“No,” he said calmly. “It’s about her, though.”
“What about her?”
“Well, the comedian was supposed to have this duty, but he’s off being warlike for a change.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I still can’t believe Mom picked me, but I suppose it’s my penance. So, here we are.” He sipped his whisky as a way to organize his thoughts.
“Mom says you and Birdy are getting serious,” he said at last. “Holy matrimony serious.”
“Mmm. And why is that your business?”
“Oh, boy,” he chuckled. “You’re on a hair trigger, aren’t you?”
“Rich,” I said evenly, “I have two kinds of encounters with you—ones that scare me, and ones that ought to scare me if I weren’t so angry.”
He laughed for real at that. “That’s a good sign. But don’t worry, this is a third kind. I’m just here to pass on some friendly advice. No, belay that. I’m here as your future brother-in-law.”
My eyebrows hit the ceiling.
“I know, right?” he said with his own brand of disbelief. “So this is going to be a friendly conversation.”
“Okay,” I said slowly.
“You know my parents are a bit old-fashioned, right?”
“I’d begun to suspect.”
He grinned at the sarcasm. “Right. Well,” he continued, “my dad’ll expect you to ask his permission. To marry Birdy, I mean.”
“Seriously? That’s what this’s about?”
“Of course. If you’re going to do it, do it right. And that means you ask permission.”
“Why? So he can say no?”
“Do you really think we’d be having this conversation if he were going to do that? Maybe you aren’t so smart after all.” He finished his whisky and set the glass on the bar.
My adrenal glands decided that overtime was a pretty good idea after all.
“Anyway,” Rich continued, “I figure we’re going to be brothers-in-law, so we need to clear the air between us. You owe me one. You’d better make it count, though, ’cause this is the only chance you’ll get.” He squared his shoulders and stuck out his chin. “Take your best shot.”
So I did.
His reflexes were good but not good enough. He’d just started to duck when I caught him with a solid right hook. I put everything I had into it, all the power I could muster in legs and torso. I swung through him and connected hard.
His head snapped to the side and he staggered into the bar. He started to go down but caught himself. I expected him to come up fighting, so I dropped into a boxer’s stance.
“Jesus Christ!” He climbed to his feet and touched his face. He was bleeding from a cut under his left eye. “Damn, kid, I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
The bar had gone eerily quiet, and everyone was staring at us.
“C’mon, guys, knock it off,” the first bartender said. He was older, and I vaguely remembered that he had the look of someone who could handle himself in a fight. At the moment he was just a blur in my peripheral vision. “We’re all friends here,” he added.
“Call the cops?” the second bartender asked.
The older bartender left it up to Rich.
“No, it’s all right,” he said. “We’re family.”
“That explains it,” a bystander said. He passed the word to people behind him, who muttered and kept right on gawking.
Blood dripped from Rich’s cheek. He put his hand to his face again, and his fingers came away smeared with red. He gestured to the first bartender.
“Get me a towel with some ice.”
“Yeah, sure. Coming right up.”
I still hadn’t moved, and I realized how stupid I must have looked. I unclenched my fists, lowered my arms, and straightened my legs. The crowd around us realized we weren’t going to start a brawl after all. They slowly went back to their drinks and conversations. Then the manager appeared.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded angrily. He saw the blood. “Call the police,” he snapped to the waiter who’d summoned him.
“We don’t need the police,” Rich said reasonably. He pressed the ice-filled towel to his cheek and winced.
“Then you’d better explain,” the manager said.
Our families showed up at that point, drawn by the commotion.
“What in God’s name…?” Harold said.
“Richard! You’re bleeding.”
“Paul,” Christy gasped, “what did you do?”
“Relax, Birdy, everyone,” Rich said. “It was just a misunderstanding. Damn, kid,” he added with a chuckle, “that hurt like hell. You hit like a Mack truck.”
“Yeah, well, I think I broke my hand.”
“Serves you right.” He pulled the towel away and looked at the expanding circle of bright red blood. “I’m gonna need stitches.”
Harold smoothed things over with the manager, while Anne made a fuss over Rich. My own family closed ranks around me. Christy couldn’t decide whose side she was on, which was probably a good thing, since she was furious with both of us.
“Do you need to go to the emergency room?” Harold asked Rich after the manager finally calmed down.
“Yeah, I think so. Sorry.”
“Let me see,” his mother said.
He moved the blood-stained towel and bent to give her a closer look.
“Yes, he’ll need stitches,” she said. “And Paul thinks he broke his hand.”
“Boys will be boys,” Harold chuckled.
Anne cleared her throat.
“And should be ashamed of themselves! Well?” he demanded. “Are you?”
“Yes, sir,” we answered together.
“See?” he told his wife, who wasn’t buying it.
“Come on,” Rich said to me, “let’s go get patched up.”
“Is that it?” Christy wondered aloud. “They try to kill each other and now they’re best friends? Ugh! Men!”
Her mother sighed. “Get used to it, dear.”
* * *
We spent the next few hours in the emergency room. It was a relatively slow night, and the orderly put us in adjoining exam areas. Anne sat with Rich, while my mother did the same with me. Christy still couldn’t decide whose side she was on, so Anne solved the problem by opening the curtain between us. Christy sat in the middle, and the three of them expressed their annoyance with Rich and me by ignoring us completely and talking to each other.
The doctor saw me first. He examined my hand and ordered an X-ray. Then he moved to Rich, while I followed an orderly down to radiology. I returned to find Rich holding a sterile pad to his face and the women still talking.
Rich and I didn’t speak, but he was surprisingly relaxed. I thought he’d be angry or hostile or even sullen, but he acted like nothing had happened.
The doctor reappeared about twenty minutes later with the X-ray of my hand.
“A classic boxer’s fracture of the fifth metacarpal. It occurs when you hit a human face or other hard object,” he added unnecessarily. “I’ll write you a prescription for pain medication for a couple of days. Keep ice on it until the swelling subsides. Then elevate it above your heart. You’ll need to immobilize it with a splint for three weeks. Make an appointment to see your regular doctor after that.”
Christy and my mother both thanked him. Then my mom laughed and deferred to Christy, who seemed a bit embarrassed by the sudden attention. The doctor gave instructions to a young nurse, who unwrapped a splint and showed me how to wear it.
In the next cubicle, Rich was talking to a different doctor. She was a Black woman in her fifties, steady and sure. He didn’t even flinch as she disinfected his cut. Then she began laying out her suture tray.
“Family quarrel,” Rich told her. “The Capulets attacked the Montagues.”
The doctor glanced at me and my hand but didn’t say anything.
“The other way around,” my mom said.
Rich paused uncertainly.
His mother explained, “Juliet was a Capulet, dear. Besides, Tybalt started it.”
Rich frowned at the reference, but the trio of older women shared a grin.