1 Breakfast at Madeline's by Matt Witten Read Free Book Online Page A

get that old familiar tightening in my thighs.
    The Sultan of Swat and the Great One were sound asleep in their room, and maybe Andrea and I could make up with some good loving. I held out my arms for Andrea to slide into. But she sat down on the edge of the bed, looking fretful.
    "We've got to do something about this, we really do," she said.
    "I got it all squared away,” I reassured her.
    She stared at me blankly. "What?"
    "I picked out the best three versions of the preface I could find. I'll edit them together, then give it to Judy tomorrow."
    Andrea impatiently tossed her underwear to the floor, and I tingled all over. To hell with Marcie. Defi nitely.
    "I was talking about Gretzky," Andrea said. "He was whiny all afternoon, and I'm sure it's because he was holding in his peepee. That can't be healthy, going a whole eight hours without peeing."
    "Maybe this is just some kind of stage they go through," I said hopefully.
    "Babe Ruth never went through it."
    "Well, look at the bright side. At least Gretzky doesn't walk in his sleep. Speaking of which, did you put the newspaper down?" Two weeks ago, Babe Ruth sleepwalked right in to the middle of a seriously X- rated scene in our bedroom. Ever since then we've been putting crumple d newspaper in front of our bed room door at night, so we'll get advance warning be fore the Babe stumbles in and makes it a kinky threesome.
    Andrea sighed. "The newspaper's downstairs. I for got about it." She turned away from me in the bed. "I have to get final grades in tomorrow. I'm really tired."
    "Don't worry, gorgeous," I said softly, then bent down and licked the back of her knee. "I'll take care of it."
    And I did.
     
    "Jacob. Jacob," my wife said.
    Andrea and I were sitting in a crowded library au ditorium, listening to Steve Something-or-Other read from his novella. After fifteen minutes of this torture, I still had no clue what the cursed thing was about, ex cept he used the word "ubiquitous" a lot. Everyone around me was asleep. I wished I was, too.
    "Hey, Jacob," Andrea repeated.
    "Shh," I whispered.
    Now Antoinette Carlson, looking stu nning in a green, yellow, and black dashiki, came onstage and began lecturing about t he future of video in this coun try . As she explained it , video's future depended on in creased government funding for artists with true integrity and vision.
    Artists like herself.
    The audience applauded. Then Andrea shook my shoulder. "It's your turn to get up."
    Everyone turned around. I was supposed to go on stage and pontificate about "Is Art Possible in Holly wood?" or some such topic.
    "Hell, no, I won't go," I mumbled.
    "Come on. Wh at if Babe Ruth bumps into some thing?"
    Now I was thoroughly confused.
    Andrea shook my shoulder again. "Honey, don't make me get up. I did it last time."
    I opened my eyes. I was still in bed. But apparently Babe Ruth was no t, since there were noises down stairs.
    I stood up wearily. "Yeah, okay, okay. Batman to the rescue." I found my pajama bottoms on the floor and put them on. To protect my eyes I left the hall light off as I felt my way down the stairs. When I got to the first floor I heard Babe Ruth call out, "Daddy."
    "Coming," I said. Usually the Babe is silent when he does his midnight rambling, but every now and then he comes out with interesting comments. Like once, while still sound asleep, he asked me, "Why do people make poop, and why did the Red Sox trade Babe Ruth?"
    Questions I've been wondering about for years.
    This time, my son asked, "Daddy, how come you're wearing a mask?"
    It sounded like he was in the study. As I turned the corner from the dark dining room into the even darker study, I said, "Babe, I'm not wearing a—"
    I froze. Somebody was crouching in the shadows by my desk, wearing a mask.
    Whoever it was suddenly sprang out at me and Babe Ruth, knocking my son hard to the ground and swinging something at my face.
    I jumped back and threw up my arms to ward off the blow. Luckily it turned out to