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“I don’t give a shit, Rod. You better pay up!” said
Bowling Ball, loud enough to prompt Rod to hiss something while patting the air
for calm with downturned palms.
Brad found it hard to concentrate on his kids. His
imagination of something sinister beneath the argument he was eavesdropping on
was so much more compelling than ice cream choices. Yet those choices were
still being voiced and debated: first something about “Can I have a dipped
cone?” from Katy, along with “…chocolate…,” from Harrison, and “What the hell
is heavenly hash?” from Brontë.
And mixed with the talk of ice cream choices, Brad was
able to pick out only fragments, “Of course … money. But …right… Be reasonable,
Ke– … You … too,” from Rod.
And that was it – the debate between Rod and Bowling
Ball ended, and the pair stood uncomfortable next to each other. Brad filed the
shards of Rod’s and Bowling Ball’s discussion somewhere in the dusty regions of
his mind, isolating what he’d just heard, or almost heard, from his conscious
mind, giving full attention instead to his twins and his son instead of the
tense backs of the two men. “So whatta we getting?” he asked, pointing at Brontë and
saying, “Tiger Tail or Heavenly Hash?”
“I just asked you what Heavenly Hash is,” she snarled,
raising her hands in the exasperated, teenage disgust that had become her thing,
“So? What is it, Brad?”
“I have no idea, Brontë. Katy?”
“Can I have a dipped cone, Daddy?” she asked, with
heavy emphasis on the “Daddy,” much to her twins disgust.
“Mmhmm. Chocolate? Strawberry? Vanilla?”
“Chocolate, of course.”
“Of course. And you want a chocolate milkshake. Right,
Harrison?” asked Brad, giving his son’s hand, which was still in his, a tug.
“Yep,” was Harrison’s answer.
“What. Is, Heavenly. Hash?!”
Brad turned to Brontë with his tight lipped
exasperation face and forced out the words, “How about I ask them when we get
to the window? Okay?”
Brontë rolled her eyes in the eternal signifier of “Whatever!”
Only then did Brad
notice Rod nodding an hello to him.
