Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
So she didn’t exactly say her date was Saturday night, but it took very little effort to find out what actual day. I could’ve called Rose under some bullshit pretext, but as I’d already had a little chat with Ed Martinez, (who, along with his daytime counterparts, I give very generously to at the holidays) about keeping an eye on things, Fee being new to the city. So, I gave him a call and I asked him to let me know when Fee left the building. Not every time, I’m not some virtual fucking stalker, just when she went out in the evening this week. Alone. Before he agreed he would, I had to tell him the whole story, and I found myself admitting that I love her.
Yes, Ed Martinez, the doorman, is the first to hear of my love.
Great going, asshole.
But he kind of commiserated with me, and as he’d already agreed to keep an eye on things on my behalf—again, not like a stalker, but as someone who wanted dearly for her to come to no harm—he said he’d let me know the minute she left the building. Alone.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said as I’d made my way to the elevator.
My answer? “Ed, I haven’t a fucking clue, but I’m rolling with it.”
And now here I am, sitting on my couch, drinking my scotch, watching Shrek, of all things. But it’s an improvement on the last (acid drop) movie of Lulu’s choosing, so there is at least that.
“I’ve been to Drury Lane, you know.” Lulu tips her chin and, along with the statement, sprays a little half-masticated popcorn at my chest.
“Yeah?”
She nods as she grabs another handful of popcorn, wriggling closer. If only I could get her mother this close. “When we went to London in the summer, Granny and Grandpa took me to the theatre, and we walked down Drury Lane.”
“Did you see the muffin man?”
“No.” She rests her head against my chest, and I feel her ribs expand with a long inhale. “Just coffee shops with muffins and donuts and things in the windows.”
“Too bad. Maybe he moved to a new house.”
“The muffin man isn’t real, Uncle Car.” Mouth wide, she palms another handful of popcorn, pressing it to her face. Her expression turns thoughtful as she chews. “But there was a man outside of the theatre. He was shouting and holding a Bible.”
“Like a street preacher?”
She shrugs, unsure. “Grandpa said he was a God botherer, but he didn’t look like he was bothering God, just the people coming out of the theatre.”
“What show did you go to see?”
“Matilda. I put a red ribbon in my hair.”
Red ribbons mean something else entirely at Ardeo. It’s strange, but for the first time, I find myself wondering if our members with children find the whole ribbon thing a little creepy. I push the question to one side for examination later. I’m guessing Matilda wore a red ribbon in the show, though I can’t be sure. I’m also not sure why someone would be drawn to preach fire and brimstone, old testament-style, decrying the sins of PG-rated musicals and plays.
Maybe his issue was with the casinos nearby?
“Did he scare you?”
“No, but my granny scared him.” She chuckles at the recollection. “She was very, very angry.”
“Did she tell him God isn’t real?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“God is like Santa Claus,” she sermonises quite suddenly. “If you don’t believe, you don’t receive.”
“And what does God give you?”
“Blessings.”
I guess hedging your bets is as good a reason as any. “What happened with the street preacher? The guy with the Bible?” I qualify.
“We were eating an ice cream, and he shouted gluten!”
“Gluten?” I tug on my earlobe, surprised I can still hear. Lulu’s quest for retelling a tale is certainly a faithful one because that wasn’t what her mom refers to an inside voice. “Sounds like he was intolerant to a lot of things.” When she says nothing, it becomes clear my four-year-old audience is a little young to get the reference. “Do you think it might have been glutton he yelled?”
She shrugs.“My granny said he should come here to her and call her fat,” she intones, mimicking a loud, angry Irish accent. A pretty good one, too. “That just means come here,” she advises, breaking character. “And then I yelled my granny isn’t fat because she isn’t. She’s just fluffy. And I was going to kick him, but before I could, Granny threatened to shove his Bible up his hole.” She cackles as she throws herself back against the cushions laughing loud and long. “And then do you know what he did?” she asks, pushing up on her elbows as she attempts to blow a chunk of hair from her face. “The man with the Bible?”
“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me,” I answer, pushing the strands away for her.