Walter pulled out
his baseball bat and thumped Lucius on top of the head. And Lucius, being
the sensitive type, crumpled with the blow, dropping like a sack of soggy
flour. In Walter’s defense, it was a very nice bat, hardwood, with a
signature from Ken Griffey, Jr.
Walter was sitting on the couch,
eating a bowl of peach yogurt when Lucius sat up, holding his head. “Good
God, my head feels terrible,” Lucius muttered to himself. “Oh, that’s too
bad,” Walter responded, sounding genuinely concerned. “What’s for dinner tonight?”
he continued, in the same breath. Lucius stood up, staggered at bit, but
caught himself. “Uh, I was thinking, umm,… I was thinking about making
mac-n-cheese,” Lucius said, his voice quivering a bit. “You like peas
with that, right?”
Lucius wobbled
into the kitchen.
The second blow
came during dinner. Lucius had just placed his first bite of peas into
his mouth when Walter, in one fluid motion, swung his bat out, from behind his
back, with his left hand, and caught Lucius directly on the back of the
head. Lucius' head unceremoniously landed in his noodles. Within a
couple of minutes, he lifted his head up, delicately removed a noodle from his
nose and groaned. “Something wrong?” Walter spouted, through a mouthful
of peas. “I don’t think it’s anything,” Lucius groaned, “it’s just that
my head has been hurting lately.”
The next morning,
emerging from their respective bedrooms, Lucius leaned against the wall,
rubbing his left temple. “Are you still complaining about your head?” Walter
sludged, sounding annoyed.
Lucius’ right eye
developed a twitch.