The Babysitter's Club.

It was fairly early when I managed to make a break for it.  
While I went out the back door and headed off a set of wailing 
twins, Jade slipped out the front door and settled herself in 
my newest toy, a Ford Excursion.  I had taken the Expedition 
to the dealer for an oil change one day, and had come home with 
a truck that made the Suburban look like a kiddie car.  Jade 
climbed up and folded herself into the footwell, just to be on 
the safe side.

Elmore and Ryan were already gone.  They had left an hour or so 
earlier, to go down and do some carpentry work at the Corner.  
They had taken Number One with them.  I had no doubt that Elmore 
would feed the boy beer, and that I would have to kick his ass 
for his trouble.  Sam had gone where I always told the boys I 
was headed when I didn't want them knowing where I was going - Texas.  
His expression, when he announced his destination, had not invited 
inquiry, so I had made none.

The only person left with the twins - holding the bag, as it 
were - was Bill.  Jade and I would make a fast getaway and 
wait for developments.  I turned on the cellphone automatically 
as we drove away.

We stopped for breakfast at a local restaurant and, not surprisingly, 
the phone went off.

Bill:  Dammit!

Deb:  Hi, Billy.  What's up?

Bill:  What's this shit, stickin' me with these two?

I had managed to fend Mick and Nuala off and send them back 
to the Wishbone videos they'd been watching.  It seemed it 
hadn't taken them long to become concerned for the state of 
their bellies, and to go scare someone up.

Jade:  Bill?

She was mouthing the words, and I mouthed my reply.

Deb:  They woke 'im up.

Jade slapped her hand over her mouth to contain the giggles that 
threatened to fly out of it.

Bill:  What'n hell am I s'posed t'do with 'em?

Deb:  For starters, feed them.  They eat what you do for breakfast, 
Sugar Bear.  They'll show you if you're not sure.

Bill:  Then what?

Demandng old cuss...

Deb:  I don't know...figure something out.  Take them to the 
Zoo, Bill.

Open a vein, Bill...

Our waitress chose that moment to appear at the table, order 
pad in hand.

Waitress:  Are you ready or do you need another minute or two?

I slammed the disconnect button.  That would be the final 
injustice.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Seething, Bill hurled the cordless phone into its base.  A 
certain punk would be feeling some righteous fucking anger 
once she decided to show herself.  He looked down at the 
children, naked rage on his face.  The little ones backed 
off a step or two, and Bill was ready to swear he saw the 
boy placing himself between Bill and his sister almost as 
a matter of instinct.  This was disturbing to Bill in a way 
he didn’t like to think about.  Were the tykes afraid of 
him?  Even though he had taken them into his home, had spent 
a considerable amount of money towards their care and feeding, 
was their primary impression of him one of someone to be feared?  
The Punk, his evil battle-axe, would say that they were mere 
babies, with no conception of money or duty, and only vague ideas 
about the bonds of friendship.  Whether she was right or not, the 
idea that these two highly dependent members of his household saw 
him as frightening was not one he liked considering.

Bill swallowed his anger and deliberately arranged his face in 
bland lines.  He leaned against the wall and surveyed his charges.

Bill:  Whadda they feed you monkeys?

Nuala:  Cookies.

Mick:  Ice cream.

The response was instant, and just hopeful enough to tell Bill 
that they were trying to pull the wool over his eyes.

Bill:  Sure they do.  Cereal and milk, some toast…

Bill opened the refrigerator, looking for and finding milk, the 
strawberry jam jar, the margarine, and a depressing array of juvenile 
snacks.  How much were those two skirts dropping on all this shit?  He 
leaned over and yanked open the freezer door.

Mick:  Ice cream.  Uncle Ryan says it's milk.

Bill:  Uncle Ryan's a fu...

He stopped himself.  Barely.

Bill:  A nitwit.  'Sides, why wouldja wanna eat gummibear ice cream?  
Sounds putrid.

Nuala:  What's putrid?

Bill resisted the urge to go pound his head.  He distinctly 
remembered his father, Wally Strannix, and how the big man had 
never had much time for his only son, despite a strong desire 
to be involved. Still, he had always found the time to thoroughly 
answer an honest question.

Bill:  Y'ever had a sip o'that crud your uncle drinks?

Nuala's little face was eloquent.

Bill:  That's putrid, girl.

Over a leisurely, and rugrat-less, breakfast...

Jade:  But they like him.

Deb:  No accounting for taste.  I love and adore the man and 
I'm damned if I know why.

Jade:  It only goes to prove what Ryan says…that kids just know 
when they're safe.  I came downstairs one day to find Bill 
cleaning his guns and the twins stapled to his elbow while 
he did it.  Nuala was just watching - it's all she ever does, 
but Mick was spouting off, giving Bill the Gospel According to 
Uncle Ryan.  And Bill was going about his business, you know, 
take care of your gun and yadda-yadda-yadda.  Mick is telling 
Bill all about how Ryan says guns are bad and lazy and inelegant.  
Bill just slowed down...he moved slower and slower until finally 
he stopped and he looked at the kid and said...

Bill:  ...bullshit!  Ain't goin' to no damn zoo.  It's Divorced 
Dad's Day at the zoo.  I got a zoo right here.

Mick:  We wanna see snakes, right, Nuala?

Nuala:  No, no no no no no no no...

Bill:  Damn, don't yell, Nuala, we won't be seein' any snakes
...we'll hang around here an' watch Roadrunner videos...

And hopefully you two will fall asleep and I can watch CNN...

Jade:  ...'Listen, boy, this gun'll be dangerous long after 
your Uncle's goofy-ass 'devices' have all been blown t'hell 
by the cops.  Long as I have it, I am the device.  See?'  
And he didn't yell.  He was only telling the boy, as though 
he respected Mick enough to be straight with him.

Deb:  I don't think he could be any other way, even with 
a kid.  He just doesn't know what to do with them.

Jade:  You ever thought about having one?

Jade was grinning.

Deb:  Well, hell...have you?

Neither one of us answered.  I knew Jade had never 
wanted a child of her own and any latent maternal impulses 
that might have got by her were amply satisfied by the 
twins.  As for myself...perish the thought.

Bill:  Whadda ya usually give 'em for lunch?

Deb:  What?  Sorry, Bill...Camp Snoopy's awfully loud 
today...

Bill:  Damn you, I said whadda ya usually give these 
brats for lunch???

I plugged my ear against the din.  I could hear the 
children, faintly piping in the background.

Nuala:  Cookies.

Mick:  Ice cream.

Bill:  Shut up.  Ain't any ice cream...

Deb:  There was half a gallon yesterday.

Bill:  Ate it.  Tasted like shit.  Wanted to see what was 
so great about it.

Deb:  Liar.  You wanted some ice cream.

Bill:  Shut the hell up.

The Angry Little Irish Girl spoke.

Nuala:  Cookies.

Mick:  Ice cream.

He was not to be outdone.

Bill:  Sure ya do.  Button up, I'm talkin...

Deb:  Most days they get soup and sandwiches, Bill.  
They do really well with that and it's simple.  Ignore 
them.  It's how they con Ryan.

Bill:  Soup?  Eurgh...

Deb:  Soup.  Feed them soup, Bill.

Open a vein, Bill.

Bill stalked to the pantry, slapping the cordless against 
his thigh.

Bill:  Okay...soup...shit...probably stuffin' her damn face at 
Tony Roma's...fu...

He stopped himself with an effort, sensing the nearness of 
the twins.

He halted in front of the pantry, staring blankly at the massed 
cans within.  Christ-all-goddamn-mighty, what did she do with 
all this shit?  His eyes landed on the red and white labels and 
this reminded him why he was exploring such alien Territory.  
Soup.  Wussy food.  Damn.

Bill:  What kinda soup you two eat?

The little ones shrugged.  Now that they knew Uncle Bill 
was not the pushover Uncles Ryan and Elmore were, they were 
elaborately disinterested.  Bill turned back to the cans, 
seeing a cross-section of the world's available condensed 
garbage.  If his memory served him, just about anything would 
be suitable.  As a boy, Bill could recall sitting down on a 
daily basis to the very sort of meal Deb had advised him to 
prepare.  And he had torn into whatever his mother had seen 
fit to offer him.

Bill:  Tomato soup...grilled cheese...

He had no idea that he was muttering...or salivating.  He 
only knew that kids ate tomato soup and grilled cheese like 
mad bastards, that it sat in the stomach like sunwarmed 
concrete, and that, with luck, such a combination would knock 
these two out cold.

Bill set to work, seeing a light at the end of this particular 
tunnel that wasn't a train.  For a bare instant, he caught 
himself in a hunt for an apron.

Bill:  What'n hell am I, Donna Reed?  Dammit!

He fought a tense battle with the electric can opener, 
then convinced it to work.  Two cans of tomato soup later, 
he was after a pot to cook it in.  Two cans?  He had 
questioned himself.  He knew the remains of an excellent 
garbage pizza waited in the fridge, and he knew that Elmore 
would get it if he, Bill, didn't move fast enough.  But if 
he didn't eat with the ankle-biters did, they would never eat.

Mick:  Uncle Bill, can we use the computer?

Uncle Bill...another horrid television reference reared 
up in his head.  He expected to see Sebastian Cabot coming 
through the dining room door and Brian Keith rolling up the 
driveway in a '65 Imperial.  Shit-shit-shit!

Bill:  Whatcha askin' me for, boy?  Go on.

Mick:  We don't know how t'turn it on.

Bill ceased his chore of the moment, trowelling margarine 
onto slices of bread.  He turned to the children.

Bill:  Figured you'd know more'n 'em all by now.  Y'never 
get on that damn thing?

He was hoping they'd admit that they had.  They could 
play computer games and leave him the goddamn hell alone.


Nuala shook her head and spoke for them both.

Nuala:  We watch Uncle Elmore.  Granny Deb lets us when 
she's not doing the books.  What are books, Uncle Bill?

Bill:  Granny Deb, huh?

A slow, evil grin settled across his face.  There would 
be much suffering, if he had anything to say about it.

Nuala:  Uncle Bill, shouldn't you be Grampy Bill since you 
and Granny Deb are...

Bill:  Hell no!!!

The idea of being anyone's father, let alone grandfather, 
horrified him.  His fragile mood had snapped and the uneasy 
feeling had returned along with the scared faces of the 
children.  He hurried to put it to rest.

Bill:  No, I ain't your Grampy, Nuala, and the Punk, I mean, 
Deb...she ain't your granny...

Unless I say so.

Bill:  Aunt and Uncle's just fine.

Shirt-tail, remember that.

Bill:  Anyhow, the books your Granny...er, Aunty Deb does are 
number books.  She's keepin track of what Uncle Elmore'n me 
make at the Corner, and how much money we gotta pay out t'replace 
the stuff your Uncle Ryan busts hell out of…dontcha have any 
computer games?

Please say yes.  You can play 'em and I can watch ESPN…

Mick:  No, Uncle Bill.

Damn.

Bill:  And ya never get t'play on the thing?

Two heads shook gently in reply.

Bill:  Aw, damn.

But this was simple enough to fix.  He decided to purchase 
them a computer.  He would say it was so they would have a 
head start in school.  Then they could play games and he could 
plan his revenge on Granny.

Bill:  C'mon, siddown and eat.  We got places to be.

Two hours later, having rampaged through Best Buy with his usual
singlemindedness, Bill was surrounded by boxes.  Most of them 
contained the components of the computer he had purchased.  The one 
he had torn open was a computer desk.  He was preparing to assemble 
it when the Punk's Number Two son decided to wander in.

Two:  You're phat.

Bill:  Shut up and hold this.

Two:  Hold what?  What're you doin', Soupy?  You're gonna 
bust that.

Bill:  Call me Soupy again, boy, and the only thing I'll be 
bustin' is your ass.

Two:  I am serious.  I'll break the house.  Gimme that, 
Simmons…

The boy knocked Bill aside and set about putting the little 
desk together.  Bill sat on Mick's bunk and watched the teenager 
work, envying the young man his obscene energy and wondering 
how in the hell anybody survived kids.  After a few moments, 
when it became clear that the young man had an instinctive ability 
to see how things were supposed to go together - not surprising 
from one who knew unerringly how to destroy them - Bill stretched 
out on the bunk.  He was only going to rest for a minute, then he 
would start unpacking the computer.  He stretched out on the 
child-sized bunk, his big body filling it, his feet hanging over 
the edge.

He awakened once, to find that Two had set up the computer and 
installed the software.  Mick spent several minutes telling him 
this, long enough for Bill to see that the screensaver was a marquee 
that read 'Hey, Soupy!'  Mick turned back to his games and was 
quickly engrossed, while a small ball of warmth beside him was a 
sleeping Nuala.  As he was deciding to get up and go check the 
scores, he fell back to sleep.

Jade:  Somebody got a nap, anyway.

She pitched her voice low once we found them.

Deb:  Probably not the one who was expecting to need one.

Jade:  He's so…

Deb:  …cute.

Bill's voice was sludgy, and he never opened his eyes.

Bill:  Shut the goddamn hell up.

Mick:  Uncle Bill bought us this computer, Aunty Jade.

Jade:  I see that, Mick.  It was very nice of him.  I hope the 
two of you said thank you.

Very Mom-like.  She probably hated herself.

Mick:  Oh, we did, Aunty Jade.  Uncle Bill wanted t'watch 
television but he decided to take a nap instead.  I'm playing 
Blues Clues…

Jade:  Whatever that is…

Mick didn't catch what she said and he turned around.

Jade:  You go on, hon.   Has Uncle Ryan come in yet?

Mick:  No, Aunty Jade, he's at the Corner.  Aunty Jade, does 
Uncle Ryan break things while he's down there?

Jade:  It's his mission in life.

I was easing Bill to his feet.

Deb:  Come on, Mr. Belvedere, time to go…

Bill:  I'd bust your ass if I wasn't so worn out.

Deb:  Poor baby.  Come on, big fella, we'll get you something 
to eat and you can relax.

Bill:  Bring me that pizza 'fore Elmore sinks his fangs into it.

Deb:  Will do.  Did you do okay today?

Bill:  Want the truth?  I'd rather go up against a shitload of 
terrorists.  Any day.

I stood by while he arranged himself in our much larger bed.

Bill:   Wasn't so bad.  I don't ever wanna do it again…but 
it wasn't so bad.  Now…go get my pizza, willya?  'Fore I starve 
t'death?

I went for his pizza.  He had gone above and beyond the call 
of duty…and had managed to do something he'd never thought he 
could handle.  I wasn't going to say so, but I was proud of him.  
The man had faced his demons, both of them, and come out on the 
other side.

TO BE CONTINUED……