The Blessed Event

by Frankie Bow

  “Let me just look into it. I’ll see what I can find, maybe put some ideas together, and if you don’t like it, you don’t have to use any of it.”

  “Sure.” Donnie gave me a pained smile. “Thank you, Molly. Listen, I’d better get back. Did you want to take some food back to the house?”

  “Am I allowed to take meat inside, with Skye there?”

  “I’ll find something vegetarian.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I checked the fridge before I left. We have plenty of leftovers.”

  I sensed something hovering behind me at the same time Donnie said, “Hey buddy.”

  I turned around. Davison stood there, holding the baby like a football in the crook of his arm.

  “Thought I’d bring him down to say hi. Here, you can hold him, Dad.”

  Donnie took the baby and stood up. Immediately three red-shirted Drive-Inn employees, two girls and a boy, surrounded Donnie, cooing and prodding Junior. Fortunately, they didn’t have much else to do.

  Davison looked around with a puzzled expression.

  “Ho Dad, business is junk, ah? Nobody here. Molly, that’s how come you was looking up restaurant marketing an’ da kine.”

  “How do you know I was looking up restaurant marketing?”

  “You left the search up on your computer.”

  “I was looking at some marketing ideas for the Drive-Inn.” I dropped my hands into my lap. “I’m thinking of outlining a very basic social media plan.”

  Davison plumped down next to me on the bench.

  “’Cause Chang’s Pizza Pagoda?”

  I scooted away from him to reclaim my radius of personal space.

  “Yes. I think Chang’s is the main problem. They’ve expanded their menu, they’re spending a ton on advertising, and they have these two-for-one coupons I think are loss leaders.” I looked up at him. “They can’t be making money. I think they’re buying market share. It’s going to be like what happened to Aloha Airlines. They’re going to keep this up until one of their competitors goes under.”

  “You tried their new menu items?” Davison noticed a spot of baby droll on his forearm and wiped it off with the hem of his shirt.

  “I tried their food one time, in fact. For research purposes.”

  “Dad doesn’t wanna fight dirty.” Davison glanced over at his father, who was expertly burping the baby over his shoulder.

  “No one should fight dirty. Your father is right.” The employees went back to their stations, and Donnie returned to the table.

  “Donnie, it looks like Junior was a big hit with the staff.”

  “That’s our boy. Listen, I should get back. Here you go, buddy.”

  Davison took Junior and hoisted him up so he faced backwards, his little frog legs making climbing motions on Davison’s chest. When Donnie had disappeared into the cooking area, Davison said, “Molly, remember that case we did in your class?”

  “Yes, Aloha Airlines. It’s the one I was just talking about.”

  “Nah, not that one. The drug company. The pills got cyanide in ’em and some people died? They handled it good, but they hadda spend a bunch of money to send out replacement products an’ li’ dat.”

  “Yes,” I said cautiously. “The Johnson and Johnson case. No one’s putting cyanide in Chang’s chow fun focaccia, Davison.”

  “Nah, nah. Alls I’m saying is, what if Chang’s gets one big PR problem? Like, someone finds a big cock-a-roach in the food? And then the picture goes online, an’ all their friends—”

  “No. That’s not how your father does business. It’s not how we do business. And—”

  A thunderous noise resounded from Junior’s diaper. My eyes started to water.

  “Oof. Time to change. Let’s go, little guy. Your mama’s gonna wonder where we been.”

  When Davison was gone, I sat at the picnic table and watched the few customers come and go. Most did takeout, some sat down to eat, and no one had to wait in line or share a table with strangers. At this rate, I doubted the food purchases were even covering the employees’ salaries, let alone the rent, utilities, and the rest of it. And I knew Donnie paid himself last, after everything else was covered.

  The trade winds had pushed the clouds inland, revealing a shiny blue sky. I walked back across the street to the library, signed out another computer terminal, and got to work. Donnie didn’t want my help, and I couldn’t force it on him. But he couldn’t stop me from doing my own research.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  My search for restaurant marketing ideas turned up a lot of information. It was both enlightening and daunting.

  When Donnie built Donnie’s Drive-Inn, it had been enough to offer fast, friendly service, giant portions, and popular menu items.

  But word-of-mouth, Donnie’s marketing tactic of choice, was no longer sufficient. In these days of smartphones and short attention spans, a restaurant had to have an online presence. It had to build a “brand,” a distinctive personality. A restaurant’s online presence had to entertain and inform. Overt self-promotion turned customers off. Any “selling” was done by positive reviews on restaurant review sites.

  I navigated to the top restaurant review site—I don’t know why I’d never thought of doing this before—and pulled up Donnie’s Drive-Inn. I saw two five-star reviews, and a single one-star review:

  Just okay. If you want real plate lunch, try Chang’s Pizza Pagoda.

  I clicked over to Merrie Musubis next. It had two five-star reviews, one four-star review, and a one-star:

  Use to be good. No more. Try Chang’s Pizza Pagoda instead.

  So Chang’s Pizza Pagoda was doing more than just offering some two-for-one specials. Right after I’d scolded Davison for thinking about playing dirty, I found out Chang’s was doing exactly that.

  I would have liked to believe diners were too smart to be taken in by those obviously fake reviews, but unfortunately, I knew better.

  A couple of years ago, our administration decided the results from a popular professor-rating website should be used in tenure and promotion decisions. Linda Wilson from the Student Retention Office had announced the new system to the faculty with great enthusiasm. She went on to explain this method drew on the wisdom of crowds, which she called “crowdsurfing.”

  Of course, the faculty objected. What about the negative (and poorly spelled) reviews, which predictably popped up whenever you busted a student for cheating? What about the fact that anyone, anywhere in the world, could leave reviews for professors they’d never met? But the administration had made up its mind, and the system went into effect immediately.

  Pat Flanagan, Emma Nakamura, and I did the only sensible thing: We started posting positive reviews for one another. You might call it “gaming the system.” We called it “self-defense.”

  I created an account on the restaurant review site and left an honest, positive review for Donnie’s Drive Inn. I cited the Drive-Inn’s massive portions and reassuring cleanliness. Then I navigated to where Chang’s Pizza Pagoda was listed. I perused the dozen or so positive reviews (most of which were short variations on “try Chang’s”) but I didn’t add one of my own. I was tempted, but as I had told Davison, “We don’t do business like that.”

  I did an online search for a model social media marketing plan, and found one that seemed doable. Just as I was mailing it to myself, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the librarian. She was one of those lucky people who can wear a cardigan when it’s eighty-seven degrees and seventy percent humidity.

  “We close at five,” she said. “I hope you found what you needed.”

  “It was very informative.” I stood and gathered my things. “Thank you.”

  Rather than heading straight home, I walked back across to Donnie’s Drive-Inn. I’d get a soft drink, sit down, and enjoy the occasional puff of ocean breeze from the Bayfront. I might even have a chance to see Donnie again if he wasn’t too busy. Which he probably wouldn’t be.

  “Good evening,
Missus.” The young woman in the red polo shirt smiled as she handed me my 32-ounce diet root beer. “He’s out back.”

  I went around to find Donnie loading several large, covered foil trays into the back of his SUV.

  “Are you leaving work already?” I asked.

  “Yeah, it’s been pretty slow today.”

  “I don’t think we need that much food for dinner.”

  “It’s left over anyway. We miscalculated and made too much. I don’t want to trash it. The employees are taking home the meat dishes.”

  “We’ll have a nice big dinner then.” I smiled. “Can I help?”

  “No, this is the last one.” He slid in the tray and pulled down the hatch. “Did you walk down? Or do you have your car?”

  “I walked.”

  Donnie opened the passenger door for me, and then climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “When do you think we’ll meet the mother?” Donnie pulled out onto the main road.

  “The baby’s mother? Oh, we shouldn’t rush them. She’ll meet us when she’s ready. We don’t need to insert ourselves into Davison’s private affairs.”

  “She must be really haole, the mother,” Donnie said.

  I’d always thought haole was a slur, but Emma told me haole just means a person of European extraction. Unless it’s prefaced by an obscene gerund. Then it’s an insult.

  “Why do you think the mother is ‘really haole’?” I asked.

  “Junior’s pretty fair-skinned. He didn’t get that from Davison.”

  “Probably not. Oh, I ran across something interesting online today. It was about restaurant marketing and how online reviews and social media are so important nowadays. Have you checked the Drive-Inn’s online reviews?”

  “No. If you have a quality product, you shouldn’t need all the hype.”

  “It might be something to try. I mean, it couldn’t hurt. And I’d be happy to help. I know you’re busy at the Drive-Inn, but I can set up a plan, get you a website, set up some social media accounts, maybe spend a little on advertising—”

  “It’s nice for you to want to help, Molly. But it’s not necessary. And it sounds like it’ll take a lot of time. Don’t you need to work on your research?” Donnie pulled into the carport, next to my Thunderbird.

  “I’ll help you carry the trays in,” I said. “Let me do that, at least.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Donnie and I came home to a haphazard dining table. Sloppily-folded paper towels served as napkins. The drinking vessels were a motley assortment. Forks had been placed to the right of the plates.

  “Who set the table?” Donnie asked.

  Davison emerged from the side hallway “I set the table, Dad. Looks good, yeah?”

  “Thanks, Son. Nice job.”

  I stared at Donnie.

  “Nice job, Donnie? Really?”

  “What?”

  “Davison, why are there six places? There are only five of us. Is the baby joining us for dinner?”

  Davison held his finger up, as if to say, “Just a minute,” and disappeared into the guest room.

  “Donnie, whenever I set the table, all you say is, ‘thank you for trying to help,’ as you rearrange all my place settings. But this you call a ‘nice job?’”

  “I’m just doing what you told me, Molly. Remember? Positive reinforcement. Praise him when he helps out around the house.”

  Donnie placed the food trays on the kitchen counter. I’d probably eat a little bit of everything except for the mac salad. (The idea of macaroni salad and rice cohabiting on the same plate still struck me as contrary to the laws of nature.)

  “Some positive reinforcement is helpful.” I peeled the foil back from one of them. “But it seems unfair to give Davison a pass on the table-setting when I. . .”

  The aroma of fried rice enveloped me. I had skipped lunch, but that wasn’t the only reason it smelled so enticing.

  “Donnie, are you sure this fried rice is vegetarian?”

  “This should all be vegetarian.”

  “Well, I think there’s char siu pork in this. Isn’t that what those little red pieces are?”

  Donnie came over to examine the fried rice, and sighed.

  “I picked up the wrong tray.”

  “Hey, I’ll eat it.”

  “All right, we won’t set it out tonight. I think we have enough for dinner without it.”

  “Let’s cover it and hide it in the fridge. I’ll have some for breakfast.”

  I re-sealed the foil around the fried rice tray and slid it into the bottom drawer of the refrigerator.

  “Everyone ready to eat?” Donnie called out.

  I got to work, ferrying plates from the kitchen to the dining table. Gloria came out from the guest room, with Skye right behind her.

  “Where’s Davison?” Gloria asked.

  “He said he’d be right out,” Donnie said. “Please. Everyone sit down.”

  As soon as we were all seated, we heard rustling and baby squawks coming from the hallway. Then Davison’s voice: “Shh-shh. Okay, now.”

  Davison walked out, carrying a squirmy Junior.

  “Okay babe,” Davison announced as Junior tried to grab his nose. “Everybody, I want you to meet my fiancée.”

  I felt my appetite shut right off. This was going to be ugly. What had I been thinking, imagining I could keep the news about Davison and Sherry from Donnie? I should have told Donnie everything—all of my suspicions—as soon as I had the chance. Now Donnie was going to wonder what else I was keeping from him, and whether he could trust me at all.

  I held my breath, wishing I could slide under the table.

  And out she came.

  She was shorter than I remembered her, and she looked tired without her makeup, but I recognized her right away.

  “Tiffany.” I leaped up so fast I almost knocked over my chair.

  “Eh, where’s your ring, Tiff?” Davison asked.

  Davison was engaged to Tiffany Balusteros. Not Sherry Di Napoli. Cue the angel chorus.

  “Fingers too fat right now.” Tiffany held up a bare, slender hand. Gold charm-studded magenta fingernails glowed against her brown skin. “Can’t get it on past my knuckle. Gotta pee out all the water weight first.”

  Tiffany had not been among my star students. She had been absent so often I’d barely managed to learn her name before the end of the semester. She had shown up for the exams (or at least someone who looked like Tiffany did) and in the end, had done well enough on those to squeak through Intro to Business Management with the lowest possible passing grade.

  Recognition dawned on Tiffany’s pretty face as she focused on me.

  “Ho, I thought you was joking, baby. Barda’s your stepmom f’real?”

  “Congratulations, Tiffany.” I beamed at her. “It’s really nice to see you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I woke up early the next morning with my head pounding. I was never good at sleeping through noise, and we now had four adult houseguests and one outspoken baby staying with us.

  I eased myself out of bed and went into the bathroom for some ibuprofen and a glass of water. The house was quiet now. I supposed everyone was resting up. It must have taken a lot of effort to stay up all night slamming doors, flushing the toilet every ten minutes, and knocking pot lids onto the kitchen floor.

  I pulled on a pair of pajama pants and an old Alice Mongoose t-shirt, and shambled zombie-like into the kitchen. Donnie had left the coffee machine on for me. I found my favorite mug, a sixteen-ouncer with a wraparound illustration of Chicken Boy. I brewed a serving, futilely shush-ing the machine as it hummed. Then I eased the fridge open to get the cream, and stirred cautiously to avoid clanking the spoon against the mug. I was trying not to wake anyone, which I thought was very considerate of me.

  I padded over to my workstation, sat down, and jiggled the mouse to wake up my computer. Then I lifted the mug to my face, inhaled, and prepared to take a sip. My serene moment was shattered
by what sounded like a herd of cattle clattering up the steps to the front door.

  Bong! The doorbell sounded. I froze. Good. The doorbell didn’t wake the baby. What did wake the baby was the raucous hammering on the door right afterward.

  I hurried over to look through the peephole as Junior’s wails filled the house. I saw Andy De Silva, in uniform, and Detective Ka`imi Medeiros, in plainclothes, which this morning was a bright turquoise floral aloha shirt in size 4XL. Medeiros’s expression was a grim counterpoint to his festive attire.

  I invited the two officers in. Detective Medeiros looked around to discern the source of the crying. De Silva sniffed the air and winced.

  “We have a new baby. Not mine,” I added quickly. “He belongs to my stepson, Davison, and Davison’s fiancée, Tiffany Balusteros.”

  “Balusteros?” Medeiros asked. “The Balusteros World of Furniture family?”

  “Yes. I believe so.” As a student, Tiffany had displayed all of the initiative and drive one might expect from someone who already had a guaranteed job in the family business.

  “Donnie’s Drive-Inn and Balusteros World of Furniture?” De Silva grinned. “It’s like on da kine, the show. Two powerful dynasties coming together.”

  “I never thought of it like that. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “We’d like to talk to your sister-in-law,” Medeiros said. “Gloria Kealoha. Is she here?”

  I excused myself into the side hallway and tapped on the door of the second guest room.

  There was no answer. I knocked again, and finally I heard Gloria’s voice. “We’re sleeping.”

  “Someone’s here to see Gloria,” I said.

  “Okay, okay. Hold your horses.” Skye mumbled something, and I heard Gloria say, “Nah, Baby, you stay here.”

  Medeiros and De Silva were standing in the living room exactly where I’d left them, when I came back.

  “Gloria will be right out. Please have a seat.” I indicated the couch, the only piece of furniture I was confident would accommodate Detective Medeiros safely. The men seated themselves, De Silva occupying one cushion, Medeiros taking up the other two.