Fëanor
Senior Member
 Gender: Male
Location: Winterfell |
The Dilemma of Jaimes
Part I
“So what are going to do?” asked Paul emphasizing the are, and a bit amused at the circumstances he reluctantly found himself in, but not alone.
“I don’t rightly know, at this moment,” answered Jaimes. “It is a bit of a quandary.”
Jaimes was, at this moment in a bind of a sort he wished he had never gotten into. Damn that Andrew. He paced quite animatedly back and forth that gave Paul the sense of watching one of those shooting games that had a target of ducks or something like that, moving back and forth while some hapless fool trying desperately to impress his date by showing his prowess with an air gun at a carnival. Not that he or Jaimes had ever had the pleasure of experiencing such an excursion.
The reality of Jaimes desperation was evident on the contorted face he now wore, that at any moment would surely be etched forever, thus Paul’s inner turmoil of not laughing his ass off at his poor brother’s expense.
“You know, you do look rather silly pacing about like some soon-to-be father unsure of what to do while your wife’s giving birth.” Paul couldn’t resist.
Jaimes paused a moment, just to give Paul one of those really short and sarcastic “Ha. Ha”s that pretty much drove Jaimes current situation to the fore. He, and he alone accepted this responsibility, reluctantly if not willingly, when Andrew had asked this small favor. Not so small now, Jaimes thought.
“Can you be serious for one minute,” Jaimes said after his satirical laughter.
“How can I be serious watching you going on like that? I mean, look at you. You’re going about this like you’re trying to solve all the world’s problems.”
“Well, yes, the world’s problems are little in comparison to this,” countered Jaimes. Then Jaimes’s face lit up as if a virtual light bulb had just been turned on above his head. “I know,” he said very enthusiastically which frightened Paul, “you’re the youngest one of us, right?
“Yes?” the ‘yes’ Paul said was drawn out long and slow, and full of suspicion.
“Right. Then you must have some memory of it when you were…um…that old, right?” Jaimes at that moment at least had the decency to make a face that rather resembled someone who was not sure of a thing asked or that he might be struck for some offence.
Paul could do nothing but gape blankly at his older brother Jaimes, who looked cartoonish now that he thought it. It then—his face—melted into a look of astonishment, which soon was followed by incomprehension. Jaimes had at that second realized the absurdity of having asked that of Paul.
And at the same time, he thought ruefully, what their older brother Andrew was thinking, knowing that Jaimes and Paul are not quite the expert in a field not dominated by bachelors such as they.
The Wentworth trio were nothing if not atrocious as little boys growing up in a part of London where money and wealth flowed like milk and honey. Andrew, the eldest of the three had always been the captain of a sort, so it fell to Jaimes to be anointed second-in-command while Paul by virtue of being the youngest was deemed the expendable crewmate.
Had it not been for them and their wild little antics and playful pranks of which their nanny was its main source or target, maybe their mum and dad would not be so grey in the hair. For the most part, they stuck together like Siamese twins who happened to be unfortunate of having a third body ungainly attached to their sides.
“All for one, and one for all,” was the motto the three boys held to and quite honestly believed in. Everything else was and is secondary in nature and meant little else, that is, until, they three had the unfortunate dilemma happen to them however unforeseen: school.
And school meant other boys, which by itself was not so much of a problem, the problems were girls: the bane of all boys during their early formative years and it mattered little in the scheme of things how large a wall they’d built, naďvely thinking that would keep the scourge of all scourges out.
It was Andrew, who fell first. The “L” word had somehow found its way into the Wentworth boy’s vocabulary. Andrew fell head-over-heels-madly, and touched with just a pinch of stupidity in love. Having said that, both Jaimes and Paul not realizing then that when the “L” word worms its way in, more like burrow Jaimes once said, it is more than certain that not even God can stop the “M” word from following its footstep
Jaimes theorized and Paul concurred with a dose of sobriety that those “footsteps” were in reality “goosesteps”. But they were happy for Andrew. However, they were not happy, though they would never say it to Andrew’s love-struck face, about the trio becoming a quartet.
Even if they wanted to alienate Emily—the Emily of Berkshire Estate, which meant old money, which meant a title her father had, which meant a place in the House of Lords—it would do little good in the way of keeping the once fortified Wentworth brothers together, well, as a trio.
“Are you ****ing daft? was all that Paul could say after a beat. “Jesus, Jaimes. I may be the youngest of the lot, but I certainly am not so young to even remember a thing like that. And who would want to? My God! That’s sick.”
“Let’s not forget the nausea inducing aroma of it all.” Jaimes by then was feeling sheepish and would have written off this fiasco as one big comical farce, if the reality of it had not been sitting on its diapered arse before them.
Jaimes and Paul eyed the object of their objection. It sat there very calmly and very collectively returning their puzzled gazes back at them, but no less puzzled as they. And who in their right mind would name their only begotten son Sheldon, thought—or was it said—Jaimes.
Sheldon being only a year old did his best to look as cute as is allowed for a baby. But Jaimes’s armour was thick, and Paul seemed indifferent, so no matter the amount of cooing—which was a godly amount—or the googly eye, and for that matter the cutesy wootesy little laugh the bugger (Jaimes’s word) did, it had no affect on them whatsoever. God knows Paul at least had the clarity of mind to not accept a responsibility that made women seem less troublesome.
Better to face a horde of sword-wielding-death-in-their-eyes brigands than caring for a baby, Paul once said to Jaimes after Andrew and the ever gracious and very beautiful Emily Berkshire-Wentworth dropped Sheldon off in their care, especially when that baby is now quite happily sitting in a distinctly aromatic poopy diaper.
After a while of suspenseful silence, Paul, who was still holding back, rather weakly, the gale of laughter that would soon burst if not for the discomfort Jaimes was eloquently displaying, said: “Jaimes, have you never done this before? I mean you’ve been with single mothers before. I remember that one…what was her name…oh never mind, you were with one for about two years, right?” Paul couldn’t help sounding, helpless.
“Oh, and that qualifies me an expert on child rearing, just because I dated…”
“Jocelyn!” Paul blurted out, being pleased with himself.
“Right. Jocelyn. And what of it? I was more concerned with the mother than those attention-grabbing brats. This is altogether something different. This is our ****ing nephew for Christ’s sakes. He’s…. he’s, he’s family.”
“Right, and you my big brother are going to do your duty, while I’m going to trifle your fridge for a beer.”
“Is that all you can think about, is beer?”
“God, no. In fact, I am a bit hungry. Got any chips?” Fortunately for Paul, Jaimes did not see the devilishly wry smirk on his face; else he’d have gotten more than beer and some chips. Paul rose from the comfy-soft brushed-leather sofa chair to see about some food and a fat bottle of beer, leaving Jaimes to face Sheldon alone.
“Jaimes?” Paul cried out.
“What” Trying fervently to gather what’s left of his wit.
“Why didn’t Andrew just leave Sheldon to their nanny’s care,” Paul yelled out from the kitchen. Who was by now deeply engrossed within the slate-grey refrigerator.
“If I knew that,” said Jaimes, “I wouldn’t be in this mess, now would I? Maybe he thought it some funny joke to be played on me.” He was imagining Andrew having a good laugh right about now with Emily his co-conspirator. Hoping and praying to all the gods he knew that when Andrew did, that in the laughing so hard he’d humiliate himself with a little bit of phlegm-green snot running out of his nose. The bugger.
By then Paul had returned, sans food but he did have a good bottle of dark. Jaimes looked painfully annoyed. Sheldon supremely oblivious, but he did seemed to notice something did not seemed right in and around the area of his tushy bottom. Was that agitation, or gas?
It was a toss up. Paul decided it was gas.
“Right. Paul go check the baby’s bag and make sure we’ve the necessary supplies.” Paul did as he was asked.
“I’ve got diapers,” said Paul, “my count: ten it would seem. There’s some clothes, some bottles filled with some white liquid.”
“Milk…I think.” Answered Jaimes.
“Right. A box of some moist-towelletes, by my guess.”
“Right. To cleanse the hands,” Jaimes guessed. He then struck a pose that reminded Paul of a professor at Uni he’d once seen make when said professor paused to gather his thoughts: one hand on the hips, the other by the mouth. Like the statue of The Thinker only it was Jaimes, or was it the professor striking that pose? Now that Paul had thought about it.
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Oct 23rd, 2004 12:20 AM
