Brian Eckert

Despite being the dominant species on the planet, it takes a long time before a person is able to do much of anything. Deer and horse can run an hour after birth. Crocodiles and sharks are left to fend for themselves immediately. Sea turtles must run a gauntlet of predators and battle pounding surf as soon as they hatch. Human offspring, on the other hand, are utterly helpless the first few years of life. Perhaps this is the reason why a child’s cry is so earsplitting. Unable to fend for itself, their voice leaves no doubt that something is needed.

“Reina, use your words. Tell me what you want. How about Elton?”

I hold up the Elton John Greatest Hits CD for her consideration but not even the promise of her favorite singer is enough to stop the screams. Gasping for air, she tries to tell me something.

“What? Christmas music?”

Driving with one knee, I flip through the CD book until I find the one labeled “X-Mas.” I slide it into the deck and Bobby Helms’ crooning blares through the two Rockford Fosgate 12” subwoofers in the trunk. I feel confident nobody has ever played this song with such wicked bass.

The screams subside. I pull up at a stoplight and check out the girls in the car next to me before remembering I’m bumping “Jingle Bell Rock” in June. Caring for a child is perhaps the best birth control.

There’s no parking available in front of the aquarium so I circle around the block to look for a spot. The short-term solution provided by the CD labeled, “X-Mas” is beginning to wear thin on the emperor in the car seat behind me.

“Where’s Momma?”

“Momma is at home. The new baby in her tummy is making her feel sick. Momma needs to sleep.”

“I want Momma.”

“You can see her soon, OK?  First we’re going to see fishies. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

I get no response, but at least she’s not crying.

I see a spot and parallel park. We get out of the car and I shoulder the bag that contains the rations for our afternoon sojourn: diapers, snacks, bottles, sunscreen, a change of clothes, toys. It must weigh twenty pounds. Carrying a sack befitting of jolly old St. Nicholas himself, I lead my niece by the hand into the aquarium.

I pay the girl at the counter $17.50 for one adult and one child. As she glances down at Reina her face softens. Although having the kid around makes me feel sexless, this is mostly offset by the effect she has on women. As chick magnets go, she’s far superior to even the cutest puppy.

Before we’ve even gotten past the lobby the two-and-a-half-foot tyrant announces that she has to go potty. Since taking over as the self-proclaimed “Manny” of my bed-ridden sister’s first child, nature calls during outings have proven to be one of the more challenging situations. While most women are glad to escort the kid into the ladies room for a pee-pee, I inevitably feel anxious handing her over to a complete stranger. At the same time, I can’t imagine my sister responding positively to the thought of her two-year old in a public men’s toilet.

With no mommies around I opt for the men’s room. After helping her onto the seat the expected tinkling sounds don’t come. She says that she wants Uncle Bri Bri to go first.

I explain that I don’t have to go. Her face scrunches up into a pattern that typically precludes crying. I’ll shit on the floor if it means avoiding a tantrum.

I remove her from the pot and we go over to a urinal. I’m trying to force a stream that isn’t there and it’s especially difficult with my niece approximately eye level with my wee-wee.

Another guy comes in. Unfazed by Reina, he starts an impressive-sounding whiz. She shifts her attention to his arch of urine.

“Whoa,” she says, clearly impressed.

I finally manage a small stream, which earns her praise.

“Yay Uncle Bri!”

I make eye contact with the guy as if to say, “Hah…kids,” but he gives me a look like, “You call that a piss, man?”

After ten minutes of trying to coax a tinkle out of the kid she decides she doesn’t have to go after all and we continue on to see the fishies.

We walk through a dark, wide tunnel that depicts how the oceans evolved into their present state. The mock thunder and lightning scare Reina so I take her hand and we hurry through.

The next room is comprised of a giant wraparound fish tank. Dozens of fish, turtles, and sharks glide effortlessly by, oblivious to the gawking Homo sapiens. A collection of benches provide a good place to sit down for a snack. I give the kid some Cheeze-its and a tippy-cup of apple juice. Absorbed by the grace of the marine life, I absently-mindedly devour the entire bag of cheese crackers.

“More crackers please.”

“Crackers are all gone. How about some nana?”

“I want crackers.”

“We’ve got yogurt. Mmmm…yummy yo-yo.”

“Crackers!”

It doesn’t take much for a two year old to fall apart emotionally, especially when naptime is nigh. The depletion of her favored snack could very easily spark a breakdown. I frantically dig through the diaper bag, looking for more crackers.

“Where’s Momma?”

Her tone has shifted from demanding to pathetic. She drops her head and, with a single sniffle, signals what could be the beginning of the end. Usually, once she’s got Mommy on her mind my ridiculous attempts at care only become more inadequate. I sense a long ride home.

“Hey baby, how about some of these crackers?”

And she sweeps in, seraphic, with a hand full of cheese crackers, giving me a smile as if to say she knows exactly what’s at stake.

“Say thank you, Reina. Wow, you saved me there.”

“Don’t mention it. I know that tantrum face when I see it.”

“Yeah, I think we were on the brink.”

The toddlers have noticed each other and are sizing one another up in the manner of two dogs at a park.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Oh, thanks. Don’t let that face fool you, though. She can go from angel to demon in a second flat.”

“No need to explain. This one’s not as sweet as he looks either.”

She’s maybe thirty…blonde, attractive. The kid has her hair but the father’s face.

I check her hand. There’s a ring.

“She’s a really good kid for the most part, but still a little unstable since we lost Mom.”

“Oh my God,” she says, placing her hand over her mouth.

“Yep, she was involved in a boating accident on Lake Havasu last spring while we were on our family vacation. I guess coming to the aquarium is a way to try and make peace with the water. I want the little one to see its life-giving potential as well. It’s not easy, but it’s helping, slowly, I think.”

Reina slaps the boy in the head. I give her a nod of confirmation.

“Actually, I think we’ve had enough of this place for one day. Care to join us for a picnic outside?”

Following a quick glance at her watch she agrees.

Outside the sun is warm and bright. The aquarium is right next to a good-sized park. It’s the middle of the week, so only a few retired people and mothers with kids are here. I lay down a blanket from the car and we sit while the kids run around.

She hasn’t mentioned her old man once. I explain how I just can’t seem to be able to meet a nice woman. Not that anyone could ever replace the love of my life, of course. But I would love to have a real family again. The house just feels so empty now.

“Oh you poor thing,” she says, placing her hand on my arm. “I can’t imagine.”

It’s obvious the kids don’t really like each other. Hers keeps hogging all of the toys and Reina smacks him again. When he comes over to tattle I explain that we’ve been having rage issues since…well, you know.

It’s naptime, which means my sister will expect me and the kid home soon. I say I’d love to have her over for coffee but the house is being painted. She suggests her place instead.

Before we leave I tell her I must quickly make a phone call. I dial my sister and explain that Reina is dozing peacefully in the shade at the park, looking completely angelic, so much so that I wouldn’t feel right waking her. With the promise to get some nice photos of the cherub at rest I hang up and put on my game face.

During the ride the kid falls asleep. The key is to keep her that way, so she has no memory of this detour. In the driveway of the two story ranch with stonework exterior I creep around like a cat burglar trying not to wake the beast. With great care I lift her up out of the seat and take her inside.

A couple of Mexican guys are working in the yard, taking an obvious interest in the unfamiliar guests. I imagine one phoning the Mister and giving him a heads up.

“Señor, you’d better come home quick. There’s a joven here with a niña in a black car, señor, playing ‘Feliz Navidad’… sí, es muy extraño.”

The place is spotless. It smells of the citrus cleaner that all maids seem to possess in bulk. Family photographs dominate the living room. They vacantly smile and stare out, seeming to confirm to any doubters that this is indeed a happy family.

I can see her old man has a strong chin, low cheek bones, intense green eyes. He’s not a bad looking guy. There’s a photo of him in his fraternity days, grinning with youthful smugness. The man in that picture could not possibly have sensed that his upwardly mobile aspirations would one day leave him estranged from the very life and family he’d hope to build, that being a parent and husband would be little more than a hobby he practiced in his free time. I almost feel sorry for him.

I lay the kid down on a bed in the extra room. Hers is down for the count too. Feeling I need to do something to get things back on track, I ask her if she smokes dope. She says that she hasn’t in years. I assure her of the high-quality, low-paranoia strain I have in the car. She seems uncertain.

I pack the pipe and we step out onto the patio. I take my drags and exhale the bluish smoke up into the midday sun. She holds the piece awkwardly and grimaces when she hits it.

“Señor, they’re smoking hierba…sí…you’d better come home muy rápido.”

We go back in the house and she starts the coffee. I don’t want any but I want her to feel like we’re still just having coffee. As she’s rinsing some things in the sink I come up behind her, put my hands on her waist.

“Señor, come muy, muy rápido…”

She tenses for a moment but does nothing. I pull her hair to the side and kiss the back of her neck, slowly slide one hand over her breasts. She turns to face me and I kiss her.

We stumble over to the couch. I remove her top to reveal tits just beginning to sag. As she begins to go down on me I step on a toy truck and almost lose my balance. With his wife’s soft lips passing over me I look at the husband’s photo, thinking that in some way, he probably deserves this. I don’t feel bad for him anymore.

“Sí, senor, doggystyle, over the sofa. You fucking cabrón.”