his hand and I stopped, looked to him, still bouncing, and declared, “I don’t get it. He’s had his nap, it was shorter than normal, but that’s never a big thing with him. Still, he woke up fussy. He ate his food then was cranky. But he’s had his food, his diaper is clean, he’s been bathed. He can get grouchy his first day back from his dad’s, but not like this.” I looked down at Travis and finished on a mutter, “Maybe he’s not feeling well. He’s got another tooth coming in. Maybe that’s it.”
Travis had no answer, except to keep crying loudly.
My head came up when I felt Joker get close.
“New place, Butterfly,” he said over Travis’s blubbering. “This time, he’s got more to get used to. New room. New space. Away from his dad’s.”
This made sense, and I wondered why I hadn’t thought of that.
Joker set his can on the dining room table, pulled my boy out of my arms, and walked away, also bouncing him.
I watched as he bent to Travis’s toy basket and picked it up. Then I watched as he came back and dumped the entire thing across the floor behind the couch.
At that, Travis jumped slightly in his arms, shoved his fist in his mouth, stopped bawling, started sniveling, and gave Joker’s actions his complete attention seeing as Travis was always up for making a mess of pretty much anything.
Joker crouched down and planted Travis’s baby booty on the floor next to the toys. When he had my son down, on the other side of the toys he dropped to his hip and stretched out on his side, long jeans-covered legs out, feet bare, faded black tee drawn tight across his chest, his upper body rested on a forearm.
I kept watching as Joker picked up a blue giraffe and poked Travis in the belly with it.
Travis took his hand from his mouth and pumped both his fists in the air at his sides before he went after the giraffe.
Joker pulled it away then poked Travis in the belly with it again.
Travis went for it again but almost immediately lost interest in it, what with all the toys scattered across the floor. He bent forward and grasped a red donut ring.
“Giraffe’ll get lonely, kid,” Joker told him, poking him in the belly with it again.
On his hip, leaning into his hand on the ring, Travis’s head came up to look at Joker. He then pushed fully forward and crawled across the toys, dragging the ring with him, heading toward Joker. He pounded his hands, including the one with the ring, into Joker’s chest, and Joker fell on his back.
Travis emitted a little giggle before he carried the now forgotten donut with him to the best toy ever.
The living, breathing, biker jungle gym.
He crawled on top of Joker, banging him with his donut, as Joker put his hands to Travis’s sides, where he was most ticklish.
Then he tickled.
No little giggles at that, Travis let loose and that was when I watched biker and baby fake wrestle on the floor among a bunch of toys, Joker letting Travis win while getting clocked repeatedly in the face, head, neck, shoulders, and chest by a plastic red donut.
Joker took it smiling, sometimes chuckling, and giving his full attention to my son, who was no longer crying but having the time of his life.
I watched it smiling and knowing without any doubts that I’d have more moments like that. Moments when Joker would do something where I’d know straightaway I was falling in love with him. And I watched it loving that I knew Joker would give that to me at the same time loving that he was giving what he was giving to my son.
Then I kept watching as Joker grabbed Travis and lifted him up in the air, sent him flying a few inches, Travis’s laughter pealed through the room, and Joker caught him, bringing him down to his face.
“Now, boy, this place ain’t so bad, is it?” he asked.
Travis’s reply was to conk Joker on the cheekbone with the donut he hadn’t let go and shout, “Bah la dah!”
“That’s what I thought,” Joker muttered.
I drew in breath through my nose and did it deeply to control the emotion swelling inside me.
Then I went to the kitchen and got myself a soda.
A brand name one.
One a biker named Joker put in my fridge.
* * * * *
Joker
The next day, safety glasses and gloves on, welding gun in