Theodore “Dads” McGinnis sat drinking coffee in his immense kitchen. Windows overlooked Lake Michigan. Possibly, he had the biggest home in Illinois. The granite island alone could seat twenty. However, for the time being only his third wife, the former Lila Ramzi, sat in the pedestal chair across from him.
Dads was very happy with Lila. But then, he had been very happy with his first two wives.
Swinging glass doors, tall and spotless, were partly open. Outside he could see the flat blue lake, an acre of granite patio, and his only son, Jack McGinnis, sprawled on a chaise. The boy lifted a parfait glass filled with tomato juice and sprouting a leafy stalk. He paused, lips an inch from the straw. He put it back down.
“Lila, when did Bud get in last night?” Dads called his son Bud. He liked nicknames.
“I don’t know,” said Lila. This was believable. Although Lila usually stayed up late, the house was so big, a circus could walk through without detection.
Lila worked on a Sudoku puzzle. Dads watched his son drag himself from the chaise, walk across tiles to rose bushes, pause with the scowl of a weary Nineteenth century German philosopher, and vomit. Dads touched his phone and spoke.
“Troy, could you bring Bud another Bloody Mary?”
Troy D’Angelo was their beverage chef, and prided himself on his Bloody Marys. “What happened to the last one?”
“He spilled it.”
Dads rang off and sighed. “I don’t know about that man.”
“What man?” asked Lila.
“Bud. He’s falling behind. He quit Marquette. He won’t work. He needs… he needs the bullgrip.”
“Wha boo gip?” Lila said. She had a delicate accent that came and went for no particular reason. Dads found it charming.
“The bullgrip. Control. Knowing what you want and getting it.”
Dads occasionally made up words as needed. What other word combined guts and fortitude? None that he knew of.
“Speaking of the bullgrip,” he continued. “I’ll need everyone on their best behavior tonight.”
“Tonight? Why?” Lila continued marking her puzzle.
“We’re having one of Stella’s boyfriends for dinner.”
“Another one?”
“Evidently she’s quite fond of this one. We must show the proper McGinnis spirit. You can do that, can’t you, Lila?”
“Of course.” At thirty, the former Lila Ramzi had been months from finishing an internship at Northwestern Memorial when she met Dads. A hard working immigrant in great debt, she didn’t hesitate when he suggested a month off in Paris, and then San Remo.
From there, it was a short walk down the aisle.
Now she was rich. Never again would she worry about price tags, working all-nighters, balky carburetors, hospital sandwiches.
Lila had the bullgrip, all right. You might say she was born with it.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com