"The D Word"

It is one week later and Vinny McGee may as well be one of the cracks in our ceiling we see him so much. First there was the mold in our tile grout he’d needed to fix and then there was a funny smell coming from the oven mom wanted him to take a look at (Mom had failed to remove all of the plastic from a roll of Pillsbury cookie dough she’d baked last week.) and now here it is already Friday afternoon and Vinny is squatting down on our orange carpet, his bony butt shifting in the air.



“Hey,” I call and grab a box of cookies from the shoe box that comprises our pantry.


“What’s up there, Shorty?” He winks (I am taller than Vinny.) and continues to work on a dark oval of ketchup—compliments of an overzealous bite into my Burger King Whopper last summer.


“I’m celebrating.” I throw myself on the couch. My detention with little Mary was finally over.


“You mean my first official date with your mom?” He clicks the side of his mouth.


“Don’t let mom hear you say the D word. She might cancel.” I raise and lower my eyebrows.


“Good point kid.” He sprays the carpet a few times and sits down beside the stain. “Have you got any more tips?”


“I don’t know. Do you know anything new about my dad?” I pop another cookie in my mouth.


“I charge one cookie per fact.” I throw him the box and he pulls one out. “Make it two cookies. These are pretty small.” He flips the cookies back and forth in his hands.


There is something Vinny is measuring in his head and he is taking it out on my celebratory snack. “Let’s see…Samantha used to chew gum until her jaw clicked and hurt and your dad tried, and succeeded to get her to stop.” He continues to look at the flip flopping cookies.


“Well, duh, even I knew that one.”


“Yeah, well you knew Seth was gay when I told you.” He takes the two cookies and puts them over his eyes.


“No, I didn’t! And trust me. Your son is far from gay.”


He pretends to cough and says “Denial.”


“You are so immature.”


“Have you met your mother?” He eats both cookies and goes for the box.


“Touché.” I pull the box behind me. “What else can you tell me?”


“Your mother used to smoke.”


“Yeah and my dad helped her quit with the gum chewing and now she bites her nails in place of the gum. Tell me something I don’t know.”


“I’m helping her quit the nail biting.” He is back to scrubbing out the ketchup stain.


“Strike three, no more cookies for you.” I take the box with me to the kitchen.


“Okay, what if I told you something big about your dad.” There are those big puppy eyes on me.


“Wow, you must really like chocolate.” I wave the box as if we are playing a game and not my heart.


“Well, I’m fruity for Fruit Loops and Coo-coo for Samantha Fluchter.” He stares at the stain that is no longer there. I may as well be Mrs. Blum the way he can’t make eye contact with me. It is a gesture that tells me it is okay to trust him. Strange, that I can feel this for a man in purple pants who I’ve only known for a month and not the woman who gave me life.


“There’s one condition.” He walks toward the television and turns to face me. “You can’t tell your mother.”