Chapter 32

In many ways, I find children hard to understand. Not as hard to figure out as women, but that’s to be expected. Women just have too many raging hormones flowing through their bodies.

One minute, they are fine. The next, it’s like they have been forced to watch The Lawrence Welk Show for days on end. They can be happy and then sad, or vice versa, faster than the speed of light.

My experience with women has not been great. Some of the blame is mine. I’m sure women can find some fault with me. No, it’s true. You can argue all you want. Sometimes my patience isn’t the best and I never liked walking around in malls oohing and aahing over clothes I wouldn’t wear if somebody paid me.

When somebody tells me something, I like the Reader’s Digest abridged version. It has been my experience with many women, they like to tell you the story, then throw in all these extras that leave me with my head spinning. Just tell me the facts. I am not a judge or the jury.

Also, I generally don’t like to sit down and “talk”, like women do with their girlfriends. It’s boring for me, as it is for most men. They like to talk about kids, houses, cars, family and how bad so-and-so’s breast enhancement wound up.

Now, the last topic does have some interest to me. But a lot of the talk is just speculation. They never have the facts.

But I do appreciate a lot of women, mainly the ones that are mothers and married. Most of the single ones out there scare me, much like the one sleeping off the drunk in the back of Squiggy’s truck.

I also realize women do a lot of good things. Without women, there would be no Michael Hunt. Many of my meals have been prepared by women and they have provided some of my best memories. So this isn’t some trash women day. I just wanted to get the message across that they are even harder to understand than children.

It’s not that I dislike children, but like women, they are hard to understand. I haven’t actually spent much time around little kids since I was a little kid. I didn’t understand, nor did I want to be around them then, and don’t feel much different now.

I remember as a child, I couldn’t wait to grow up and be around adults, who I expected to behave in a mature fashion. Naturally, I found out that many adults act worse than kids. It’s one of those things you never find out until it’s too late.

Sometimes kids can be cute, I guess. I enjoy watching some kid dive into his birthday cake and wind up with the icing all over his face. Now that is just good stuff. But I know that after that happens, at least for the parents, there is a cleaning up period. You know the drill. For every kid action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

April’s little boy, M.J., was presently scaring the you-know-what out of us, or at least the guys. We acted like he was a bomb fixing to blow. The women, namely April and my mother, knew how to handle the situation.

I’ll never figure out how women know what to do in situations like this. Guys wind up standing around, scratching their bald spots, while the women take care of it. It’s like they have some inherent instinct to know what to do when something is wrong with a child.

That goes with women who aren’t even mothers. How do they know these things? It’s kind of like all men think they can fix something, or at least want to give it a whirl. The thingamajigee under the sink’s leaking water? Hey, hand me that big old wrench that I bought in anticipation of some emergency like this!

Or the truck won’t start? Pop that hood! Let me take a look! I try to avoid all things mechanical or in need of repair, so I am a little different from most guys. I don’t get any enjoyment out of parking a truck under the shade tree and spending hours working on some engine.

You pay people to do that. I’m paid to write stories, not change the plugs or unstop a toilet.

M.J. had gone from having a serious fit to quiet. It’s like somebody hit the fit switch and turned him off. He buried his head against his mother and seemed determined to touch her with every bit of his body that was possible.

Mom was rubbing his back and whispering something in the boy’s ear. All the guys were acting like we were afraid the Alien would burrow his way out of the boy’s tummy and have us for breakfast. At least I would be third in order. I think the Alien would go after Squiggy first since he was wearing a good portion of his breakfast on his Sunday best, then Mule since there was more of him to eat.

We were all easing away from the little fellow. I had almost slipped out of the family room. Squiggy was still crouched down against the wall, looking through his fingers like he was watching a scary movie. Mule was so distracted he had stopped hitting on April.

April sat back down on the couch. Mom joined her. All the guys scooted a little farther away. Mom broke away from the soothing talk and back rubbing to look at the guys. She looked disappointed and shook her head. I had seen that look before. I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now.

Yeah, us men, we’ll ruin in burning buildings to save babies. But don’t expect us to deal with a baby who is crying, or who has left a steaming pile in it's diaper. That should be a law.

“Michael, what are you doing?” Mom asked.

“Nothing,” I answered, wishing there was some way to escape without further disappointing the women in this room.

“Go get him a wet rag!”

Gosh, it was like she expected me to already have done this. I wanted to tell her to lighten up, give me a break, woman!

“Yes, Mom.”

At least I got a momentary break from the drama unfolding in the family room. One that was attractive to Squiggy and Mule.

“Let me give ya a hand there,” Mule suggested.

“Yeah, sounds like a good idea,” Squiggy agreed.

The thought that it took three grown men to go get a wet rag for the small lad was not going over well with my mother. I expected her to say something, but she only shook her head. It was a good thing because if she had, I was going to hit her back with the old “Yeah, and there’s no way all the women at a table need to pee at the same time!” line when they all go to the bathroom at the same time.

We took more time than necessary getting the cloth wetted.

“That’s too wet,” Squiggy argued.

“Naw, you gotta have it drippin off the thing,” Mule countered.

“I think this is just right,” I suggested.

“Ya ain’t givin the dern kid a bath!” Squiggy insisted.

“Ain’t gonna do no good if de boy don’t feel no water!” Mule fired back.

I thought the water level was appropriate and left them arguing in the kitchen.

“Mule, yer a dumb idjit!”

“I ain’t no retard! Yer dumber’n the dog ticks I squish on a concrete with de patio furniture!”

I walked back into the family room and held it out to my mother with my arm extended. As far as I was concerned, there was some force field surround the kid and the women. Kind of like Captain Kirk would order the Starship Enterprise to put up when the Klingons were attacking.

“Michael, I needed a rag, not a towel,” she pointed out.

What’s the difference? I wanted to ask, but gave one of those, “Oh, yeah” looks that guys always flash in instances like this that further cements a female’s argument that guys only think about a few things and 99.9 percent of those are not important. Isn’t bigger better? That’s what the women always say.

“Want me to go get a rag instead?” I asked, and instantly wished I hadn’t. That would mean listening to more of the argument going on in the kitchen. It was now loud enough we could hear them in the family room. I looked back at the kitchen and felt trapped. If I stayed here, it would be around women caring for a small child. If I went back in the kitchen, I would have to deal with Squiggy and Mule.

“No, this will work.”

I didn’t much care for Mom’s tone of voice. Not that there was much I could do about it. I crept over to the chair and sat down, keeping plenty of room between me and the couch.

The boy was sucking away at his thumb and crying. I felt sorry for him. Clueless about what to do, but my heart did go out to him. That was heart, not hands. He raised up, cupped his hand and whispered something to his mother. Obviously, it was about me as they both looked at me.

“Go ahead and ask him,” April said.

M.J. shook his head back and forth twice. That was a big negative. He wasn’t ready to talk to me yet. That was also good, something he shared with me. I wasn’t all that eager to talk to him either. He might go into one of his fits.

“You ast im,” M.J. insisted.

“I know the answer.”

“Tell me.”

“He’s not your father.”

M.J. raised up slightly and looked into the kitchen. He scratched his chin, frowned and looked at his mother.

“No son, neither one of them is your father either.”

M.J. gave off a sigh of relief. I can’t say I blame him. The thought that Mule or Squiggy was my father, or even a father, would be scary. They came walking back into the family room and never stopped.

“Where are you going?” I asked. It looked like they were leaving! They never did this when I wanted them to go. No, they only did it the one time I needed their company. The human boils were leaving me with the women and child.

“We’s goin to church,” Squiggy answered, then looked at M.J. “Catch ya later, little feller. Sorry bout makin ya have a fit.”

M.J. watched them walk through the room, burrowing closer to his mother. Mom kept looking back and forth between them and the kitchen. She was obviously worried that they had the run of the kitchen without her watching.

Right after they left, Mom sped off to the kitchen, leaving me alone with April and the boy! I wanted to grab something and call for backup. Man overboard! Mayday!

We sat there in silence for a few minutes. Mom was obviously going through everything in the kitchen, making sure our other two visitors had not stolen anything, or messed anything up worse than they already had.

“Can I goff?” M.J. asked.

“Ask Mr. Hunt,” April suggested. I looked around the room. There wasn’t a Mr. Hunt anywhere to be seen. The only one I knew had died last night.

“Goff?” the boy asked.

“Knock yourself out,” I answered. Apparently, this wasn’t the answer a five-year old boy understood. He looked at his mother for a translation, much like they do at the United Nations when some speaker from some country, one that nobody can spell, decides to address the honorable representatives.

“It’s okay,” April said.

I watched as the boy walked around the opposite end of the table away from me and headed to his putting green, or actually brown, since that was the color of the carpet. He never turned his back on me, always keeping me in his sights. There would be no sneak attacks on him today. It would have to be a full-frontal assault.

Naturally, I was at a loss for words.

“Dad died last night,” I finally mentioned.

April looked at me with her mouth open. I haven’t seen her so scared since back when we were married and I suggested we move out of our apartment into a house, which would have taken her away from some very close friends.

“I am so sorry,” she said. Her shoulders sagged and she looked away from me. “We’ll go.”

Gosh, that was all it took? I should have said that when they were standing at the door.

“You don’t need to go,” my mother countered. She had snuck back into the family room and pretty much ruined everything.

“Are you sure?” April asked. She looked at and received a nod from Mom. My reply was a little slower to formulate.

“It’s okay,” I said. Notice the clever word play? I was neither saying she should go, or that it was all right for her to stay. You can probably tell I make my living from the use of words.

We settled down to one of those conversations where you are in the room and there is talk, but much of it is things you don’t understand or care enough about to take part in. I let them talk for a while, as I carefully examined every thing in the room that could occupy my attention.

“Why don’t you play with M.J.?” Mom suggested. I had never performed an act of road rage before. I had never done any family room rage, either. But Mom was trying to drive me over the edge.

I looked at the boy like it was the scariest thing I had ever done. I would rather walk through quicksand and crawl through a tunnel where a giant fire ant colony makes its home.

They were all looking at me, even the boy. I remembered what happened the last time an adult male tried to play with him. Regan, the little girl on The Exorcist looked calm compared to him.

“Uh, you wanna play?” I asked.

The boy shook his head, no. With what I perceived to be way too much vigor, I might add. Good boy! I wanted to shout! He saved me.

“It’s okay,” April said. I fired off a dirty look in her direction. It must have hit that dreaded force field as it had no effect.

“Go ahead,” Mom added. Argh, double teamed, I was, as Yoda would say. But he probably would have omitted the “argh” part and never found himself in such a situation. He was a Jedi Knight after all, and much wiser than me.

I slowly got out of the chair and down to the floor. This was even worse than facing a divorce attorney representing the other side, but that is something I have done enough not to let it bother me a great deal. “We have a great deal of evidence suggesting you were a terrible husband!” they would say. Big deal, I would counter, just tell me how much this is going to cost me so I can go on with my life.

M.J. watched me carefully, wanting to make sure I did not invade his personal space. He had nothing to worry about. I have always heard the straight line is the quickest. I do believe this. In no way or shape did my route even come close to straight. I veered way out to the left, like I was trying to flank him, in army terms.

He tossed the ball in my direction. I picked it up and looked at it, then back at him. He nodded, giving me the okay to proceed. I rolled the ball in the general direction of the cup. I failed to take into consideration the direction the shag carpet was falling and missed badly.

M.J. chuckled. I wanted to protest. Where’s the sportsmanship? You aren’t supposed to laugh when your opponent misses! Arnie Palmer never did that when Jack shanked a putt, or he did a good job of concealing it. M.J. grabbed the ball and rolled it right into the cup. The ball was returned to him and he gave me one of those “See how superior, I am?” looks that I am so familiar with.

I gave it one more of the old college tries. It was actually not a college try. It was more along the lines of a horrible try. I just couldn’t get the line on this thick shag carpet. The ball didn’t even sniff the cup this time, even worse than my prior effort.

This pretty much summed up my life at the moment. I was aiming at something and missing badly. Life was like my putting in this silly little game I was playing with M.J. I knew where I wanted to go, but things were drawing me away, much like the fibers in the shag carpet affected my roll of the golf ball.

If somebody had told me two days earlier all that was going to happen in my life, I would have made my first trip to a therapist. I would never imagine that by Sunday morning, I would be playing with some kid on the floor of Mom’s family room, and losing badly.

“You thuck,” M.J. pointed out, and I had to agree.

Chapter 33