by Anyta Sunday
Charlie nodded and with a hesitant turn, faced Karl. He took two steps and reached out his hand. In a steady, if somewhat shy, voice he said, “Hello, Mr. Andrews, I’m Charlie.” He glanced back at his papa, who gave him a reassuring nod.
Karl cleared his throat and shook the boy’s little hand. “You can call me Karl.” He met Paul’s gaze over Charlie’s shoulder. “Okay?”
He nodded. Charlie smiled. “Karl. Karly?”
“No. Just Karl.”
The boy pouted. Maybe that’d been too harsh. He wavered. “Ah, you can call me Karly if I can call you Charlina.”
He scrunched up his nose. “But that’s a girl’s name. Karl, then.”
“Thought so.”
“You know, you’ve got a funny mark on your hand, what is it?” He pointed to the crescent on his wrist.
Paul came over and grabbed his son, flinging him into the air. Giggles burst out, thick and fast. “Papa! Pa-pa!”
He stopped, resting the boy on his knee as he leaned back against the sofa. “Sorry, Karl, kids can be pretty frank. And tactless.”
“Honest and to the point. That’s the way I like them.” Karl grinned and moved over to their side. He lifted his sleeve. “I did that cooking popcorn. I tipped over a pot of hot oil and burned myself. I had to go to the hospital where they took a bit of skin from my thigh and sewed it here.”
Karl glanced from the boy’s disgusted face to Paul’s wide-eyed one. Was that not okay to tell the boy? Crap.
“And that’s why,” Paul said, “you have to be very careful in the kitchen. A burn like that must have hurt a lot.” He looked at Karl.
“Yep. Terrible. The kitchen can be lots and lots of fun, but your papa’s right, you have to be safe. I can show you how, too.”
Charlie slid off Paul’s knees. “Right now?”
Karl smiled. “How about tomorrow when you get back from pre-school?” But there was no reply as something in the corner of the room caught Charlie’s attention and he ran toward it.
“Nice kid,” Karl said.
Paul gave a proud smile. “I think so.”
Charlie came over, holding out a pencil case and some paper. “Do you want to draw?”
Not particularly, but a little never hurt. “Sure.”
An hour later, Karl actually felt exhausted. Where did kids get all this energy? He’d gone from drawing, to playing tag with crayons (he had a nice orange swipe down his sleeve now), to being shown all last year’s Christmas presents, to now, building Lego towers. “So,” Karl said to Paul, who was putting the finishing touches on a fence, “what time does he go to bed?”
Paul chuckled. “We eat dinner, then it’s brush teeth time and good night.”
Karl hoped the relief didn’t show up on his face. “And what are you having for dinner?”
Rolling a green piece of Lego between his fingers, he said, “I was just going to call room service and have something brought up.” He placed the piece at the edge of the tower. “Did you want to join us tonight?”
“I want wedges!” Charlie cried. “With sour cream.”
Karl smiled. “Yeah, actually, that’d be great.”
After Paul hung up the phone, Karl asked, “So, why don’t you just order room service? Why do you want me to cook, quote ‘boiled potatoes a side of fish and a vegetable’?”
“Well, on weekends and, um, since my last girl left, I’ve just ordered. I’m not great in the kitchen. But I don’t want to do that all the time. I’d like Charlie to have as much the feel of family life as possible. Cooked meals at home. Sitting together and such.”
Paul stood and grabbed his boy. “Time to wash up before dinner.”
Charlie whined.
“Suck it up, boy. Let’s go.”
Karl scooped up the Lego and dropped it into the box. In the kitchen, he found both adult and children’s plates and cutlery.
Charlie zigzagged into the room, Paul close at his heels. He stopped when he saw the table. A surprised and—was that a pleased?—look crossed his face. Paul turned to him, about to say something it seemed, when the doorbell rang.
“Can I get it? Can I get it?”
“No, Charlie. Sit at the table, I’ll grab it.”
Just him and the boy in the room. A small silence fell between them, then Charlie narrowed his eyes and held his gaze. “Ha-ha, you blinked first.”
Oh, okay, this he could play. “Did not.” He sat himself across from him and they stared off. Charlie roared with delight, when he, apparently, won again.
“Okay, so we have,” Paul said, plunking the dinner in the middle of the table, “one mushroom pasta, one risotto, and one wedges and sour cream. Hmmm, they must have got something wrong.” Paul put on his best frown. “Who on earth could that be for?”
“Me! Me!” Charlie swung his plastic knife around. Maybe Karl wouldn’t have him peeling vegetables just yet. Washing them . . . maybe.
And so on went dinner. Karl couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard over just-better-than-average food. He stood up and cleared the plates, stacking them into the dishwasher.
He heard Paul’s harsh whisper. “Stop picking your nose, Charlie.”
“I’m not picking it.”
“What are you doing then?”
“Just cleaning out the boogers.”
And he cracked up. He just couldn’t help it.
* * *
Once Paul had tucked Charlie into bed, he came back out, pressing a palm to his head. Karl couldn’t blame him. Looking after a kid was, uh, perhaps a little tougher than he’d imagined.
“What are you still doing? You don’t have to hang around, you know.”
Karl headed to the fridge and pulled out two of the cold beers he’d stacked in there earlier. He opened them and pressed one into Paul’s hand. “In the interests of getting to know who my new boss is, yeah?”
He cocked his bottle and Paul tapped it with his own. In silence, they moved into the living room and sat themselves on the sofa.
Paul was the first to break the silence. “Okay, then. What do you want to know?”
Well there was the obvious. He wanted to know more about the rumors of Charlie’s mom. “So . . . ” He sipped again. “Just how many people call you Mr. Hyte? And how old does that make you feel?”
He gave an amused huff. “Actually, everyone calls me that. It’s been a while since I’ve heard Paul.”
“Do you miss it?”
He didn’t answer. Just swigged some more. Then, “Well, I guess I’ll be getting used to it if you end up sticking around.”
Karl inclined his head. That sounded encouraging. Maybe he wouldn’t just be given the boot. “Sure thing. Because I won’t touch ‘Mr. Hyte’ with a yard stick. Boss or not.” He smiled. “Sorry.”
A small grin cornered Paul’s lips. “Good. I won’t feel so old.”
They both gulped some beer at the same time. “And how long have you been managing the Pomodrolly hotels?”
“I got promoted three years ago.”
So, a year after his wife had died. Damn it, just ask him. Surely, he expected him to be curious. He ran his fingers over the paper of his bottle. Teased one corner. “What about Charlie’s mom?”
This time the silence before the answer stretched so long, Karl was sure asking had been a mistake.
“Laura died bringing Charlie into this world.” This time he took a long drag of beer. “You know, it’s been a busy day. I think I’m going to call it a night.” With that he excused himself and walked away.
Karl sat staring at the reflection in the blank television screen. The clock on the right hand side of the DVD player flashed. Eight-thirty.
Yep, definitely a mistake.
5
Sweet Potato Puree
KARL SLAMMED A hand down on his cell, trying to turn the damn thing off. It couldn’t be morning already. He peeled one eye open and checked. Six a.m. Fuck. He rubbed his eyes, grunted as he stretched, and then stumbled to his fe
et. The heated flooring came as a welcome surprise.
Paul, already suited up, was biting into a slice of toast at the counter as Karl zombied his way into the kitchen. The rich aroma of coffee wafted over to him from the percolator coughing and spluttering behind Paul. Delicious. The coffee that was. Paul too, actually, in a dark gray suit and lighter gray tie.
“Morning.” Paul eyed his rushed dressing. Karl double-checked his T-shirt was on the right way. “Sleep all right?” Paul’s voice sounded chipper. Ugh. Frigging morning people. He suppressed the urge to scowl and gave an affirmative grunt instead.
“I’ll be off in about ten.” Paul turned and poured himself a cup. Karl stumbled onto a breakfast bar stool. “Want one?”
Karl swatted the sleepiness from his eyes once more and glanced again at Paul. He’d either forgotten about last night or forgiven him for bringing up his dead wife. Karl cleared his throat, swallowing his ‘A bear shit in the woods?’ retort. “Yeah, that’d be great.”
“Right. Milk? Sugar?”
“This early, both.” Karl wasn’t quite sure what to make of Paul’s show of friendliness. It’d been hinted at with extending a dinner invitation to him last night, but then he’d thought it’d been with the purpose of getting to know who would be looking after his boy. But maybe this was the real Paul. A friendly, easy-going guy.
He took the coffee handed to him, murmuring a thank you. Wrapping his large hands around the mug, Karl brought it to his lips. Ahhhh, caffeinated goodness. Paul took a sip of his own, and eyed his hair over the rim. A small dimple suggested he was smiling.
Karl rested the coffee and attempted to flatten his bed hair.
“So,” Paul said, reaching across the counter and dragging some paper towards him, “Charlie’s clothes are already set out for you.” He picked up a blue square post-it and passed it over. “These are the directions to the pre-school. I informed them you’d be dropping him off and picking him up. Take ID. And here’s the keys to the Volvo.” He said the last bit with a grin. Bastard.
“Super.”
“Also, there’s my cell number, in case you need to contact me regarding Charlie.” He pointed to a short list of numbers stuck to the fridge. “And, if you can’t get through to me, there are some emergency contacts—Charlie’s grandparents.”
Karl nodded, but even in his still-sleepy state, he didn’t miss that Paul had said ‘Charlie’s grandparents’ and not ‘my parents.’
Paul moved the cuff of his shirt and checked the time. He gulped down the rest of his coffee. “Okay, I’ve gotta run.”
Karl noticed his suit jacket draped carefully over the chair just behind him. He lifted it gingerly and gave it to him. Paul shucked it on and straightened his tie. Picked up a suitcase, and fiddled with his tie again.
“It’s good,” Karl said. Oh yeah.
As Paul left, Karl shook his head, and moved into the kitchen with his mug for a much needed refill.
* * *
After waking, chasing, half-dressing, and some more chasing, Karl finally managed to get Charlie into his clothes. At this rate, he wouldn’t need to join a gym at all. Over breakfast, the boy calmed down a fraction. Karl eyed the Chocolate Cherrios. Shit, it wouldn’t last long. He grabbed the keys and directions to the kid’s pre-school and hurried him out the door.
All buckled in, they headed across town. Charlie kept kicking the back of the passenger seat. Good thing the boy wasn’t behind him. He slowed at an orange light.
“She-sha! She-sha!” he cried.
Karl frowned. What was he saying? He turned, and the kid was pointing out the front window. “What’s that?”
“What?”
“She-sha.”
“My wand. When I want something to happen. She-sha!” The light turned green. “See, it works.”
Kids.
Karl checked the directions. Oak Street, where are you? He slowed to read the next street sign. In the rear-view mirror, a car swerved out of a park, accelerating, and nearly rammed into the back of him. “Idiot,” he spat, shaking his head.
The car did the same as he approached the next lights. “Stupid fu—” Karl just managed to contain the rest of the outburst. But damn, he had a mind to show that driver his thoughts. Couldn’t he see the ‘baby on board’ sign? Fucker.
Finally, he made it to the kid’s school. He’d never been so aware of how dangerous the roads were. He was sweating!
“All right, out, squirt. Time to go play with your pals.”
* * *
After spending half the day in town, scouting the different food markets for all the ingredients he’d need for dinner, Karl finally made it back to the apartment. He prepared himself to tackle the weekly cleaning. Get it out the way, then he wouldn’t have to think about it until next week. Good plan.
Four hours of cleaning later, he dropped the screwed up newspaper he’d been using to polish the glass. Stupid freaking windows. Did they need quite so much of a view? Surely one room was enough. Karl peeled off his sweat soaked T-shirt, the hem catching on his watch. As he untangled it, he glanced at the time. “Shit.”
Racing to his room, he found a clean shirt and his keys. Less than three minutes later, he was piling himself into the Volvo. He jammed the key into the ignition and turned. The car grunted in response, then spluttered and—“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
He tried twice more in vain. The stupid thing had a flat battery. Shitabrick.
How was he supposed to pick up Charlie now? The bus would take forever. And attaching jumpers and giving this thing life again, even longer.
Karl hit the steering wheel. He glanced out the window down the row of cars to his Lamborghini. He gritted his teeth, locked the Volvo and marched over to the million-dollar car. Just this once.
Charlie squealed when he picked him up, jumping up and down and darting from room to room, beckoning Karl to follow while he showed off all his day’s doings. After they’d walked into the third room, Karl shook his head. He was parked in a five minute zone, pick-up and drop-off only. “So, you want to learn about being safe in the kitchen?”
“Yeah!”
“Then skip outside, we’re going to go home and we’re going to prepare chicken breast filets with a cashew nut pesto and a sweet potato puree.”
Charlie’s nose squished up like he’d heard something disgusting, but his raised brow suggested he wasn’t sure whether he should like the sound of dinner or not. “Will there be sour cream?”
“Absolutely not.” Karl almost shuddered at the thought. He needed to teach this kid taste and soon. Sour cream might be acceptable with wedges, on occasion, but just no—No.
Charlie pouted. “I won’t eat it then.”
Okay, how could he make this enticing for a kid? Although Karl was sure as soon as the boy tasted the fluffy puree with its fine hint of lime, he’d just love it. Until then, maybe a white lie would suffice. He threw up his hands. “Fine. You win, there’ll be sour cream. A special sour cream that Karl will make really nice for you, okay?”
“Special sour cream?”
“Yeah, we can call it Charlie’s special, if you like?” That had the boy grinning from ear to ear.
Karl loaded him into the passenger seat. Shoot, how old was legal for a kid to be up front? Didn’t matter, it was just this once. Karl jumped in next to him. He eyed the kid’s hands. And hoped like hell they’d been washed recently. Not greasy and—“’You know what’s a cool game?”
“What?”
“Keeping your hands on your lap. No matter what, so they can’t lift up even for a second.”
“What do I win?”
“What do you want?”
“Five million chocolate-chip cookies!” Charlie’s hands waved dangerously close to the dashboard.
Karl laughed. “That’d make you a bit sick, and you won’t have any room left for Charlie’s special sour cream. How about two really large cookies?”
“Okay!” He stuffed his hands between his legs a
nd jammed them together.
Karl grinned and started his baby up. The gullible monkey. Excellent.
“By the way, if you see any police cars, duck your head.”
They made it to the apartment just after five. The kid ran straight to the pantry and pointed to the cookie tin. Karl gave him the two largest as promised, but Charlie insisted on lining them all up on the table to double check.
While Karl started to work on dinner, he set Charlie up with his can of shaving cream. He figured the kid could smear it around the table and it would wipe up easily. Plus, it kept the surfaces clean. The boy had so much fun with the foam, Karl was nearly at the end of cooking dinner before he’d had enough.
As he’d thought, it was a quick clean.
He lifted Charlie onto a breakfast bar stool and continued on dinner.
The boy reached over a large knife and pointed to the pan. Karl hurriedly moved the sharp utensil out the way. God, the kitchen was a death trap.
“Where does the chicken come from?”
“It’s chicken, buurk-buurk, where do you think it comes from?”
“It’s the same chicken?”
“Yep.”
“But where are all the feathers? And the rest of it?”
“This is just part of the chicken. First it got plucked and then—” Karl stopped at the appalled look on Charlie’s face. His eyes were so wide they looked at risk of falling out. He rested the wooden spoon on the edge of the pan and looked at the boy. Now his eyes were all watery. Oh no. No crying. That was so not his job. Dammit, Paul. Why couldn’t he have told the boy where his meat comes from already?
Ahhhh? “It’s the way of life. Animals are farmed, and we use them to make food. You like hamburgers, right?”
Charlie nodded.
“That’s cow. And bacon, that’s pig.” Charlie’s bottom lip wobbled. Oh fuck. He was doing this all wrong. The hole was only getting deeper and the dirt mounds were sure to fall in and smother him.
