Page 1 of Just Say Christmas
1
An Important Thought
Wednesday,December 9
Rhys
“Dad,” Casey Fletcher said, interrupting her father in the middle of readingThumbelinaon her princess bed,“I had an important thought.”
Rhys eyed her warily. Casey’s important thoughts tended to involve big eyes, earnest explanations, and things he didn’t want to do, and he’d discovered that he wasn’t quite as tough as he’d always assumed. Witness the fact that he was reading a story about a teeny-tiny girl who was basically a fairy and slept in a flower. You couldn’t spin that too many ways.
“What’s that?” he asked, abandoning Thumbelina to her fate. If you were going to take the tackle anyway, you faced it. That was how he coached his players, and it was how he lived his life.
“You know how you’re my dad, but I didn’t know you were?” Casey asked. She was sitting cross-legged in bed, her curly hair in the loose plait he’d fashioned, and she had new summer PJs on, because she kept growing. These were purple, had fluttery little sleeves, and were covered with colorful butterflies, and when he’d brought them home, she’d gasped in dramatic fashion, thrown her arms around his waist, and said, “Ilovethem. You’re the best dadever.”Which was why he enjoyed shopping for her. She was appreciative.
“I do remember that, yeh,” he said. Since he’d discovered her existence at the same time she’d discovered his, ten months earlier.
“And how you’re Isaiah’s uncle?” she persisted.
“I recall that as well.” He had a feeling this was going nowhere comfortable. Yes, she had the big eyes, and she also had her hand on his forearm. He hardened his heart.
“So Isaiah calls his mom ‘Mum,’ Casey went on. “And he calls you ‘Uncle Rhys,’ because you’re his dad’s brother, except he’s dead. And I call you ‘Dad,’ but I can’t igg-zackly call Auntie Zora ‘Auntie,’ because she isn’t really.”
“Of course she is,” Rhys said. Well, not exactly. Zora hadn’t been married to Casey’s uncle. She’d been married to Casey’s father. That, however, was a secret both he and Zora planned to carry to the grave, so he asked, “Why would this even come up?”
“Because you and Auntie Zora are getting married soon,” Casey said, “which Isaiah says is OK, because it’s like elephants. For mating.”
Yes, this was going to be awkward. “Mating, eh,” he said. “Sounds to me like this is Isaiah’s question, not yours. What’s the strength of that?”
“No,” Casey said, “because he didn’t tell me except when I asked him, and anyway, Isaiah is very smart. He knows how to do multiplying and about science, and he can read grown-up books.Isaiah says you and Auntie Zora are probably going to have lots of babies, because rugby players always have lots of kids, but you only have me, and you sort of have Isaiah. And youcouldhave babies, because even though you’re kind of in each other’s family, you don’t share blood. For mating. So it’s OK. And then there’d be a baby, who’d be really your family, and Isaiah and me, who are half. I asked Isaiah, and hesaid.”
“Right. Family conference.” Rhys closed the book on Thumbelina, about to be married off to a wealthy older man—well, mole—who admired her looks, swung his legs off the bed, and prepared to summon his ten-years-younger bride-to-be, because he needed her, and not just because he admired her looks. Zora had never pretended to be tough. She was just strong in the quietest possible way, which was better for this. She was also streets better at sorting out emotional tangles than he was.
“Except it’s not really,” said Casey. “That’s the wholepoint.”
“Who says?”
“Ricky Franks in my school,” Casey said. “He says people aren’t a really family until they get married, and anyway, you weren’t my dad until I was six, and lots of times you just have a stepfather whosaysto call him Dad, but he isn’t your really dad, like from when you were a baby. And also you and Auntie Zora aren’t supposed to get married, because you’re almost her brother, even though you’re not each other’s blood, and it would be OK if you were elephants.”
If Rhys hadn’t been a cool, controlled rugby coach, he’d have lost his temper. Instead, he took in Casey’s too-innocent expression and asked, “And what did you say to Ricky Franks?”
Casey looked away, and Rhys said, “Casey Moana. What did you do?”
“I sort of tackled him,” she said, then hurried on with, “I didn’t punch him in the guts or anything, though. Plus it was just one time, and he stopped saying things after that. Boys don’t like girls to hit them. So it worked, see?”
“Boys don’t like girls to hit them,” Rhys said, “because they’re not allowed to hit back. Which doesn’t make it OK foryouto hitthem.Or anybody,” he decided to add. He put up a hand, because Casey had opened her mouth again. “No punching,andno tackling when you’re angry. You don’t solve problems by violence. Understood?” Geez, he sounded old.
She sighed. “You say that all thetime,but rugby’sabouthitting, and you used to hit really hard. Harder than anybody. You were a mongrel. Isaiah told me.”
“I had a bitof mongrel, yeh. In the game, which is all right. Tackling isn’t hitting, and even tackling’s only for in the game, full stop.” He’d done his share of hitting outside the game as a kid, but she didn’t need to know that. Nobody could draw the line like a man who’d crossed it. That was how you knew where it was.
“But that’s what Idid,”she said. “Itackled.I remembered about no punching and I tackled instead. It was kind of hard, because he’s in Year Four and I’m only in Year Two, but I got down low and went really fast so I surprised him, and I wrapped my arms like you showed me, and it worked.So I think you should be proud.”
“I’m not proud,” he said. Well, maybe a little. The kid was Year Four? Yeh, he was a little proud. “And hang on, because I’m going to get Auntie Zora and Isaiah, and we’re going to have a talk.”
Casey said, “I’m very, very tired, though. I’m about to fall asleep.” She yawned. It wasn’t convincing.
“Too bad,” Rhys said. “We’re having a talk anyway. It’s family time.”
