Page 37 of Game Plan
“To be fair, I have a digital pen pal, Chris, who grew up in Chicago. He plays American hockey. And he would kill us both if he found out we put ketchup on hot dogs,” I said.
“Why?” Hawk wondered. “And who is this Chris, again?”
“Apparently there is a real reason, but I have no idea.” Was he jealous of me having a guy friend? Seriously? Or was I reading too much into it?
"This is where you got to." A man with a receding hairline and a pleasant smile sat in the chair beside Vera, interrupting us. He placed a bowl of soup in front of himself and began to eat.
"Only after I ran a marathon and washed every window in the city."
Brody, apparently used to his wife's humour, nodded. "You got over your fear of heights, then?"
"Not a chance," she shot back. "It's a perfectly rational fear, along with the fear of running marathons."
"Or a fear of being watched by ducks," I said. When they all turned and looked at me, I shrugged. "What? It's a thing."
"Ducks are pretty scary," Hawk said, his expression deadpan. "I wouldn't want one watching me, especially if it was on my plate, surrounded by orange sauce."
"If a dead duck looks at you," Brody waved his spoon at Hawk, "don't go eating it."
"That sounds like good advice," I said.
"What can I say? I'm a wise guy," Brody said.
"You're a wiseguy," Vera told him.
"That too," he said with a nod. "Did you tell her about the time a chicken chased Conrad around the yard?"
Hawk smacked his hand against his forehead. "Crap, no, not that story."
"Oh yeah, that story." Brody grinned. "Go on, Vera, it's hilarious."
“Yes, please do,” I encouraged, making Hawk groan again.
While Hawk groaned, Vera spoke.
"My dad and his are brothers. They've always been pretty close, but they razz each other out every chance they get. Now, his father is terrified of chickens. Always has been."
"He's not scared, he'sallergic," Hawk said.
"Whatever." Vera waved the fry in her hand, in the air. "Anyway, my father decided he'd play a trick on his brother. He borrowed a hen from one of the neighbours and put her in the yard. Uncle Jacob never even saw it, because Conrad did first. Conrad, being Conrad, decided he'd grab that little ole chicken and take her back before his Dad got home."
I glanced at Hawk and he shrugged. It seemed like a nice thing to have done.
"Anyway, he tried to grab the chicken, but he had to run around the yard about a hundred times and still couldn't catch her. Then she got pissed with him. She turned around and started to chase him." Vera laughed. "He squealed like a little boy."
I laughed. I could picture young Hawk bolting around, an angry chicken right on his heels.
"She tried to peck the crap outta me," Hawk said. "I didn't want her to spoil my pretty face." He patted his cheek.
"Some women like scars," I pointed out.
"Not ones caused by a chicken beak, or claws," Vera said.
"I could have said they were from fingernails," Hawk said.
"You were twelve." Vera looked disgusted, but on the verge of laughing.
"Good point," Hawk said. "That wouldn't have been cool. Anyway, what Vera hasn't said is that I caught the chicken and got rid of her. She was tasty." He patted his flat stomach.
