The six of them sit around the table . . . looking guilty. Why? They remind me of inmates lined up in cell block B, hoping the COs don’t find the contraband taped under the toilet. My eyes narrow at each of them, and I wonder what it is I don’t know.
“So, we wanted to talk to you tonight because we have some exciting news,” Chelsea says, taking my hand on top of the table.
Interrogations will have to wait for another time.
“Are we going on vacation to Aruba?” Riley asks, wide-eyed.
“No,” I tell her.
“Florida?” Rory tries.
“It’s not a vacation, guys,” Chelsea says, much to their disappointment.
“Are we getting another dog?” Regan hopes.
“No,” Chelsea and I say at exactly the same time.
“Guys—shut up and listen.” Raymond always was the helpful one.
Chelsea’s eyes dance from child to child, and you can almost feel their anticipation. “Jake and I are having a baby!”
At first, no one speaks. Or moves.
Then Raymond ventures, “Are you, like, adopting?”
“No, honey,” Chelsea answers. “I’m pregnant.”
Riley’s the first to pop up from her chair and hug us. “Congratulations, guys, that’s awesome.”
“I really wanted another dog,” Regan says, gravely disappointed.
Rosaleen leans forward. “Did you guys go to the doctor’s to get pregnant? Like Jackie Barbacoa’s two moms?”
“No . . .”
She thinks on that. While Rory wants more clarification.
“Then how did this happen?”
Chelsea glances at me, then shrugs at the kids. “The old-fashioned way.”
Rory’s hand goes to his stomach. “I’m gonna puke.”
That’s when they all start talking at once—except for Raymond, who sits back silently. Dazed.
“What’s the old-fashioned way?” Regan asks.
“Wow,” Rosaleen comments.
“No, I’m seriously gonna puke.”
“What’s old-fashioned mean?”
Ronan stands on his chair. “I’m not gonna be the littlest anymore? I get to be the boss of someone?”
“That’s right,” I tell him.
He pumps his fist. “Yes!” Then he starts marching around the table chanting, “I’m gonna be a boss, I’m gonna be a boss . . .”
While Rory sprints to the umbrella stand in the corner—gagging.
“Huhhh, huhhh . . .”
“Somebody tell me the old-fashioned way!” Regan yells.
And Rosaleen gets fed up. “It’s when the man and woman fall in love and the man puts his penis in the woman’s vagina and nine months later a baby comes out of it.”
Regan looks at me like I’m a monster.
“You put your penis in Mommy’s vagina?”
Christ, this went downhill quick.
“Why would you do that?”
“. . . I’m gonna be a boss . . .”
“We’ll talk about that when you’re older.”
“Huhhh, huhhh . . .”
“And now a baby’s gonna crawl out of you?!”
“Not exactly.”
“You’re so immature, Regan.”
“Shut up, Rosaleen.”
“Huhh . . .”
Ronan puts the icing on the cake. “How big is your vagina, Mommy?”
And I try to be helpful.
“It’s not that big.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Chelsea’s head whips to me. And we both crack the fuck up.
She covers her eyes with one hand, waving at the kids. “You’re crazy. You guys are all crazy.”
But they’re not even listening to her.
As the chaos continues to erupt, I put my arm around Chelsea’s shoulders and pull her against me, kissing her temple. “I think that went well.”
Chapter 5
December
By the first week in December, Chelsea’s sporting a small, firm baby bump. Her morning sickness has abated and she says she feels better than ever. Well enough to accept the extra work her boss has been sending her way at the museum—she’s been going in early and staying late whenever she can.
She’s also slightly obsessed over what she eats—determined to stay away from anything processed or non-organic, but with some coaxing, she gives in to her craving for Double Stuf Oreos dunked in a glass of whole milk.
Around the same time, I get a big case—that’s getting national media coverage. It’s a string of bank robberies, and despite my client’s alibi, the prosecutor has rock-solid DNA evidence on a ski mask that was worn during the crimes. It’s the kind of case I craved back in the day—a challenge. A gauntlet with the promise of legal glory at the finish line. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy digging into it, burying myself in motions and maneuvers to outsmart my opponent. It’s easy to do during the day, at the office, but when night creeps in and the sky turns black outside my window, the case feels more like a nuisance.
Because I just want to go home. Pet my dog, see my kids, and screw my wife.
One night, about a week before Christmas, I pack it in fairly early—about seven thirty. When I walk through the front door, Cousin It attacks my shoes, and the house smells of the fire burning in the den fireplace and warm gingerbread cookies. There’s loud laughs and shouting coming from the dining room, so I put my briefcase down and head in. The kids are all there around the table, and so are Stanton, Sofia, Presley, Samuel, Brent, and Kennedy.