go on the hair cutter.” He looks up at me with big eyes. “I didn’t know the red one makes you bald.”
Trying not to smile, I tell him, “You look very handsome. A bald head is the sign of a tough man, a strong man, someone not afraid to be who he is.” I poke him softly in the belly. “But not every bald man is tough and handsome.” I study him for a moment. “I’d be careful if I were you, Petey. The girls are gonna want to run their hands all over your head.”
“Eeewww!”
“Give it a couple years; you might not mind it so much.”
We play two rounds of foosball, with Petey winning both rounds. Jimmy doesn’t like it when I let him win. He says that losing is a character-builder and that when Petey finally does win a game, he’ll know it was a real win.
Ppppfth! Fathers. What do they know?
Besides, I’m his Uncle Steps—even if we’re not technically related. I’m supposed to spoil him, teach him how to throw knives and juggle kittens, jack him up on sugar, and send him home as a six-year-old nightmare incarnate.
That’s what uncles do.
When I poke my head into the break room, Jane is holding up two color samples, one of which Jimmy is less than happy with, comparing it to the inside of a baby’s tainted diaper. Catalogs are spread out over the coffee table: cabinets, countertops, sinks, tile, paint, faucets, appliances, pretty much anything you’d need if you wanted to build a kitchen from scratch.
Jimmy is holding three separate catalogs uncomfortably, like a new father holding an infant. His shoulders are slumped and he has an exhausted look on his face, but his eyes suddenly light up when he sees me. “Steps!” he says with surprising enthusiasm. “You’re back … finally. Look, honey,” he says to Jane, “Steps is here. Oh, that means we’ve got to get back to work.”
“Hi, Steps,” Jane says, throwing me a smile and shaking her head patiently as Jimmy dumps the catalogs on the table and makes for the door. “So we’ve settled on a thirteen-by-thirteen porcelain tile called Mountain Slate Iron,” she tells me. “It’s a darker tile with stone texture and coloring; very pretty.”
“Sounds nice,” I say absently, trying to be polite.
Jane stares at me a moment. “You’ve forgotten already, haven’t you?”
“Forgotten what?” This can’t be good.
“Last Christmas; you said you’d be happy to help with the makeover. We need someone with experience.”
Crap.
“That was probably the Baileys Irish Cream talking,” I say, screwing on a grin. “Besides, my tiling experience amounts to one hall closet and half a bathroom.”
“Did any of the tiles crack?”
“No.” Not yet .
“Well, then, you must have done it right.”
“I have to say,” I begin, choosing my words carefully, “I’m a little shocked at how cavalier you are about the qualifications of your remodel crew. One poorly laid tile can absolutely ruin a remodel. I even read that if you don’t—”
“Stop! You’re not getting out of it, Steps,” Jane says in rapid-fire. “Jimmy doesn’t want to pony up and hire a licensed and bonded expert, which is fine. I get it. It’s a lot of money. But if I’m letting amateurs work on my kitchen, I want at least two brains trying to figure out how to spread the mortar and hang the cabinets. Between the two of you, I should get a usable, perhaps functional, maybe even a beautiful, kitchen.”
Silence.
“Wow,” Jimmy mumbles. “I feel so emasculated.”
“Harsh,” I say. “Just give me the word, Jimmy, and I’ll go all spider monkey on her. I’m pretty sure I can take her.”
“I’m pretty sure you can’t,” Jimmy replies.
“Wow,” I whisper. “I feel so emasculated.”
CHAPTER TEN
June 22, 12:17 P.M.
“Eleven possible victims,” Diane says. “Seven bodies recovered so far, that includes Alison Lister. The other four are listed as missing persons, but their physicals and the MO appear to match.”
All but three
Trying not to smile, I tell him, “You look very handsome. A bald head is the sign of a tough man, a strong man, someone not afraid to be who he is.” I poke him softly in the belly. “But not every bald man is tough and handsome.” I study him for a moment. “I’d be careful if I were you, Petey. The girls are gonna want to run their hands all over your head.”
“Eeewww!”
“Give it a couple years; you might not mind it so much.”
We play two rounds of foosball, with Petey winning both rounds. Jimmy doesn’t like it when I let him win. He says that losing is a character-builder and that when Petey finally does win a game, he’ll know it was a real win.
Ppppfth! Fathers. What do they know?
Besides, I’m his Uncle Steps—even if we’re not technically related. I’m supposed to spoil him, teach him how to throw knives and juggle kittens, jack him up on sugar, and send him home as a six-year-old nightmare incarnate.
That’s what uncles do.
When I poke my head into the break room, Jane is holding up two color samples, one of which Jimmy is less than happy with, comparing it to the inside of a baby’s tainted diaper. Catalogs are spread out over the coffee table: cabinets, countertops, sinks, tile, paint, faucets, appliances, pretty much anything you’d need if you wanted to build a kitchen from scratch.
Jimmy is holding three separate catalogs uncomfortably, like a new father holding an infant. His shoulders are slumped and he has an exhausted look on his face, but his eyes suddenly light up when he sees me. “Steps!” he says with surprising enthusiasm. “You’re back … finally. Look, honey,” he says to Jane, “Steps is here. Oh, that means we’ve got to get back to work.”
“Hi, Steps,” Jane says, throwing me a smile and shaking her head patiently as Jimmy dumps the catalogs on the table and makes for the door. “So we’ve settled on a thirteen-by-thirteen porcelain tile called Mountain Slate Iron,” she tells me. “It’s a darker tile with stone texture and coloring; very pretty.”
“Sounds nice,” I say absently, trying to be polite.
Jane stares at me a moment. “You’ve forgotten already, haven’t you?”
“Forgotten what?” This can’t be good.
“Last Christmas; you said you’d be happy to help with the makeover. We need someone with experience.”
Crap.
“That was probably the Baileys Irish Cream talking,” I say, screwing on a grin. “Besides, my tiling experience amounts to one hall closet and half a bathroom.”
“Did any of the tiles crack?”
“No.” Not yet .
“Well, then, you must have done it right.”
“I have to say,” I begin, choosing my words carefully, “I’m a little shocked at how cavalier you are about the qualifications of your remodel crew. One poorly laid tile can absolutely ruin a remodel. I even read that if you don’t—”
“Stop! You’re not getting out of it, Steps,” Jane says in rapid-fire. “Jimmy doesn’t want to pony up and hire a licensed and bonded expert, which is fine. I get it. It’s a lot of money. But if I’m letting amateurs work on my kitchen, I want at least two brains trying to figure out how to spread the mortar and hang the cabinets. Between the two of you, I should get a usable, perhaps functional, maybe even a beautiful, kitchen.”
Silence.
“Wow,” Jimmy mumbles. “I feel so emasculated.”
“Harsh,” I say. “Just give me the word, Jimmy, and I’ll go all spider monkey on her. I’m pretty sure I can take her.”
“I’m pretty sure you can’t,” Jimmy replies.
“Wow,” I whisper. “I feel so emasculated.”
CHAPTER TEN
June 22, 12:17 P.M.
“Eleven possible victims,” Diane says. “Seven bodies recovered so far, that includes Alison Lister. The other four are listed as missing persons, but their physicals and the MO appear to match.”
All but three
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