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“I don’t know. I just got in myself, and they won’t say,” said Seamus. “They keep sighing and moaning, though. I believe they’ve come down with some sickness perhaps mental in nature.”
“Help, Dad. Just help,” said Eddie as he looked up weakly from the ottoman.
“He makes us run, Dad,” said Trent, pointing toward the crunching sound in the kitchen. “We were doing drills. Soccer drills.”
“You made Mary Catherine disappear and replaced her with a drill sergeant,” Ricky said. “We’re not that bad, are we? Well, I mean, we’re sort of bad, but this bad? Honestly, what did we do?”
The blender stopped, then whirred again.
“And he says he’s making us smoothies,” said Eddie. “But I saw vegetables, Dad. He bought vegetables from the corner market! I def
initely saw carrots and even some green stuff. That’s not a smoothie, Dad. That’s V8 juice!”
“Give it up, fellas,” I said with a smile. “You couch-potato Nintendo athletes could use some running around. Not to mention some vegetables. Mary Catherine would be pleased.”
Chapter 38
I was turning into the hallway near the back bedrooms when I ran into the female Bennett contingent near the rumbling washer and dryer. They glared at me in unison. Another group of unhappy campers, apparently.
“First the boys, now you,” I said. “What’s wrong? What are you guys up to?”
“Doing our laundry, thank you very much, Father,” said Juliana.
“But Martin can handle that,” I said.
Six sets of female eyes glared back at me in unholy unison.
“Are you nuts, Dad?” said Jane. “Do you know how embarrassing that would be? Martin is not—and I mean never—doing my laundry. Or I’ll…run away!”
“We all will if that man in there even glances at the laundry of any female member of this family,” chimed in Fiona.
“Forever!” said Chrissy.
“Forever? Wow, okay, ladies. I’ll work on it. Sheesh,” I said, slowly backing away.
“Hey there, Martin. How’d the first day go?” I said back in the kitchen.
“Ah, they’re great, so they are,” said Martin. “They complained a bit about the running around, what with the rain and all, but that’s natural. Listen, I think that little one there—Trent, is it?—has some real potential as a footballer, especially for a three-footed Yank, but what are we talkin’ about my day at work for? I heard it on the radio. They hit us again, have they?”
I nodded.
“Is it bad?”
“It’s pretty bad, Martin,” I said.
“And I thought the troubles in Northern Ireland were bad. Who’s doing it? Is it those al Qaeda nut jobs again, do ya think?”
I shrugged.
“We don’t know yet.”
“Well, I thought it best to keep the TV off on account of the youngest ones,” Martin said. “I thought you’d handle the situation best.”
“Good call, Martin,” I said.
And now for another, I thought, taking out my phone and hitting a speed-dial number.
“Hey, Tony,” I said. “I’d like to get four large pies, one plain, two sausage, and one with pepperoni.”
