Wild Man
Page 29
Then, before I could utter a noise or, perhaps, gather my thoughts, Brock divested me of the purse and overnight bag on my shoulder (both he dumped on the floor), the white bag filled with my famous, bakery fresh snickerdoodles (this he tossed on the coffee table), turned me to the apartment, one arm sliding around my shoulders and holding my front close to his side, he made introductions.
“Babe, this is my sister, Laura, her hooligans Grady and Dylan, my princess, Ellie, and my Mom, Fern. Everyone, this is Tess.”
His Mom, Fern?
He kissed me with tongues in front of his Mom, Fern?
I scanned the room and a lot forced itself into my brain, too much to process, so much, my mind started to shut down and it took every bit of effort I had not to lapse into catatonia.
Firstly, the door had been closed and Laura, Brock’s gorgeous sister, was standing by it grinning like a madwoman.
Secondly, there were two dark-haired boys on the floor, both of them in little boy football uniforms ( sans shoulder pads), both of them appearing at some point in the not too distant past to have rolled around in the dirt for a good length of time and my guess was that was at least five hours, both of them appeared to be arrested in mid-wrestling match and both of them had green Kool-Aid mustaches.
Third, there was an adorable, little, dark-haired girl wearing a princess dress costume, complete with fake satin top and masses of tulle skirt, this ensemble complimented by clickety-clack, little girl, plastic, high-heeled shoes, sitting on the couch with her legs straight in front of her, feet bouncing while she gamely licked a melting popsicle but was struggling in this endeavor as evidenced by it dripping purple on the fake satin of the top of her dress.
Fourth, an older woman with thick, silver hair and blue eyes and an overall look that screamed, “Grandma!” was standing in a doorway grinning at me like a madwoman.
And last, Brock’s furnishings were, at a glance, approximately two point seven five steps up from the overall feel of his apartment complex. But at least the place appeared clean if not tidy and when I say “not tidy” I say this in the sense that it also reflected that Brock was a single man with a Harley Fat Boy and a beat up pickup truck that Martha was right about, it needed to be traded up and that trade up should have happened around a decade ago.
“Uh… hey,” I greeted.
“We’re a surprise, we know. We were on our way back from junior football league practice and we thought we’d stop by,” Fern said, coming further into the room and I saw she was holding a dishtowel. “We brought KFC because the kids had to eat. We didn’t know Slim was expecting company.”
“Um… okay,” I told her then added stupidly. “Cool.”
She made it to me and held out her hand. I took it and her fingers closed around mine then her other hand came up and closed around our clasped hands. As she did this, she looked into my eyes and did a Mom Scan which left me feeling mildly ill-at-ease considering the fact that I was pretty sure her blue eyes read all the words written on my soul and she knew I’d lied to my mother when I was ten and told her I didn’t try to shave my legs (when the nicks on them proved this to be false) and that I let Jimmy Moriarty get to second base at the homecoming dance my sophomore year in high school.
Then she released me from The Scan, let go of my hand, stepped back and luckily didn’t announce to the room I was a floozy who lied to her mother.
“They’re about to leave,” Brock stated to which Princess Ellie shouted, “No we’re not!
We’re watching Tangled! ”
And to this, Dylan (or Grady, it had not been pointed out which was which), shouted in return, “We’re not watching Tangled! We watched Tangled this weekend five times.” He swung his head to Laura and whined, “Mooooooom! I’m sick of Tangled! ”
“I’m not sick of Tangled, that movie is awesome,” I found my mouth (again) stupidly muttering.
“See! ” Ellie shrieked, gesturing to me with her popsicle off which flew a massive chunk of purple ice that plopped on the shag (yes, shag) carpet a foot away from Brock’s motorcycle boots. “Uncle Slim’s girlfriend wants to watch Tangled! ”
I didn’t exactly say that but then again, she was probably five and five year old girls heard what they wanted to hear. In fact, lots of fifty-five year old girls heard what they wanted to hear.
Fern rushed to the ice on the floor with her dishtowel while Laura scolded, “Ellie! Careful with that popsicle.”
“Do we have to watch Tangled? Do we? Do we? ” Dylan (or Grady) whined.
“Dylan, pipe down. We’re not watching anything. We’re going home and getting cleaned up for bed.”
“I don’t wanna go to bed!” Dylan and Ellie shouted in unison.
At this point, the front door opened and a tall, beer-gutted older man with dark hair shot with not a small amount of silver and silvery-gray eyes strolled in shouting, “Jesus H. Christ!
What’s the commotion?”
“Grandpa!” Ellie and Dylan screamed, Ellie tossing the popsicle aside only for it to land with a plop on Brock’s couch in her haste to scramble off said couch and race Dylan to hug the older gentleman’s legs. But when they did this, with the velocity and force they hit him, he went back two paces before they successfully latched on. Luckily, disaster was averted and he kept his feet.
I was rooted to the spot looking at a man whose somewhat withered good looks stated firmly he was Brock’s father as I felt the slap of attitude hit the room and heard Brock mutter under his breath, “Fuck.”
For once, the mood in the room didn’t come from Brock. When my head woodenly turned in the direction from whence it emanated I saw it was coming from Fern.
“Tell me he is not here,” she hissed.
Uh-oh.
“Mom –” Brock started.
“Slim, tell me… he… is not… here, ” she somewhat repeated with scary mini-pauses and equally scary emphasis.
Brock’s arm gave me a squeeze, my head tipped dazedly back to look up to him and when I caught his eyes, he immediately informed me, “This is why I’m never f**kin’ home.”
Well, that answered one question. If Brock was never home he didn’t need a fabulous pad.
“Heya, Laurie, honey, heya, Slim, heya Grady,” Brock’s father greeted with smiles.
“Hey Grandpa,” Grady returned.
“Hey there, Dad,” Laura said hesitantly, her manner watchful.
“Babe, this is my sister, Laura, her hooligans Grady and Dylan, my princess, Ellie, and my Mom, Fern. Everyone, this is Tess.”
His Mom, Fern?
He kissed me with tongues in front of his Mom, Fern?
I scanned the room and a lot forced itself into my brain, too much to process, so much, my mind started to shut down and it took every bit of effort I had not to lapse into catatonia.
Firstly, the door had been closed and Laura, Brock’s gorgeous sister, was standing by it grinning like a madwoman.
Secondly, there were two dark-haired boys on the floor, both of them in little boy football uniforms ( sans shoulder pads), both of them appearing at some point in the not too distant past to have rolled around in the dirt for a good length of time and my guess was that was at least five hours, both of them appeared to be arrested in mid-wrestling match and both of them had green Kool-Aid mustaches.
Third, there was an adorable, little, dark-haired girl wearing a princess dress costume, complete with fake satin top and masses of tulle skirt, this ensemble complimented by clickety-clack, little girl, plastic, high-heeled shoes, sitting on the couch with her legs straight in front of her, feet bouncing while she gamely licked a melting popsicle but was struggling in this endeavor as evidenced by it dripping purple on the fake satin of the top of her dress.
Fourth, an older woman with thick, silver hair and blue eyes and an overall look that screamed, “Grandma!” was standing in a doorway grinning at me like a madwoman.
And last, Brock’s furnishings were, at a glance, approximately two point seven five steps up from the overall feel of his apartment complex. But at least the place appeared clean if not tidy and when I say “not tidy” I say this in the sense that it also reflected that Brock was a single man with a Harley Fat Boy and a beat up pickup truck that Martha was right about, it needed to be traded up and that trade up should have happened around a decade ago.
“Uh… hey,” I greeted.
“We’re a surprise, we know. We were on our way back from junior football league practice and we thought we’d stop by,” Fern said, coming further into the room and I saw she was holding a dishtowel. “We brought KFC because the kids had to eat. We didn’t know Slim was expecting company.”
“Um… okay,” I told her then added stupidly. “Cool.”
She made it to me and held out her hand. I took it and her fingers closed around mine then her other hand came up and closed around our clasped hands. As she did this, she looked into my eyes and did a Mom Scan which left me feeling mildly ill-at-ease considering the fact that I was pretty sure her blue eyes read all the words written on my soul and she knew I’d lied to my mother when I was ten and told her I didn’t try to shave my legs (when the nicks on them proved this to be false) and that I let Jimmy Moriarty get to second base at the homecoming dance my sophomore year in high school.
Then she released me from The Scan, let go of my hand, stepped back and luckily didn’t announce to the room I was a floozy who lied to her mother.
“They’re about to leave,” Brock stated to which Princess Ellie shouted, “No we’re not!
We’re watching Tangled! ”
And to this, Dylan (or Grady, it had not been pointed out which was which), shouted in return, “We’re not watching Tangled! We watched Tangled this weekend five times.” He swung his head to Laura and whined, “Mooooooom! I’m sick of Tangled! ”
“I’m not sick of Tangled, that movie is awesome,” I found my mouth (again) stupidly muttering.
“See! ” Ellie shrieked, gesturing to me with her popsicle off which flew a massive chunk of purple ice that plopped on the shag (yes, shag) carpet a foot away from Brock’s motorcycle boots. “Uncle Slim’s girlfriend wants to watch Tangled! ”
I didn’t exactly say that but then again, she was probably five and five year old girls heard what they wanted to hear. In fact, lots of fifty-five year old girls heard what they wanted to hear.
Fern rushed to the ice on the floor with her dishtowel while Laura scolded, “Ellie! Careful with that popsicle.”
“Do we have to watch Tangled? Do we? Do we? ” Dylan (or Grady) whined.
“Dylan, pipe down. We’re not watching anything. We’re going home and getting cleaned up for bed.”
“I don’t wanna go to bed!” Dylan and Ellie shouted in unison.
At this point, the front door opened and a tall, beer-gutted older man with dark hair shot with not a small amount of silver and silvery-gray eyes strolled in shouting, “Jesus H. Christ!
What’s the commotion?”
“Grandpa!” Ellie and Dylan screamed, Ellie tossing the popsicle aside only for it to land with a plop on Brock’s couch in her haste to scramble off said couch and race Dylan to hug the older gentleman’s legs. But when they did this, with the velocity and force they hit him, he went back two paces before they successfully latched on. Luckily, disaster was averted and he kept his feet.
I was rooted to the spot looking at a man whose somewhat withered good looks stated firmly he was Brock’s father as I felt the slap of attitude hit the room and heard Brock mutter under his breath, “Fuck.”
For once, the mood in the room didn’t come from Brock. When my head woodenly turned in the direction from whence it emanated I saw it was coming from Fern.
“Tell me he is not here,” she hissed.
Uh-oh.
“Mom –” Brock started.
“Slim, tell me… he… is not… here, ” she somewhat repeated with scary mini-pauses and equally scary emphasis.
Brock’s arm gave me a squeeze, my head tipped dazedly back to look up to him and when I caught his eyes, he immediately informed me, “This is why I’m never f**kin’ home.”
Well, that answered one question. If Brock was never home he didn’t need a fabulous pad.
“Heya, Laurie, honey, heya, Slim, heya Grady,” Brock’s father greeted with smiles.
“Hey Grandpa,” Grady returned.
“Hey there, Dad,” Laura said hesitantly, her manner watchful.
