Tyber, grateful for any reason to be released from the grueling clutches of Auntie's third degree, courageously stepped into the fracas.

"What is it, Blooey?"

He pointed a condemning finger at the stout woman standing behind him. "She put salt in me vichyssoise!" All eyes turned in fascinated horror to the culprit, who stood there implacably at anchor.

She was a battleship of a woman.

A white cook's hat sat low on her forehead, allowing only a few stray steel wisps of hair to escape around her ears. Her visage was stern, uncompromising, and would likely put a stop to a cattle stampede. A starched white apron covered a flower-splashed shift that might be called a dress in kinder circles.

She looked like countless cafeteria cooks Zanita had seen in her school years-those stalwart ladies of institutional kitchens everywhere who, from substandard ingredients, loads of grease, salt, and mystery meat, whipped up cast-iron fare for the beleaguered masses of the student body. Les Femmes du Gastro Morte.

Arms akimbo, My-Maggy threw her pointed chin in the air, proclaiming, "The man has a cork fer a brain."

Dead silence followed her pronouncement.

Zanita guessed half of the guests were too flabbergasted to respond, while the other half agreed with the Battleship but were too polite to say so. Taking into account the self-preservation rule of dining-one never insults a host's cook and expects to get a choice piece of roast served to them by said cook-the silence was perfectly understandable. Normal under the circumstances. Normal. Right.

Tyber strolled over to the pair, throwing his arms around both their shoulders. It was clear to Zanita that he was going to use the "we're all good ol' boys-what's the fuss" method of calming them down.

"Now, Blooey, I'm sure she meant nothing personal by it. She probably didn't think about what she was doing, did you, My-Maggy?" Wisely, he didn't give her a chance to answer. "And Blooey, you know how much store I put by crew members getting along. These are dangerous times; we need to be able to depend on one another. We never can tell when those bloody Lobsterbacks are going to attack us again, can we?"

Blooey dropped his head in shame.

My-Maggy stared stonily at Tyber, muttering, "Sure and I'm liking you, Mr. Tyber, but I'm thinkin' you've got a bigger cork fer a brain than he does."

Tyber patted her back in commiseration, steering them back toward the kitchen. "See now? All settled."

"Just so she keeps her dockside cooking away from me own." Blooey's voice trailed off as they turned into the hall.

Auntie was the first to recover. "I have always loved a man who takes charge in these situations." As if these situations were a commonplace occurrence. Zanita tried to hide behind her iced tea.

"He's marvelous! Zanita, where did you find him?"

She couldn't even remember what she had told her aunt. Shortly after that, the doorbell had rung. Coming from different directions, both she and Tyber arrived at the door at the same time. Their eyes met in mutually exasperated humor.

"Have courage," he whispered before he opened the door.

Stan Mazurski, the physicist, was standing there, but his wife was not beside him. Next to him stood one of the most beautiful little boys Zanita had ever seen. With coal-black hair and emerald-green eyes, he was destined to grow up a lady-killer.

Zanita looked over at the balding little physicist with the coke-bottle glasses. How had this man ever produced such a remarkable child? His wife must be stunning.

"Hi, Stan," Tyber said. He threw a questioning glance at the child.

"Hello, Doctor Evans."

"Tyber, please." He smiled at Stan, thinking he really was a very old-fashioned man. Perhaps his European heritage factored into it.

"Thank you, Tyber. I hope you don't mind my bringing the child; my wife regrets she could not come tonight. Willa had the most awful headache." Stan looked pointedly down upon the boy's head, leaving no doubt as to what had caused said headache. "She needed to lie down with some medicine so I had no choice, other than canceling, which I didn't want to do at such a late date, after your kind invitation."

"Don't worry about it, Stan. Your son is welcome here."

"Oh, no! He's not my son!" Zanita was amused at the rapidity of his denial. She just bet this boy with the angelic face was a little devil. "We don't have any children. This is my brother Gregor's child, my nephew, Cody."

Tyber sat down on his haunches. "Hello, Cody." He put his hand out. The little boy responded at once. No shy child this.

"How ya doing?" He shook Tyber's hand. "Hey, whose motorcycle is crunched up in the driveway? Greg used to have one, but I don't remember 'cause I wasn't borned yet. He used to race 'em back then. That was before he went to live like a bo-bohemy-"

"Bohemian," Stan supplied quietly.

"Yeah. Bohemian. In the south of France."

Tyber grinned; he liked frisky kids and this one was a pistol.

Zanita was still trying to follow Cody's rapid shift of topic. "Your father raced motorcycles in the south of France?"

"Nah. What's for dinner?"

Stan looked mortified. "Cody, that isn't polite."

Tyber chuckled. "It's okay, Stan. I'm not sure-but maybe we can get Blooey to make you something special. You like fried chicken?"

Cody's face lit up. "Yeah!"

Tyber acknowledged the pure, simple truth that most children knew nothing about, and liked even less, haute cuisine. A child's idea of gourmet was Spaghetti Os. He thought Blooey was preparing Chicken Veronique for their main course this evening. The crusty swabbee would be more than happy to pan-fry some chicken for Cody because Tyber knew Arthur Bloomberg was a sucker where children were concerned.

Tyber wouldn't be surprised if a chocolate cake was hastily added to the dessert selections.

"So, what does your father do, young man?" Auntie's inherent nosiness effortlessly came to the fore.

They were all seated around the table in the formal dining room. It was such a lovely room, Zanita thought. An arrangement of fresh flowers graced the center of the walnut table, which was elegantly set. She supposed Tyber had taken care of these small details while she had been detained with the flat tire. She made a mental note to thank him.

Zanita was also pleased to note that since Tyber's little lecture, all had been relatively smooth in the kitchen. My-Maggy had served the infamous vichy. The boy had surprised everyone by lapping his up.

In response to Auntie's question, Cody's face screwed up with a puzzled expression, clearing when he thought he figured out what he was being asked. He shrugged his small shoulders, while shoving a heavily buttered pecan roll into his mouth.

He replied innocently, "He does women."

"Cody," Stan hissed.

"Well he does, Uncle Stan. When we're watching TV, Greg always says, 'I'd love to do her, Cody'."

Zanita coughed.

Auntie's smile froze on her face.

Stan turned beet red.

Mills blinked several times.

Tyber chuckled.

"Children have such an aura of naturalness about them. It is so refreshing." LaLeche patted his mouth with his linen napkin.

It was the first time Zanita had wanted to thank Xavier LaLeche. He had stepped into an embarrassing moment and with his oily charm had eased the awkwardness.

"How so, Mr. LaLeche?" Auntie, who was sitting on LaLeche's right turned to him.

"Xavier, please. Children do not carry years of inner pain, hurt, and degradation with them. They are honest. Fresh."

This one is fresh, Mills thought to herself.

"Often the thrust of my work, as our host knows, is to find the inner child, release him from bondage-set him free."

Cody perked up. "There's another kid here?"

Everyone laughed.

"Sorry, pal." Tyber said. "You're it."

My-Maggy came into the dining room to serve the main course, Blooey right behind her bearing a dish piled high with fried chicken. He placed the plate in front of Cody with a flourish.

"Here you go, lil' mite. I cooked it up special fer ya." Cody's eyes rounded; he licked his lips, ready to dig in. His uncle stopped him.

"Wait until everyone is served, Cody."

Mills thought Stan was a very good uncle, indeed. She told him so.

"Why, thank you, Mills. I wish my brother could hear that; we have many disagreements on a certain topic." He was purposely being circumspect for Cody's benefit.

"Well, yer a good lad in my book. I heard ye liked me soup, too."

"Yeah, it was awesome."

"Did ye ever think of becomin' a cabin boy?"

"What's that?"

Tyber cleared his throat. "Blooey, I think-"

"A cabin boy assists the captain. On a pirate ship such as this-"

Cody's green eyes grew huge. "You were on a pirate ship?" Blooey had been instantly elevated to hero.

"Aye. I'll tell ye all about it when ye have your dessert- it's chocolate cake, you know." The corners of Tyber's mouth twitched with a secret smile.

"Wow! This place is neat; we'll have to come here again, Uncle Stan."

Stan smiled fondly at his nephew. "We'll see."

"Does your father do the same work as your uncle?" Auntie was nothing if not persistent. There was always an answer to any question, if one tried hard enough.

"Nah, Greg don't work. He's a noncon-a noncon-"

"A nonconformist," Stan supplied drily, while catching the napkin on his nephew's lap before it slid to the floor.

"He sounds a very interesting man," LaLeche put in.

This creep of a father sounded like a deadbeat to Mills. "Does your mother work?" Mills asked in spite of herself.

"Well..." Cody thought a minute. "She used to ride the rodeo." He took a huge bite out of his chicken. "Greg says I'm named after some dude called Buffalo Bill."

Mills almost choked on her wine. "Your brother's wife is a rodeo rider?" She turned to Stan with all the horror of eight generations of Yankee forebears for any activity which didn't require a coat and tie.

Cody snorted. "My ma wasn't his wife. I figure Greg's never gonna get married." The audacious boy winked broadly at her. "Got too many girlfriends."

Stan's face reddened.

"Zanita tells me you're an absolute marvel, Xavier." Auntie's interest in the child having been satisfied, she quickly moved on to her next victim. In this case, the prime victim.

"Oh, I wouldn't quite put it that strongly."

False modesty had its moments, Zanita reflected. Too bad this wasn't one of them.

Auntie leaned toward him in her chair. "Do you really perform healing ceremonies? I can't tell you how fascinating this subject is to me."

"My dear lady, fascination barely describes it." LaLeche pointedly gazed into Auntie's eyes as if fascinated to death. But not, Zanita noted, before he gazed down at the emerald-and-ruby ring gracing her index finger.

Stan's fork clattered against his plate. "You aren't talking about physic healing, are you?"

"Yes, yes, yes." Auntie waved her hand impatiently. "Get with the program, Stan."

"Surely you don't subscribe to this quackery, Dr. Evans?"

Everyone turned to stare at Tyber.

Talk about being put on the spot... Zanita grimaced. If Tyber denied it, LaLeche would become suspicious. If Tyber admited to it, Dr. Mazurski would rapidly lose respect for his Physicist King. And might spread the word among Tyber's colleagues. There could be professional ramifications. Zanita bit her lip, sorry she had placed him in this situation.

If Zanita had been in Tyber's mind at that moment, she would have seen that she was worrying needlessly. Tyber could care less what his colleagues surmised about him personally. His work spoke for itself.

However, he sipped his wine slowly before responding, taking the time to come up with an answer acceptable to everyone. "Surely by now, Stan, you know I always keep an open mind-to everything."

"Yes, but psychic-"

"Greg says the same thing," Cody piped in. "He says never rule anything out 'cause life is full of possibilities." Tyber could've kissed him.

"Greg appears to be a fountain of wisdom," Mills murmured sarcastically under her breath. Zanita kicked her under the table.

After dinner, everyone returned to the parlor.