DANDELIONS: Inheritance

Reba is the kind of person who finds things to break. Which is okay. Because her partner is the kind of person who finds things to fix.

She sat across from him in her apartment. Walt O’Connor ate lunch with her every day. Then returned to work. Then came back after locking up and spent the night. Or Reba packed a bag and came to his house. She is pregnant with Walt’s child. They were scheduled to be married in November, and really should have moved in together long ago. But the logistics are complicated. Plus, Reba has a lease. Plus, she kind of hates him.

“I told you not to eat with your mouth open,” she says.

Walt puts his sandwich down. Reba has made vegetable pita pockets, with onions, cucumbers, pickles, julienned carrots, baby kale, and yogurt mayo with horseradish. “I was not aware,” he says. “That I was eating with my mouth open.”

He wipes sauce off his plate and sticks his finger in his mouth, removing it with a loud smack.

“That’s disgusting!”

“No. It’s delicious.” Walt can’t help himself.

“Do you deliberately try to irritate me?”

“Sometimes.”

Her sandwich half-eaten, she shoves her plate aside. Reba is always hungry. But there are times when the baby chooses to be especially active. Usually when her mother’s trying to eat. Or read. Or nap. When this happens, it’s not their baby. It’s “his” baby.

She holds her belly. “You’re bugging me. And so is your baby.”

“One thing about little Ava,” Walt smiles. “She has moxie.” Moxie is his favorite word for her. “A true O’Connor.”

Reba picks up her plate and stands. “That’s another thing I’m worried about. What’s this kid inheriting?”

Walt takes a stab. Brown eyes? Smarts? Good looks?

Reba puts her sandwich in the fridge. She tries to slam the door. Fridge doors don’t slam. “Sweetheart, look at me. I’m barely five-two. What are you, Five-eight? In your shoes? She’ll be a midget!”

Placing his fingers together, Walt considers this. He asks how tall Reba’s father is. Six-three, she admits. Walt’s own father is almost six feet tall. “There you have it. She’ll be taller than both of us.” He hands his plate to Reba. “She’ll be the only one who can reach the top cupboard. Are we done?”

“Not yet. You know what the world is like. America rewards beauty, and look at me. I’m short. My hair is the color of mud, and curly as a poodle’s.”

Your hair is beautiful, Walt tells her. It’s unusual. Like mine, or what’s left of it. What’s your point?

“My point is we’re the same! We both have kinky hair, and short necks, and short legs, and long arms, and short fingers, and little noses, and…and…” Reba puts the plates on her counter. She is at a loss for words. Finally it comes to her.

“The kid’s gonna look like Danny DeVito!”

Walt has had enough. He picks up forks and mustard and carries these to the kitchen. “Our baby is not going to look like Danny DeVito. Who ain’t bad-looking, in my opinion. And if she does, she can become an actor and make millions. Our baby is going to look like herself. And be smart. And ethical. She might be tall, she might be short. But whatever she is, she’ll be perfect. Is perfect good enough for you?”

“I suppose.” Reba sighs. Then jerks, putting a hand on her stomach. “I’ll tell you one thing. She’s got a good shot at pro soccer. She has a right foot that can’t miss.”

Richard Donnelly

Richard Donnelly

Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. Mr. Donnelly’s first book is ‘The Melancholy MBA.’ published by Brick Road Poetry Press.