“What are you making?” I said.
“You liked the food so much in Paris,” she said, frowning and slowly stirring in whatever was in the measuring cup.
“I almost always like the food,” I said.
“So I wanted to make you a nice French meal,” she said. “Coq au vin.” She said it with her best Bad French accent, caca van, and a very small lightbulb came on in my head.
“Caca van?” I said, and I looked at Astor.
She nodded. “Poop van,” she said.
“Damn it!” said Rita again, this time trying vainly to stick a burned elbow into her mouth.
“Come along, children,” I said in a Mary Poppins voice. “I’ll explain it outside.” And I led them through the house, down the hall, and out into the backyard. We sat together on the step and they both looked at me expectantly.
“All right,” I said. “Caca van is just a misunderstanding.”
Astor shook her head. Since she knew absolutely everything, a misunderstanding was not possible. “Anthony said that caca means ‘poop’ in Spanish,” she said with certainty. “And everybody knows what a van is.”
“But coq au vin is French,” I said. “It’s something your mother and I learned about in France.”
Astor shook her head, a little doubt showing on her face. “Nobody speaks French,” she said.
“Several people speak it in France,” I said. “And even over here, some people like your mother think they speak it.”
“So what is it?” she asked.
“It’s chicken,” I said.
They looked at each other, then back at me. Oddly enough, it was Cody who broke the silence. “Do we still get pizza?” he asked.
“I’m pretty sure you do,” I said. “So how about rounding up a team for Kick the Can?”
Cody whispered something to Astor, and she nodded. “Can you teach us stuff? You know, the other stuff?” she said.
The “other stuff” she referred to was, of course, the Dark Lore that went with training to be Dexter’s Disciples. I had discovered recently that the two of them, because of the repeated trauma of life with their biological father, who regularly beat them with furniture and small appliances, had both turned into what can only be described as My Children. Dexter’s Descendants. They were as permanently scarred as I was, forever twisted away from fuzzy puppy reality and into the sunless land of wicked pleasure. And they were far too eager to begin playing wicked games, and the only safe way out for them was through me and onto the Harry Path.
And truthfully, it would be a very real delight to conduct a small lesson tonight, as a baby step back in the direction of resuming my normal life, if I can use those two words together when talking about me. The honeymoon had strained my imitations of polite behavior beyond all their previous limits, and I was ready to slither back into the shadows and polish my fangs. Why not bring the children along?
“All right,” I said. “Go get some kids for Kick the Can, and I’ll show you something you can use.”
“By playing Kick the Can?” Astor said with a pout. “We don’t want to know that.”
“Why do I always win when we play Kick the Can?” I asked them.
“You don’t,” Cody said.
“Sometimes I LET one of you win,” I said loftily.
“Ha,” Cody said.
“The point is,” I said, “I know how to move quietly. Why could that be important?”
“Sneak up on people,” Cody said, a lot of words in a row for him. It was wonderful to see him coming out of his shell with this new hobby.
“Yes,” I said. “And Kick the Can is a good game to practice that.”
They looked at each other, and then Astor said, “Show us first, and then we’ll go get everybody.”