A Bad Egg

Babette turned up like a bad penny mere seconds after Dad got his own place. I wondered where he'd found her: was there some dark lounge in the San Fernando Valley where pinch-faced French hags hung out, waiting to get their claws into middle-class, middle-aged American men?

She was prematurely wrinkled from too much sun, now orange-brown with a simulated tan. Her hair was pulled back in what she dubbed a "chignon," and her nose and chin were sharp enough to double as woodworking tools. The first Saturday Dad brought us to his new house she dragged him over to the piano bench. "Tell me again," she wheezed, flailing her cigarette holder in our direction, "what are they doing here?"

Dad explained the whole custody thing to her, but it just deepened the lines on her face. We decided to buy lunch at the supermarket and then have a picnic in the park. Actually, I should say "they decided," because the only difference between this outing and an afternoon in hell is that in hell all the Frisbees are melty.

After a few long hours had elapsed we wandered back to the house, with strict instructions to stay away from Babette. We watched TV with the sound turned down, afraid even to gesture to each other. When the sun went down, though, Babette's privilege expired, and Dad coaxed her into the kitchen. No matter if they're French or just met the kids, all wives become moms after dark.

Babette shrugged and scanned the cupboards for something simple. She dumped a can of split pea soup into a saucepan, then added a can of milk for each kid. She poured the lumpy liquid into bowls that she set in front of us before settling down to Stouffers herself. Capri pants crossed, she alternated between bites of food and puffs on her cigarette, exhausted from the strain of staying chic.

Dad applauded her effort, lapping up the soup like it was five-star fare. He snapped at any hint of dissatisfaction, mouthing the usual parental words: be grateful you have anything, there are starving kids in India, blah blah blah. I choked on the pale-green slop as I tried to defend her for providing a meal whose food group count stood at two.

I didn't actually dislike Babette: she was far too mysterious for that. She created humorous cocktail napkins for a living, specializing in a couple of big-eyed, uterus-bound fetuses named Egbert and Egberta. Every napkin featured a scene with the two of them squished in their tiny elastic home, and at the bottom was a line of dialog:

"I don't know about you," Egberta announced, "but I'm thinking about breaking out of here."

Babette had a son from her first marriage who was my opposite. Two years older than me, Vince was handsome, popular, and heterosexual. He had all the butch accoutrements: a baseball glove, a Farrah poster, muscles. He even had the Iron Ring of Death, an expensive plastic wrestling toy manned by an army of wrestlers. I couldn't grasp the concept: I mean, how is molded plastic supposed to engage in competition of any sort? But they were nearly-naked and bulged just about everywhere, so I figured I should give them a chance.

Vince played with the thing ferociously, forcing me to stay back. The wrestlers had macho names like Crusher and Bruiser, and they slammed into each other with all the brutality Vince could raise. They'd hammer each other to the plastic mat, then pound until their extruded limbs snapped. I watched wide-eyed as Crusher got maimed: Bruiser (read Vince) screamed, "I'M GONNA RIP YOUR FREAKIN' ARM OFF AND BEAT YOU TO DEATH WITH IT!"

Which he then proceeded to do.

Vince was so butch even puberty bent to his will, giving him more chest hair than Robin Williams by the age of ten. He discarded his toys and started playing with girls, running through the bases in the family car while it lurched and squeaked in the covered carport. The Iron Ring went ignored until my birthday arrived: I opened my present and there it was.

"Isn't that fabulous?" Babette growled from inside a cloud of Viceroy smoke. "Vince had so much fun with it. Isn't it a wonderful gift?"

Not particularly, I thought, fingering the maimed action figures, "Antiques Roadshow" graded somewhere between Miserable and Trash. And certainly not suitable for this boy, whose first instinct was to sew them sexy clothes, then take them in for couples counseling.

Still, as I looked at the figures laying at the bottom of the box, they almost seemed to whisper to me. I pulled out Bruiser and laid him on the shag carpet, then set Crusher by his side. Now that they weren't in the ring their thoughts turned from fighting, espousing feelings that had been buried deep.

BRUISER: My friend, methinks it's time to bury the hatchet. The sun is out, and we can all work on our tans.

CRUSHER: What a terrific suggestion, buddy! I'll slather sunscreen on your back with my one good hand, and perhaps you'll do the same for me.

BRUISER: I've been meaning to apologize for pulling your arm off. My only explanation is that my brain was hobbled by all these chemicals that we're forced to take.

CRUSHER: I don't blame you. I blame the patriarchal system that deifies hypersexualized masculinity , forcing us to alter our bodies into bloated balloons barely recognizable as human form. Besides, Bruiser, I find it easier to relate to the world's disabled now that I have a disability myself.

BRUISER: Please, call me Rupert. What a great attitude you have!

CRUSHER: I'll call you Rupert if you call me Marco.

Hearing the chatter, JOHNNY DIAMOND poked his head out.

JOHNNY DIAMOND: Call me Johnathan! Look -- I can fly! I can fly!

BRUISER: In my heart I believe we are all disabled. Flaws in the American educational system combined with substandard parenting renders us the barely-literate, ultraviolent idiots that we are today.

JOHNNY DIAMOND: Wheee! WHEEE! Look, I'm like a giant butterfly, a giant purple butterfly, fluttering all around! Hey, Rupert! Hey, Marco! Who touched your ass? Who touched your ass?

I noticed the room had gone quiet, and when I looked up everybody was staring at me. My sisters were exchanging horrified looks, Dad had a sick expression on his face, and Babette was too startled to move the Pernod to her lips. Still, she was the first one to speak.

"On second thought, maybe it is an awful gift. Let's go get you something else."

We piled into the car and I shook with excitement all the way to the toy store. I picked up literally hundreds of things: Creepy Crawlers, a snap-together Wolfman kit, an erector set, a sketch pad and pastels. As we rode home I drew a picture of Babette from the back seat of the car and I thought, maybe this could work out after all. Despite the cartoon characters she hung out with, she wasn't such a bad egg.