NOVEMBER 1, 1994
“WELL, OUR WEDDING IS GOING TO BE SUPERSPECIAL.” CLAIRE CONTINUED TO HARP on all the way through breakfast the following morning. “Gerard will wear a tuxedo, and I’ll wear a big, white princess dress like Cinderella.” She hoofed half a pancake into her mouth and continued. “And we’ll have a horse and carriage like Barbie and Ken, and we’ll have our honeymoon on the moon.”
“Don’t forget the babies, Claire-Bear,” Gibsie chimed in from his perch beside her, while he too inhaled his stack of pancakes. “We’re having ten babies, aren’t we?”
“Yes, Gerard, but the babies come after the honeymoon,” my sister reminded him. “When we do the smooching and you give me the special hug.”
I arched a brow. “The special hug?”
“Uh-huh,” she replied, with an eager nod. “You know, like the special hug Daddy gave Mammy to put us in her tummy.”
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, dropping my head in my hands, while the girl sitting beside me snickered into her hand.
“They’re so strange,” Lizzie whispered in my ear, causing the hair on my arms to shoot up.
“Tell me about it,” I whispered back, daring myself to take a peek at her. Yep, my heart still slammed at the sight of her this morning.
“That’s not how it works,” Feely informed everyone at the table. “Bulls have balls like boys have, and cows have vaginas like girls have.” He then proceeded to clear his throat, armed and ready with enough farm-life knowledge to shatter their innocence. “The balls store sperm, and the sperm has to shoot out of the penis and go into the cow’s vagina to impregnate her.”
Gibsie’s and Claire’s mouths dropped open in unison.
“We call that bulling a cow,” Feely continued between mouthfuls of cereal. “The bull would have to mount the cow to put her in calve, or she would need to be artificially inseminated.”
“What’s that?” Lizzie asked, looking just as wide-eyed now as Gibs and Claire.
“Please don’t, Feely,” I begged, having heard this exact speech from his father when I went on a playdate to his house last spring and ended up in the calving shed.
“The farmer would collect the sperm from the bull, load it into the insemination gun, and shoot it into the cow’s vu—”
“Okay, Feely!” I yelled, loud enough to block his voice out. “La, la, la, la! That’s enough for one day, lad.”
“Ew,” Claire groaned, looking at Gibsie in horror. “Just ew.”
“Maybe we’ll just have pets,” Gibsie offered, looking queasy. “Because I don’t think I want to shoot you with the bull gun, Claire-Bear.”
“Agreed,” she croaked out, hooking her pinky finger around his. “Let’s just have cat babies instead.”
“What’s this about bull guns, young man?” a familiar voice asked, causing Gibsie to leap out of his chair.
“Dad!” Bolting across the kitchen, he threw himself at his father. “You’re here!”
“Yeah, well, Pete mentioned something about taking his gang swimming,” Joe replied, wrapping Gibsie up in his arms.
Gibsie may have had the same blond hair as his mam, but that’s where the resemblance stopped. He was every inch Joe Gibson’s son in both looks and personality.
“I figured we could tag along with them.” Joe kissed Gibsie’s head and set him back down on his feet. “What do you say, son?” He ruffled his son’s curls. “How do you fancy getting up-to-speed on that doggy paddle of yours?”
“What about the bakery?”
“Closing shop for one day won’t hurt,” his father replied with a smile. “Besides, I’d rather hang out with my main man.”
Nodding his head, Gibsie beamed for a solid ten seconds before bursting into tears. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” he tried to tell his father, through floods of tears. “I’m happy, Dad, I promise.”
“It’s okay, buddy,” Joe soothed, tucking Gibsie’s face into his chest. “You’re allowed to cry. You’ve had a hard year.”
“Yeah.” Sniffling, Gibs wrapped his arms around his father’s waist and clung to him. “Thanks, Dad.”
“That’s Gibsie’s dad,” I whispered in Lizzie’s ear. “His mam kicked him out a while back.”
“Oh.” She looked at me with lonesome blue eyes. “That’s so sad.”
“I know,” I whispered back. “Gibs misses him a lot.”
Dad strolled into the kitchen then, phone in hand. “Patrick, son, your sister is outside in the car waiting for you,” he told my friend before turning to look at me. “I’ve just had an interesting conversation with Donal Murphy down the street.”
Aw, crap.
Feely, who was halfway out of his chair, froze on the spot before slowly sitting back down.
“Oh, really?” I replied, not daring to look at any of the others. If I did, Dad would know. “What did he want?”
“He’s been ringing around all the neighbors,” Dad explained, scratching his chin. “Apparently, some kids egged his house last night, and some wild, young one even took a chunk out of his arm.”
Lizzie’s breath hitched and I quickly snatched her hand up under the table. I couldn’t look at her, because I would be busted if I did, so I just smoothed my thumb over the back of her hand reassuringly.
“No way,” Gibsie thankfully chimed in, feigning surprise. He was a far better liar than I was. “Where did it happen?” he asked, rejoining us at the kitchen table.
“His front porch,” Dad told us. “There were others with her, but they all wore masks, so he can’t be sure who the culprits are.”
I mentally sagged in relief.
“Is that Old Murphy?” Joe asked then, looking at Dad. “The cranky, old bastard down the street, with a penchant for terrorizing the neighborhood?”
“That’s the one,” Dad replied, trying not to smile. “I assured him that it couldn’t have been any of our gang because they were all tucked up in bed.” He looked to us. “Isn’t that right, gang?”
We all nodded eagerly. “That’s right.”
“Well, I hope that ‘wild, young one’ took a fine big chunk out of him,” Joe drawled, winking at us. “Might lighten the old crank up a bit.”
