He sounded simply curious. Intrigued.
‘Yeah, I’m here, buddy.’ Jayson said, waving up at him. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah.’ Pause. ‘I need a snack.’
‘No snacks after six, pal,’ Jayson said.
Jayson picked himself up from the wet grass and made his way over to Teeter Totter where Terri was hugging both Trey and Tara.
‘You evil devil child,’ Terri hissed at Jayson. ‘Jesus hates you!’
‘Well, I’ve never been that fond of him either,’ Jayson replied, kneeling down and feeling around under their feet for the camera. He finally found it lodged next to the pile of garden gnomes that Toni had stolen from neighbors’ yards over the years. She felt they were offensive to midgets.
Jayson picked up the camera and held it to his ear. It was still whirring somewhere inside its casing. Thank God. It was all on tape: the kiss, Tara’s entrance, the explosion. Maybe Jesus did love him after all.
The network suits are gonna love this, Jayson thought to himself. He pressed the Off button and whispered ‘Cut!’
The following Sunday night, around 7:30, Toni’s chartreuse Maverick pulled into the driveway, paused for about twenty seconds to take in the scene, then continued to pull all the way up and park on the concrete slab where the garage had stood.
The little debris that was left after the powerful explosion had been cleared by Jayson, Willie, Trey, Tara, and Tom Wernermeier. The twins’ father had taken charge of the situation after his wife proved incapable of offering any help beyond hysterically screaming Bible verses at Jayson and Willie. It had taken Oconomowoc’s two fire engine squads and three city policemen only about an hour and a half to deduce that the nozzle Jayson had wrenched from the hose in the garage was not a garden nozzle but the nozzle on the blowtorch that Toni used to melt down the wedding paraphernalia she used in her art. The hose, which was attached to a propane tank, had begun filling the garage with gas, which combined with the equally volatile art solvent vapors and lawnmower gasoline fumes. At precisely two minutes after 10:00 p.m. (according to the Jayson’s Dukes of Hazzard bicycle handlebar digital stick-on clock, later found down by the lake), the basement water heater had clicked to life. The minuscule electric charge pulsed through the fuse box attached to the north wall of the erstwhile garage, and ignited the soup of flammable gasses.
The resulting fireball burned so hot and so instantaneously that it used up all available oxygen in the immediate vicinity and completely burned itself out before most of the projectile debris even landed.
Whoosh.
The house itself was remarkably undamaged, except for the door that led from the garage into the kitchen. It had splintered and embedded itself in shards in the opposite pantry wall. The newly exposed wall that had previously divided the garage from the house was scorched from foundation to roof-line in aesthetically appealing swirls of soot and char.
This sooty graffiti, of course, was what Toni noticed first upon swinging herself out of the driver’s seat.
‘Look’s nice. Who did it?’ she asked of no one in particular, staring up at the ascending whorls of black on the lilac melted vinyl siding.
Tara, Trey, Jayson, and Willie were sitting cross-legged at the edge of the driveway. No one wanted to answer Toni first, unsure if assuming credit would lead to further compliments or an explosion of expletives rivaling the force of the original blast.
‘I didn’t eat anything bad,’ Willie offered up, clearing his name in the only way he knew how.
‘There was an accident,’ Jayson said. ‘The tank on the blowtorch exploded. It was my fault. But it was an accident.’
‘Well, it woulda been hard to accomplish on purpose,’ Toni mused, running a finger down the sooty wall. She turned back toward the car like nothing had happened.
As she was walking around the rear of the car to unload the trunk, Terri Wernermeier burst through her front door, determinedly speed walking toward them all. She was followed by a very tall and impossibly erect man in a graying crew cut that suggested a military history not completely left behind him. Behind him shuffled Tom, slumped over, staring at the sidewalk. Jayson got the feeling he’d lost whatever argument might have kept them all inside.
‘Are you Mrs. Blocher?’ the buzz-cutted man called out curtly from halfway across the yard.
‘Ms. to you, buddy, unless you’ve got a ring in your pocket,’ Toni replied.
‘He’s Detective Unsinger with Child Protective Services,’ Terri clarified, proudly. ‘I called him.’
‘It’s about time,’ Toni replied. ‘You’ve been beating these kids up with the Bible long enough–they need a little protection.’
Tara chuckled.
‘Detective Unsinger is here for Jayson and Willie,’ Terri said. ‘For their protection.’
‘Thank God,’ Toni sighed. ‘Officer, arrest this woman for first degree meddling and suspicion of busybodying.’ Toni put one arm around both Jayson and Willie and turned them back toward the house.
‘Ms. Blocher, I’m going to have to ask you to take your hands off those children.’
Toni ignored him and continued walking across the cement that used to be the garage floor.
‘Ms. Blocher,’ Unsinger repeated, before reaching out to place his hand on her retreating shoulder.
Being faced toward the opposite direction, Jayson wasn’t exactly sure what happened next, and as Tara and Trey recounted it to him later, much of it was a blur to them as well. All anyone was sure of was that Detective Phillip Unsinger wound up knocked unconscious on the driveway. Apparently, he’d been cold cocked by a four-foot-eight-inch tall woman who looked like a cross between Joyce Dewitt and Charles Bronson. She’d flown out of the passenger seat of the chartreuse Maverick with her right hook pre-aimed for Unsinger’s square jaw. No one had noticed her in the car when Toni arrived since her head barely cleared the cluttered dashboard.
‘Terri, Tom, kids,’ Toni said, ignoring the prone man at her feet and putting her arm around the tiny woman, ‘this is Franck–my lover.’
Terri gasped. Tom sighed. And a second surprise guest vomited out the Maverick’s door onto the driveway from his reclining position across the back seat.
‘And this,’ Toni continued, gesturing toward the mysterious vomiter, ‘is Franck’s brother, Gavin, of the infamous band: Lamb Rashes.’
‘Lamb Blisters!’ corrected the breathtakingly skinny young man wiping his mouth as he unfolded from the cramped back seat. ‘Christ a’mighty. Lamb Rashes don’t even make no fuckin’ sense.’
‘Sorry,’ said Toni.
Gavin was as tall as his sister was short. Probably six-foot-five inches, Jayson calculated. His hair was making a valiant attempt at standing up in spikes, but, it was perhaps too tired from multiple dye jobs to do much more than bristle in random, blotchy, rainbow-colored clumps. Gavin brushed by Jayson and disappeared into the house through the plywood that served as a temporary door between the missing garage and the kitchen. Jayson could tell by the smell that lingered behind that this hadn’t been the first time today Gavin had vomited–though it might have been the first time he’d managed to miss his own clothes.
‘Well, Franck, here’s my studio I was telling you all about,’ Toni said, making a sweeping gesture around the open air where the garage had stood.
Franck