traveled. The two had no doubt that soon after Doc’s inevitable demise, their daughter would be asking them for the zip code for heaven.
Michelle came into the study holding a plate stacked high with brownies. Even though the plate wasn’t hot, Michelle was wearing a pair of oven mitts that came halfway to her elbows. Doc raised his head, and a thin line of drool fell onto one of his paws.
Michelle announced, “I made brownies.”
Andy straightened in his chair. “I see that. You made the brown kind.”
“They’re
brownies.”
“I see that,” Andy said again, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You made the brown kind.”
Michelle turned her head and yelled back toward the kitchen.
“Mommy!”
She turned back to her father. “You can’t have any.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
Christine came into the room, wiping her hands on her thighs.
“Mommy. Tell Daddy why he can’t have any brownies.”
“Because they’re for Grandpa and Jenny,” Christine said. She placed a hand on her daughter’s head and lightly stroked her hair. She addressed Andy. “Are you sure you’re up for it, sweetie?”
Andy reached for the remote. “I’m fine. Plus I gather it’s the only way I’m going to get one of these hot-to-trot brownies that some elf pulled out of the ground.”
Michelle puckered up her face.
“You’re
an elf!”
Footage of Chris Wyeth being sworn in as vice president came onto the screen. Andy thumbed the off button and the screen went blank.
Christine frowned. “Is that any way to treat a friend?”
“I guess I’m just a mean old backstabbing bastard kind of friend,” Andy said. He’d intended to sound more jokey than it came out. At the word
bastard
, Christine’s eyes dragged his attention to their daughter, whose eyes and mouth were all zeros.
“Bad Dad,” Michelle said.
Andy could feel his face reddening. Nothing he could do about it. He managed a weak laugh. “Yes, honey. So true. Daddy’s a baddie.”
“ I t’s a fine mess, Andrew.”
Andy and his father-in-law were seated on the stone deck overlooking Whitney Hoyt’s vast backyard. Off near the garden, some fifteen or so children gripping wicker baskets were scurrying about in search of eggs. Parents were positioned at certain key locations, like buoys in an open ocean, making exaggerated head fakes and little gestures whenever a child approached one of the hiding spots. The children — and for that matter, most of the parents as well — were dressed in Easter pastels. A lawn full of sugar-candy people.
Andy looked across the glass table at his father-in-law. “What mess is that, Whitney?”
The former governor and ambassador held the senator in a studied expression. “Well, let’s see, Andrew.” He ticked off the options on his fingers. “We’ve got the Yankees traveling all the way to bloody Japan to lose their season opener in a lopsided embarrassment. That’s one mess. Or maybe you missed that one. Jennifer informs me that it is becoming harder and harder to locate a certain type of perfume that she prefers. That would be number two.”
Andy held his tongue. Whitney liked to do things his way.
“Let’s see, what else? Oh. Yes. How silly. The executive branch of our government is in the process of imploding. I knew there was another one. Three messes, Andrew. Any one you wish to discuss is fine with me.”
Off next to the swinging love seat in the garden, one of the children had managed to shatter his own happiness. A sound like a toy siren carried up to the patio. Parents were swiftly converging.
“Chris has indicated to me that he can weather this thing,” Andy said.
The former governor pulled the stalk of celery from his Bloody Mary. He let some of the liquid drip back into the glass, then with a flick of the wrist tossed the celery over the railing into the bushes below.
“The only
weather
is whether he leaves on his own or is pushed.”
Andy smirked.
Michelle came into the study holding a plate stacked high with brownies. Even though the plate wasn’t hot, Michelle was wearing a pair of oven mitts that came halfway to her elbows. Doc raised his head, and a thin line of drool fell onto one of his paws.
Michelle announced, “I made brownies.”
Andy straightened in his chair. “I see that. You made the brown kind.”
“They’re
brownies.”
“I see that,” Andy said again, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You made the brown kind.”
Michelle turned her head and yelled back toward the kitchen.
“Mommy!”
She turned back to her father. “You can’t have any.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
Christine came into the room, wiping her hands on her thighs.
“Mommy. Tell Daddy why he can’t have any brownies.”
“Because they’re for Grandpa and Jenny,” Christine said. She placed a hand on her daughter’s head and lightly stroked her hair. She addressed Andy. “Are you sure you’re up for it, sweetie?”
Andy reached for the remote. “I’m fine. Plus I gather it’s the only way I’m going to get one of these hot-to-trot brownies that some elf pulled out of the ground.”
Michelle puckered up her face.
“You’re
an elf!”
Footage of Chris Wyeth being sworn in as vice president came onto the screen. Andy thumbed the off button and the screen went blank.
Christine frowned. “Is that any way to treat a friend?”
“I guess I’m just a mean old backstabbing bastard kind of friend,” Andy said. He’d intended to sound more jokey than it came out. At the word
bastard
, Christine’s eyes dragged his attention to their daughter, whose eyes and mouth were all zeros.
“Bad Dad,” Michelle said.
Andy could feel his face reddening. Nothing he could do about it. He managed a weak laugh. “Yes, honey. So true. Daddy’s a baddie.”
“ I t’s a fine mess, Andrew.”
Andy and his father-in-law were seated on the stone deck overlooking Whitney Hoyt’s vast backyard. Off near the garden, some fifteen or so children gripping wicker baskets were scurrying about in search of eggs. Parents were positioned at certain key locations, like buoys in an open ocean, making exaggerated head fakes and little gestures whenever a child approached one of the hiding spots. The children — and for that matter, most of the parents as well — were dressed in Easter pastels. A lawn full of sugar-candy people.
Andy looked across the glass table at his father-in-law. “What mess is that, Whitney?”
The former governor and ambassador held the senator in a studied expression. “Well, let’s see, Andrew.” He ticked off the options on his fingers. “We’ve got the Yankees traveling all the way to bloody Japan to lose their season opener in a lopsided embarrassment. That’s one mess. Or maybe you missed that one. Jennifer informs me that it is becoming harder and harder to locate a certain type of perfume that she prefers. That would be number two.”
Andy held his tongue. Whitney liked to do things his way.
“Let’s see, what else? Oh. Yes. How silly. The executive branch of our government is in the process of imploding. I knew there was another one. Three messes, Andrew. Any one you wish to discuss is fine with me.”
Off next to the swinging love seat in the garden, one of the children had managed to shatter his own happiness. A sound like a toy siren carried up to the patio. Parents were swiftly converging.
“Chris has indicated to me that he can weather this thing,” Andy said.
The former governor pulled the stalk of celery from his Bloody Mary. He let some of the liquid drip back into the glass, then with a flick of the wrist tossed the celery over the railing into the bushes below.
“The only
weather
is whether he leaves on his own or is pushed.”
Andy smirked.
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