Raw Deal

by Bella Knight

  "Give us ten, and send them in. We're hungry, and they'll consume this in about two minutes," said Nantan. He looked over, caught the spill of a lace nightdress under her soft terrycloth robe. "Go back to your wife. I assume you're okay?"

  "Better than okay. Be hard having them so close together, but be good, too."

  "Wait until you have two in college," said Nantan.

  "Or driving," said Chayton.

  Inola laughed. "It'll happen to you first!"

  "Oh, Creator," said Chayton. "She's right."

  He popped two sodas and placed them in the cupholders on the floating pool tray. He took the plate of pigs in a blanket, opened the little containers with the two sauces, and put them on the edge of the plate. He dipped one of the small hot dogs covered by crescent roll dough into the honey mustard sauce, and groaned.

  "Damia makes great pigs in a blanket. She dusted the tops with cheddar cheese." He slid into the pool, still chewing.

  Nantan took one, then groaned. "Awesome."

  They laughed, and fed each other, and drank. Nine minutes later, four boys came whooping through the glass door, dressed in swim trunks. Chayton barely had time to get the empty plate on the side of the pool before the boys did cannonballs in the water, splashing everything.

  Additions

  Bao finished her Chinese lesson. At this point, they were memorizing the characters on their own. Her job was spoken Mandarin, and to have them put the characters into subject-time-verb-object sentences. They delighted in creating ridiculous sentences, like ones about green animals jumping on pink grass. Points could be redeemed for paints, hook rugs, puzzles, calligraphy pen sets, poster boards, strategic board games, painting canvases, string art projects, and more. The "goody closet" was from a small art supply store that, sadly, went out of business. Nantan and Chayton got half, the Nighthawks homeschool the other half. Points weren't just given for correct or funny answers. There were helping-others points, points for developing games and books for others, and more. They were especially effective with Damia, who loved cause and effect. She would set her sights on a prize, mark it as hers with a sticky note, and deliberately set out to earn points for it. Her meltdowns became very infrequent, as she also learned to make an "I'm leaving" gesture and simply walk away when overwhelmed.

  Bao stood, updated the points spreadsheet and sent it to the classroom monitor, and there were squeals, giggles, and groans. Callie came in to do the debate lesson, and everyone perked up. Points were on the way!

  Callie hugged Bao, and said, "Enjoy your night off! We're making homemade pizzas for lunch tomorrow."

  "Good luck with that," said Bao.

  Bao got into her small car she used to transport children, and headed out to the Chandlery, a small, candlelit, Italian restaurant. Nico texted her that he was running late; the Landon Greene project was behind schedule due to a late delivery of the glass. The truck had been held up in massive traffic.

  She sat at the bar rather than taking up a table, and had crostini with black olives and artichoke paste. The bread was still warm, making her swoon. She responded to a half a dozen emails about her books, rapidly typing replies in both English and Mandarin. She checked her bank balance and smiled. The latest round of book translations were doing well. She'd hired two teachers in China to help; one to edit and the other to illustrate. Both were highly intelligent and literate women. Both had absent husbands, working long distances from home to keep the family in money. Both women were saving up to bring their husbands home. She pulled up a galley, and her jaw dropped. It was about dragons, and the illustrations had her eyes tearing.

  Nico came in, saw her at the bar, and came to look over her shoulder. His jaw dropped too. "My god, woman, that's awesome. Mei is amazing." He sat down, ordered a chianti, and stole a crostini.

  "I have to give her a raise," said Bao. "These books will fly off the shelves, and fly into the cell phones, in half of China and Taiwan."

  She pulled up another one, and sucked in her breath through her teeth. This one was a Monkey King story, and the Monkey King's soft, laughing eyes popped off the page.

  She sighed. "We have an on-demand printer and drop shipper. I hope they'll be able to keep up with demand." Reluctantly, she closed the galleys, turned off her tablet, and slid it into her backpack.

  She gave Nico a lingering kiss, redolent with garlic, olives, and a touch of Chianti. "Now that's a proper greeting," said Nico, holding her close for a moment. Then he stood, took off his leather jacket, and hung it on the back of his chair. "Do they have a table for us?"

  Bao paid their current tab, and asked their bartender to check on their table. "So, did the glass arrive?"

  "Intact, and the guys were very sorry. A truck overturned and blocked all three lanes of traffic and they couldn't get off the interstate, not until the cops cleared enough to let a lane of traffic by. They were happy-happy joy-joy to make it to us. The installers are installing as we speak. My guys know how to install, but I had to inspect and sign."

  "Bet they like the overtime," said Bao.

  "On time and under budget," said Nico, sipping his Chianti. "The house is a very nice ranch, so large that we can split it into a duplex. Got it for a song. We've got the most gorgeous glass tile coming in for the backsplashes." He sipped his Chianti, and stole the last crostini.

  Bao laughed. "I talk poetic about illustrations for children's books, and you about glass." They stood as the server came to lead them to their table.

  Nico effortlessly swung her backpack over her shoulder, and grabbed his jacket with the other hand and swung it over the other shoulder. Bao was treated to a lovely vision of his ass as he followed the server. She carried both their wine glasses, and didn't spill a drop, dancing around the servers and patrons like a ballerina.

  They ordered Italian sausage and pesto tortellini in a potato-leek sauce with pesto gnocchi. Nico told her about the rehab on the ranch house duplex near the air force base, perfect for some soldiers to settle into with a spouse and kiddies. Bao told him about trying to finish off her American teaching certification, while simultaneously running a book translation and storytelling empire on two continents.

  "We've had an inquiry from Africa," said Bao. "They have hundreds, if not thousands of stories. Ones that can be told, in English and tribal languages. I gave them our software for free, because we're a nonprofit, but they love our stories and illustrators. I'm considering flying a team of coders, a translator, and several storytellers here to show them what to do."

  "Why not just make step-by-step videos?" asked Nico. "I have cameras going all the time at my sites. The Wolfpack love making videos. Got them making rehab videos. Got lots of hits. Another source of income to get them their schooling."

  She smiled. "I have, but what we do is a lot more complicated. We want everyone. People everywhere to be able to make and create books in their native languages. We keep losing languages. Even in China, some of them are dying out. And, we shouldn't let that happen."

  "I agree," he said. "My nonna made sure I could speak fluent Italian. Would hit me with a spoon if I didn't answer politely. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to get my attention."

  She smiled. "Both of us are from traditional immigrant families. Both of us value hard work, and family. Both hold on to ancient languages and cultures we call home."

  Their food came, and Nico ordered some more Chianti for them. "Both of us love sharing Italian food," he said.

  He spooned half of both the tortellini and gnocchi onto both plates, and they ate and laughed. They split lemon cake and chocolate-silk, espresso pie, and then he paid for the rest of the meal. They would switch off, week to week, who paid for what. It worked for them.

  They left, and he carried out her backpack once again. "Would you like to come to my place?" he asked.

  "Why do you think I brought the backpack?" she said.

  He laughed, and she followed his Harley with her car. She missed her own bike, but the girls needed her
to drive them in a car, for now. She laughed at the image of her daughters becoming teens and going to school on dirt bikes.

  He had a very nice two-bedroom; a refurbished condo. He owned the building and it was one of the first rehabs he'd done as a project manager. It was off of Paradise, and looked out over the city. It had a pool and a Jacuzzi. He told the guy at the gate to let her in, and she parked in the visitor's space near his motorcycle parking. The other residents loved him. Nothing stayed broken for long, there were no bugs or other vermin, and he let them keep pets. He also had motorcycle parking, allowing those with cars to have two whole spaces, and visitors’ parking.

  They took the elevator up to the fourth floor. He led her down the silent hallway, done in white with a gold wash, giving an elegance that matched the golden wall sconces. He used his code, and got her into the apartment. He put her backpack down, inside the door, hung up his leather jacket, and hung up her red leather jacket. They took off their boots and left them standing under their respective jackets on their hooks. They said absolutely nothing, in English, Italian, or any form of Chinese. She took his hand, and they walked into the bedroom.

  He carefully undressed her and put her clothes in the narrow antique wardrobe he'd bought just for her. She smiled, standing there in silk and lace, pleased with the care he took of her clothes. A motorcycle man who worked construction who went by “Bruiser” on the road. But he treated her things, and her, with delicate care. She remembered her husband, with the laughing eyes and rough hands. He had been a good man, and such a good father. She still ached from the loss. But he is dead and this man stands before me, and he treats me like a princess from the days of old. She laughed at her internal flight of fancy. Too many children's books.

  He put his own jeans, shirt, socks, and red-and-black flannel shirt over a blue undershirt in the wash. He took off her bra, and her small breasts sprung into his hands. He kissed them gently, delicately. I'm not made of glass, she thought. She stepped out of her lacy underwear, and led him into the shower. She washed him in the shower, slowly, lovingly. He groaned, and melted into her. His hands found the pins holding up her hair, and he carefully put them on the ledge holding the shampoo. He turned her to face away from him. He washed her long, blue-black hair, and put in the conditioner she kept in the bathroom that was hers. He washed her back, from the back of her neck, then to her feet, and turned her around to wash her front.

  She found the condoms in their little box, took one out, and rolled it onto him. She put her arms around his neck and leaped, springing onto him. He held her up, and they made slow love against the wall, her kisses raining down on him like the water sluicing over their backs. She washed them both again. He took her out, dried her off, rubbed in the lotion, and put a silken, dragon robe on her. He dried himself, put on a robe, and sat on a second chair behind hers, at the vanity in the huge bathroom. He brushed out her hair, put product into it, partially dried it, and braided her Valkyrie braids into the side.

  He loved her hair. "You should have been a hairdresser," she said.

  "Straight Italian boys did not become hairdressers in my day," he said. "My best friend Giovanni taught me. He said there's nothing more sensuous than loving a woman by loving her hair." He wove in the little silver metal strands and bits she liked. "He was right."

  He kissed her neck, making her purr. He kneaded her shoulders and arms in between braids. He put her feet in a peppermint wash to soak. He put the soft cucumber gel on her face, then soaked and buffed each nail. He painted each nail in silver, with a thin sparkly blue wash on top, then a sealant. He did the same with her other hand, then put her toes in toe separators, and did each one. He sanded her heels and gave her a pedicure, this time with the color reversed; metallic blue with a silver wash on top. They sat there, chatting about their day, her hands and then her toes in the gel hardener UV light. Her nails dried, he slid off her robe, and had her lean forward and put a pillow under her head. He massaged her spine, from the tiny muscles in the top of her head to her lower back. He put a silken sheet down on the bed, and massaged her from her buttocks to her heels, then flipped her over to massage that side. He finished with a facial massage.

  He kissed her, lightly, delicately. "Thank you for letting me pamper you. It feels so --wonderful."

  "You are so incredible," said Bao. "Wo de ai," she said. "My love."

  "Ti amo," he said. "My love."

  He slid off his robe, helped her up, wiped off the excess oil with the sheet, threw the sheet in the hamper, and turned down the bed; a four-poster monstrosity, imported from Italy. She slid in, and he slid in behind her. He took her from behind; slowly, holding her hips as he moved. He pulled back her braids and kissed her neck. He let go, and she clenched on him with her own orgasm. He rose, and, ever the gentleman, wiped them both down with wet wipes he discarded in the bathroom. He slid in next to her again, and cradled her in his arms. They kissed, slowly, and she laid her head down on his arms, the braids up where he could get to them.

  He loved playing with her hair. "I want you to... you've met the girls, played with them. You're a Nighthawk..." Bao began.

  "I've survived dinner at your house, with Ivy staring daggers at me and Callie tripping over herself with politeness, and Hu the most..." He swallowed. "She's a lovely princess, like her mother. Tough, too. You don't know it until Grace oversteps or Damia signs for Grace to calm down."

  "Grace is a rubber ball, and my daughter the one that keeps her from bouncing to infinity," she said. "My daughter is a tree, lovely and calm, and strong and wise." She smiled. "Callie called her an 'old soul'. I had to look it up, but I agree. Hu is wise, far beyond her years, and so gifted. She drags Grace with her, forcing her to rise up through sheer determination." Her face grew troubled. "Grace can't keep up. She really can't. At some point, Hu will be forced to surpass her, and Grace is known for her stubborn jealousy."

  "So, Grace is normal and Hu brilliant?" asked Nico, cupping Bao's face in his hands.

  "No, they're both gifted, but Hu has the quicker mind. She can grasp things intuitively. Hu is reading at the college level, and Grace at the high school level. They're about two years apart, intellectually, but those two years are crucial to Grace. She'll get there, but nowhere near as fast."

  "So, make them not crucial," said Nico. "Find out whatever she does much better than Hu, and let her go as fast as she wants to, in that direction."

  "Well, then," said Bao, kissing his hand. "You are good father material, you see?"

  "How many children do you want?"

  She laughed. "There are five in my house."

  "That you give birth to," he said. "And you can always build a bigger house."

  "We are conditioned in China to want one," said Hu.

  "Well, we can take on some that need homes. But, from your own body, how many?"

  Bao smiled. "I want a house with so many children that we forget all their names."

  He laughed. "We'll call them 'this one' and 'that one' and 'you over there.'"

  She thought, then said, "One more from my own body. I have small hips and breasts. It is not easy for me to push a baby out of me." She smiled at him. "Even though I know you will wait on me at every step of the pregnancy."

  He leaned down, kissed her. "Then, one from you, and then we move over to a second house, and fill that one up with kids, too."

  Bao smiled at him, the love shining in her eyes. "We need to ask Henry for permission. And find another wildlife corridor that needs a house moved."

  "It's on my to-do list," he said. And then they fell asleep, in each other's arms.

  In the morning, he made her a lovely breakfast of fruit and prosciutto ham and little cubes of cheese. He kissed her. "Adding onto the Nighthawks garage today," he said. "I've never added on a floor or built a space for a motorcycle elevator before. I guess there's a first time for everything." He laughed. "See you tonight, love," he said, and he grabbed his motorcycle helmet and left.

  She worked on
the galleys, gave the illustrator a raise, ate a lovely smoked chicken sandwich on foccacia for lunch, then drove home when she knew the girls had left for school. She traded out the car for her lovely Chinese red Harley, with its dragon, and rode back. She texted Nico, asking what he wanted her to cook for dinner, but he texted back that he was taking her out. She went back out and shopped for a beautiful Chinese dress. Mrs. Wang fussed and gossiped, but she had the best ones.

  "I do not know why you date a white man," she said.

  Bao thought of Nico's dark good looks and olive cast to his skin. "Not exactly white. Mediterranean."

  Mrs. Wang snorted. "Try the yellow, it looks good on you."

  Bao refused to take the bait. Yellow make her look sallow. "Red with blue, or red with black," she reiterated. "I must look my best."

  Mrs. Wang rudely tweaked one of her Valkyrie braids. "You already look like a foreigner." Bao stiffened, turned, and walked out of the shop. She would buy different silk.

  Mrs. Wang ran out of the store after her. "Bao, do not walk away from me. Why do you go?"

  Bao turned, and spoke in a low voice in clear and perfect Mandarin. "You old women are all the same, whining about Chinese purity, and howling if anyone dare step over the invisible lines you draw in your minds. There are a billion of us. I doubt very much Chinese purity is actually an issue. And, you have small minds and vicious tongues. My true happiness means nothing to you, only being able to control with your words. You are the worst China has to offer," she said. "I will not darken your door again." She turned, and walked away. Mrs. Wang watched her go, and, too late, then realized what she had forgotten.

  The young can be guided, but they must not be pushed too far, or they would hear nothing further, thought Mrs. Wang. She went back into her shop, wondering how she was to tell her old friend, Bao's mother, of her mistake. This time, she might not be forgiven.

  Bao knew where she had to go. Mrs. Chang had deft fingers, was not a vicious gossip, and worked so quickly that the silken garment would be ready by that night. Mrs. Chang had already heard the gossip, and did not see Bao's stone face as rage. There was some of that, but mostly hurt.