Rugged(51)

“We’re not roping the whole family into some kind of circus, right?”

“Paranoia, thy name is McKay. Relax. We shoot a dinner, during which you won’t be able to actually eat any food because it’ll ruin your makeup, and it’s a nice five minutes in an episode somewhere, probably mid-season. Besides, consider Callie. Do you really think she’s going to turn down this opportunity?” Callie’s been at the set nearly every day. This show seems like the most exciting thing that’s happened to her since Mercury went out of retrograde. And let this be a sly f*ck you to the network. They took shots at Callie’s weight earlier? Guess what, now she’s a featured player. Flint nods.

“Point taken. Let’s go give her the news of her life.”

We drive up in Flint’s truck, and just as he turns off the ignition I hear something I never hear from the Winston house: shouting. Flint gets out of the truck, instantly on guard. It’s the brother protective instincts, I guess. Though when the door opens and David comes tearing out of the house, ducking as Callie hurls something at him, I’m more scared for the husband.

“Sure, go right back to the office. What’d you leave there this time? Your dignity?” Callie shouts, throwing something else. Fortunately for David, they’re just rubber bath toys. There’s a duck and an octopus. Poor little things.

“Maybe because it’s the only place where I get some damn respect!” David yells back at her. Callie grunts.

“Only because no one there’s ever seen your closet of memorabilia from The Phantom Menace!” Callie yells. David actually stomps his foot like a child; clearly, this has now gone over the line for him.

“Those are all first edition. When I make bank and put them toward our retirement, you’ll thank me!” he shouts.

“No one likes Jar Jar Binks, David! No one but you!” Callie roars. She wheels back around and slams the front door. Then she opens it back up and slams again, for emphasis. I slowly approach David, who looks about as red-faced as you can get without having a stroke.

“What the hell is this?” Flint asks David, incredulous. David shakes his head, runs a hand through his thinning hair, and gets into his car.

“They say the terrible twos are the worst year for kids,” he says out the window as he starts the engine. “More like the worst year for mothers,” he yells, but pulls out of the driveway fast when Callie comes outside, looking like she’s going to murder someone.

“Whoa, calm down,” Flint says, putting an arm around her as David drives away, leaving two tire marks on the driveway. “What did he do?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem,” Callie says, fluffing at her hair. Up close, I notice that her shirt is buttoned unevenly, and there are food stains on the sleeves. “The problem is he does nothing! I’m with the kids all day, I cook all afternoon, and he gets in and what do I get? ‘Oh, don’t you remember, I need to go back to the office because it’s end of quarter. Why’d you make dinner?’” Callie throws up her hands and stomps inside. The kids are in their playpen, looking up with wide anxious eyes. I make some shushing noises and crouch down to wave at them. They giggle; all’s right with their world again.

“You need to take a breath,” Flint tells his sister. Callie comes over to the playpen, lifts Lily into the air, and gives her to her uncle.

“No. You know what I need? A night out.” She looks over at me and nods. “Laurel, stay there. I’m going to give Jessa a call. Then, we are all going out.” Callie’s got this wild-eyed look. I can’t tell if this is On the Town dancing with sailors kind of out, or Thelma and Louise murder and driving off the Grand Canyon kind of out.

“Ah, maybe Jessa doesn’t have the night off,” I say, but Callie’s already dialing.

“Flint, thanks for offering to babysit,” she calls, before he can even attempt to escape. “There’s dinner on the stove.” Flint looks from Lily, to me, to the kitchen.

My phone buzzes. I grab the call. Suze. Thank God.

“Hey, guess what? AmTrak’s down,” she says. “Doing anything tonight?” There’s some kind of crash from Callie’s bedroom, followed by crazed laughter.

“So glad you called. How do you feel about seeing some of the local wildlife?” I ask. “Cocktails will be involved.”





19


This will probably be a shock, but Northampton, MA, doesn’t have the world’s greatest nightlife scene. My friends at Yelp give us about five different options, and two of them are bars above bait and tackle shops. When we wrangle Jessa and Suze into the car and get downtown, our best choices are a high end Mexican grill and the Waterbury hotel. Since we don’t want to get hit on by lonely businessmen, we hoof it over to Mexican. Besides, tequila shots with dinner. Who am I to say no?

Callie is definitely not saying no. She’s dressed up in a cute little black cocktail dress, wearing bright red lipstick and enough Chanel no. 5 to drown a normal woman. I don’t think she’s been out on the town in years. The instant we get inside the restaurant, she charges for the bar like a famished water buffalo. Clearly, my job for the evening will be making sure she’s all right. And maybe having a drink along the way.

“I haven’t done this in so long,” Callie groans, throwing her head back while taking a shot. At least this is one McKay I’m not going to make stupid decisions with after drinking tequila, so I give her a shoulder pat in solidarity.