Bad Games

2



“Daddy, Caleb said he was hungry. How much further?”

“No I didn’t!” Caleb took a swipe at his sister that missed.

Patrick glanced at his wife. “You think we should stop somewhere? We’ve still got about a half hour to go.”

Amy looked at the clock on the dashboard then double-checked it with her watch. It was twelve-thirty. They hadn’t eaten since seven. “Yeah, maybe we should. Where though?”

“I’m sure we’ll come across something soon,” he said. “People around here like to eat.”

“Probably because it’s the only thing there is to do around here.”

“Well that’s the whole point, right?”

“To eat?”

“No—to have absolutely nothing to do. Eat, drink, s-e-x, and eat and drink some more. We’re going caveman-style, baby.”

“Just as long as you don’t start dragging me around by my hair.”

“No hair-pulling? I thought you liked that?”

Amy opted for the pinch to the arm instead of the slap to the leg this time. “Would you stop?”

Patrick jerked away from the pinch. “Ouch.” He rubbed his arm. “They won’t know what that one means.”

“Our kids? Don’t be so sure, caveman.”

Patrick turned to the back seat, scratched his head like a monkey would, then grunted, “You kids want food, ya?”

Both Caleb and Carrie exchanged uncertain smiles. Their father’s playful change in manner was not out of character, but this new material—the caveman—had managed to suspend their laughter for a few seconds while they tried to figure out just who exactly their nutty dad was trying to portray this time around. It mattered little anyway. Caveman, pirate, monster—it was the frequent shift in character they loved. There was no need for a formal introduction to the day’s performance; the sincere attention and child-like zeal their father constantly provided was enough.

“What food you want?” Patrick grunted again.

“Pizza,” Carrie giggled.

“What ’bout Caleb? What food Caleb want?” His left hand on the wheel, Patrick reached behind his seat with his right and began tickling his son’s stomach. “Pizza okay with Caleb?” A “yes” managed to squeak its way out of the boy between fits of laughter.

“Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!” Patrick leaned for a grab at Carrie. The little girl wriggled as far away as her car seat allowed, screeching with delight each time her father’s fingertips grazed her.

Amy, who was finding it near impossible not to smile, couldn’t resist a dig at her husband. “You’re such a dork.”

“You love this dork,” Patrick replied, now in twenty-first century English.

“You have your moments.”

Patrick instantly began crooning Edwin McCain’s “These are the Moments.”

Amy slapped both hands over her ears and winced. “Please make it stop.”

Patrick continued his attempt at singing (a little bit louder now to ensure proper annoyance, of that she was sure) while grinning at his wife like a loon.

She turned away from him, but succumbed to the smile. “Dork.”