Page 98 of Ho Ho Oh No

No such luck.

Jonesy and Aaron are dancing with their dick boxes bouncing around in front of their waists.

To nobody’s surprise, Cort Amos has joined in. Although he doesn’t have a dick box, he’s got a baby hoisted to his chest, so I suppose he’s improvising. It’s like they say: necessity is the mother of invention.

Lettie pulled me aside earlier tonight to make me watch a video of the dick box skit fromSaturday Night Live,so I recognize the song playing.

My chest tightens, signaling I’ve reached the maximum number of times I can think of the wordsdick boxwithout having a heart attack.

Moving on, I shift my gaze, peeking further into the holiday hijinks.

Val’s holding court on the other side of the room, with all three of Archer Bliss’s kids hanging on her every word. She has a book open on her lap, reading it aloud. The odds that it’s an age-appropriate story are slim to none. More than likely, it’s the tale of Mrs. Claus dismantling the patriarchy.

The lanky teenager rolling his eyes in the background looks like Miles, if memory serves on his name. He and Junior are silently judging whatever story Val’s telling.

And oh, look.Val just flipped Junior off with the old eye-rubbing trick. Nice thing to teach the youth of tomorrow.

As if on cue, the little Bliss boy surges to his feet like he’s been zapped with a cattle prod. His bird finger is already extended toward his eye. Like he has pogo sticks for feet, he springs up and down in front of his eldest sister, trying to get her to notice that he’s flipping her off.

Thanks, Val. Another one making Redleg proud.

The acid eroding my stomach—my near-constant companion since I found out I’m a father the day after Madeline was shot—makes its presence known with a vengeance. If I had free hands, I’d grab some Tums.

For the love of God and all things holy, can I find one Redleg employee who’s not embarrassing me?

Shep, still wearing the ridiculous Cousin Eddie hat and robe, has Kri pressed up against the wall in the corner with his tongue down her throat. Fantastic. Love to see that.

My eyes roll aggressively around my skull with the energy of that Bliss kid who’s now on a chair, still bouncing. I flinch when he leaps onto the floor, landing like Spiderman. By the time I blink, he’s back on the chair, bouncing again.

Defying all logic, Brody is passed out in the chair beside the little hellion. His son is sprawled on his chest, also completely crapped out.

I whip my head to face the other side of the room, wishing I didn’t as soon as my brain comprehends what I’m seeing.

Tomer and Lettie are deep in conversation with a petite woman with jet-black hair and a scruffy-looking dude with shaggy hair. He resembles Archer Bliss enough to make me assume that he’s his brother, Andy. The woman on his arm is immaculately dressed. The handbag draped from her shoulder is probably worth as much as my boat. The two couldn’t be any more mismatched if they were dressed by a color-blind toddler high on a bowl of sugar.

Sadly, it isn’t the subdued conversation making me consider a lobotomy for myself. Lettie has her hands behind her, resting them on the small of her back. Tomer is gently threading a long strand of Christmas tinsel garland around her arms in an intricate pattern. I glance at the ceiling above him, finding long swaths of the shiny garland. There’sa blank space, which likely explains where he got the garland. Andy and the woman look on in rapt fascination. Tomer seems to be explaining each move as he works.

Holy shit, he’s giving them a demonstration. And dear little Lettie is nodding along and chiming in.

Jesus fucking Christ. I didnotneed to know this about the man I consider my son and my newly discovered daughter.Where was my trusty gut when I needed it most? It has forsaken me.

Just then, our former client Millie sprints across the waiting room, tugging her husband behind her. And they’re eagerly heading straight for the rope demonstration being conducted by mychildren.

This is a fucking disaster.

A few feet away, old Dickie Amos sits quietly, a sour look on his perpetually grumpy face. It isn’t hard to see why he’s pouting. His wrists are bound to the armrests of the chair by some of that tinsel.

It’s getting hard to breathe.

Where’s my best guy and his sweet wife? Surely, they aren’t wreaking havoc. Shifting my gaze five feet to the left, I easily catch sight of Lionheart and Sue standing side by side, arms locked at the elbow as if they’re making some type of barrier. All that’s visible behind them are a few sets of feet and a wisp of fiery red hair.

Morbidly curious, I shuffle a step to the side and crane my neck for a slight peek behind the curtain.

That was my first mistake.

The Amos grandmother is holding out a cup in front of her. Cara pours a burgundy-colored liquid into their cups from a large pouch that’s strapped to her waist under her shirt. That explains why she needed some privacy. Fifty bucks says it’s not cranberry juice. No one would take that bet, though. More than likely a margarita derivative.

Isn’t that the way to ring in the season? Boozing up the elderly in a hospital waiting room. What could go wrong?

---