Chapter 11 Forrest
Chapter eleven
Forrest
Afew days later, Hieronymus and Paige trailed unhappily behind me as I opened the door right into a blast of noise, the rattle of pins, and the smell of greasy burgers.
“Family togetherness night,” I gritted out.
“But why?” Hieronymus protested, squirting hand sanitizer in front of his face. “When we’re starting rehearsals tomorrow?”
“What happened with Birdie is all my fault. And when I get her to forgive me, she is going to feel goddamn welcomed in this family.”
I turned and glared at the two of them and they at least had the grace to look shamefaced.
“That’s my fault too. I haven’t done enough to teach you both that snobbery is bad.”
“But do we have to learn it here?” Paige wailed, looking around at the bowling alley. “This place is full of oily peasants.”
“Yes. We do. It’s family bonding time, and you two are going to tell me concrete steps you are taking to value Birdie.”
I paid and got bowling shoes for each of them.
“Also for us all to learn to be less snobby. We need to make ourselves into the kind of family Birdie wants to rejoin. And that’s my goddamn fault too.
I didn’t care what anyone else thought of her because I loved her.
Now? You will all be toeing that damn line and adoring her, do you understand me? ”
“All right,” they both mumbled, and I was under no delusions it was to keep access to my money but I didn’t care. They were going to be nice to Birdie or else.
“Mother is convinced you’re going to change your mind and call her to sing the role of Christine,” Hieronymus said as he adjusted his ascot.
“I won’t.”
“Well, she said you probably would.”
I was pissed as hell at Phee and my kids, but this was also my own damn fault. I was the one who had gone on about her being the Voice of a Generation. And in front of Birdie, too. Because I didn’t think about Birdie’s own ambitions, just wanted to keep her to myself.
That was a fuck-up I was determined to fix.
“What is this?” Paige squealed as the server sat a tray in front of her.
“This is a burger and fries.”
Paige poked at her burger with one perfectly-manicured fingernail, raising the bun up suspiciously.
“Daddy, are these even organic tomatoes? I swear you’re determined to torture us. We promise to be nice to Birdie.”
My phone buzzed and I glanced down at it. It was the publicist for a popular morning show, expressing some doubt that a musical album with a Bishop playing polka tunes on the accordion was the best fit for them.
I fired back an email, bluntly informing the show that if they ever wanted access to any of the actors and singers from any of my successful shows in the future, they would give this album the publicity I wanted.
Birdie thought I was going to fail and I was determined this album would be a success.
Then I grabbed a fry and laced up my bowling shoes.
“Oh my god, please tell me we aren’t here for you to stalk Birdie,” Paige huffed, glancing over to where I could see Birdie’s curvy little figure, bent over and burying her fingers in a fluorescent pink bowling ball.
I was so hard-up for her that I felt drool pool in my mouth at the action. “Yes, we are.”
“Dad, you don’t want to look—pathetic do you?”
Paige’s voice trailed off as I glared at her.
“Let me be very fucking clear. I am never getting back with your mother. I am going to look as pathetic I can to get Birdie back.”
“All right. I get it. Sorry, sorry.”
“Did either of you encourage her to interrupt the wedding?”
“No,” Hieronymus said quickly. A little too quickly.
“Then I want the two of you to shape up and help.”
“Why should we help you with Birdie? She’s—”
“She’s what?” and I was surprised at the dangerous tone to my voice.
“She’s very sweet, but, you know—”
“I know what?”
“She’s, like—not classy, you know? It’s so obvious to everyone why you chose her.”
“And what reason is that?”
I did not like hearing any of this but it was becoming very clear why Birdie believed I thought of her as a gold-digger. Because I’d unknowingly allowed this level of disrespect to flourish in my own family.
Unknowingly meaning I didn’t care what they thought of her, didn’t make sure with an iron fist that my bratty, snobby, pain in the ass family treated her with the respect she deserved.
“Well, she’s—” Hieronymus said, looking over at his twin sister.
“Daddy, she’s hot,” Paige said bluntly. “You know, sex appeal.”
“Well, she’s a lot more than just sexual appeal,” I said as Birdie bent over to pick up a bowling ball, her cute little jeans shorts riding up until I saw the delectable curve of her ass.
Then Lulabel turned around and saw me looking at Birdie.
Fuck fuck.
I didn’t want Birdie to think I was just out here lusting after her from the shadows like a creeper.
“The two of you are not getting one more dollar until I see evidence that you’re going to be nicer to Birdie,” I warned as my children whimpered in distress.
Stalking forward as Lulabel glared at me, I tapped the shoulder of the man in the next lane.
“I’ll give you $20,00 to switch lanes with us.”
Hieronymus and Paige began to select their bowling balls, looking like they’d just been sentenced to twenty years of hard labor, and my eldest child Percival sat down beside me.
He had his extra moral look going on with his face, which ordinarily I would tell him to keep the bishop shit in his piehole, but just then Birdie turned around and met my eyes.
She did not look happy to see me whatsoever, and for whatever reason, Lulabel and Percival seemed to be her favorite people, so I swallowed my criticism.
“Father, I want to talk to you a little bit about the Sin of Lust,” Percy said, adjusting his spectacles and folding his hands reprovingly in front of him.
“Oh?” I asked neutrally, my body heating up at the sight of Birdie.
Goddamn, I wished she’d forgive me, because I absolutely was jealous of every single second she was talking to somebody else. I had never thought of myself as a particularly jealous person, but now? I was green as hell.
“Love is pure,” Percival said earnestly. “And at your advanced age, I think you should learn to appreciate the essential qualities of our fellow humans.”
“He won’t,” Lulabel called back. “He’s an old horndog.”
Birdie ignored us, concentrating on the pins as she rolled her ball down the lane.
That delicious, adorable concentration and focus was one of the many things I loved about her.
One reason we were so perfectly matched—both of us so serious about being true to our music.
And then she turned around and her face lit up in the happy, delighted expression that used to be reserved for me.
“Jerry? Oh, there you are!”
I turned in indignation to see my old friend stroll up in a pink polo shirt and slacks.
“What is he doing here?” I snarled.
“What are you doing here?” she shot back. “This isn’t your scene.”
“I am not a snob,” I said. “And I am here to make sure no other men get too close to you. And to show you I’m committed to changing the bastard parts of my personality.”
“Well, mind your business and don’t harass my new producer.”
“But I’m your producer!”
“Are you?” she retorted coolly. “No, thanks. I want someone who really believes in my voice. Not someone who offered me a pity album after getting caught running away with his ex-wife.”
“I want nothing more to do with her,” I protested, but just over Birdie’s shoulder. . . I saw Phee enter the bowling alley.