The Bob Watson Page 8

  Mama stands there, her arms folded, and sticks her chin out. “Keep looking.”

  Cujo lumbers in and hands me my cell. “Angel’s stopping by.” He yanks open the fridge. “Just for a bit.” He pulls out a milk jug, twists off the cap, and starts to chug, sucking on the nozzle like a giant baby slurping on a bottle.

  “What have I told you?” Mama says. “Don’t do that.”

  Cujo keeps chugging.

  Mama roars, “Use a cup.”

  Cujo lowers the jug from his mouth—milk dripping from his beard—and releases a massive belch that echoes throughout the house. “Next time,” he says with a happy sigh and tosses the jug back into the fridge. He dance-walks out of the kitchen, leaving the fridge door open.

  Mama looks away, muttering to herself. “Wild child.”

  My cell vibrates with a text. Audrey?

  It’s my sister.

  HELP! Collin alone bus w/ Chinese tourists. Can u get him?

  Mama approaches from behind, reattaches herself.

  I text back, What? Where r u?

  Mama lets her hands wander, and I decide, What the hell? Maybe she needs this.

  Have appointment with dean of admissions—PRINCETON!!:) . . . Hard to resked. Can u get Collin?

  Princeton? Did I mention Collin is eight?

  Another text comes in: Mix-up at drop-off. . . . He lied to Jenny, said he was supposed to be dropped off at Westin Palo Alto for bus tour.

  Jenny is my sister’s personal assistant.

  But was a big lie. . . . Luke drop-off but NO MIND to check for REST OF CLASS—errrrr!!!

  Luke is my sister’s chef.

  School called, said he’s missing. How EMBARRASSING!!!

  The hands rub my stomach then head south. I pull them back up.

  Jenny called hotel. He’s on bus with Chinese tourists.

  I tap back, Why the hell would he do that?

  Mama gropes and moans.

  No idea. . . . Can u help??? ☺ . . . He’ll be on bus for hours (headed to Vegas) unless you can get him. . . . I have Princeton phoner.

  Maybe it’s not my place to say, but wouldn’t the average parent cancel what they’re doing and run out of the house barefoot—or in their underwear, or in whatever they’re wearing—and dive headfirst into their car, and subsequently break every traffic law known to man in order to pull their child off a bus full of strangers headed to Vegas?

  Hotel can tell u where to intercept.

  This is not the first time my sister has asked me to do something like this.

  Can u help?

  None of this makes sense, or feels right. An eight-year-old child lies about a field trip, gets on a bus full of strangers headed for Vegas. Is this the behavior of a happy child who is healthy and well? Suddenly my Neanderthal project seems like small potatoes. My stomach tightens as I tap, Of course.

  ☺ Merci.

  I let out a frustrated sigh—Ana.

  Mama quakes, “You feel the fire burning, too, baby?”

  Thanks Rick. . . . You know today is just insane.

  Oh yeah—today. Their last day in the States.

  And I stand there wondering who’s going to help this poor kid for the next two years. Luke the vegan chef, who is somehow included in the relocation package? That scares the shit out of me—this kid doesn’t need vegan shakes, he needs love and attention. Audrey is not coming with them. While Ana and Samson James Barnard IV were happy to foot the bill for their vegan chef, they decided they could get a decent nanny for peanuts in Buenos Aires.

  Just take him to school. . . . Call hotel for bus coordinates.

  “Who’s that?” Mama slurs.

  I tap back, OK.

  I slide my phone into my pocket. “Let’s get cracking here,” I say. “We need to intercept a tour bus.”

  “You want me to introduce you to Sabine and drive you to that bus?”

  “Yes,” I snap and try to peel her off me. “I think we have a runaway.”

  Mama lets go and motions to the kitchen. “Then keep looking.”

  I move to close the fridge, but stop when I see an orange container in the vegetable drawer. I glance at Mama. “Is this it?”

  “You’re—”

  The doorbell rings.

  Oh, crap. My stomach weakens and my skin cools. I’m toast.

  Mama seems more surprised than concerned. “No one’s expected home for hours.”

  Cujo bounces to the entryway and opens the door. I scramble for a place to hide.

  Cujo hollers. “Angel’s here.”

  Mama whispers, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about her.” She sighs. “I don’t think she’s a good influence.”

  I hear myself say, “You really play house with these twerps?”

  Mama deflates, looks away. “Don’t judge me.”

  “Mama, can she come in for a while? Please?”

  “I guess so.” Another sigh. “As long as she follows the rules.”

  Silence.

  “And no more alone time behind closed doors.” Mama takes on a stern voice. “I mean it.”

  The front door slams shut. Soon the entry to the kitchen is filled by an enormous white woman in stained back-stretch pants and a giant white sweater. I’m guessing six-foot-something and at least 275 pounds. She’s sucking on a sixty-four-ouncer from 7-Eleven, grinning. “Hi, Mama,” she says, the straw still in her mouth.

  Mama looks away, tired. “Hi, honey.”

  Angel gives me a long look and tongues the straw.

  “You kids respect the house rules, okay?”

  “Sure, Mama.”

  “And we’re leaving soon.”

  Cujo pulls Angel away, says, “We never take long.”

  I watch Cujo lead Angel to the other side of the house and decide, Time to get the hell out of here. I eye the orange object inside the fridge, step forward, and take a knee. Gently, I pull out the vegetable drawer to take a closer look. “There we go,” Mama says. “That’s it.”

  Looking at the orange box, I realize it’s actuallya hard-plastic cooler no bigger than a loaf of bread—I didn’t know they made them that small. Transparent, industrial-grade tape has sealed the lid shut, and the latch is secured by a tiny padlock.

  Okay, this is genuinely weird.

  I peer up to Mama. “We really are here for a reason.”

  She smiles and nods to the cooler. What’s in there? The possibilities race through my mind, flashing before me in nasty little bursts. Drugs. . . . Chemicals. . . . Extrajuicy organs. . . . Embryos. . . . Eggs from an extinct species. . . . A half-eaten chimichanga from Led Zeppelin’s 1970 U.S tour. . . . A prehistoric fish carcass. . . . Milton Berle’s boyhood tonsils. . . . Connie Chung stool samples, circa 1982 . . . I stare into space, wondering what any of this has to do with Dick Rayborne, executive vice president of Human Resources at Robards International. Mama is nearly panting as she points to the cooler. “Take that out and put it on the counter.”

  I pull out my shirttails, tuck my hands underneath, and use the fabric as de facto gloves—again, I will not leave my prints anywhere. On the counter, I give the cooler a closer look. It appears like it could be something you’d bring to work for lunches, but I don’t see any of the usual branding, or any handle or strap for toting it around. But on the side I do notice a tiny white sticker with small, typed print—I lean in and squint at the text.

  “What’s it say?”

  I crinkle my brows. “Uganda.”

  “Make any sense to you, Dickie?”

  Under Uganda, there’s even smaller text:

  24 kg

  Grasslands

  Extraction: Recovery

  M // Olive

  I straighten and turn to Mama. “Robards doesn’t make anything that needs refrigeration. And we don’t do any business in Uganda.”

  Mama reaches into her fanny pack and produces two thin clicks. Almost instantaneously, there’s a loud thump in the TV room followed by the rapid patter of footsteps. In a blink, E
rnie is sliding to a stop in front of us, panting, a crooked grin spreading across his face as he lowers the barbecue prongs to his side. Mama produces a mini of Jack Daniel’s and nods to the cooler. “Be a good helper boy and open that thing for Mama.” Ernie releases a happy noise and lifts the prongs. Within seconds, he’s working the fork end of the prongs into the padlock’s keyhole. Ernie hums to himself as he works the prongs, and Mama says, “It’s awfully quiet on the other side of the house.” She sighs long and hard. “Ernie, when you’re done with this, Mama needs you to go on a secret mission.”

  Ernie works the prongs, releasing strange sounds of contentment.

  “Okay?”

  Ernie nods, and the padlock clicks open.

  “What a good helper boy I have,” Mama says, playing up the sweet, frail granny voice. She offers the mini of Jack Daniel’s, and Ernie snatches it so quickly he’s like a cartoon. He twists off the cap and drains the mini, humming happily before succumbing to a rapturous shudder.

  “Now, Mama needs you to go on that secret mission.”

  He looks at her, his blue eyes enormous and eager.

  She whispers. “Mama needs you to go see what Cujo’s doing and come back and tell me your secret report.”

  Ernie makes a tight squeal. He hands me the empty mini, places the prongs on the counter, and falls to the floor to crawl under the kitchen table. On the opposite end, he reemerges triumphant, clutching a Nerf rifle, ready to fire, and tiptoes out of the room, giggling like a giddy six-year-old.

  “We need to get going,” I say. “My nephew snuck onto a bus headed to Vegas.”

  “Okay, let’s get cranking.” Mama joins me at the counter, breathing hard, and slides the cooler toward me. “Now that we have some privacy, let’s get the show on the road.”

  I use my knuckles to slide it back to her. “I’m not having anything to do with this.”

  Slides it back. “Too late, Dickie boy. We’re here because of you and your paperwork. So stop acting like a victim and open the goddamn box.”

  I step back, looking at the cooler. Whatever it is, I know it won’t be good. Why else would Mama bring me here? I look at her and ask, “I do this, and then we get the hell out of here and we use your wagon to intercept the tourist bus?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you call Sabine what’s-her-name?”

  “Yes,” she yells.

  Then I have an idea. “Mama, we both know it’s wrong to leave any of our kids stranded.”

  Mama allows a grin. “After this, we’ll go find Collin.”

  My stomach eases, and I gaze down at the cooler.

  “C’mon, honey.” Mama slides the cooler closer. “Before the boys start acting up.”

  From the back of the house, the sounds of rapid dart fire and hard thumps.

  I look down at the cooler, then at Mama—she’s right, we need to get out of here. With my hands under my shirttails, I find a steak knife from a drawer and use it to break the taped seal around the cooler lid. I pull out my hands and use the backs of my knuckles to lift the lid. I look in and—it’s a set of vials containing clear liquid. I glance at Mama for a clue, and she’s just standing there, arms folded, relishing my confusion. At which point, Ernie streaks in from the back of the house—that grin more crooked than ever—giggling uncontrollably as Angel rumbles after him in the largest thong I’ve ever seen, flopping and jiggling everywhere. Snarling. In the family room, she tries to corner him, but he easily slips away—again and again. Finally, Cujo emerges fully naked, still erect, clutching his own Nerf rifle, a toothy smile spreading across his face as he sneaks toward the family room.

  My God, he’s hairy.

  Cujo double-pumps the dart gun and snickers. “Where is he?”

  “Okay, that does it.” Mama flips the cooler shut. “The boys have been cooped inside too long. They’re going crazy with cabin fever.”

  I try to ignore the commotion in the family room. “But . . .” I nod to the cooler. “What’s in those?”

  Mama blinks hard. “We need to take the boys someplace to get their energy out.”

  I think of Collin. “Honey,” I snap, playing up the familiarity. “You’ve forgotten about Collin again. We can’t leave our Collin alone on a bus. It’s downright negligent.”

  Mama shakes her head, disappointed in herself. “That’s right.” She balls her fists, lifts her chin into the air, and closes her eyes. “Okay,” she roars. “Everyone in the wagon and buckled up in sixty seconds. Or they don’t get a special prize from Mama.”

  * * *

  Sixty seconds later, the boys are in Mama’s Fleetwood, panting from the mad rush, and still giggling. Cujo works hard to squeeze his massive arms and chest into his jumpsuit, and when he does, the zipper chews up some of his body hair. Not that he seems to care, or even notice. Angel waddles out of the house half-dressed, clutching her shoes and stretch pants, still managing to take a pull from her sixty-four-ouncer. She brushes past me, stops, and leans through the open window on Cujo’s side of the wagon, the bottom of her sweater rising to expose the thong. Her thunder fills the Fleetwood and makes the glass vibrate. “Thanks for nothing, asshole.”

  Cujo and Ernie giggle as Angel barefoots it across the street, cussing, and heaves her things into a dusty Trans Am. I lower my head and scan the neighborhood, see no one else. But God, we must be making a major scene here. I imagine dozens of busybodies watching from the safety of their living room windows, dialing the police or scribbling down Mama’s tags. Or, snapping photos. My heart pounds at the thought. Photos of me. Photos of me participating in a felony. What if my sister found out and I lost the house-sitting gig? Standing near the back of the wagon with Mama, I realize I’m holding the orange cooler. How in the hell did that happen?

  Mama opens the back of the wagon, and I notice the frayed, sun-bleached baby on board sign on the glass. She takes a few hard breaths and nods to the back bay of the wagon. “Put that in here and take two presents from that container there.”

  I don’t budge.

  “C’mon,” Mama snaps. “The boys are getting restless, and we need to pick up Collin.” She opens a blue Tupperware container; it’s stuffed with dozens of shoe-box-size presents, each wrapped in kiddie paper with red and blue balloon designs. She pulls out two presents, says something to herself, like she’s doing math in her head and double-checking the numbers. Then she hands me a third present. “Give that to Angel for being a good girl today.”

  Good girl?

  I follow Mama as she shuffles to Cujo’s side of the wagon. “Now,” she says, her voice so sweet and fragile. “You both did a wonderful job listening to Mama.” They look up at her, silent and eager. “You picked up after yourself, you collected your belongings . . .” She nods to the barbecue prongs placed across Ernie’s lap. “. . . and you were good helper boys, getting everything done in time. So . . .” She eases the presents toward the window but pauses before Cujo can take them. “. . . just one more thing before you get your presents.”

  Cujo moans.

  Ernie growls.

  “Cujo,” she says sternly. “I want you to buckle up.”

  Cujo laughs. When he sees that she’s serious, he flops and moans.

  “Now, don’t you pull that naughty stuff with me, mister. I’ll use the pepper spray again.”

  “Mama,” he pleads. “C’mon.”

  “Cujo,” she snaps. “I’m gonna count to three.”

  “Mama. C’mon.”

  “One.”

  Cujo looks to me. “Warden, you don’t care about buckling up, do you?”

  I say, “Are we really having this conversation?”

  “Two.”

  “C’mon, Mama,” Cujo pleads. “Lighten up.”

  “Don’t let me get to three, mister.”

  Silence, and then, “Mama.”

  “Three.”

  Cujo buckles up. “Gimme a break,” he mumbles.

  “That’s a good boy,” she coos and eases the presents thro
ugh Cujo’s window. With startling velocity, the boys snatch them out of her hands and begin to tear them open. I lean in and squint at the contents. Inside each box is a sealed slice of cured pork belly, a handful of Bazooka bubble gum, two cherry-flavored Tootsie Pops, a 7-Eleven gift card, a half-pint of Wild Turkey, a tin canister of Skoal, a crisp fifty-dollar bill, and three shiny silver dollars.

  Ernie hums happily as he unwraps a Tootsie Pop.

  Cujo enjoys a long pull of bourbon.

  Mama closes her eyes and cocks her head, motherly. “What do you say, boys?”

  Cujo pulls away from his bourbon and quakes. “Thanks, Mama.” Ernie pulls the lollipop from his mouth, releases a happy squeal, his eyes twinkling, and takes a pull from his own bottle, his round little body twitching in delight. A hint of joy spreads across Mama’s face as she watches the boys finger through their loot. She leans in and whispers to me, “It’s important to reward positive behavior.”

  I scan the neighborhood again, still see no one. “We better get out of here.”

  Mama nods, shuts the back hatch of the wagon, and nods to the remaining present in my hand. “Give that to Angel, and I’ll get the car started.”

  “Okay, but . . .” My phone vibrates. “. . . let me just . . .” I squint at the screen—it looks like Audrey has called nine times. There are seven voice mails and four texts, but I’m not sure I have the stomach to go any further.

  Angel starts the Trans Am, and the ground vibrates.

  I stare at the phone, wondering what to do first.

  “Honey,” Mama snaps. “C’mon.”

  It’s too bad about Audrey, but I have to call about the bus.

  “HONEY,” Mama roars.

  I huff, put the phone away, and head toward the Trans Am. I’m in the middle of the street when it rockets from the curb, pulls an immediate U-turn, and accelerates toward me. I dash out of its path just in time as a monstrous arm shoots out of the driver-side window. In a flash, the present is plucked from my grasp as the Trans Am roars past me and accelerates out of the neighborhood. Mama yells from the wagon, “Honey, stop loafing around. The boys are getting restless, and we need to pick up Collin.”