However, I keenly remembered Mickey saying his children’s mother had a wineglass soldered to her hand so I nodded.
“Beer sounds good,” I replied, moving further into the room in the direction of the bar.
I arrived, took my own barstool and noted that Mickey had a plethora of stuff all over the counter and appeared to be creating a smorgasbord of salads ranging from spinach to Asian noodle to macaroni. There were bowls, small packets of slivered almonds, used packs of ramen noodles, bottles of mayonnaise and mustard, cutting boards covered in residue and the waste parts of pickles, carrots, tomatoes, onions.
It struck me how long it’d been since my countertop looked like that and when it struck me, that feeling fell down the hollow well left after my family disintegrated, and it kept falling, that pit a bottomless pit of agony.
“Get Miz Hathaway a beer, boy,” Mickey ordered, thankfully taking me out of my thoughts, and Cillian jumped off his stool and raced to the fridge.
I failed to note the first time I met Cillian that he seemed to have an overabundance of energy.
I did not fail to note this same thing the day before when he stuck to his father’s, or Jake’s, or Junior’s sides like glue, helping with anything that needed help with, dashing around getting packing materials, dragging boxes, but most specifically manly things, like lifting and carrying.
Even if what he was lifting and carrying was too big, which sent him grunting and making hilarious faces at which I would never laugh because he was so serious in doing whatever he was doing, and I didn’t want him to see me and hurt his feelings.
I saw then, although getting a beer was not an onerous task, this was his nature for he didn’t delay and delivered the fastest drink I’d ever received.
“Thanks, honey,” I murmured when he put it on the bar in front of me.
“No probs,” he replied, moving around me then pulling himself back into his barstool, still talking, albeit briefly. And this was to demand of me, “Get this.”
I swiveled my stool his way to look at him.
“What?” I asked on a grin.
“I just figured out today that when I’m a fighter pilot for the Air Force, they don’t have to give me a call sign,” he declared and finished excitedly, “They can call me Kill since Kill is an awesome call sign but it’s also my name!”
He was clearly ecstatic about this.
But I stared at him in utter fear.
“You want to be a fighter pilot?” I asked.
“Totally,” he answered.
“Top Gun,” Mickey stated and I turned concerned eyes to him. “Cill caught it on cable a few years back. Made me buy him the DVD. He’s seen it a million times.”
“Two million,” Cillian contradicted proudly, and I turned my attention back to him. “It flipping rocks!”
I couldn’t agree or disagree. I’d seen it several times myself, including when it came out. Back then it was the best thing going.
However, I wasn’t certain it had aged well.
“The pilots in that movie fly for the Navy,” I informed him.
“Yeah, I know, but who wants to land a jet on a boat?” Cillian asked but didn’t allow me to answer. He shared his opinion immediately, “Not me. Plus, there are no babes on boats.”
“About a year after Cill saw Top Gun,” Mickey started and my eyes went to him, “he became aware there were girls in this world.”
“Isn’t that young?” I asked Mickey.
“I’m advanced,” Cillian said cheekily.
I grinned at him but even if he was being funny, the mother in me came right out.
“Being a fighter pilot is kind of a dangerous job, Cillian,” I shared hesitantly.
“I know!” he cried exuberantly, doing it sharing that danger was a big draw for that particular occupation.
I looked to Mickey, eyes wide.
He gave me one of his quick grins. “Not gonna talk him outta it, darlin’. Before he entered the highway to the danger zone, he wanted to be a firefighter, like his dad, a cop, a lawyer, which I also blame on Tom Cruise seein’ as that stretch, thankfully brief, came after Cill saw A Few Good Men. Then he was back to firefighter, moved on to Navy SEAL, then latched onto fighter pilot. Not one of ’em is a desk job that would make a mother’s heart settle, ’cept bein’ a lawyer, which would make his father’s head explode. But with this last one, it’s been years. I’m thinkin’ this one’s here to stay.”
“And get this!” Cillian butted in. “Dad’s got a friend who’s an instructor at Luke in Phoenix and we’re goin’ there for Christmas and we’re goin’ on the base and Uncle Chopper thinks he can get me in the flight simulator!”
“Do or die,” Mickey muttered and when I looked at him questioningly, he explained, “Luke’s an Air Force base. And Chop is gonna show us around. Cill sees and does, he either knows he’s gotta work at that, and it isn’t easy, or he’ll have to explore other options.”
I turned to Cillian. “How old are you?”
“Eleven,” he told me.
“You do have some time to figure it out,” I remarked.
“Not if I wanna get in the Air Force Academy, which is the only way to go, so I wanna get in the Air Force Academy. And I gotta have it together to do that,” Cillian replied with hard to miss determination.
I was astonished at his maturity that mingled naturally with his childish effusiveness.
Astonished by it and charmed by it.
“I’ll bet you do,” I murmured, falling a little in love with Cillian Donovan.
“Go get your sister, son,” Mickey ordered.
“’Kay,” Cillian agreed and again jumped off his stool and raced away.
I wrapped my fingers around my beer and took a pull before looking to Mickey and asking, “Can I help?”
“As I said, not lost on me you’ve run yourself ragged since you got to Magdalene, so no. Let me and my kids do the work, babe. You just relax.”
Relaxing would be good, but in Mickey’s presence, I figured it was highly unlikely.
But at that moment, what I really wanted was to find a nice way to ask him not to call me “babe.”
I wanted this because it reminded me of Conrad calling me that and it not meaning anything.
I also wanted it because I wanted it to mean something when Mickey said it, but it still didn’t.
I couldn’t figure out a nice way to say that so I just nodded, took another sip of cold beer and let my eyes wander his kitchen.