by Julia Kent
Ever.
“Whatthehell?” is what I think I’m saying, but it comes out as a fairly long, inarticulate shout as Amanda leaps to her feet and twists and turns, hands on my shoulders as I fold in half, her head spinning faster than that chick in The Exorcist as she tries to minister to me but knows people are at the door.
“I’m so sorry! The doorbell startled me and I bit down and omigodandrewareyouokay?”
I just hear the word “bit.” That is the only verbal cue I am capable of processing through the haze of pain.
Bit.
She bit me.
Ding dong!
“I’m ignoring that. Screw this!” she hisses, running to the sink and getting a clean washcloth, wetting it and running back to me.
Cold, limp cloth is suddenly on my penis, which matches the limp part now. Except the washcloth doesn’t have teeth marks.
“Did I break the skin?” she asks, bending over.
“Words you never want a woman to ask when she’s eye level with your cock,” I finally groan out.
She pokes it. It twitches. “No blood,” she says.
Are we really having this conversation?
A series of beeps from the front door make me look up from the most important piece of flesh in the universe.
Beeps. A failure alarm. Then:
“HEY!” Declan shouts through the door. “YOU GUYS ARE HERE! WE HAVE A BABY WITH A DIAPER CRISIS. OPEN UP!”
“They’re early!” Amanda cries out. “What do I do?”
“Open the door,” I choke out. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine! I did this to you! I bit you!”
I don’t point out that I’m more upset that she outshot me at the gun-safety course than I am that she bit my junk, but whatever.
“You didn’t break the skin.” I reach out and touch her breast.
“What are you doing?”
Blood goes where it’s supposed to.
“Touch me,” I tell her, moving her hand where I need it.
“What? Now? Are you insane?”
“OPEN UP! WHAT’S THE NEW CODE, ANDREW? I DON’T CARE IF YOU’RE HAVING SEX IN THE FOYER. WE WON’T LOOK. IT’S NOT THAT IMPRESSIVE ANYWAY. WE NEED TO GET INSIDE NOW.”
Amanda gets it suddenly, stroking me enough to confirm that parts may be injured but they’re still in working order. Too bad she can’t do that to my shooter’s ego.
She leaves me with my crisis as I turn away and carefully, achingly, tenderly, put him back in my pants and zip up. He’ll be fine. Tender loving care from Amanda that doesn’t involve incisors is all I’m going to need.
Later.
After the Diaper Crisis is resolved.
And no, that’s not code for kink.
Declan marches into the foyer and without a word, makes a beeline for the guest bathroom. Shannon is on his heels, cradling her stomach.
A cackle that sounds entirely too witchlike emerges from my wife.
“Baby got you, too? Thought you experienced mothers didn’t get hit with surprise diaper blowouts,” she calls out to Shannon.
“Shut up.” Shannon’s normally sunny disposition has definitely been called on account of rain.
Or baby poop, in this case.
“Take a shirt from my dresser,” Amanda tells her, turning back to me with sudden concern. How she can switch from cackling mockery to genuine worry like that is startling.
And a little arousing.
“What is that about?”
“Shannon told me ‘everyone’ knows diaper blowouts are possible when you hold a baby. Looks like someone got a taste of her own medicine.”
“Wrong metaphor.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m right, and that’s what counts.”
“That I understand. But ‘taste’ and ‘diaper blowout’ in the same sentence...” I shudder. The sudden movement makes my bitten bit hurt.
Ding dong!
We look at each other. “Terry?” we ask in tandem.
“You rang?” Terry’s bass voice literally rings through the house, the vibration like a slow-rolling earthquake. The doorknob jiggles. I go to the door and answer it. Unlike Declan, he doesn’t try the keypad.
Also unlike Declan, he doesn’t have the old code. Dad refused to give it to him.
“Terry!” I say, opening my arms for a hug. He gives it back, one hand burdened by a bottle of wine. Over his shoulder I see his trusty Subaru, resting snugly between Declan’s Audi SUV and my Tesla.
“Still driving that piece of shit?” I ask as he bends down and picks up a six-pack of beer, handing the wine off to me.
“No. That’s Declan’s company car.”
“I don’t drive that anymore. My assistant asked for it,” Declan informs us as he walks into the room, looking haggard.
“Your assistant asked for it? Is she crazy?” Terry asks.
“He. He asked for it.”
“You traded Grace for a guy?” Terry’s impressed.
“Grace retired and I hired a great new assistant. Why are you asking? You need a job? Self-imposed poverty finally getting to you?” Our oldest brother left Anterdec years ago, right after Mom died. He lives off the trust fund from Mom’s side of the family, which is a low-six-figure pittance. Declan loves to needle Terry about this.
So do I.
“We could use an estate manager,” I say. “Apartment over the garage is free. You know the place inside and out.”
“You mean I had sex in all the important places before you had your braces removed,” Terry says, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the six-pack of beer that he shoves at Declan’s gut. “Here. Microbrew beta tests from my friend’s place in Sherborn.”
“You mean bacterial cesspools? Any friend of yours who brews beer is probably on some watch list,” Dec taunts, but he takes a bottle out and holds it up to the light. “Flemish red sour ale? Gluten free?”
“Don’t knock it till you try it.”
“Gluten free? What’s wrong with gluten? When did gluten start to offend everyone?” Dec mutters as he opens the screw top and takes a sip. He makes a surprised face. “Not half bad.”
“It needs to be all good,” Terry says, frowning. “Try sipping. The taste grows on you.”
“Like bacteria,” Declan says, circling back.
Shannon enters just then, wearing a yellow short-sleeved linen shirt of Amanda’s and carrying a grinning baby who looks like Declan. Ellie’s eyes started out a dark blue but have turned brown like Shannon’s, a rich color like whisky blended with a hint of cream. She’s teething, chewing on Shannon’s index finger, drooling all over her mom’s hand.
Mom.
Shannon is a mother.
There is nothing like a baby to make everyone drop what they’re doing. Babies suck all the attention oxygen out of a room. Evolutionarily, they should. Their very survival and ability to function in the world depends on being cute.
Like sorority girls.
“I see there is beer,” she says pointedly, arching one eyebrow and giving Declan a look that says Why am I holding the baby after being shat on and you’re sucking down a cold one?
He takes Ellie instantly.
Whipped.
I’m never going to be like that when Amanda and I have kids. No way. He catches me smirking at him and narrows his eyes.
Time to hum the Mission: Impossible theme.
Terry bursts out laughing.
Nothing like three men in a family. You always have a brother to team up with against the third.
“Recovered from the birth yet?” Terry calls out as he reaches for Declan to give him a bear hug.
“Getting there,” Shannon replies.
“I was talking to Dec,” Terry explains as she laughs, a brittle sound that makes me offer her one of Terry’s beers, which she takes with a skeptical scowl.
“Gluten free?”
“Try it.”
Patting the tops of her breasts, she looks at the bottle again.
“Do your breasts hav
e celiac disease?” Terry inquires, noting the strange gesture.
“Quit talking about my wife’s boobs,” Declan checks him.
“Dec! It’s fine,” Shannon sputters, blushing. “I just wasn’t sure if I could handle the milk.”
“It’s beer. Not milk,” Terry assures her.
“Beer increases milk production,” she informs him.
“Really?”
“It’s a galactagogue,” Declan adds, his face plastered with that damn know-it-all smirk he patented during our childhood.
Terry crosses his arms and gives his little brother his full attention. “You’ve become a breastmilk expert?”
“I’m a new parent. It’s required.”
“If anyone in this family is a breastmilk expert, it’s me,” Shannon says in an arch tone.
“Technically, Ellie is the expert.” At the sound of her father saying her name, the baby squeals.
“Come into the living room!” Amanda insists.
We do what everyone does at a family dinner.
File into the kitchen.
“It’s weird to be here like this. No big cocktail party. No corporate schmoozing. And no Mom and Dad,” Terry announces, his voice dropping at the end.
“Is it? We’re used to the place,” I say, ignoring the comment about Dad, who wasn’t invited.
For a reason.
After Amanda gets everyone settled with a drink, I pull her aside.
“We can’t let them know about any of the off-the-grid systems,” I remind Amanda as she fusses over a table covered with appetizers. Somehow, her simple filet, salad, and wine has expanded to include assorted olives and cheese, giant shrimp cocktail, and a fig-bar thing that Shannon’s about to make love to.
“I promise I won’t leak,” she says, shooing me off with a dismissive hand. “Even if I disagree.”
“It’s not that they’ll never benefit from the systems. In an SHTF scenario, we’ll take care of everyone.”
“Even Chuckles?”
I sigh. “Fine.”
“And Marie?”
I grit my teeth. “You’re pushing it.”
“She’s a human being!”
“Remind me to up our stash of sedatives.”
“Andrew! Stop being dramatic.”
“I am being prag-matic.”
“She’s still sore at you for the Unicoga mess.”
“I rescued you and Shannon from being co-opted by a bunch of swinger couples who thought Marie’s yoga class was about meeting bisexual women who wanted to swing. And they thought you and pregnant Shannon were the unicorns!”
“Doesn’t mean she’s not still mad.”
“She is crazy. I got the good mother-in-law.”
“About that.” She clears her throat. “We really should have told Mom.”
“Pam? Why?”
“Because she knows a lot about these things.”
“Your mother knows a lot about being a prepper?”
“Not prepper stuff specifically. But systems? Risk analysis? Come on. There’s no one better.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No one can know. Rule number one of being a smart prepper: Tell no one.”
“Tell no one what?” Terry asks from behind, scaring the shit out of me. I can’t let him know he scared me, so I turn to the next emotion: annoyance.
“Nothing. Just talking about money.”
“Oh.”
“What do you think of the remodeling?” Amanda asks nervously. “I know it’s a bit much.”
“Why all the heavy construction equipment outside? Looks like it’s out of scale for the interior work.”
“Re-doing septic,” I lie.
Deflection is an art form. He knows I’m lying, but how do you pry into sewage waste systems?
“You’re keeping Dad’s pool?” Terry always called it that.
“It’s my pool now, but yes. We are.”
“You’ve got an outdoor pool already, and that lap pool was built for athletics. Not leisure,” he says in a voice I’m not used to. I forget that Terry, unlike the rest of the McCormick men, isn’t judgmental. He’s not arguing a case.
He’s genuinely asking.
“Call it nostalgia,” I explain, laughing softly. “I can’t explain why I’m keeping it. I just am. Nostalgia, maybe?”
“For all those years Dad worked you like a dog?”
“For all the years I practiced naked in an empty house.”
Shadows roll over his face, representing emotion I don’t understand. “Got it,” he says, just as Amanda puts her hands on our backs and pushes us to try some food.
Dinner itself is easy: good steaks, good salad, great company.
Best of all? I get to hold a baby. No one tells you how good babies smell. Ellie is a solid sack of potatoes in my arms, my food barely touched as I make googly eyes and soft raspberries at her. She’s in my lap, facing me, triple chins showing as I hold her, those sweet chubby cheeks begging for kisses.
What? You think men can’t find babies adorable? Even Fortune 500 CEOs have weak spots. Mine is my niece.
Especially when she kicks me in my bitten bit.
“Oof!” I groan, tightening my abs, moving those little feet away from soft, injured places where feet definitely don’t belong.
“She kick you in the nuts?” Dec says under his breath, chuckling. “Welcome to fatherhood. It should come with a cup.”
We’re finishing dinner, conversation turned to political events I have no desire to consider, when Ellie reaches for my nose and lets out a ribbon of giggles so pure, I’m not quite sure I heard them.
“Did she just giggle?” Shannon asks.
Wiggly arms bang against mine. “She did! Ellie, did you giggle?”
I get a peal of laughter in response, and then a raspberry.
The entire table claps.
“Why don’t you clap for me when I laugh and stick my tongue out at you?” I ask Declan.
“If you were half as cute as my daughter, I would.”
Terry holds his hands out to me, the gesture clear: my uncle time is over. His uncle timer starts as he holds her in his arms, smiling deeply as she stares back and reaches up, yanking on his beard.
“Tough little grip,” he says, voice deep, making Ellie’s face tighten with fear.
“Shhhhh,” Shannon warns him.
“Okay,” he says in falsetto.
Declan stands and stretches, Shannon walking up next to him, holding the stem of a wine glass. “All four of our hands are free at the same time,” she notes, waggling her eyebrows with a lasciviously hilarious expression.
“Nap time!” Dec calls out.
“It’s not Ellie’s nap time,” Shannon replies.
“Not hers. Mine.” He yawns loudly as if to prove a point, the sound tipping the baby over the edge. Wailing, she makes Terry startle, which just sets Ellie off even more. Shannon’s maternal hands reach for her and bring her into her body. One-handed, Shannon reaches under her shirt, unclasps her bra, lifts a panel of cotton fabric, and instantly, the baby goes quiet.
Amanda catches me watching. “She’s breastfeeding. Just like that.”
“How does she hold the baby and get her to attach like that?”
“I think it’s something installed in you when you grow a placenta from scratch,” she says as she walks away, laughing. I stand and follow her into the other room, where a row of boxes await us.
“My wife has many talents,” Dec says, moving to Shannon and giving her a kiss on the cheek.
We walk back into the room, each carrying a banker’s box that’s clearly heavy. Mine is heavier. We set them down, mine in front of Terry, Amanda’s box in front of Declan.
“Here,” she says. “This is the first of many boxes for each of you.”
“What’s in here?” Terry asks, puzzled.
“Relics from your childhood,” I explain. “We had an archaeologist carbon date them.”
He reaches up and strokes his beard, which has
more and more salt in it every time I see him. “I’m only thirty-seven.”
“That means we’re fifty years apart in dog years, Terry.”
“Woof.”
Because Terry has a voice that goes so deep you’d think his vocal cords were reincarnated from coal miners’ souls, the sound has a jarring feel to it, making us all laugh nervously.
Not quite all.
Declan stands there, now holding a very happy baby, eyes on his box.
“What’s in there? It has my name on it.”
“The shroud of Turin?” I joke.
One-handed, Dec opens the top and peers in, groaning. “The rest of my trophies. Some notes from girls in what looks like sixth grade. A t-shirt from the volunteer week we spent in New Orleans in tenth grade. Geez, Mom,” he says in a soft, teen-like voice. “It’s just crap we don’t need.”
“Mom didn’t consider it crap,” Terry declares, closing his box. “Dad did.”
“I wonder if that’s why it was in that strange storage space behind the furnace?” Amanda asks.
“How many more boxes?” Terry asks her, his throat tightening as if he’s fighting emotion.
“Three. Each. We can help you load it when you go.”
“Thanks.” He finishes his beer and walks into the kitchen, frowning, looking around. “You really modernized this room.”
“We did. It needed it.”
“Amanda told me to take a look around. What’s the deal with the solar panels?”
I freeze. “Uh, hot water for the pool.”
He nods. Doesn’t push. Most people don’t. But Terry’s the type to quietly take it all in and later come to his own conclusions.
“You left the treehouse. You two want kids?”
“Yes.”
A wistful smile makes his beard widen. “Nice.”
“Amanda wants to leave the living room as is. None of the paintings are going. She loves Degas as much as Mom did.”
His smile turns tight, eyes starting to glimmer in the light. Oh, shit. Are those tears?
Just then, Declan walks over, jostling the baby, who is smiling at us. Terry sniffs once, turns away, and laughs, his voice deep as always. That hasn’t changed, even if the house has.
“Normal people go away on their honeymoon and spend a week having sex. You have to up the ante and remodel an entire estate,” Dec says as Terry looks at a figurine Mom bought in Greenland, a carved stone face that creeped me out as a kid.
