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Rainbowland III: The Kat Who Came Home Again
(With apologies to Lilian Jackson Braun) OR The Charge of the Glowstick Brigade
by Groucho
A fantasy that takes place somewhere over the rainbow, in one of many possible realities involving Katharine McPhee, her McPhamily, McPhriends and McPhans
“Are we really going in a stretch limo, Dad? That’ll be so cool.” Ajay checked himself out in the mirror, pushing his hair this way and that, tugging on his orange “I Got McPheever” t-shirt I’d ordered for him on-line, and trying to figure out what was the best way to wear his All Access pass. I had to smile at him because as hard as it was for me to hide my excitement, it impossible for him at age ten. We were going to an American Idols Live concert at Staples Center, there would be thousands of people milling around, and someone we actually knew would be performing. As they say, it just don’t get no better than that, unless you’ve got Lakers tickets.
“Settle down now,” I said. “Next thing I know you’ll be grabbing a harmonica and doing a Taylor imitation just to let off steam.”
“Shoulda heard them knocked-out jailbirds sing, let’s rock!” he sang out, waving his arms and dancing around the room.
“Take it easy,” I admonished. “Don’t get yourself all worn out and sweaty this early in the day. You’ve got to last a long time.” I should have known better. My son could run on sheer nervous energy longer than anyone else I knew, with the possible exception of myself.
Not unexpectedly, he brushed against a bureau during his wild dance and sent a lot of things flying off into the floor. “Oh crap,” he said, sounding way too much like me as he nearly lost his balance trying to grab framed pictures on their way down to the floor. I dived for my favorite coffee mug, which, thankfully, was empty, and slid across the floor holding it in my outstretched hand. It was really nothing special, just a simple little ceramic cup with a couple of cartoon animals on one side and my name, Dr. Christopher A. McDonald, on the back. I’d put in a lot of volunteer hours at the local Humane Society, in return for which my name had been embossed in gold. That cup meant a lot to me.
“Sorry, Dad. Nice catch, by the way. This is a good one of us, isn’t it?”
I had to admit, I liked the photo he was holding. There we were, the two of us, in our matching karate uniforms, which differed only in the color of our belts, mine black, his yellow. He was eight at the time and had just started lessons. He’d been so proud of that first promotion. We were facing toward opposite sides of the picture at a 45 degree angle, crouched with one arm outstretched in a punching position, a couple of ferocious Tae Kwon Do warriors, ready for anything. I liked it, Ajay liked it, Katharine had liked it so much she had requested a copy for herself, so in that sense the two of us had accompanied her all over the country on tour.
The other frame contained a series of candids of all three of us in different poses—me picking Katharine up and holding her chest high, no small feat, as she was nearly as tall as me; Katharine and Ajay making faces at each other; one of the three of us slurping on ice cream cones taken by an obliging stranger.
It had been a really great day, despite the fact that one third of us had been required to pass the entire time in silence. It had been absolutely impossible for Ajay to resist trying to tempt her to talk, even though he knew she was on physician-ordered vocal rest, and he knew I was going to yell at him about it, which was kind of silly because I teased her a lot myself.
His worst trick had been sneaking out into the surf by himself, which he was strictly forbidden to do. Katharine spotted him before I did, stood up, and let out an ear-shattering whistle. He heard it, as did most of the people on the beach, and saw her waving an arm at him in an unmistakable “Get over here now!” gesture. Katharine did a lot of frowning and swatting that day, but it was invariably followed by a smile and a hug. They’d met before but never really spent much time together. An odd way for the two of them to get acquainted with each other, perhaps, but they seemed to manage. Figuring out whether or not you like somebody doesn’t always depend on the things you actually say to each other, I decided.
Then the pictures started to surface on the Internet, and I didn’t know whether to be pleased or offended or just startled to realize that there was a good chance that from now on, my life, by association with the woman I’d chosen—or who’d chosen me--was going to be public property. I even had a moment of panic, wondering if there was any way that could possibly hurt the one person I loved most in all the world. Then I had to stop and ask myself who I really meant when I said that. There had never been anyone, except possibly my parents, whose welfare meant as much to me as my son’s, but looking at our beach-day pictures, thinking what they meant for our joint future, I felt some confusion. And someday, down the road, it might get even worse.
At least none of the pictures from Beach Day were damaged. “That was a good day, wasn’t it?” I said.
“Absotively and posilutely,” Ajay said. He loved to play with words. He loved Elvis and karate and playing the trumpet. And I loved him. I once told my dad that although I wasn’t much of a Bible scholar, there was one phrase I understood totally, one place where I thought I knew exactly what God was talking about, and that was when he said “This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.” That was exactly how I felt about my son, and one of the few times when I thought God made perfect sense.
It didn’t matter a bit that according to the law, he wasn’t my son at all. He was my brother. His legal parents were James and Ildith McDonald, same as mine. Long story. At eighteen, I&