Another glob of potatoes—this time with peas mixed into it—flew across the table and hit the window behind us.
The culprit was Thames, Ren’s son.
“Thames Townsend,” Maya snapped, throwing her napkin on the table as she stood up. “What do you think you’re doing?”
My nephew was only two freaking years old, so he stuck his fist in his mouth and tried to look cute.
Not falling for it, Maya put on her mom voice. “That’s not working. You’ll answer the question, or you’re getting a timeout, and I’m taking away Barnaby.”
That did it. Thames’s eyes filled with tears as he dropped his fist, and then the lower lip began trembling. What came out of him was an explanation that likely only made sense to his mom, given that he had a limited vocabulary and he was emotional.
“Daddy said,” he squealed, the tears turning into sobs. “He said and potatoes. Uncas threw it, and I want Barnaby.” The last bit was literally screamed out as he narc’d on his dad and uncles.
“So, Daddy said to do it, and you thought it was okay because your uncles did it, too?” Maya clarified, basically voicing what I’d managed to translate out of what Thames had said.
Still crying, the kid nodded.
“Okay, you can still have Barnaby because you told the truth, but you’re getting a timeout.” Making sure all of the kids were listening, she said seriously, “There are children in other countries who are starving and would do anything to have the food—”
“And the toys,” Ebru interrupted.
“And the toys,” Maya agreed.
“Oh, and the homes,” Sabine added, leveling her husband with a glare.
“Okay, there are children in other countries who have nothing—not even a bed—who’d love to have everything y’all have. And there you are, flicking food at Uncle Mark because you saw your daddies do it.”
There were some strange noises when she’d said ‘Uncle Mark,’ but nothing beat the throat clearing and sounds of them all standing in unison.
“We’ll just clear the dishes away,” Dad offered, reaching for a bowl.
“You do that, and I’ll scoop some of the food y’all wasted tonight and throw it in your face,” Mom warned. “And you better believe I’m a much better shot than you’ve proven you are.”
Dad paused and looked up at the other men, almost like he was begging them to save him. Yeah, good luck with that, old man. They knew full well how much shit they were in, and they weren’t willing to risk digging a deeper hole to help him out.
“Pussies,” he hissed quietly before sitting back down again.
“Sorry, Mama,” Thames sniffed, picking up Barnaby, his cuddly owl.
When he was roughly six months old, my brother took his family to New York for a weekend break. Thames had an ear infection and was a grizzly bear who couldn’t stop crying, poor kid, until they went to a toy store and Ren stopped pushing his stroller next to where Barnaby was on a shelf. Thames had immediately stopped crying and just reached out for the toy. Weirdly, he’d also been the only one left in the store because they’d had a limited stock of them that’d taken forever to sell, so they’d decided just to finish selling what they had and move on to a different type.
Ren had snapped the cuddly little owl up, and Thames hadn’t cried another tear—so long as he had his Barnaby. The owl had been with him through everything since then, and I knew Maya would never take him away from him for a fact. It'd be cruel to do it with a bond like that to a toy that brought him comfort.
But it’d been a damned effective way to make a point and get him to listen to what she was saying.
I wasn’t a parent, but I understood why she’d done it. That didn’t mean my aunt-heart wasn’t sad and desperate to go and pick the little guy up and give him a cuddle. I was as weak as water when it came to my nieces and nephews, and they knew it. Ask me if I cared!
“You know,” Grams said, sounding disappointed, “Layla’s the baby out of you guys, but she’s the most mature one. She went to school, worked her ass off to become an RN, and was snapped up by a plastic surgeon who helped her get her qualifications to be an aesthetic nurse. That’s a lot of work, you know, and not once did she moan or quit. You guys seem to be stuck in diapers—and that goes for all of you.” She glared at Gramps and then Dad.
“Yeah, going to Vegas and getting married without telling your family is really mature. And he’s probably the reason she dyed her hair purple,” Brett growled. I could tell he regretted it the second it came out of his mouth, though, by the way he squeezed his eyes shut.
His wife, Sabine, slowly pushed her chair back and reached for their youngest kid. “I can’t believe that even came out of your mouth, Brett Townsend. There’s absolutely nothing to be ashamed of about getting married like that. Anyone with eyes could see that they’d end up together, but even after your grandmother listing how determined and mature Layla’s been, you went and proved how immature and dumb you are.”
Motioning with her hand for their kids to join her, she snapped, “Well, you can sleep outside under the moon for all I care. Perhaps you can sit on hot coals until you get some common sense back.”
Those words might have sounded weak and slightly humorous, but her tone made them seem sinister, almost like she was planning to put him on hot coals. She also had an accent that was a mixture of British and French, and I always found it added something spicy when she was pissed.
Some men might have gotten up and chased after their wife when she stormed away after cutting him to the quick, but Brett was the second eldest and had a modicum of maturity that the others only had on rare occasions.