“We’re flying on Walter’s private jet.”
Walter. I was beginning to hate the sound of his name, almost as much as I hated the word errands.
“Wow,” I said. “You’re moving up in the world.”
“It’s not my jet,” she said, smiling, “it’s his.”
“I knew you could pull it off all by your lonesome,” Marge said. “You should be proud.”
“I’m not proud. I’m exhausted.”
We were at my parents’ place by eleven on Saturday, and the day was already sweltering. Marge and Liz sat across from me on the back porch while I recounted the week I just spent in all its hectic detail. London was helping my mom make sandwiches; Dad was, as usual, in the garage.
“So? You told me yourself you finally felt like you were hitting your stride on that last presentation.”
“A lot of good it did. And I’ve got nothing lined up for next week.”
“On the bright side,” Marge said, “that should make it a lot easier to get London to all her activities, and you’ll have more time to cook and clean.”
When I glared at her, Marge laughed. “Oh, lighten up. With Vivian starting work, you knew it was going to be a crazy week anyway. And you know that whole it’s always darkest before the dawn thing? I have the feeling that dawn is right around the corner.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I was thinking as I drove over here this morning that I should have been a plumber like Dad. Plumbers always have work.”
“True,” Marge said, “but then again, there’s a lot of crap involved with it.”
Despite my mood, I laughed under my breath. “That’s funny.”
“What can I say? I bring joy and mirth to everyone around me. Even whiny little brothers.”
“I haven’t been whining.”
“Yes you have. You’ve been whining since you sat down.”
“Liz?”
She absently picked at the armrest before answering. “Maybe a little.”
After lunch, and with the day only getting hotter, I decided to bring London to the movies, one of those animated ones. Marge and Liz came with us and seemed to enjoy it as much as London did. As for me, I wanted to enjoy it, but my thoughts kept drifting to the previous week, which made me wonder what on earth might be coming next.
After the movie, I didn’t want to go home. Marge and Liz seemed content to hang out at my parents’ place as well, and Mom ended up making tuna casserole, something London regarded as a treat, what with all the white flour in the pasta. She had a larger than normal portion and began to doze in the car on our way back home; I figured I’d get her in the bath, read a few stories, and spend the rest of the night zoning out in front of the television.
But it was not to be. As soon as she got in the house, she trotted to see the hamsters and I heard her voice calling to me from upstairs.
“Daddy! Come quick! I think something is wrong with Mrs. Sprinkles!”
I went to her room and peered into the cage, staring at a hamster that seemed to be making an attempt to push through the glass. Her room smelled like a barn. “She seems fine to me,” I said.
“That’s Mr. Sprinkles. Mrs. Sprinkles isn’t moving.”
I squinted. “I think she’s sleeping, honey.”
“But what if she’s sick?”
I had no idea what to do in that case and opening the lid, I scooped Mrs. Sprinkles into my hand. She was warm, always a good sign, and I could feel her begin to move.
“Is she okay?”
“She seems fine to me,” I said. “Do you want to hold her?”
She nodded and cupped her hands; I put the hamster in them. I watched as she brought the little critter closer to her face.
“I think I’ll just hold her for a little while to make sure.”
“All right,” I said, kissing the top of her head. “But not too long, all right? It’s already almost bedtime.”
I kissed her on top of the head and headed toward the door.
“Daddy?” she asked.
“Yes?”
“You need to clean their cage.”
“I’ll do it tomorrow, okay? I’m kind of tired.”
“Mommy said you’d clean it.”
“I will. I just said I’d clean it tomorrow.”
“But what if it’s making Mrs. Sprinkles sick? I want you to clean it now.” Not only was she not listening, her pitch was beginning to rise, and I wasn’t in the mood to deal with it.
“I’ll be back in a little while to get you ready for bed. Put your dirty clothes in the hamper, okay?”
For the next half hour, I flipped through the channels, finding nothing whatsoever to watch. More than a hundred channels and zippo, but then again, I was cranky on top of being tired. Tomorrow, I’d be scooping poop from a hamster cage, my client list was hovering at zero, and unless there was some sort of miracle, it would remain that way another week. Meanwhile, my wife was flying on private jets and staying at the Ritz-Carlton.
In time, I rose from my spot on the couch and went back to London’s room. By then, her hamsters were back in the cage and she was playing with her Barbies.
“Hey sweetheart,” I said. “Are you about ready for your bath?”
She answered without turning toward me. “I don’t want to take a bath tonight.”
“But you got all sweaty with Nana today.”
“No.”
I blinked. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“I’m mad at you.”