After walking the halls a bit to say their hellos, Michael and Fiona headed home. Fiona drove. Michael braced for impact. The drive was comfortably quiet. It was a fairly pleasant evening, as Miami goes. The sun was maybe an hour from setting.
After 10 minutes or so, they arrived at their very, very yellow 2 br/2 ba home on Hibiscus Street. Once Fiona knew Michael would be in town for at least a year, she announced their loft over a nightclub was a revolting pit, she couldn't believe she'd ever lived there, and they were moving, immediately if not sooner. She insisted on a second toilet in her home, and she didn't mean the great outdoors. And a bathtub, one she could relax in, not one they used to preserve corpses when need be. Michael needed projects, and there was something growing in the southeast corner of the loft – something different than what was already growing behind the sink – so he didn't protest.
Within two hours of Fi's proclamation, she and Michael were sitting down to drinks with Sam Axe, buddy extraordinaire, so he could find them a house. Sam was the kind of person who knew of houses lying around. So it was no surprise when Sam had a real estate buddy who knew a guy at his old agency who had a client whose mother was looking to leave her house, um, quickly. Michael and Fi didn't want that house, because that one was apparently the subject of some inquiries by both the IRS and ATF. Hence the rapid departure. But, they were happy to hear that this lady had a friend who'd just died unexpectedly and now there was a vacant house. Well, not happy she died, obviously. The house looked good, apart from being very, very yellow. It would meet their needs, which was one bedroom for them, one bedroom for their weapons, and, you know, all the stuff regular people want in a house. Stacks of cash behind the drywall in the loft were exhumed, Barry the Money Launderer Slash Financial Consultant was called, some Seychelles banks got some new accounts, and some stucco primer and Behr 3103-E Ripe Wheat paint was purchased. The wheels were in motion.
They hadn't repainted the house yet. Michael was waiting, some would say passive-aggressively, for Fi to offer to paint the house, since she was the one who wanted the house. Michael and Fi did not live in a world where painting the house was the guy's job by default. Usually the unpleasant jobs went to whichever one of them was more to blame for their most recent fight. But she hadn't offered, and he wasn't in the mood to argue about it, so the primer and paint sat in the second bedroom along with their armory.
Fi guided the car into their driveway. They got out of the car and were almost to the front door when Michael's cell phone rang. He took it from his pocket, saw MOM on the screen, took and released a deep breath, and pressed the green button. "Hello?"
"I have mononucleosis," said a husky-voiced lounge singer.
Michael has very good hearing, but he figured he'd heard that wrong. "Hello?" he said, wondering if, in 2013, on a cell phone, it was possible to have crossed wires.
"You said that already, Michael," said his mom, whose smoker's voice sounded considerably worse than usual.
"What did you say, Mom?"
"I have mo-no-nu-cle-o-sis," Madeline enunciated, as if teaching a little kid a new word.
"You're not 14."
"I know that, Michael," she croaked.
"Have you been kissing a 14 year old?" Michael asked, genuinely confused.
"Don't be an idiot, Michael. Adults can get it."
"How in the world did you contract mono?"
"Remember when I went to visit your Aunt Jill about five weeks ago? Before Charlie got here? Her grandson Jeffrey came over a couple of times. We were out in the back around the pool, and everybody kept picking up the wrong cup. You see, Michael, that's why I've always said you need to get some of those little wine glass ID tags for when you entertain."
"When I entertain? Wh – " Michael shook his head in disbelief. "Mom, can we focus? So what happened?"
"Well, I guess Jeffrey had been kissing a 14 year old," Madeline surmised, "because Jill said two weeks ago the doctor told him he had mono, and that's what my guy told me today."
Fiona had already gone in the house. Michael realized he was still outside, so he went in as well. Fi was in the kitchen staring at the contents of the refrigerator while she leaned on its door.
"Jeez, Mom, I'm sorry to hear that. So what are you supposed to do?"
"Wait to die."
Michael leaned his head all the way back and tried to summon the strength to not yell at his sick mother.
"Nothing, Michael. It's a horrible virus and I just have to live through it."
"Wow. I really am sorry, Mom," Michael said sincerely. "You need anything?"
"Yes. You have to take Charlie."
Michael was silent while he tried to process that information. "What?"
"Charlie can't stay with me. I'm totally contagious, and if he hasn't already gotten it, he will if he stays here. And I can't take care of him. I can barely move. You and Fiona need to come get him so he can stay with you."
"Wait. How is Charlie going to stay here? Who's going to take care of him?"
"Michael, put Fiona on the phone," Madeline sighed.
Fi had moved on to staring into the pantry, so Michael moved the few steps over to her, tapped her on the shoulder with his phone, and handed it to her, his mouth still open in confusion.
"Hi, Madeline. How are you? . . . Seriously? . . . No, I didn't realize adults could get it. I suppose there's no reason they couldn't, though. How do you think you got it? . . . Yeah, I remember. . . . Ohhhhhhh. . . . Yeah, that sounds right. . . . Oh, I know! ID tags! Or put a Sharpie out so people can write their names. . . . Right, if it's a plastic cup. . . . No, no, of course he can't stay there. . . . Yeah, I think that makes the most sense. . . . Why did Michael think you needed to talk to me? . . . Yeah . . . Mm-hmm . . . Oh, Jesus, Madeline, tell me he didn't say that. . . . He did. . . . Right. Of course he did. . . . Okay, well, shall we come get him now? . . . Okay. . . . Yeah . . . Yeah, we've got that pasta he likes. . . . Right, and we'll pick up some milk at some point. . . . Oh, that's right!" Fiona laughed heartily. "Oh, Michael will be delighted to hear that. We should sell tickets. . . . Well, let us get organized and we'll leave in a few minutes, okay? . . . Okay, we'll see you soon. Love you. . . . Bye."
Fi pressed the red button and threw the phone at Michael's chest.
"Why did you act like a moron on the phone? Whaddya mean, 'who's going to take care of him?'? Who do you think is going to take care of him?"
"Fi, we're not set up to take care of a child. We don't know how to take care of a child," Michael said mournfully.
"Michael, don't be ridiculous. What's the alternative? Hmmm? That's right; there isn't one. Of course we can take care of a child. We know battlefield medicine. We've been in the trenches. We know how long a person can go without food or water. We can certainly take care of him."
"I know we can keep him alive, Fi," Michael sighed. "Normal people aim higher than that."
"Look, this is happening. You can make a list of all the things we don't know what we're doing, or you can use that energy to figure out what we're doing. You said you wanted to get to know him," Fiona reminded Michael.
"Not how I meant, Fi. I meant playing trains with him for an hour every few days and going to my mom's house for dinner a couple of times a week. I know how to play trains. I certainly know how to eat. I do not know how to take care of a child in any way except keeping its airway clear and making sure it's hydrated."
Fiona had walked to their guest bedroom during Michael's soliloquy to assess the situation. The rifles were hanging from a pot rack she'd installed on the ceiling. All the handguns were on the shelves of the bookcases the former owner's family didn't want. They'd dragged Michael's workbench in the room, and it was currently covered with loose ammo Fi'd been meaning to put into some great little boxes she'd gotten from the dollar aisles at Target.
So it was clear.
"Charlie can't sleep in here," Fiona announced. "We can't get this cleaned up fast enough. He'll have to sleep with us until we can figure out what to do with all this."
"How's he going to sleep with us?"
"You want a diagram?"
"No, Fi, but Nate told me it's dangerous to sleep with your kid because you can roll over on them and suffocate them," Michael said, the concern evident in his voice.
Fiona smiled. "That's for infants, Michael. Charlie's two and a half. Toddlers are much more vocal when you roll over on them."
Michael nodded his head, thinking that through. That made sense. "How do you know that, Fi? How do you know any of this?"
"I'm Irish and Catholic and one of 19 cousins on my mum's side alone. I've been around children."
Michael nodded again, then walked out to the living room and surveyed their small house. "What about when we're working?"
"Well, he goes to school in the morning, and they have the option for him to stay for the afternoon as well. We'll start with his regular schedule, and if it seems like the right thing to do, we'll add the afternoons. And we just won't work when we have him. The CIA can wait a month if need be. Or Sam and Jesse can substitute teach. And as for our other jobs – I don't know, I guess we'll just take a vacation. It's just a month." Fiona came to stand next to him. She leaned her head near his shoulder and put her arm around his waist and squeezed. "This will be fine, Michael. We'll figure it out. We can call your mom if we don't know something. Sam and Jesse already act like children, so they'll love it. It'll be fine." She squeezed him again.
Michael's face relaxed into an easy smile. He bent his neck and kissed the top of her head. "All right, between four able-bodied adults and a diseased senior citizen, we can probably do this."
"Good. Okay. We need to make a plan. You either need to leave your mom the Charger and we take her car or we need to take the car seat out of her car and install it in mine," Fiona instructed. "Charlie can eat something there before we leave or we'll take him out or we'll just scrounge something up here. Your mom said she's packing a few days' worth of clothes and stuff for him for us to take tonight. We'll get the rest once we get organized. Hmmm. What else." Fi sat down on the coffee table and closed her eyes, mentally walking through Madeline's house to figure out what Charlie would need. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I can't believe I forgot this. That's what I was laughing about before."
"What?"
"Charlie's potty training."