* * *
Jack was unpacking his new stereo equipment after dinner. Keely had run to the store to pick up more formula and diapers—and two more ice bags—and Petra was watching Candy, pretending to play patty-cake with her on the floor in the den.
“She wouldn’t come to me for a while,” she told Jack as he slit open yet another box. “I think she was afraid of me after what I did to Sweetness. I just can’t believe I did that to Sweetness. I didn’t know it, but I think I’m a pacifist. You know, anti-violence?”
“As the man letting you baby-sit for his cousin, I thank you,” Jack said, then sat back on his heels, looking at the teen. “Hey, you’re really upset, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t you be?” she asked, gathering Candy into her arms, letting the baby practice her standing in her lap. “I hit a man and I knocked him out. I’m not proud of that.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Petra. I think you’re pretty proud of what you did to Joey.”
“No!” She shook her head. “I’m even less proud of that. Sweetness and I were boxing; I hit Joey because I hated his guts. I probably would have hit him again if he hadn’t run away, squealing like a pig.”
“Squealing like a Miss Piggy,” Jack corrected, smiling, and Petra finally relaxed her shoulders, smiled back at him.
“Did you see his eye?” she asked him. “How’s he going to explain that one to Ms. Peters?”
“Hmmm, I hadn’t thought about that,” Jack admitted, pulling a large speaker up and out of its box. “I’ll bet Joey hasn’t, either. But that’s okay, because I think I’ll mention it to him tomorrow morning, hint that it might be better if he went back to Bayonne, stayed out of Ms. Peters’s way until the swelling goes down.”
Petra brightened even more. “In that case, do you want me to hit him again, go for both of his two eyes? Still, do you think he’ll buy it?”
“He might. Especially when I point out that Ms. Peters is going to ask how he got that shiner, and how I’m going to have to tell her that my baby-sitter beat him up. Joey’s way too macho-man to want anyone to hear the truth. By the time he gets back to Bayonne, he’ll have gotten his black eye taking on three goons from a rival family—that’s Mafia family, of course—and beating the snot out of all of them.”
“That’s pitiful,” Petra told him. “Don’t you think maybe he’s sick? That he might need some psychiatric help? Not that I like him, or even feel sorry for him, because I don’t. But... well, you have to admit it; your family is a little... out there.”
Jack pulled out yet another speaker and set it on the floor. “Tell me about it. Mom always said Dad was the only normal member of the Trehan family. Not that Aunt Sadie isn’t normal. I’d rather have a happy old maid like Sadie than some dry stick who only talks about her arthritis. She’s just... well, she’s just her own person, that’s all, a woman on a mission of self-discovery, I think she calls it.”
“And her sister Florence was like her?”
“Aunt Flo? Nah, she was pretty normal, too, I think, except that she fell for Uncle Guido. That wasn’t normal; at least most people wouldn’t think so. Uncle Guido was...” He searched for the right word. “Uncle Guido could talk martinizing for hours, without taking a breath. Show up in a new suit and he’d tell you how to clean it. He once made my dad take off his shirt so he could press the collar again, because he said it had a crease in it. That wouldn’t have been so bad, I guess, except that it was in the middle of Christmas dinner at my grandmother’s house. He probably whispered dry cleaning formulas into Aunt Flo’s ear as he—” Jack smiled. “Never mind.”
Petra held Candy’s hands as the baby bounced up and down in her lap. “So how did Candy’s mother and Joey get to be so weird? And don’t tell me they’re normal, because I’ve heard about Cecily and met Joey.”
Jack shrugged. “Money?” he suggested. At Petra’s quizzical look he continued, “No, really. Money. They were eighteen and seventeen when Aunt Flo and Uncle Guido died, leaving them tons of money. There were trust funds set up, but even the income was enough to allow both of them to go wild. And then, when they turned twenty-one, they each got checks for three million bucks. We’re not talking Rhodes scholars here, Petra. They went nuts, both of them. Cecily with men, drugs for a while, and now her endless search to find herself. Joey? He just wanted people to be afraid of him, so he decided to join the Mafia. He didn’t make the cut.”
“And your brother? Tim? Is he another nutty Trehan, or did both of you escape it? I mean, you both have lots of money, too, right?”
Jack sat down on the edge of the couch, thought about Petra’s question. “Right. But we had Mom and Dad, at least at the beginning, and we had all those years of being raised right to help keep us sane. Cecily and Joey were allowed to run wild from the time they were kids. Which is why,” he said, slapping his hands on his knees as he stood up again, “Candy stays with me.”
“Da. Da-da-da.”
Jack smiled, looked down at Candy, but the baby hadn’t been looking at him. She was talking to Petra, calling Petra da-da.
“She called you da-da,” he said, not feeling stupid until the words were out of his mouth. “She calls me dada.”
“Sure she does,” Petra answered, kissing Candy’s little nose. “She calls you da-da, she calls me da-da, she calls her teddy and her bottle and her pacifier da-da.” She looked up at Jack, who was feeling a little hollow inside. “Da-da is the easiest sound for a baby to make. All she has to do is sort of slap her tongue against the roof of her mouth, like this—da. Da-da-da.”
“Da-da-da,” Candy repeated, snuggling against Petra’s chest.
“Now, ma-ma—that’s hard,” Petra continued reasonably. “With ma-ma, she has to be able to make her lips press together while she sort of keeps her tongue still. Ma. See? Ma. Ma. Ma. Very difficult. That’s why kids always say da-da first. But mama’s shouldn’t get upset about it, because once a kid learns how to say ma-ma, she never stops saying it—when she’s hungry, tired, bored, you name it.” Petra kissed Candy’s fingers. “At least that’s what it says in the books.”
Jack was listening, if only with one ear. “So she really hasn’t been calling me da-da?” he asked quietly.
“Nope,” Petra said brightly, then seemed to realize her mistake. “Hooboy, you’re all broken up about this, aren’t you?”
“No. No, I’m not,” Jack said quickly, walking back over to the boxes still to be unpacked. “Not at all. So, Petra, tell me, does your genius include hooking up speakers? Because I don’t have the smallest damn idea how to organize this stuff.”
“Ah, electronics,” Petra said, standing up, handing Candy to Jack. “How lucky you are. Another area of Petra Polinski, proficiency and expertise. Let me find the instruction book, okay? Not that I need it, of course, although I could impress you by reading the French or the Japanese versions. And, hey—thanks. I feel better about hitting Joey, now that I know he really is a jerk and deserved it.”
“You’re welcome.” Jack held Candy as Petra got to work, feeling good about the way the child’s small arm draped on his shoulder as she leaned her head against him. “I-I, Candy,” he whispered, turning away from Petra. “I-I. Daddy loves Candy.”
“Da. Da-da-da,” Candy said.
She knows, Jack told himself, his heart swelling. He didn’t care what it said in those stupid damn books. She knew her daddy.