"Can you pick up the Wet Wipes, Dad?" Rita asked playfully. I honestly never thought I'd hear those words, like a shark wouldn't expect to hear hi, kitten. Rita is huge. I wish I could insert a witty metaphor, or a funny euphemism here, but Rita is just … huge. In bed, I am pushed to the edge, her baby bump stealing the sheets already. My leathery fingers hold onto the frayed edges of the mattress, and Rita asks me to move over, and I sigh, and then crash onto the floor like a tidal wave.
Frozen as I've always been, I still find myself excited to meet little infant Harrison. The name was of Rita's choosing. I was lobbying for Adrian, but after she caught a midnight showing of Rosemary's Baby on HBO, she refuses to consider it. Talk about close-minded.
Ever since Rita's stomach has been growing, my late-night play dates have somewhat diminished. Not only does Rita demand my presence, but I know I should feel something a little unusual about giving life, and taking one simultaneously. Work has even dried out for me, despite Christmas being our busiest time of year. 12-year-old killed, I write a report, 82-year-old killed, I write a report, I go to trial about one of my reports, and then I write some more of them. Not that being pursued wasn't exciting, Bay Harbor nonsense, but thinking about it, I prefer it dry as the Sahara. No highlight cases have emerged, no fun, no Miguel Prada tagging along.
"Dexter?" Rita asks, and I snap out of my thinking. I put my brain in a jar, and grab the car keys.
"I'll go pick some up." I say, and get in the mini-van. I speed along, a golden flash swimming on the highways, like that elusive Loch Ness creature. The Mini-Van Monster barreling along the I-95. All those crazy Dodge pick-ups: beware. The cashier gives me a quiet, understanding look when she sees all I am buying is Wet Wipes, and a pack of Maui Melon Mint Orbit gum. Poor schmuck, I can hear her thinking. Hear everyone thinking. Even if everyone else sees me as in a cage, I don't feel like I'm in one. Rita is great. Aster is great. Cody is great. Maui Melon Mint Orbit gum is fantastic.
My phone rattles in my pocket like a baby toy. It's Masuka. Either I've got ten minutes to go look at superficially red walls, or he's been surfing online for "adult jokes." Call me ridiculous, but it's happened before. "Hello?"
"Hey, baby. It's Masuka. Got a fat dude with a bashed in head, how fast can you be here?" His thick voice comes through the wire as if it's maple syrup oozing through the speaker. I wouldn't be surprised if he was plastered right now. I am never surprised when it comes to Masuka.
"I'm picking up Wet Wipes."
"For your ass?" He says, and laughs at himself. I can only picture him, short, and stubby, standing over a morbidly obese man, blood cascading from his open head.
"No. For Harrison. I need to drop them off at Rita's, and then I'm coming."
"I don't need to know that shit." Masuka says, and I hear his deep, throaty laugh as he hangs up. Rita is understanding when I tell her I can't be there while she nests, she kisses me, and I disappear into the mini-van again. Her nesting is creepy. She went through my photo albums, spent an outrageous amount on picture frames, and spent all day being scrapbook-y, and hanging them, placing them everywhere. I came in, and almost vomited all over our new "canyon shade" carpet. It's constantly mentioned in What to Expect When You're Expecting, nesting, the mother-to-be will constantly fidget, adjust, paint, scrapbook, keep a diary, blah blah blah.
I get to the crime scene, and see Masuka in the window, laughing to himself, and scratching his chubby, hairy stomach. What to Expect When You're Expecting Masuka. I come in through the front door. Apparently this man had a pregnant widow of his own, little artsy picture frames decorated with glittery macaroni noodles, and tourist-y knick-knacks like a sand globe from Jamaica, and a candle that has "Bahamas" embedded in the wax.
"Some dude kid who's from his own blood copped to it." Masuka says lightly, dispassionately.
"His son killed him?" I was genuinely surprised. I was sure it was a robbery-gone-awry.
"Takes a son for this kind of hate." Yes, it does. Yes, it does.