Chapter 33
*~* Cannon *~*
The sound of retching coming from the bathroom reverberates through the house.
The smell drifts through seconds later, followed by the sound of an air freshener being fired off.
Barbara has been eating and heaving for what seems like a lifetime.
I don’t know why she bothers eating breakfast in the first place, because it doesn’t stay inside her long enough to do any good.
“If I weren’t so hungry all the damn time, I wouldn’t bother with any breakfast. This baby is eating like a horse, I’m sure.
He’s going to be a freaking monster. By the time he’s ready to come out, my pussy won’t be able to stretch that wide.
You’re going to ruin me with our first child, you know that don’t you?
” She leans on the bathroom doorframe and throws out the accusation.
Seconds later and she’s back in the bathroom, talking to God on the great white telephone.
I can’t imagine how bad she must feel. One minute as hungry as all hell, and before she gets any chance to savor being full, she’s throwing up.
That has got to be frustrating for her, or any woman for that matter.
At least it’s only her breakfast she loses, and any brunch, snacks or elevenses.
Once she passes the magic hour of noon, her hormones seem to go into respite, and she eats fine after that.
She eats a lot, mind you, more than I can put away.
She’s put on a little weight, but not so much that you’d notice, except in a couple of obvious places.
I can fit my head into one of her new bra cups. No complaints there, though, no sirree.
She accepted the position of practice manager for Jamie’s new location and has been involved in every part of the process of acquiring the land, meeting with architects, choosing the right one, and even how the building should have curb appeal.
I went with her to meet with a potential architect on the site next to the crem.
He kept talking to me and ignoring her, so that didn’t end well.
After telling him for the third time that I was not involved in the project and that it was all Barbara’s baby, so he should be directing his ideas to her, she got thoroughly and completely pissed off, marched him off the property and dismissed him with a flea in his ear.
I’m back in the saddle full-time at the pet crem, no more excuses for playing hooky, and hired a receptionist as one of my first duties.
The phone rings all day, every day. I didn’t know so many pets dropped dead at such short notice.
Very inconsiderate of them, I must say. We have inquiries about every type of pet, domestic or exotic, and some of the owners are a sandwich short of a picnic, I swear to God.
One woman asked if her Norwegian Forest cat, Reggie the Wegie, could be cremated aboard a burning boat instead of in a casket.
Mary-Lou is very sweet, polite, looks like butter wouldn’t melt, and has a vicious sense of humor.
I had two complaints about her responses to stupid requests in her first week, confirming that I had made the absolute best choice.
She doesn’t, however, believe any of us about Percy the python, who we still haven’t found.
Despite another animal, this time a cat, going missing, she resolutely believes we are trying to frighten her.
I hope she doesn’t meet Percy in a dark corner somewhere when she’s alone.
Pres pulled Guardrail and his crew off every job they had going on as soon as Mr. Bentley presented us with Bandit's ashes.
Pens had looked into the idea of having ashes buried in a plot on the compound and after discussing it in Church, everyone voted for a memorial garden where we could have our ashes scattered rather than buried in a little box or fancy urn.
They created a beautiful garden space, and the club women all gave their time and effort to choosing and planting it so that there is something in bloom throughout each of the seasons.
Jamie presented a small brass and wood plaque to commemorate Bandit, which was typically simple yet elegant.
While we were in Church, Pres asked if anyone had any thoughts on Tanner becoming a brother.
Unsurprisingly, there were a lot in favor of him and many positive comments were made.
Road name suggestions flew thick and fast, such as Tex, Hoss, Howdy, and my personal favorite, Twang.
Pres suggested that he be left as a police officer for his prospect duties and that we revisit in six months rather than the standard twelve.
Tanner thought this was great when we told him, and although he can’t choose his own road name, he too liked Twang.
It is certainly original. I’ve never heard of a brother anywhere with that road name.
He and Pattie are as thick as thieves. I’ve never seen any romance between them, and it’s none of my business, but when he’s at the clubhouse, those two are always at the bottom of any mischief.
They spiked a bottle of whisky behind the bar one night with chilies.
Poor old Noah, who was bartending that night, almost got lynched.
Barbara finally reappears from the bathroom, looking pale and drawn. “This is all your fault. You and your damn swimmers. If all my pregnancies are going to be like this, he’s going to be an only child, I’ll tell you that much.”
“You keep saying he. It might be a girl, you know.” I grin at her as she pulls a face.
“Nah. Oh no. No daughter of mine would be this unpleasant to her mother. It’s definitely your son.” Sitting beside me on the bed, she leans her head on my arm, only because she can’t reach my shoulder. “The house will be done soon.”
“Yes. What’s your point, Babe?” I know the house will be done soon. We’ve been up and down the compound every day checking on the progress. We have ordered furniture, curtains, blinds, even a dog bed for a dog we don’t have.
“I can’t wait to be in our own home. Won’t it be cool?” She says this dreamily as though we’ve been living with our parents or something.
“We’ve spent most of our time at your house, so it’s not like we haven’t had our own space, is it?”
“No. Yes. I know, but like you just said, my house. This will be our house. Our home together. Just me, you, and Wilbur.”
“Who the fuck is Wilbur? You don’t mean my son?
He is so NOT being named Wilbur. What the fuck!
Oh no. You can have a dog and call him Wilbur, but uh-uh, not my son.
What sort of a name is Wilbur for a biker’s son?
Where did you come up with that?” I jump up, turn to look at her, and see her with her hand over her mouth, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Oh, very funny. Well, we’ll see how funny you think it is when I name your daughter Gertrude Elspeth Calder. How d’you like them apples?”
“I knew a girl called Elspeth once. She was a bitch and a bully. We went all through school together. She only tried to take my lunch money once. I made the bitch swallow it. She never tried it on with me again.” Barbara smiles at the memory, and somehow I can see her doing it.
“Talking of lunch, I’m starving. Let’s go see if Allegra is working today, shall we? ”
“I’m not paying those prices so you can just barf it down their toilets.” The food there is expensive and worth every cent, but not just to throw it down the toilet.
“Are you trying to say that your pregnant wife isn’t worth it? You do know I could develop an irrational craving for Italian food, and we’d have to eat there three times a day until this boy of yours makes an appearance?” That is quite a threat, and one I don’t want to turn into a reality.
“You know I’d have to sell the family home to support that kind of lifestyle, don’t you?” I counter with my own threat.
“Oh, please, dear husband, not that. I’ll do anything you desire to stop that from being so.
Have mercy. Do what you will with me, but don’t sell our beloved home.
” Barbara throws herself to her knees in front of me and looks up lasciviously.
I hold out for ten minutes until her throat and mouth force me to concede defeat.
I notice that she doesn’t rush to the bathroom afterwards, either.
“If it’s a girl, should we call her Swallow?” The elbow in my ribs tells me that’s not an option.
Sitting in the clubhouse kitchen and having lunch, I managed to get out of the Italian restaurant idea by telling Barbara that Allegra wasn’t working today, we’re joined by Mateo and Pattie.
They are talking so fast, it’s a miracle either of them knows what the other is saying.
Barbara seems to be able to follow them, so I just eat and let them carry on.
Once I’m finished, I concentrate on their conversation and finally understand what’s going on.
Mateo and Pattie have an idea for food at the bar.
There is a kitchen at the bar that was left functional but not fully restored when the bar was bought and renovated.
Now, they agree that food would be a good idea, but can’t agree on what food to have on the menu.
Mateo wants to go with a sit-down meal menu, whereas Pattie is more for the finger food, snack-type menu.
Both have their merits, but I think Pattie would get my vote.
Mateo’s sit-down idea would reduce the number of tables available to drinkers, who would still be in the majority as far as profits go.
Pattie’s idea would get the food turned around faster, and served basket-style would reduce time for servers clearing tables and the kitchen washing up.
Well, that’s my thoughts for what they are worth, but I don’t have to voice them as Barbara quotes something similar.
She also stops them both dead in their tracks with an even better suggestion.
“Why don’t you hold interviews for a chef or line cook or whatever they are these days and ask each for their thoughts on what menu would best suit the kitchen size and style you have?
Neither of you have the experience or knowledge to say what can be cooked fresh and quickly from a kitchen, but any chef worth their salt would be able to tell you what would work best, surely.
Interview the chefs, ask for their thoughts, evaluate the input, and hey presto.
All your problems solved in one go.” Barbara sits back, looking smug.
Mateo and Pattie high-five her and each other, then dash off, leaving their dishes on the table, I notice.
Dumping the dishes into the dishwasher, we take a stroll into the compound and watch the crew putting what we hope are the finishing touches on our home.
The place looks great. I can’t wait to get settled in with my wife and child and start planning the next phase of our lives.