Karen was Karen. Beautiful, serious, ambitious, an over-achiever; a Republican’s republican. Great shape. Scores of 5K runs; three marathons completed. A runner’s runner. Cool, distant, almost never cried, a hard-nosed head cheerleader, a not-very-benevolent queen bee. Probably, a bitch’s bitch. But she was my oldest child, voted most likely to make me a grandfather, and, views on health-care reform notwithstanding, I loved her dearly.
Despite my efforts to compartmentalize, to focus on Karen, my thoughts invariably shifted to Ethan, still asleep next to me. I worried how he would behave at the wedding. He was capable of anything. Visions of a meltdown, complete with screaming and food throwing, appeared. I had to be prepared for a worst-case scenario, make sure contingency plans were in place, hope that the 9-1-1 in Charleston had quick response times. Karen had been lukewarm to the idea of his coming to the reception. I knew I was taking a risk.
I lay there for a moment longer, overwhelmed, my mind spinning, my life pinning me down. I then performed my morning ritual for the past nineteen years: I cursed God, then prayed to Him and pushed myself out of bed.
*
After Ethan woke up and after I got him ready for the day (bath, brush teeth, deodorant); and after I got him dressed (orange Illini T-shirt, navy-blue sweat pants, white socks, black running shoes); and after we ate at a Waffle House across from the hotel (three pickles, orange juice, four sausage links, and half a pancake for Ethan, several pots of black coffee for me); and after I managed to mention to the waitress that I had played basketball at Illinois (“I was just a walk-on, no biggie, but I played some”); and after we walked around the student quad, and after I realized there was really nothing to see in the student quad; and after an increasingly restless Ethan asked, “Do. Now?” exactly 104,000 times and I questioned the sanity of my late-night driving plan with always-restless Ethan exactly 104,000 times; and after I ignored Mary’s phone call, presumably asking where I was, we found ourselves back in the king-size bed at the Courtyard. It was all of ten o’ clock.
“Do. Now?” Ethan asked.
“I don’t know, maybe go swimming? They have a pool here.”
“No! Do. Now?”
“I don’t know, maybe watch TV? SportsCenter? Top Ten is on in the morning.”
“Do. Now?”
“I don’t know, maybe tie some sheets together, make a noose, hang myself?”
“Do. Now?”
I knew where this was going. All roads eventually led there. I took a deep breath, considered increasing my daily Beam ration, and said, “I don’t know, Ethan. What do you want to do?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Stinky Bear.”
*
Stinky Bear was a sassy, horny little teddy bear, full of insightful and often (depending on the size of my Jim Beam ration) outrageous comments about life, love, and the state of civilization. He spoke in a high and mildly irritating falsetto voice, his breathless enthusiasm inspired, in part, by Dick Vitale, the excitable college basketball commentator, and Austin Powers, the excitable international man of mystery. I had created his character years ago to help wile away the hopeless weekend hours when Ethan wasn’t in school and respite care was not available. Stinky Bear amused Ethan and me for years and was regarded, along with his mother, Red Bear (a relatively soft-spoken, alcoholic teddy bear with a British accent), and Grandpa Bear (a no-nonsense African American teddy bear who sounded, I was told, or at least liked to believe, like Morgan Freeman) as members of the family.
“What. Do. Stinky Bear?” Ethan asked.
I was lying down on the hotel bed, surrounded by all three bears, Ethan sitting crossed-legged next to me, rocking back and forth. I could tell a tense mood was rapidly coming on, the new surroundings taking a toll. He needed a good dose of the Bears to set him right.
I picked up Stinky and bounced him on my stomach. He was the smallest of the bears and wore a sleeveless red jersey with the number 1 on the front, and matching red shorts. While the other bears all played major roles in the long-running series, Stinky Bear was the unequivocal star of the show.
“A little of this, a little of that!” I answered Ethan in Stinky Bear’s trademark high-pitched voice.
This general answer would not do. “What. Do. Today?” Ethan asked again. When it came to Stinky Bear’s life, Ethan wanted the nitty-gritty, the who, what, where.
“Well, I got up and brushed my teeth, then I went and had some breakfast. I ate three pancakes and some not-so-crispy bacon at the Waffle House. I saw you eating there with your dad. What a handsome and distinguished gentleman! You’re so lucky to have him as a father! So very lucky! Did you know he played basketball here at Illinois? The waitress now knows, and she seemed very unimpressed.”
“What. Next?”
“Well, after I ate, I passed some pretty big gas!” I made a loud fart noise with my mouth.
Ethan smiled, his teeth slipping over this bottom lip. “What. Say?”
“I say, excuse me! That was really stinky! Oh man! That one was out of the park!”
“Home. Run!” Ethan said, laughing.