Free Holy Water by James P. Othmer

of sign, that their having children just wasn ’ t meant to be. As soon as he agreed to at least consider having a vasectomy, she threw herself into the research. She downloaded articles and printed diagrams for him that were intended to allay his fears about loss of libido and the pain of recovery. What he was most concerned about, beyond the mental state of his wife, was having someone take a scalpel to his testicles, and no chart or penis-friendly phrasing could make it go away.
     
    Whenever he tried to tell Rachel that perhaps they should wait just a little longer, because one day they might want to try to have a child again, she told him that she couldn ’ t handle the emotions of expectation and loss, that if it happened again it would break her completely. Whenever he mentioned therapy or counseling, she responded with anger, accusations, and prolonged periods of silence. Pushing harder, he thought, would be the end for them. So, while not assenting, he let her run with it, with the hope that things would change, she ’ d get better, or at least find a replacement obsession.
     
    But she didn ’ t. Soon Rachel knew enough about the vicissitudes of vasectomies to do a dissertation for the New England Journal of Medicine.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    Henry accepts another beer. “ A Slovakian—not Czech, there ’ s a huge difference—pilsner, ” Gerard explains. One of the Osbornes, deep into a criticism of the latest government bailout, stops pointing his index finger at his brother long enough to say, “ That ’ s what we want to see, Junior. Pounding some fine eastern European swill. We ’ ll make a man out of you yet. ”
     
    Henry raises the bottle in a toast. They have taken to calling him Junior, or Kid, or H. After two years he is still the plebe, the pledging frat boy. He has remained the disciple and they the wise elders, the savvy veterans of the mysteries of suburbia, marriage, fatherhood, and the sub-prime lending fiasco. They played every aspect of their hazing, mentoring roles to perfection, he thought, except the part about the actual dispensing of wisdom, the leading by example, or the solving of even the smallest problem.
     
    LeBlanc asks Victor Chan for more details about his swollen and blackened left eye. “ Happened at Kenny ’ s T-ball game. ” Chan looks away from LeBlanc, hoping that this is description enough.
     
    “ What, ” shouts Gerard, “ did you get clipped with a line drive by a toddler on steroids? ”
     
    “ Or did one of the parents clock you? ” Henry offers with a laugh.
     
    Chan turns and stares at Henry. “ Well, actually, yes, ” he says, as if Henry is the one who did the sucker punching.
     
    “ What happened, V-Chan? ” asks Marcus. “ This is T-ball, correct? ”
     
    “ Yeah. There was this little kid, this little prick, actually, who started mouthing off to the first baseman, a nice kid twice the size of the other kid. The first baseman didn ’ t do anything, except catch the throw that sealed the other kid ’ s fate. I thought they were playing, but the little brat began throwing punches. Soon the big kid had him on the ground. I ran over and started pulling them apart and the next thing I know this other father, the little kid ’ s father, grabs my shoulder, spins me around, and clocks me. ”
     
    Gerard approaches from the grills, brandishing tongs and a long grease-slick fork from which dangles a piece of charred grizzle. “ Holy shit, Victor, what ’ d you do? ”
     
    “ What I did is fall down, Gerard. You think I know kung fu or something just because I ’ m Chinese? ”
     
    “ You didn ’ t hit him? ” Gerard is shocked. “ I would ’ ve— ”
     
    “ I would ’ ve sued him, ” says Osborne the First.
     
    “ Further destroying our overly litigious society, ” counters Osborne the Second.
     
    “ I did nothing. It wasn ’ t even my son in the fight. My son, who, by the way, won ’ t even talk to me because I walked away.