the yard and sat at the table with Shelly and the two little boys. At the other table, the teenagers were all in a deep philosophical discussion about who was the “baddest badass,” Freddy Kruger or Chucky. The twins had finished eating and now had identical knots of Copenhagen bulging their bottom lips. The girls sitting next to them didn’t seem to mind. In fact, their lips bulged, too.
“Look at them,” Shelly said and shook her head. “Those boys were so cute when they were babies. I used to dress them alike. They had little sailor suits that were just so adorable. Now they’re grown and they have nasty man habits.” As if on cue, Andrew spit a stream of tobacco into a Solo cup.
Hope quickly looked at Shelly. “Are you feeling nostalgic today?”
“Old.” Her eyes got sad. “I miss the way they used to smell. They don’t smell like little boys anymore.”
“I do, Mom,” Wally said from Shelly’s other side.
“That’s right.” She put her arm around her son and squeezed. “You’re my little stinkweed.”
Sitting across the table from Wally, Adam lifted his eyes from the black hot dog on his plate. “You can smell me if you want, Shelly.”
“Now, why would anyone want to smell you?” Dylan asked as he set a can of Coke on the table and swung one leg, then the other, over the bench seat and sat next to his son. “You always smell like your dirty dog.” The tip of his boot touched Hope’s bare toe and she slid her foot back.
“That’s ‘cause she likes to kiss my face.” He laid his head against Dylan’s shoulder.
Dylan looked down at Adam and the brim of his hat cast a woven shadow across his nose and one cheek. “Probably because you taste just like a pork chop.”
“Uh-uh, Dad.”
Hope bit into her crispy hot dog and studied Dylan’s profile, looking for similarities with his son. Adam’s hair was darker, his mouth and nose were different, but his eyes-his eyes were his father’s.
Shelly pointed to Dylan’s Coke. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”
He looked up and the shadow moved to cover the top half of his face, drawing attention to his mouth. Hope watched his lips as he spoke. “I choked down a few weenies before they got incinerated.”
Paul placed a plate heavy with food on the table and sat on the other side of Wally. “I guess Hope is the only woman who appreciates my cooking.”
Actually, the hot dog was even a bit too burned for her. She liked them black, not crunchy, but she didn’t say so. Instead, she took a bite. “Mmmm.” One corner of Dylan’s mouth lifted in a dubious smile, and when she swallowed, it felt like the crispy hot dog got stuck in her chest.
Shelly pointed to her husband’s plate. “Eat some of Hope’s salad. You need to get healthy if you’re going to win the toilet toss this year.”
“You going to enter that again?” Dylan asked.
“Yep, first prize is a big-screen TV.”
“That’s right, and I want that TV,” Shelly said. “So, starting tomorrow, I’m putting Paul on those steroids they feed cattle. He needs to be strong like a bull.”
“What if I wind up hung like a bull?” Paul wanted to know.
“Actually, those steroids will mess with your sex drive and can shrink your who-hah,” Dylan informed everyone.
“What’s a who-hah, Dad?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Hope took another bite of her crunchy hot dog and lowered her gaze to her plate. With complete certainty, she could honestly swear that she’d never been surrounded by dinner companions who chewed tobacco, discussed slicing and dicing body parts, and talked about shrinking who-hahs.
While Hope ate her salad, she listened to Shelly and Paul plan their strategy for winning the toilet toss, which involved last-minute weight training and vitamin consumption. Again the tip of Dylan’s boot touched her toe, and she drew her foot back with the other. She glanced up, but his attention was focused on Adam and Wally, who’d left to skip rocks across the lake.
“Stay where I can see you,” Shelly called after them.
Hope sprinkled a little salt on her oyster and reached for a plastic knife. She wasn’t so sure she wanted it anymore.
“Are you really going to eat that?” Dylan asked from across the table.
“What?” She raised her gaze as far as his hand wrapped around the Coke can. A bead of condensation slid down the red aluminum and disappeared behind his knuckle.
He lifted one finger from the can and pointed at her plate. “That’s not a real oyster, you know.”
“What is it, fake?”
“You could say that.”
This time she raised her gaze as far as the white T-shirt stretched across his broad chest. “Like some packed crab is really whitefish?”
“No, honey. Like Rocky Mountain oysters are really balls.”
There it was again.
“Jesus, I knew you didn’t have clue. Balls as in testicles.”
She finally looked up into his face, behind the shadow cast by his hat, and into his eyes. “Sure they are. And next you’re going to tell me that my hot dog is really a who-hah.”
His brows rose up his forehead and laugh lines appeared in the corners of his eyes. “You don’t believe me?”
“Of course not. That’s repulsive.” She speared the oyster and lifted it to her lips.
“If you think so, you better not put that in your mouth.”
She gave it a slight sniff, then turned to Shelly, who was in a heated discussion about where she and Paul would place the big-screen television. “Shelly, what is this?”
“What?”
“This.” She shook her fork.
“A Rocky Mountain oyster.”
“Is it a shellfish?”
“No, it’s a testicle.”
“Oh, my God!” She dropped the fork as if it had suddenly zapped her. “Whose?”
Dylan burst out laughing. “Not mine.”
“They came from the Rocking C. I bought ‘em during castration season,” Shelly told her.
“You
“Well,” Shelly answered as if Hope were the crazy one, “they don’t just give away free oysters, you know.”
“No, I don’t know. I’m from California. We eat
“Steer.”
“Whatever!”
“They taste just like chicken,” Dylan informed her.
“You said the same thing about lizard!” She felt as if she’d been drop-kicked into an episode of
“I was kidding about the lizard.”
“Dylan’s right,” Paul added from down the table. “Rocky Mountain oysters taste like chicken- crunchier, though. Like a gizzard.”
“That’s what I hear,” Shelly said. “Of course, I’ve never eaten one.”
Finally, some sanity. Hope raised her hands to the sides of her face. Her stomach was suddenly queasy, but she was saved from further culinary description by the twins.
“Mom, we’re heading downtown,” Thomas informed his mother.
“What’s going on downtown?”
“Probably nothin‘. We’ll probably end up playing pool over at Zack’s.”
“If you drink and drive, I’ll take your car away,” Paul warned.
