Twisted(13)

Steven just boasts, “You can’t dent steel, babe. Be careful—don’t want to hurt your hand on the gun.”

Faster than a speeding bullet, Alexandra’s fingers lash out and pinch the tender flesh on the back of his tricep, bringing him to his knees.

Drew grimaces and rubs the back of his own arm in sympathy. “That’s gonna leave a mark.”

Alexandra’s voice is firm. And final. “I don’t nag. I’m a kind, nurturing, supportive wife, and if you would just do what you’re supposed to, I’d never have to say anything at all!”

He yelps, “Yes, dear.”

She releases his arm and stands. “I’m going to help my mother in the kitchen.”

After she leaves, Mackenzie looks down at the chastising doll thoughtfully, then up at her father. “Actually, you’re right, Daddy. Momma really does sound like Nancy.”

Steven puts his finger to his lips. “Shhhh.”



A while later, Drew, Matthew, Delores, and I are in the den for Mackenzie’s guitar lesson.

I’m teaching her to play. I was five when my father taught me. He told me music was like a secret code, a magical language that would always be there for me. To comfort me when I was sad, to help me celebrate when I was happy.

And he was right.

It’s a lesson I’ve treasured my entire life. A small piece of him that I was able to hold on to after he was gone. And I’m thrilled to be able to pass that knowledge on to Mackenzie.

She’s playing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” right now.

She’s good, isn’t she? Focused. Determined. I’m not surprised—she’s Drew’s niece, after all. As she finishes the song, we all clap.

Then I turn to Delores. “Billy called me last night. He’s got a few weeks off. He’s coming to the city next week and wants to meet up for dinner.”

Sarcasm drips off Drew’s words like chocolate on a strawberry. “Jackass is coming to town? Oh, goody. It’ll be like Christmas.”

Delores looks at Drew. “Hey—Jackass is my nickname for him. Get your own.”

Drew nods. “You’re right. Douche Bag has a much nicer ring to it.”

Are you wondering about the Bad Word Jar? For those of you who don’t know, the Bad Word Jar was started by Alexandra to financially penalize anyone—usually Drew—who cursed in front of her daughter. Originally, each curse cost a dollar, but when Drew and I were working through our issues, I convinced Mackenzie to bump the price up to ten. Color me vindictive.

Anyway, these days, the Jar is no longer used. Mackenzie has a checking account now. And since she’s old enough to write, she keeps a log of who owes what in that blue notebook there—the one she’s scribbling in right now.

We’re all expected to pay our fines before we leave. Or run the risk of a 10 percent late fee.

I have a feeling Mackenzie’s going to be a brilliant banker someday.

She puts her book down and goes back to strumming her guitar. Then she turns to Drew.

“Uncle Drew?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Where do babies come from?”

Drew doesn’t even hesitate. “God.”

I got the basics when I was eleven. My mother took the “stay my little girl forever and don’t ever have sex” approach. Amelia Warren, on the other hand, was more than willing to fill in the gaps. She wanted her daughter Delores and me informed. And prepared. By the time we were thirteen, we could get a condom on a banana faster than any hooker on the strip.

Whatever you do, don’t let your kids learn about procreation from “The Video.” Finding out about the birds and the bees is a lot like finding out there’s no Santa—kids are bound to figure it out eventually, but it’ll go down much easier coming from you.

Mackenzie nods and goes back to her guitar. Until . . .

“Uncle Drew?”

“Yes, Mackenzie?”

“The baby grows in the mommy’s tummy, right?”

“More or less.”

“How does that happen . . . exactly?”

Drew rubs his fingers over his lips, thinking it over.

And I hold my breath.

“Well, you know when you’re painting? And you mix blue and red together? And you get . . .”

“Purple!”

“Excellent, yes, you get purple. Babies are kind of like that. A little blue paint from the daddy, some red paint from the mommy, shake it all together, and boom—you get a whole new person. Hopefully not purple, but if Aunt Delores is involved? Anything is possible.”

Delores gives Drew the finger behind Mackenzie’s back.

Mackenzie nods. And goes back to strumming her guitar. For one whole minute.

“Uncle Drew?”

“Yep?”

“How does the daddy’s blue paint get to the mommy’s red paint?”

Drew raises both eyebrows. “How . . . how does it . . . get there?”

Mackenzie gestures with her hand. “Well, yeah. Does the doctor give her a shot of blue paint? Does the mommy swallow the blue paint?”

Matthew snickers. “Only if the daddy is a very lucky guy.”

Delores smacks him on the head. But Mackenzie’s round blue eyes stay on Drew, waiting for an answer.