who will open up and go all-in.”
It weighs on me so heavily, I feel it in my chest and on my back and over my shoulders. Sometimes I just want to wring my sister’s neck. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to him,” I say. “Ana wants to ship him back here to spend the summer with me. Maybe that’s not such a bad idea.”
Audrey sniffles. “So listen. When you get there, just give him a hug, okay?”
I feel weird. “Of course,” I mumble. “Yeah, sure. We’re gonna do an adventure.”
We end the call, and I turn to Mama. “We need to reach that bus, like, yesterday.”
Mama cuts off a Camry as she dives across the lanes. The boys holler and laugh. “We don’t abandon our people, do we, Dickie?” Soon, Mama has the Fleetwood screaming down 101. The boys have taken to flashing BAs at motorists, their asses pressed hard against the windows, the car starting to stink. After each surprised motorist, Ernie’s teary laughter intensifies, and they take pulls of Wild Turkey.
Mama guns the Fleetwood a little more. “Settle them down.”
I turn, force a stern look, and drop my voice. “Boys.”
They’re in another world—eyes slitted, cheeks flushed, mouths open in delight.
“C’mon. Cool it. Get back into your jumpsuits.”
We come up on a Highlander, and Ernie uses the opportunity to press his privates against the glass. Cujo releases a tight cackle, and Ernie spasms in laughter until tears roll down his cheeks. We scream past a minivan of moms and toddlers, and Cujo executes something called the Teabag.
Mama leans over, says lowly. “The boys are just wearing me out.”
Ernie rolls down his window, and Cujo lifts his ass into the air. My God, the hair.
Mama glances at the rearview mirror. “Don’t you dare.”
Cujo eases his ass through the window as we rocket past a silver fox in a Cadillac.
Mama says, “They don’t listen to us. It’s like they think they’re in charge.”
“Well, maybe you want to—”
“Not that I get any help from you,” she snarls.
“Mama, c’mon.”
In the backseat, Cujo has placed Ernie in a headlock. Ernie stiffens, crosses his eyes, and gurgles, and Cujo eases a string of drool off his lower lip, swinging it over Ernie’s cherry-red face. Someone pushes out a tight fart.
“They act up because it’s the only way they can get your attention.”
“That’s not—”
“Just tell me where I’m going.”
“You’re doing fine right here,” I say. “We should be coming up on them soon.”
“It’s always about you and your needs, isn’t it?”
“Mama, c’mon. Let’s cut the BS here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What’s the deal with the pretend family here?”
She weakens her voice, playing up the frail-granny act. “I don’t understand.” She focuses on the road, allows a grin. “I’m just so confused. Aren’t you Dickie, my asshole husband?”
“Mama, seriously. We both know you’re as sharp as a tack. You know I’m not your deadbeat ex, and that these clowns aren’t our kids.”
“Listen,” Mama says. “I said I’d help you with Sabine Rorgstardt, and you agreed to do as I say for a little bit.”
“Okay, but—”
“Honey,” she snaps. “I wear the pants in this relationship. I always have, and I always will. You hear?”
I deflate in my seat. “Fine.”
“Plus . . .” Mama pauses a bit. “I just . . . I don’t know. Sometimes it’s nice to go back to that time. To take care of little ones again.”
I glance back at the boys. Cujo still has Ernie in a headlock. “These aren’t little ones, Mama.”
She nods reluctantly. “Not every family is picture-perfect, Dickie. You should know that.”
A lump forms. I do know that.
* * *
The truth is, I’m packing a ton of family baggage.
After what I’ve done, I could never have a family—it’s an easier life if I just chase women and make people laugh. Hell, in this world of countless instances of shittiness happening to countless quantities of people in countless ways, a few laughs with some cool people can really soften the edges. So what I’ve done is ditch the shittiness—the corporate bullshit, the assholes and phonies, the family crap.
I didn’t even want to be an uncle—still don’t, in a lot of ways. In fact, when my sister was pregnant with Collin, I tried to avoid her. I’m not proud of that, but if I am being honest here, I have to say that’s what I did. The closer Ana got to the delivery date, the more I ditched her. There was a part of me—a childish part of me—that secretly resolved to ditch my sister and her child for years at a time. Maybe I could get away with never meeting this kid. Because if you knew the background, you’d understand why this was probably best for the kid. I had caused enough pain—for her, for me.
Never again, if I had any say in it.
Then, toward the end of her pregnancy, on the Fourth of July, in front of everyone, she took my hand and placed it lightly on her stomach. And I felt him move, the rolls, the warmth, the new life so safe and sound, so perfect. She was like a conduit—connecting me to a new dimension, to a new generation, a hundred years of love and meaning. It felt amazing, and it was like a punch in the gut. My chest swelled in rhythmic warmth—an instant connection—and I pulled my hand away so quickly it drew long stares from everyone there in her backyard. Stares from people who didn’t understand. Folks who weren’t there twenty years earlier. Those people looking at me like I’m crazy. Those people who were appalled by the fact I was “on vacation”—gone, nowhere to be found—when Ana went into labor. Those people, they just don’t understand when you don’t trust yourself, when you know you’re a fuckup, when you know just how much you’ve already sent the world off course, how you seem to do it over and over, no matter how much you try. People tell you, Don’t be crazy. You’re not like that at all. It’s in your head. But you know the truth. You know what you did. And you know you can never take it back.
And you swear to yourself. Never again.
Eight months later, Ana called me.
Her voice was weak. “You’ve hurt me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “And I’m happy for you. I just don’t want to do anything that would put you guys in jeopardy.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I am talking about.”
She sighed. “Rick. It’s over. It’s behind us.”
I felt weird, so I forced a laugh. “It’s not.”
“It is, Rick. It’s over. It’s behind us. Way behind us.”
The words tumbled out. “It can’t be behind me. Ever.”
“I want you to meet him.”
“I don’t know.”
Two weeks later, I pulled a Bob Watson and headed over to my sister’s house. I sat in my car, worked on my breathing for a long time. Deep breaths in, long breaths out. I closed my eyes and asked for help.
Help me. Mama and Papa. Please.
I got out, steadied myself. Deep breaths, letting them out slowly.
Help me.
Stay cool.
Deep breaths.
I found myself standing before my sister and brother-in-law’s fifteen-foot-tall, six-foot-wide, solid-oak front door.
Deep breaths.
I knocked, hard.
Help me.
Finally, the door opened slowly. A woman in her late twenties was smiling at me. She seemed so at ease, so comfortable—content with herself, and perhaps with me. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, and yellow Play-Doh was smeared into her jeans and deep green T-shirt. She stuck a foot out, wiped her forehead with the back of her forearm, and blew out a long breath. She smiled again—just an easy happiness—and her voice was light and gentle. “I’m Audrey.”
The nanny.
“Rick.”
“I’m so glad you’re here, Rick.” She opened the door wider. “And your timing is perfect.”
I stepped in. “Yeah?”
“They’re gone.” She smiled, like she could read my mind, like she knew I’d rather not do this under the watchful eyes of my sister and Samson James Barnard IV. “He just woke from a nap and had a feeding.”
Then gentle and rapid thumping.
Audrey stepped back with a grin.
The thumping got a little louder.
Audrey said it so light and sweet. “I think I hear someone.”
The thumping got faster and closer.
Audrey looked at me, smiled. “Where’s our Collin?”
And then from around the corner peered a moon-shaped face. Giant brown eyes. A shock of dirty-brown hair. Enormous round cheeks. He was smiling up at Audrey, oblivious to me. Audrey knelt down and threw her arms open. “Hey, buddy.”
He giggled and thumped around the corner. But stopped short. God, he’s cute, I thought, and I felt a smile spreading across my face. I lowered myself to the floor and sat crisscross.
“C’mon, honey.” Arms still open. “Come say hi to your uncle Rick.”
Collin looked at me, turned to Audrey. He shuffled to her, his diapered butt wagging and crackling in movement. He reached her and plopped himself into her lap. “That’s my little man,” she said and wrapped him up in her arms. She lowered her face to his, kissed him on the cheek, and looked at me. Does she look at everyone this way? And I noticed her hairline—so lovely.
Then I noticed his intense gaze. He was staring at me, deciding.
She softened her voice, nearly whispered. “Can you say hi to your uncle Rick?”
He continued to give me a good, long look.
Please don’t cry.
I tried to make my voice soft and light, and felt like a dork doing it. “Hey there.”
We looked at each other some more, and I noticed that unmistaken Blanco family forehead. Just like me, my sister, and our father. He’s got that delicate chin of my mother’s, and his father’s lighter skin. The sweet eyes are all his own.
And I had to admit, he was beautiful.
He watched me some more, and Audrey said, “I think this is the start of something special, Collin buddy.”
He gave me another long look and allowed the briefest of grins.
And I said to Audrey, “I’m sorry, but I need to go.”