Let's Be Frank (47 page)

Filling her water bowl and food dish before leaving, I tell her, “Trust me; I’d rather stay here with you,” pretending she looks sad to see me go. Really, I think she wants me to step aside so she can get to her bowls.

She nudges my ankle with her nose. Yep. If only I could read the nonverbal—and verbal—cues of women as well. Before I get too melancholy about that, I take a deep breath, straighten my back, and remove the toilet paper from my neck.

“I’m going in, Rebes,” I say, rolling the paper between my thumb and forefinger, tossing it in the trash, and moving to give her access to her food, which she attacks as if I haven’t fed her in days. “Send help if I’m not back by seven. That means I’m being sucked into the Sunday night football game.”

She grimaces at me, but I know it’s because she’s trying to work loose a piece of food stuck in her back teeth, not because she’s sympathizing with me, as I’d like to believe.

“Eat slower!”

Ignoring my advice, she buries her face in her lunch. I grab my car keys from the kitchen counter. “Whatever,” I mutter. “I won’t be here to give you the doggy-Heimlich, you know. And if you puke on the couch again, I’m going to be super-pissed.”

Her only response is enthusiastic crunching and a subtle cough.

Since the conversation is only getting more and more pathetic (on my part), I exit without another word, silently vowing for the umpteenth time to put both of us on a strict diet this week.

Hm… yeah. Not gonna happen.

*****

Despite my usual pathological punctuality, I’m the last one to arrive, so when I step onto the deck, my parents, my former future in-laws, and all three of Heidi’s siblings, plus their spouses and children, are crowded around Nick and Heidi. Everyone’s smiling and laughing, and my mom’s crying.

My smile becomes more forced while I anticipate receiving the “news.” Mom takes an interest in our careers, but I don’t think a promotion announcement would ever bring her to tears.

Cautiously, I enter the melée, put up a hand in a tentative wave, and say, “Hey… everyone. Sorry I’m late… although, I didn’t think I was.”

Nick pushes through the crowd to get to me. “You’re not. Everyone else got here early, and we couldn’t wait to tell them our news.”

“Big job news?” Maybe if I pretend for a few more seconds, it won’t sting as much when I finally hear it.

He grins. “No… we’re going to have a baby!”

I let loose with an “Aaagh!” of fake-delight, the most unconvincing performance in the history of bad acting, and pull him to me in a hug. “That’s great, Bro!”

Bro
? That’s his word. I never call him that. Oh, shit. I’m blowing this harder than an emphysemic octogenarian in front of a birthday cake. I look at the group gathered around us and can tell I’m not fooling anyone. My mom’s no longer crying tears of joy; instead, she looks worried. Or is that pity I see in her drying eyes?

I smile at her. It must come off more genuine than my previous act, because her face relaxes, and she smiles back.

I let go of Nick and reach for Heidi. “Give me a hug, Mama,” I say quietly.

For some reason, that ridiculous request sounds completely natural.

After my hugs have been delivered, everyone seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Hands in my pockets, I look around at the dispersing conjecturers and try to exude confidence, but I must have used up my finite stores of thespianism during those months of being Frank. I can tell by the way most people are avoiding eye contact with me that I look as awkward as I feel.

Heidi’s dad bravely nods at me, so I nod back and smile.

Her mom breaks away and says, “Hey, Nate. How’s it going?”

I reply with a simple, “Fine, Mary Jo. How are you doing?” which launches her into a ten-minute gush about how excited she is that her baby girl is going to have a baby.

My dad, thinking he’s rescuing me, approaches us, places a hand on my shoulder, and booms, “What’s new?”

While I search for an answer, he searches my face. Finally, I say, “Not much,” which seems to disappoint but not surprise him.

He rushes to fill the resultant void. “How’s Reba doing? It’s too bad she’s not a fan of these big gatherings.”

Mary Jo’s face brightens. “Oooh… tell me about this new girl of yours!”

I blush and fidget. “Uh. No. I mean, Reba’s… She’s a Corgi.” When it’s obvious Mary Jo still thinks we’re talking about a person (a social-phobic person from the little-known island of Corg?), I clarify further. “A dog. My dog.”

Her eyes widen, and her face flushes. She fingers the pearls around her neck. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought… That is, I assumed… Because I heard you were… unattached… again.”

“I am.”

To prevent another worry-filled silence, I inform Dad, “Hey, I enrolled in UW-Milwaukee’s nurse practitioner certification program.”

Dad’s eyes light up at that information. I’m sure he’s mostly just relieved to have something to talk about, but I’d also like to think he’s proud I’m furthering my career. “That’s great!” He sounds a lot more sincere than I did saying it to myself not too long ago in the mirror.

When he calls my mom over, she smiles expectantly and joins our circle. “What’s going on over here? More good news?”

Dad squeezes my shoulder. “Nate’s going forward with his practitioner certification.”

Mom leans forward and kisses my cheek. “Good for you, sweetie.”

Mary Jo interjects, “You’re so good with the kids.”

I’d almost forgotten she was still standing there with us. Shooting her a grateful smile, I reply, “Thanks. They’re a lot of fun.”

“It’s a waste you don’t have any of your own,” she says more to the watered-down drink in her hand than to me.

I feel Mom tense next to me. “Still plenty of time for that, right?” She places a supportive hand on my forearm.

“Sure,” I humor them all, like a good sport. “Anyway… it’s good to see you again, Mary Jo,” I say, edging away. “I’m going to see what the kids are up to.”

Without waiting for them to reply, I trot down the deck stairs and approach the unorganized Wiffle ball game in the large area of thick grass to the side of the now-covered pool. I wonder if Nick realizes how badly his nieces and nephews are trampling his sod. Oh, well. He’d better get used to not having nice things, now that he has a booger-muncher on the way.

“Hey, Captain Poop Head!” Kingsley greets me. “Wanna play?”

“Heck-to-the-yeah, I do!” I reply, holding up my hands so he’ll throw me the holey ball. “I’ll pitch for you guys.”

Remus cheers and runs for home plate, where he snatches the hollow plastic bat from his younger brother. Percy promptly screeches indignantly.
Should have named that one Hedwig,
I can’t help thinking with a private chuckle.

I’m still—technically—the adult here, so I call to Remus, “Alright, hang on! Give that back to your brother. We’ll let him go first.”

After several minutes of barely contained chaos and at least two knocked noggins, I notice Nick hanging out on the periphery of the game, probably lamenting the condition of his lawn. Looking more closely at him, though, I see he appears to be studying
me
with that disapproving look on his face.

What did I do now?

Pretending not to notice or care that he’s staring at me, I pitch to Amber, then Ruby. As Kingsley’s catching a fly ball, Greta, hugely pregnant with yet another witch or wizard, waddles to the deck rail and calls down for the kids to wash their hands for dinner.

Nick helps me round up the half-dozen Wiffle balls.

“You okay, man?” he asks me as we drop the balls into a pile in the middle of the yard.

“I’m fine,” I lie dismissively before swiftly changing the subject. “I was wondering, though, what theme are your kids’ names gonna follow?”

“Huh?”

“Well, it’s a Plotzler family tradition. Heidi’s parents chose the Lederhosen theme with Hans, Greta, Sonya, and Heidi. Greta’s stickin’ it to the Muggles with her
Potter
theme. What’s the new baby’s name? Hagrid? Sonya’s kids, Jude, Justin, and Jeremiah, are rockin’ the J’s. And Hans, with Amber, Ruby, and Violet, has made his colorful contribution to the population.”

Under the deck, Nick finds the mesh bag that holds the balls. Holding it open for me, he says, “I’m not sure we’re going to have enough kids to have a
theme
for names.”

We’re alone in the backyard, so I feel safe joking, “Aw, come on, now! That’ll never do. The rule is, you have to have at least three, so you better be priming that pump.”

“Dude…”

I’m on a roll, though, and don’t heed the warning in his tone. “Heidi’s family has made it their personal mission to make sure we continue as a race, in case of a zombie apocalypse. So chop, chop! What’s it gonna be? You can go with flowers… I personally think Hibiscus is a beautiful name for a boy
or
a girl. Then there’s Rose, Iris… oh, the possibilities are endless if your swimmers are XX. Or you can go with famous athletes. That way, you have lots of options for both boys
and
girls. Satchel is a great name. Paige: equally great. Or what about names that really aren’t names? That’s very Hollywood, which Heidi would totally dig—”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

His question is quiet, but his word choice brings me up short. “Uh… what?”

“‘That’s great, Bro!’” he mocks me. “‘I’m gonna go play with the kids and be completely anti-social, Bro.’ ‘I’m gonna make fun of your wife’s family, Bro.’ ‘I’m gonna make assumptions about your family planning and be a sarcastic douchebag, because I’m a miserable asshole, Bro.’”

“Hey! What the hell…?” I toss the last ball into the bag and step back, my hands on my hips.

He throws the sack on the ground, as if it’s a gauntlet. “Why don’t you come out and say what’s bothering you, huh? Let’s get it out in the open, once and for all.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit. I guess I’ll say it for you, then, if you’re not man enough.”

“Please, enlighten me.” I cross my arms over my chest.

“Why don’t you admit it’s hard for you to see the only woman you ever came even remotely close to marrying, married to me, and now having my baby? Huh?”

“What? That’s not—”

“Come on. I know, okay? I know. I have the house and the wife and the baby on the way, and I know those are all things you want, too. Well, I’m sorry. We’ve tried to make this as easy for you as we can, but—”

“As easy for me as you can?” I snort. “Like, by inviting everyone else over here a half-hour earlier so you can make your happy announcement and get your cheers out of the way without worrying about my feelings? Like that?”

“We’re sensitive to the fact that all this may be awkward for you.”

“But it’s not! How many times do I have to tell you people that? It’s not awkward for me! You guys
make
it awkward for me by constantly pointing out that it
should
be. If everyone would shut the hell up about it, I might have the chance to forget that I ever saw your wife naked. Or that I know her favorite erogenous zones. Or that she has a tattoo on her left ass cheek that she didn’t have to change when you got married, because you and I have the same damn initials!” I’m marginally aware I’m shouting, but it feels good, and I’m to the point that I don’t care who hears me. “See? I know a bunch of private details, too! But I don’t feel the need to constantly bring them up just to prove to everyone I know them and I’m okay with them. That’s moronic!”

“Keep your voice down, alright?”

“No! I hope everyone hears me! Because every nonverbal cue I’ve been tossing out there since you announced you were marrying her has gone unnoticed. Or ignored. Or whatever. And I’m sick of it!” I tick them off on my fingers, “I don’t want your life. Or your wife. Or your ugly-ass monster house with your pretentious landscaping and your idiotic seasonal décor. Or the hideous, gas-guzzling SUV you’ll surely buy now that you’re adding
one
extra person to your household. I like my Prius, damn it! And I
have
a house. And a dog. And I get to wear pajamas to work!”

Even though nobody’s in sight, I’m sure they’re all inside the back doors, listening. Except the kids. I hope to God the kids are deep enough in the house that they haven’t heard this. I don’t want to be “Weird Uncle Nate…” I mean, “Weird Captain Poop Head.”

“Okay! Dude… I was just trying to figure out—”

“Well, stop it! Stop trying to figure me out, then assuming you know what I want. I’ll tell you what I want. I want the pitying looks to stop. I want the special arrival times for Nate to be a thing of the past. I want people to know that I… I don’t like tattoos, and I definitely never wanted my initials on someone’s ass!” Now, I shove my hands in my pockets and say more quietly, “And the parts of my life that aren’t so great right now have nothing to do with
you
.”

“Hey.” Nick puts his hand on my shoulder. I shrug it off.

Oh, no. Don’t touch me, man. I’m totally gonna lose it.