Life Expectancy

Christmas Day, she said dada. I don't remember any other gifts I received that year.
        For a while, Grandma produced needlepoint images of bunnies, kittens, puppies, and other creatures that would charm a child. She soon grew bored, however, and switched to reptiles.
        On March 21, 1999, when Annie was fourteen months old, I drove Lorrie to the hospital in good weather and without incident, and she delivered Lucy Jean.
        When the afterbirth issued only moments after Mello Melodeon had tied and cut the umbilical, he complimented Lorrie: "Smoother than last time. Why, that was as effortless ness as an experienced broodmare dropping a colt."
        "As soon as you pull the wagon home," I promised her, "I'll give you a nice bag of oats."
        "Better laugh while you can," she said." "Cause now you're a lone man in a house of three women. There's enough of us to form a coven."
        "I'm not afraid. What more could happen to me? I'm already bewitched."
        Perhaps Konrad Beezo had some long-distance means of keeping tabs on us-which seemed to be the case, considering his timely visit prior to Annie's birth. If so, he had chosen not to risk exposure this time until the baby's gender was known.
        Although I wanted a son someday, I would happily raise five daughters-or ten!-with no regrets if that would thwart Beezo's thirst for vengeance and keep him at bay.
        Just in case fate graced us with a band of sisters, I would have to get serious about the ballroom-dance instructions to which Lorrie periodically subjected me. With five daughters to chaperone and to give away in marriage, I'd miss out on too many memories if I couldn't fox-trot.
        Consequently, I learned to trip the light fantastic better than I had imagined that I could, considering that I'm biggish for my size and something of a gimp. The legend of Fred Astaire is in no danger of being eclipsed, but if you let me spin you around the floor either to a bit of Strauss or Benny Goodman, I can make you forget all about Bruno the dancing bear.
        On July 14, 2000, after I'd gone to the trouble of learning to dance, fate in a single stroke pulled out from under me the rug that I was cutting, granting my desire to have a son and challenging the mad clown to keep the dark promise in the mason jar.
        Fresh from his mother, little Andy did not respond to Mello Melodeon's slap on the butt with the usual birth cry full of shock and dismay. He issued a sharp yelp unmistakably expressing offense, followed by a perfect tongue-between-the-lips raspberry.
        At once I had a concern I could not help but relate to Mello. "Gee, he's got such… a tiny one."
        "Tiny what?"
        "Peepee."
        "You call it a pee pee "What-they use a fancier word at medical school?"
        "His willy is the usual size," Mello assured me, "and plenty big enough for what he needs it for in the immediate future."
        "My husband the idiot," Lorrie said affectionately. "Jimmy, dear, the only baby boy ever going to be born with the equipment you expected will also have horns because he'll be the Antichrist."
        "Well, I'm glad he's not the Antichrist," I said. "I can just imagine what the load in his diapers would smell like."
        Even in that moment of joy, Beezo was in our minds. We weren't whistling through a haunted graveyard; we were laughing through it.
        Having become the new chief of police, Huey Foster provided protection for Lorrie and baby Andy at the hospital. The guards-off-duty officers, out of uniform-were instructed to draw as little attention to themselves as possible.
        A day and a half later, when I took my wife and newborn home, another policeman was already stationed in the house, waiting for us.
        The chief assigned the officers in twelve-hour shifts. They came and went as unobtrusively as possible, through our garage, hiding in the backseat of Dad's car or mine.
        Huey acted not solely out of concern for us but with the hope that he would snare Konrad Beezo.
        After a nervous week, when the clown did not come, Huey could no longer justify the expense of providing us protection.
        Besides, if his pastry-addicted men gained any more weight, they wouldn't be able to button their pants.
        For the remainder of that first month, Dad and Mom and Grandma moved in with us from next door. Safety in numbers.
        We relied also on