He came home from the office one day and asked, "How would you feel about going back to work?"
With the kids both in school full time and her hobbies approaching obsession, she told him she wouldn't mind one bit.
"Good," he said, "because I can't take it much longer."
And that was how, in the summer of the tenth year of their marriage, she became the family breadwinner and he a stay-at-home dad. Their needs weren't many, just enough to pay the bills of a simple lifestyle, and they were happy.
Five years later nearly to the day, she came home from the office and asked, "How would you feel about going back to work?"
The kids have soccer and chess and the school play, and the house is always clean when you get home, he told her. He wanted to just leave things alone.
"But I lost my job today," she said, "downsizing."
"I'm sorry," he said.
"If I can't find something new, you'll have to go out and look too."
Months went by and they lived on her unemployment check. She looked online for jobs and submitted resumes and got a few interviews but nothing panned out. He inquired casually and not-so-secretly hoped she'd find something first. Home together throughout the day and she too anxious to enjoy her old hobbies, they fought more often than they ever had. He didn't see why they should fight and told her they were blessed and they should enjoy it while it lasted. She calmed down and their love life perked up and they went from frequent fighting to an ephemeral giddiness, and the mood in the house became so lighthearted as to confuse their kids, the kids wondering how their unemployed parents could be so happy and unconcerned. The kids became jealous of their friends and the oldest asked about getting a job and the parents said, "yes."
A couple of paychecks into his oldest child's working life, the father felt a little embarrassed about his kid being the family's only earner, so he hunkered down and applied for many, many jobs and took the first one he was offered that allowed for a decent living. His wife went back to her hobbies.
He was never out of work for an extended period again and she worked on and off. Both kids went to college thanks to debt and grants and campus jobs. When he came home one day and told her he was ready to retire, they joked about what their lives would be like and spoke about when they'd both been at home years before. They were both much younger then, she said, and he told her that he thought they were pretty lucky.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Marissa (by Yasmin Khan)
Cradling his warm scrawny softness between her knees, Marissa’s heart left her body and entered that of her newborn son. Watching his fists and face fight the weightlessness of the air, she was terrified of hurting him. “Hold it” said the woman known as The Chinese, reaching into a flowery washbag. Marissa wondered where it had come from. It wasn’t kept with the tampons, first aid kit, painkillers and dust covered condoms needed for running a brothel.
The baby let out a hiccup, a gasp and a long thin wail that ricocheted off Marissa’s breasts, making them ache; instantly filling with milk. “HOLD IT!” ordered The Chinese, selecting some scissors from her bag. With a muscly crunch, the cord was cut and Marissa lay the baby down, then screamed out in pretend pain and folded forward.
Lying within reach, the scissors were small and sharp and smiling. Marissa had been a brilliant pick pocket as a child – deft and quick. As a teenager, she’d dealt drugs and fallen in love with a gang boss who chose her to take a shipment to London. After bringing the heroin to this ever-curtained house she had never left.
“Placenta coming now” The Chinese said. Shielding her son with a tent made only of her knees, Marissa curled her fingers around the scissors, brought up her hand and punched the pointed blades into The Chinese’s neck. The side of her fingers and fist slid sank against soft flesh.
Marissa was already floating as she heard the panicked, urgent gurgle and scream. She dragged the metal sideways, opening the wound before digging the point in again. Marissa’s hands were filthy with thick blood – she needed them clean to tend to her son. She needed the stupid kneeling pile of flesh to topple and still. Again, she jabbed – this time taking care, leaning in low like a lover before ripping the ugly flesh a final time. Then all she could hear was the pure single noted cry of her son and she could wash them both clean.
(Yasmin Khan is a writer who is half Pakistani and half Irish. Having worked as a TV and Radio Journalist for 17 years, she is now exploring her love of writing fiction. She has an MA in Anthropology and is fascinated by stories and how they transcend physical settings.)
The baby let out a hiccup, a gasp and a long thin wail that ricocheted off Marissa’s breasts, making them ache; instantly filling with milk. “HOLD IT!” ordered The Chinese, selecting some scissors from her bag. With a muscly crunch, the cord was cut and Marissa lay the baby down, then screamed out in pretend pain and folded forward.
Lying within reach, the scissors were small and sharp and smiling. Marissa had been a brilliant pick pocket as a child – deft and quick. As a teenager, she’d dealt drugs and fallen in love with a gang boss who chose her to take a shipment to London. After bringing the heroin to this ever-curtained house she had never left.
“Placenta coming now” The Chinese said. Shielding her son with a tent made only of her knees, Marissa curled her fingers around the scissors, brought up her hand and punched the pointed blades into The Chinese’s neck. The side of her fingers and fist slid sank against soft flesh.
Marissa was already floating as she heard the panicked, urgent gurgle and scream. She dragged the metal sideways, opening the wound before digging the point in again. Marissa’s hands were filthy with thick blood – she needed them clean to tend to her son. She needed the stupid kneeling pile of flesh to topple and still. Again, she jabbed – this time taking care, leaning in low like a lover before ripping the ugly flesh a final time. Then all she could hear was the pure single noted cry of her son and she could wash them both clean.
(Yasmin Khan is a writer who is half Pakistani and half Irish. Having worked as a TV and Radio Journalist for 17 years, she is now exploring her love of writing fiction. She has an MA in Anthropology and is fascinated by stories and how they transcend physical settings.)
As the Ivy Grows
They were in their mid-twenties when they moved into a one hundred year old row home. The cinder block back wall of their backyard, backing up to a school parking lot on its other side, wasn't nearly as old as the house itself – a thirty foot tall blank slate. They thought of adding a layer of stucco to it, considered painting it with a scene or a solid color, but eventually they just planted ivy at its base.
In their late twenties, she gave birth. They'd prayed every night for nine months for a healthy baby, and a healthy baby they had. They named him after her late grandfather. When they watched him take his first steps in their backyard, the ivy had crept just a few feet up the back wall.
They had a second child a few years later, a healthy baby girl. Their house was a small one in which to raise two kids, so the backyard served as an extra room. The kids played outside in a sandbox as toddlers, played music on a boombox as teens. They did their share of fighting but had a lot of fun too. When the son went away to college, ivy covered more than half the back wall.
The kids grew up. The son married after his younger sister, who lived a couple of hours away by car, and he and his new wife arranged with his parents to move into the old house. The parents were ready for a move anyway, and they found a place equidistant from their son and daughter. The family gathered a few times a year at the house, always spending some time outside silhouetted by an ivy wall.
In their late twenties, she gave birth. They'd prayed every night for nine months for a healthy baby, and a healthy baby they had. They named him after her late grandfather. When they watched him take his first steps in their backyard, the ivy had crept just a few feet up the back wall.
They had a second child a few years later, a healthy baby girl. Their house was a small one in which to raise two kids, so the backyard served as an extra room. The kids played outside in a sandbox as toddlers, played music on a boombox as teens. They did their share of fighting but had a lot of fun too. When the son went away to college, ivy covered more than half the back wall.
The kids grew up. The son married after his younger sister, who lived a couple of hours away by car, and he and his new wife arranged with his parents to move into the old house. The parents were ready for a move anyway, and they found a place equidistant from their son and daughter. The family gathered a few times a year at the house, always spending some time outside silhouetted by an ivy wall.
The Neighborhood School
Watching him shoot a basketball was like watching a ballerina twirl. I hadn't seen him in person for twenty two years. He won our high school a city title his senior year, 1991. Well, there were other players on the court with him, of course, but they wouldn't have gotten very far without him. We were up all night the night of the championship game – I was a skinny little sophomore and a fan of the game – and that triumphant night is one of my favorite memories.
I followed his college career as a two guard at St. Joe's, spotting up beyond the arc time and time again. Thought maybe he'd make it as a pro, but it wasn't to be, and I hadn't heard a peep about him since.
"Ricky Reynolds." I stuck out my hand. "You probably don't remember me. Arnie Thompson. I was two years behind you at North."
"Sure, Arnie, how are you?" I knew he didn't actually remember me, but he pretended without any sign of pretension.
"I'm okay, thanks." I noticed for the first time a little girl by his side, presumably his daughter. "And who is this?"
"I'm Chrissy. Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too. I used to go to your dad's basketball games in high school. He was the best player in the city."
She smiled at me, as did her father.
"Shame about North getting shut down," he said.
"Yeah, sure is."
"Lot of good memories in those halls."
"For me too."
"I guess it'll be all charter schools now. The city just can't seem to fund its public schools." He motioned toward Chrissy. "Her mom and I wanna stay in the city, though, whatever it takes."
"Glad to hear it."
"Well, it was nice to see you, Arnie, take care man."
He shook my hand and we went our separate ways. As I walked away, I thought about these new charter schools. Seemed like they, with their lotteries and sibling preference and long hours and strict rules, were the city's answer to a bankrupt district. The charters' programs were by most accounts effective, but there was something about a neighborhood public school they couldn't replicate, like watching the kid you grew up with hit five straight fifteen footers to defeat the school team from the next neighborhood over.
I followed his college career as a two guard at St. Joe's, spotting up beyond the arc time and time again. Thought maybe he'd make it as a pro, but it wasn't to be, and I hadn't heard a peep about him since.
"Ricky Reynolds." I stuck out my hand. "You probably don't remember me. Arnie Thompson. I was two years behind you at North."
"Sure, Arnie, how are you?" I knew he didn't actually remember me, but he pretended without any sign of pretension.
"I'm okay, thanks." I noticed for the first time a little girl by his side, presumably his daughter. "And who is this?"
"I'm Chrissy. Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too. I used to go to your dad's basketball games in high school. He was the best player in the city."
She smiled at me, as did her father.
"Shame about North getting shut down," he said.
"Yeah, sure is."
"Lot of good memories in those halls."
"For me too."
"I guess it'll be all charter schools now. The city just can't seem to fund its public schools." He motioned toward Chrissy. "Her mom and I wanna stay in the city, though, whatever it takes."
"Glad to hear it."
"Well, it was nice to see you, Arnie, take care man."
He shook my hand and we went our separate ways. As I walked away, I thought about these new charter schools. Seemed like they, with their lotteries and sibling preference and long hours and strict rules, were the city's answer to a bankrupt district. The charters' programs were by most accounts effective, but there was something about a neighborhood public school they couldn't replicate, like watching the kid you grew up with hit five straight fifteen footers to defeat the school team from the next neighborhood over.
Sick Girl
The cable box told him three hours had passed. Three hours of crying and coughing fits and that whimpering call of “daddeeeee.”
“It’s okay, sweety. You’re okay.”
“I gotta go potty,” she squeaked out between sobs.
“Angie you just went potty five minutes ago, remember?”
She repeated herself, louder.
“Okay, let’s go.” He lifted her from the toddler bed and carried her to the bathroom, started pulling down her pajama bottoms and diaper.
“No!” She shrieked. “I do it!”
“Okay, okay, you do it.” He pulled the diaper back up into place so that his two year old daughter could pull it down herself.
As Angela sat on the toilet, half asleep, coughing on and off, Vince sat across from her on the edge of the tub, ready to jump if she were to lose her balance. A few weeks ago she fell off the can and hit her head on the wall and he nearly had a heart attack.
After she finished peeing and wiping and standing on a stool to wash her hands, he carried her back to bed and sat at her side. She curled up in a ball, hacking and whining and saying “Stop” whenever he tried to hand her a glass of water. Eventually Vince just stared, loving her and hating himself all at once. He hated himself for the relief he felt every morning when he finally got her to daycare, for the tasks he wished would’ve by now become more routine: packing her lunch, washing her clothes, doing the dishes every night after she went to bed. But most of all, at this moment, he hated himself because he'd had the bug earlier that week and she'd gotten it from him. He felt like crying along with her as she wailed her way to sleep.
It occurred to him that his current self-hatred was creeping toward self-pity, a state of mind he promised himself he'd avoid. He laughed at the ridiculousness of his emotions and stood to leave her room and tried to look on the bright side. At least the sickness hit Angela on the weekend, so he wouldn’t have to call out of work. At least, since he'd already had the virus, he knew what to expect. The pediatrician's office told him they’d received the same phone call from countless other parents – something nasty was going around. Maybe she would’ve gotten it at daycare anyway. Heck, every germ on the planet found its way into the daycare sooner or later.
Angela coughed some more as he leaned against her doorway. He looked at her and thought that they’d get through this, one day at a time.
“It’s okay, sweety. You’re okay.”
“I gotta go potty,” she squeaked out between sobs.
“Angie you just went potty five minutes ago, remember?”
She repeated herself, louder.
“Okay, let’s go.” He lifted her from the toddler bed and carried her to the bathroom, started pulling down her pajama bottoms and diaper.
“No!” She shrieked. “I do it!”
“Okay, okay, you do it.” He pulled the diaper back up into place so that his two year old daughter could pull it down herself.
As Angela sat on the toilet, half asleep, coughing on and off, Vince sat across from her on the edge of the tub, ready to jump if she were to lose her balance. A few weeks ago she fell off the can and hit her head on the wall and he nearly had a heart attack.
After she finished peeing and wiping and standing on a stool to wash her hands, he carried her back to bed and sat at her side. She curled up in a ball, hacking and whining and saying “Stop” whenever he tried to hand her a glass of water. Eventually Vince just stared, loving her and hating himself all at once. He hated himself for the relief he felt every morning when he finally got her to daycare, for the tasks he wished would’ve by now become more routine: packing her lunch, washing her clothes, doing the dishes every night after she went to bed. But most of all, at this moment, he hated himself because he'd had the bug earlier that week and she'd gotten it from him. He felt like crying along with her as she wailed her way to sleep.
It occurred to him that his current self-hatred was creeping toward self-pity, a state of mind he promised himself he'd avoid. He laughed at the ridiculousness of his emotions and stood to leave her room and tried to look on the bright side. At least the sickness hit Angela on the weekend, so he wouldn’t have to call out of work. At least, since he'd already had the virus, he knew what to expect. The pediatrician's office told him they’d received the same phone call from countless other parents – something nasty was going around. Maybe she would’ve gotten it at daycare anyway. Heck, every germ on the planet found its way into the daycare sooner or later.
Angela coughed some more as he leaned against her doorway. He looked at her and thought that they’d get through this, one day at a time.
Googling Parenthood
"How was school today, son?" The father asked the question, but did not expect to receive much of an answer. Usually his boy responded with 'good' or 'okay' or nothing at all.
"Something strange happened, dad."
So accustomed to his son's shyness was the father that the boy's words startled him. They sat across from each other in the family room of their two bedroom apartment while the boy's mother fixed dinner in the adjacent kitchen. The steady hum of the kitchen exhaust and crackling of fish in a frying pan drowned out any chance she had of overhearing their conversation.
"What happened?"
"You know John, my friend who is always so quiet?"
"Yes, I know him."
"He's the smart one who gets good grades but he never speaks much in class."
"Yes son, I know him."
"The one who shared his pbj with me that time I forgot my lunch and—"
"Yes, son, I know which boy you mean. Please, continue with the story."
"You know my friend Kayla who I've known since we were babies?"
"Yes."
"The one who's a little bigger than the other girls?"
The father sighed. "Yes, I know her."
"Well this other kid Ricky who's kinda a bully, he's always picking on John but John never does anything, well Ricky was really mean to Kayla and all of a sudden John just snapped and tried to fight him. He ran straight into him and they both fell over."
The father took this in and mulled it. A lot of questions came to mind, but he knew that his son could shut down any moment if he asked the wrong thing.
He decided to ask, "What happened next?"
"The teachers pulled them apart so nothing really."
"Dinner's ready!" Father and son heard mother's voice from the kitchen. They looked at each other and father waited to see if his son had anything else to say.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"If John were your kid instead of me, if you were his dad, would you be mad at him?"
The father considered, then said, "I'd be proud of him for standing up to a bully, but I'd tell him to always try to find a solution other than fighting."
The boy scrunched his face and looked down, then asked, "Like what, dad? How do you stop a bully without fighting?"
The father put his arm around his son. "Let's talk about it after dinner. Come on, go help mom set the table."
The boy nodded and walked off toward the kitchen. His father knew that by the time dinner was over, he'd have to come up with some nonviolent ways to handle a bully. Perhaps he'd have a chance to google "nonviolent ways of handling a bully" after dinner, before resuming their conversation?
"Something strange happened, dad."
So accustomed to his son's shyness was the father that the boy's words startled him. They sat across from each other in the family room of their two bedroom apartment while the boy's mother fixed dinner in the adjacent kitchen. The steady hum of the kitchen exhaust and crackling of fish in a frying pan drowned out any chance she had of overhearing their conversation.
"What happened?"
"You know John, my friend who is always so quiet?"
"Yes, I know him."
"He's the smart one who gets good grades but he never speaks much in class."
"Yes son, I know him."
"The one who shared his pbj with me that time I forgot my lunch and—"
"Yes, son, I know which boy you mean. Please, continue with the story."
"You know my friend Kayla who I've known since we were babies?"
"Yes."
"The one who's a little bigger than the other girls?"
The father sighed. "Yes, I know her."
"Well this other kid Ricky who's kinda a bully, he's always picking on John but John never does anything, well Ricky was really mean to Kayla and all of a sudden John just snapped and tried to fight him. He ran straight into him and they both fell over."
The father took this in and mulled it. A lot of questions came to mind, but he knew that his son could shut down any moment if he asked the wrong thing.
He decided to ask, "What happened next?"
"The teachers pulled them apart so nothing really."
"Dinner's ready!" Father and son heard mother's voice from the kitchen. They looked at each other and father waited to see if his son had anything else to say.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"If John were your kid instead of me, if you were his dad, would you be mad at him?"
The father considered, then said, "I'd be proud of him for standing up to a bully, but I'd tell him to always try to find a solution other than fighting."
The boy scrunched his face and looked down, then asked, "Like what, dad? How do you stop a bully without fighting?"
The father put his arm around his son. "Let's talk about it after dinner. Come on, go help mom set the table."
The boy nodded and walked off toward the kitchen. His father knew that by the time dinner was over, he'd have to come up with some nonviolent ways to handle a bully. Perhaps he'd have a chance to google "nonviolent ways of handling a bully" after dinner, before resuming their conversation?
Robert Aches
The fire burns and Robert sits beside it. He looks at the skinny wooden lamp in the corner of the room and, for no reason at all, considers breaking it over his knee.
There are calls he should return. People with whom he should break bread. He sees himself leaning against a long, white marble bar speaking with Johnson then throwing his Scotch into Johnson's face. The damage he could cause himself and others is staggering, he thinks.
Perhaps best to get away. He's saved some money without assigning it a purpose. Maybe he'll fly somewhere warm and stay there a while, or forever. Goodbyes won't be necessary.
Above the fireplace there's a painting he made years ago. Two boys in overalls holding fish caught in the nameless lake behind them. The shorter boy looks up at the taller one with admiration, seeking approval, but the taller boy looks off in the distance. Robert used an old photo he found in his parents' house as the model for the painting. He never knew who the boys were or where the photo was taken. The trees along the lake are the colors of Fall.
Unsure how long he's been sitting there, in his study, he thinks it a good time to make tea. The tea soothes him. When he puts out the fire, his back aches, and he hopes he'll be able to sleep.
There are calls he should return. People with whom he should break bread. He sees himself leaning against a long, white marble bar speaking with Johnson then throwing his Scotch into Johnson's face. The damage he could cause himself and others is staggering, he thinks.
Perhaps best to get away. He's saved some money without assigning it a purpose. Maybe he'll fly somewhere warm and stay there a while, or forever. Goodbyes won't be necessary.
Above the fireplace there's a painting he made years ago. Two boys in overalls holding fish caught in the nameless lake behind them. The shorter boy looks up at the taller one with admiration, seeking approval, but the taller boy looks off in the distance. Robert used an old photo he found in his parents' house as the model for the painting. He never knew who the boys were or where the photo was taken. The trees along the lake are the colors of Fall.
Unsure how long he's been sitting there, in his study, he thinks it a good time to make tea. The tea soothes him. When he puts out the fire, his back aches, and he hopes he'll be able to sleep.
Guilt (by Katrina Byrd)
I stood in my friend’s lavish living room. I tried to hold it all together. It was as if a dam was about to burst inside me. I wanted to get everything out in the open between me and Sarah but now wasn’t the time.
Sarah and I had been friends for nearly twenty years. We met right out of college. Sarah was everything I wanted to be – smart, beautiful, and neat. She wasn’t a show off or mean spirited, just perfect at everything. Well not everything. Her one imperfect thing was Ron, her cheating husband.
I’d been invited to the Lawson home on that cool January morning because Ron was gone and Sarah was broke.
"Look at me," she said from behind me. That was the one thing I wanted to avoid. Looking at her now was like looking at half of a photo. "Look at me," she said again and I did.
Sarah stood in the center of the room surrounded by long tables piled with her belongings. Hot pink price tags illuminated by the bright sunlight. Damn, she could turn a garage sale into a high class event. I felt like I was at an exclusive boutique and caviar would be served any minute.
"He left me with nothing. I’ve got bills and … and I could lose the house."
I wasn’t accustomed to seeing her frazzled. It was a major shock. I thought she had everything together or at least that’s what I told myself to justify what I had done.
Several loud knocks prompted Sarah to turn quickly and rush toward the front door. When she opened it a crowd of people rushed past her. Mrs. Pritchard, Sarah’s next door neighbor, was the first one inside. Mrs. Pritchard was a gossip who sat around in a house dress everyday poking her nose into her neighbors’ business. She hovered over the table like a vulture. She picked up one of Sarah’s beautiful plates. It was hand made by J. Johnston, a famous potter who fashioned it for Sarah and Ron’s wedding.
"How much?" Mrs. Pritchard asked.
"I can’t do this." Sarah was beside me. "Selling off his stuff – our stuff."
Looking at her was like seeing a beauty queen stripped of her title. It was like seeing her, the real her, for the first time. She was a woman who’d had her heart broken.
"Twenty five dollars," Sarah said to Mrs. Pritchard, who continued to hold the plate. Sarah’s face was stained with tears, her eyes red and puffy. Her shoulders slumped.
"You’ll get through this," I said.
"I want to buy it." Mrs. Pritchard reached into her ample bosom and took out a wad of money. She peeled off a twenty and a five. "Be careful when you’re bagging it," she said to Sarah, whose face was a mixture of shock and embarrassment.
"It’ll be okay," I said and snatched the bills from the giant woman. I took the plate, wrapped it in tissue and handed it to Mrs. Pritchard.
"It sure is ashamed about your husband, honey," Mrs. Pritchard said.
Sarah rushed past her and headed for the kitchen. I followed close behind her as fast as I could without breaking into a run. When I entered the kitchen she was sobbing near the sink.
"Selling his things seems so cold." Her words mingled with the soft meows of Tiger, her lynx point kitty who moved about rubbing her sleek body on our legs.
"You have no choice. The insurance doesn’t pay in cases of su-" I stopped abruptly, searching for a better word. "In these cases."
"I know but it still feels wrong."
"It’s not." I spoke more sharply than I intended. Sarah cried on my shoulders for years. She told me everything. He was lazy, didn’t like her mother, ran around with other women and he liked to do freaky things in the bedroom.
"I know things have been rough since he was laid off but this? Why?"
How could I tell her? It wasn’t her. It wasn’t his job. How could I tell Sarah that I had enjoyed two years of raw, forbidden, adulterous passion with her husband? Long lunches that started with salads and ended with loud, ravenous love making while she was at work. How could I tell her that I had succumbed to Ron’s freakish desires? Occasionally barking like a dog and reciting the Gettysburg address during our love making sessions. It was just sex. I didn’t love him. I declined his offer to run away with him. I knew he was upset. How could I tell her? I couldn’t. Mrs. Pritchard was in the doorway.
"How much?" she said. In her fat hand she held a bowl. My bowl. A crystal bowl that had been handed down to me from my mother. A bowl that had been in my family for generations.
"It isn’t for sale." I wrapped my fingers around the rim and pulled. Mrs. Pritchard clung to it. "Sarah, how could you sell my bowl?"
"I didn’t remember that it was yours."
"Didn’t remember?" My voice rose an octave. "It was December 2nd, the night of the Christmas gathering. You invited the entire neighborhood. You specifically asked me to bring my famous banana pudding in this bowl."
"I remember that pudding," Mrs. Pritchard said. "The worst use of bananas I’ve ever seen."
"It was delicious!"
"Nasty," she said in a tone that sounded like a final verdict. "Nobody liked it."
"Ron liked it."
"Banana pudding wasn’t all Ron liked," Mrs. Pritchard said, adding a satisfied "ARF!"
The bowl was snatched. My body went forward then back. I stood frozen in horror. I glanced at the large woman beside me. Her mouth hung open.
"No!" Mrs. Pritchard said when Sarah moved near the counter where her fine cutlery lay.
"Sarah," I said. "Don’t do anything stupid."
Sarah didn’t say a word. She lifted my beautiful bowl high above her head.
(Katrina Byrd is a writer and playwright who graduated from Millsaps College with a B.A. in History. Katrina has published three books and received four Artist Minigrants from the Mississippi Arts Commission. Katrina has also designed and presented several writing workshops for all ages. Click here for her facebook fan page and here to check out her book, Byrds of a Feather.)
Sarah and I had been friends for nearly twenty years. We met right out of college. Sarah was everything I wanted to be – smart, beautiful, and neat. She wasn’t a show off or mean spirited, just perfect at everything. Well not everything. Her one imperfect thing was Ron, her cheating husband.
I’d been invited to the Lawson home on that cool January morning because Ron was gone and Sarah was broke.
"Look at me," she said from behind me. That was the one thing I wanted to avoid. Looking at her now was like looking at half of a photo. "Look at me," she said again and I did.
Sarah stood in the center of the room surrounded by long tables piled with her belongings. Hot pink price tags illuminated by the bright sunlight. Damn, she could turn a garage sale into a high class event. I felt like I was at an exclusive boutique and caviar would be served any minute.
"He left me with nothing. I’ve got bills and … and I could lose the house."
I wasn’t accustomed to seeing her frazzled. It was a major shock. I thought she had everything together or at least that’s what I told myself to justify what I had done.
Several loud knocks prompted Sarah to turn quickly and rush toward the front door. When she opened it a crowd of people rushed past her. Mrs. Pritchard, Sarah’s next door neighbor, was the first one inside. Mrs. Pritchard was a gossip who sat around in a house dress everyday poking her nose into her neighbors’ business. She hovered over the table like a vulture. She picked up one of Sarah’s beautiful plates. It was hand made by J. Johnston, a famous potter who fashioned it for Sarah and Ron’s wedding.
"How much?" Mrs. Pritchard asked.
"I can’t do this." Sarah was beside me. "Selling off his stuff – our stuff."
Looking at her was like seeing a beauty queen stripped of her title. It was like seeing her, the real her, for the first time. She was a woman who’d had her heart broken.
"Twenty five dollars," Sarah said to Mrs. Pritchard, who continued to hold the plate. Sarah’s face was stained with tears, her eyes red and puffy. Her shoulders slumped.
"You’ll get through this," I said.
"I want to buy it." Mrs. Pritchard reached into her ample bosom and took out a wad of money. She peeled off a twenty and a five. "Be careful when you’re bagging it," she said to Sarah, whose face was a mixture of shock and embarrassment.
"It’ll be okay," I said and snatched the bills from the giant woman. I took the plate, wrapped it in tissue and handed it to Mrs. Pritchard.
"It sure is ashamed about your husband, honey," Mrs. Pritchard said.
Sarah rushed past her and headed for the kitchen. I followed close behind her as fast as I could without breaking into a run. When I entered the kitchen she was sobbing near the sink.
"Selling his things seems so cold." Her words mingled with the soft meows of Tiger, her lynx point kitty who moved about rubbing her sleek body on our legs.
"You have no choice. The insurance doesn’t pay in cases of su-" I stopped abruptly, searching for a better word. "In these cases."
"I know but it still feels wrong."
"It’s not." I spoke more sharply than I intended. Sarah cried on my shoulders for years. She told me everything. He was lazy, didn’t like her mother, ran around with other women and he liked to do freaky things in the bedroom.
"I know things have been rough since he was laid off but this? Why?"
How could I tell her? It wasn’t her. It wasn’t his job. How could I tell Sarah that I had enjoyed two years of raw, forbidden, adulterous passion with her husband? Long lunches that started with salads and ended with loud, ravenous love making while she was at work. How could I tell her that I had succumbed to Ron’s freakish desires? Occasionally barking like a dog and reciting the Gettysburg address during our love making sessions. It was just sex. I didn’t love him. I declined his offer to run away with him. I knew he was upset. How could I tell her? I couldn’t. Mrs. Pritchard was in the doorway.
"How much?" she said. In her fat hand she held a bowl. My bowl. A crystal bowl that had been handed down to me from my mother. A bowl that had been in my family for generations.
"It isn’t for sale." I wrapped my fingers around the rim and pulled. Mrs. Pritchard clung to it. "Sarah, how could you sell my bowl?"
"I didn’t remember that it was yours."
"Didn’t remember?" My voice rose an octave. "It was December 2nd, the night of the Christmas gathering. You invited the entire neighborhood. You specifically asked me to bring my famous banana pudding in this bowl."
"I remember that pudding," Mrs. Pritchard said. "The worst use of bananas I’ve ever seen."
"It was delicious!"
"Nasty," she said in a tone that sounded like a final verdict. "Nobody liked it."
"Ron liked it."
"Banana pudding wasn’t all Ron liked," Mrs. Pritchard said, adding a satisfied "ARF!"
The bowl was snatched. My body went forward then back. I stood frozen in horror. I glanced at the large woman beside me. Her mouth hung open.
"No!" Mrs. Pritchard said when Sarah moved near the counter where her fine cutlery lay.
"Sarah," I said. "Don’t do anything stupid."
Sarah didn’t say a word. She lifted my beautiful bowl high above her head.
(Katrina Byrd is a writer and playwright who graduated from Millsaps College with a B.A. in History. Katrina has published three books and received four Artist Minigrants from the Mississippi Arts Commission. Katrina has also designed and presented several writing workshops for all ages. Click here for her facebook fan page and here to check out her book, Byrds of a Feather.)
The Breast Milk Savings Plan
"Mark! Hey buddy!"
"Michael, hi, good to see you." The two old friends embraced.
"Been way too long, thanks for stopping by."
"Sure, thanks for having me."
"Come on in."
Mark stepped into the foyer of Michael's Bryn Mawr mansion, a multi-million dollar home in the Philadelphia suburbs. He tried to remember the last time he'd seen Michael, but couldn't.
"Gosh, Mike, this house is incredible."
"Thanks bro! Yeah, we like it, been here five years now."
"When's the last time we hung out?"
"Hmm, don't know, probably that first year after college?"
"Sounds about right. Time really flies."
"Well, I can understand why you never wanna leave the city, even though we're only a short drive away."
As Michael spoke, his wife walked in from an adjacent room. Immediately, inadvertently, Mark noticed that her chest was much, much bigger than he remembered, though she didn't seem to have gained weight elsewhere. He assumed she'd had an enlargement.
"Mark, hi honey! It's been, like, forever?!" she opened her arms and approached for a hug, which Mark accepted, her big bosom nearly sending him backward.
"Wow, Julie, you look great."
"Thanks! How have you been?"
"Good, still in the city. Same job, same house. Sheila sends her regards."
"Oh, thank goodness for that, so many of us move out to the Main Line nowadays, but the city's so much fun! I don't blame you guys for staying. Having all of this space," she did a little twirl in place, right arm raised with palm open, as if making a presentation, "isn't all it's cracked up to be."
"I'm sure it's nice."
"Sweety," Michael said, "don't you need to go feed Mikey and Christine?"
"Yes, you're right, I'll be down later, you two have fun." With a demure wave, Julie disappeared up the stairs.
Michael sighed and led his guest into a cozy room. "How about a beer?"
"Please."
He reached behind a large wooden bar, motioning for Mark to sit on a brown leather couch. The paisley wall papered walls were covered with family photos.
"How old are your kids now?" Mark asked.
"Good question! I forget sometimes." Michael laughed loudly at his little joke. "Just kidding, Michael Jr. is seven, Christine is five."
Mark looked at his watch: nine thirty. "They eat dinner pretty late, no?"
"Oh, yes, by general standards, that's true. But our kids are always starving around this time."
"Hmm, why's that?"
"Well, Mark," Michael hesitated, then continued, "take a look around this house."
Confused, Mark did as he was asked, conspicuously letting his eyes wander around the room and through its two doorways. Designer furniture, tasteful artwork everywhere.
"How much do you think this place and all of this stuff cost?"
"I don't know, Mike, a lot, I guess?"
"Yes, Mark, yes. A lot. So as our two children grew from being babies to toddlers and on from there, we figured out a way to afford this lifestyle and still be sure they're as healthy as possible."
Mark, now even more confused, the passion with which Michael spoke making him uncomfortable, waited for his old friend to finish.
"Let me tell you Mark, the taxes alone on this place are over $25,000 a year!"
"Wow, hefty."
"Yes, Mark, yes. Hefty indeed. For these reasons and more, Julie still breast feeds our children."
"Still … breast feeds them?"
"Yes, Mark, yes. Did you happen to notice how large her breasts are?"
"I did, I mean, no, but yes, kinda."
"Well, that's because this 9:30 meal is one of the largest of the day for both children, so she was practically overflowing! By the time she comes back downstairs, she'll be two bra sizes smaller."
"Oh, that's a big difference."
"Mark, have you ever tasted breast milk?"
"Not since around age one, but yes, I have."
"Well, let me tell you, it's delicious! And nothing is more nutritious. Cow's milk is so expensive nowadays! We don't buy it in this house anymore, buddy. There's no need." Michael winked as he spoke this last sentence, sending Mark into a dizzy state of disbelief.
Just then, Julie sauntered into the room. Mark noticed she'd changed clothes and though he couldn't be sure, her breasts did look smaller.
"Oh good, Mark, glad you're still here. Michael, there's a new episode of Girls on tonight, right?"
"Yes, sweety, sure is. Maybe Mark wants to watch with us?"
"You guys have HBO!" Mark exclaimed.
Michael and Julie looked at each other and laughed. "Of course we have HBO! It's so worth it."
At this, Mark polished off his beer and placed the empty bottle on the bar. "Mike, it was great to see you. Julie, great to see you too, but I've got to get home."
"Oh, Mark, are you sure you have to go so soon?" Julie asked. "How about some homemade ice cream?"
Selfish Kisses
Four blankets draped over her, a stuffed lion and baby doll under arm, she sleeps. I look at her and see the future: tomorrow morning picking out clothes for the day, next summer visiting grandparents, fifteen years from now dropping her off at college.
Today she ate cereal for breakfast. She watched a movie and did puzzles and then we went to the grocery store. Sitting in the back of the shopping cart, facing me, she sang and chattered her way down every aisle.
She played soccer in the afternoon. Well, she sat on the ball, dribbled it, kicked it into the goal more than once. She ate two helpings of spaghetti with butter. When the time came to wash up for bed, she would've preferred to continue playing her little ukulele, which she made clear to me by rolling around on the floor, crying hysterically. She cried so loud and so hard that any childless passersby would've thought me an abusive father, but all I'd done, I promise, was tell her it was time for pajamas and brushing teeth.
Now as she rests in her little bed and I think of all the days ahead, I wonder what the world will be like for her, what decisions she'll make. It's too much for me sometimes, the world all around us. But right now the night air is still and she and I are within the same walls. I know it's selfish of me to give her a tiny kiss on the cheek while she's asleep, but I do it anyway.
Today she ate cereal for breakfast. She watched a movie and did puzzles and then we went to the grocery store. Sitting in the back of the shopping cart, facing me, she sang and chattered her way down every aisle.
She played soccer in the afternoon. Well, she sat on the ball, dribbled it, kicked it into the goal more than once. She ate two helpings of spaghetti with butter. When the time came to wash up for bed, she would've preferred to continue playing her little ukulele, which she made clear to me by rolling around on the floor, crying hysterically. She cried so loud and so hard that any childless passersby would've thought me an abusive father, but all I'd done, I promise, was tell her it was time for pajamas and brushing teeth.
Now as she rests in her little bed and I think of all the days ahead, I wonder what the world will be like for her, what decisions she'll make. It's too much for me sometimes, the world all around us. But right now the night air is still and she and I are within the same walls. I know it's selfish of me to give her a tiny kiss on the cheek while she's asleep, but I do it anyway.
Comfy Couch
On a comfy couch in the corner seat, you snuggle with the world. Whatever else: the wars, the debt, climate change, you wrap your arms around it and feel the pain and stress and paranoia and squeeze tight so it can’t breathe. A movie, or two. Popcorn on the table, in and out of sleep, the occasional cigarette, a text message. Barefoot between carpet and tile, reaching into the freezer for Ben and Jerry’s, back on the couch eating straight from the carton.
You’re protected by cushions. You can fall asleep for the night and wake up in the morning and make breakfast and it won’t matter. Another text message, mindless chatter, the only kind you could stand at this hour on a small electronic gadget, if you must. Face to face we could go deeper, if we wanted, but most likely I’d be in the other corner, curled up in a ball, and we’d just laugh because we could do anything but all we’d want is the couch and the tv and snacks anyway.
But you’re there and I’m here and we each need to get through the days, separately, working our jobs and doing chores and telling our families we love them and once in a while meeting friends for drinks or dinner or both. You clean the house and wait for the moment when the long day yields, you’re on the couch again, knowing I’m out there on a couch somewhere too, the great world spinning as we grip our pillows and rest.
You’re protected by cushions. You can fall asleep for the night and wake up in the morning and make breakfast and it won’t matter. Another text message, mindless chatter, the only kind you could stand at this hour on a small electronic gadget, if you must. Face to face we could go deeper, if we wanted, but most likely I’d be in the other corner, curled up in a ball, and we’d just laugh because we could do anything but all we’d want is the couch and the tv and snacks anyway.
But you’re there and I’m here and we each need to get through the days, separately, working our jobs and doing chores and telling our families we love them and once in a while meeting friends for drinks or dinner or both. You clean the house and wait for the moment when the long day yields, you’re on the couch again, knowing I’m out there on a couch somewhere too, the great world spinning as we grip our pillows and rest.
Domestic Situation (by Marylou Fusco)
After the baby finally stops crying and falls to sleep with little hitches and sighs, she remembers how she used to love being half naked in public. She wore shorty shorts and halter tops all the time if she could. A tinkly gold charm anklet and her toenails painted fire-engine red.
Now she’s sitting around in an old sweater and jeans waiting for Charlie to come home. Waiting sucks. Charlie said he was going out, be right back, and that could mean anything. It could mean fifteen minutes or an hour and a half. He could be picking up a pack of cigarettes or some diapers.
He could have a stocking cap pulled over his face, threatening a store clerk. The clerk sweating and fumbling with the cash. “Please, man. Here. Please, I got a kid.”
And Charlie would probably say, “The fuck? I’m not going to shoot you. I got a kid too.” Ha ha. He thinks he’s being funny.
There’s not much you can do to make a two rooms homey but she tries. Plants on the fire escape when the weather gets warm. Blue throw pillows here and here. When the case worker visits with her tidy notebook and sprayed black ponytail she blinks and looks around and around. She asks, “How about this? This domestic situation?”
When Charlie gets back he’ll smoke his single lonely cigarette in bed. The blue light pouring in from the window. Glass shattering on the street below them. She’ll stand in that blue light and pull off her sweater. The fabric of her old bra straining against the weight of her new breasts. Every morning she leaks milk across her fingers and hides in the bathroom to taste its sweetness.
She doesn’t care about the gun in the dresser drawer, tucked far back beyond her good panties, doesn’t even think about it anymore because she knows how Charlie’s bones ache for one last hit. She knows how he still feels that pull in his guts and across every inch of his skin. That he resists and resists is the bravest, coolest thing ever.
When he gets home she’ll crawl under the covers with him, her flesh warming from the heat of his hands. Already she’s thinking; I forgive you. There’s nothing to forgive. We have a whole lifetime of doing the right thing.
(Marylou Fusco is a writer living in Philadelphia. Her work has appeared in Swink, Carve, and Rumble magazines.)
Now she’s sitting around in an old sweater and jeans waiting for Charlie to come home. Waiting sucks. Charlie said he was going out, be right back, and that could mean anything. It could mean fifteen minutes or an hour and a half. He could be picking up a pack of cigarettes or some diapers.
He could have a stocking cap pulled over his face, threatening a store clerk. The clerk sweating and fumbling with the cash. “Please, man. Here. Please, I got a kid.”
And Charlie would probably say, “The fuck? I’m not going to shoot you. I got a kid too.” Ha ha. He thinks he’s being funny.
There’s not much you can do to make a two rooms homey but she tries. Plants on the fire escape when the weather gets warm. Blue throw pillows here and here. When the case worker visits with her tidy notebook and sprayed black ponytail she blinks and looks around and around. She asks, “How about this? This domestic situation?”
When Charlie gets back he’ll smoke his single lonely cigarette in bed. The blue light pouring in from the window. Glass shattering on the street below them. She’ll stand in that blue light and pull off her sweater. The fabric of her old bra straining against the weight of her new breasts. Every morning she leaks milk across her fingers and hides in the bathroom to taste its sweetness.
She doesn’t care about the gun in the dresser drawer, tucked far back beyond her good panties, doesn’t even think about it anymore because she knows how Charlie’s bones ache for one last hit. She knows how he still feels that pull in his guts and across every inch of his skin. That he resists and resists is the bravest, coolest thing ever.
When he gets home she’ll crawl under the covers with him, her flesh warming from the heat of his hands. Already she’s thinking; I forgive you. There’s nothing to forgive. We have a whole lifetime of doing the right thing.
(Marylou Fusco is a writer living in Philadelphia. Her work has appeared in Swink, Carve, and Rumble magazines.)
A Friendship
We lived on the same city block. You had an air hockey table and HBO and we always stayed up late at your house. I would invite you when my mother made pasta and we ate until our bellies looked like they might pop.
We worked hard at our pursuits. You got the lead in the school play and everyone agreed you stole the show. I played basketball and guarded the other team’s best player all season long.
We drifted apart. You saw every good band at the Mann over the summer. I took SEPTA to the Vet and bought Phillies tickets for seven bucks a piece.
We changed our minds countless times. You wanted to be a performer, then a restaurateur, then a playwright. I wanted to be an investment banker without knowing what that meant, then a social worker, then a psychologist.
We came to desire familiarity. You met a girl and convinced her to join you in your move back to Philly, where you became a teacher. I went to Temple and continued living in my college apartment a few years following graduation, working for Aramark.
We reconnected and now our toddlers play together. Your son constantly tries to hug and kiss my daughter, sometimes knocks her over. My daughter likes to bring your son food, even when he’s not hungry.
We worked hard at our pursuits. You got the lead in the school play and everyone agreed you stole the show. I played basketball and guarded the other team’s best player all season long.
We drifted apart. You saw every good band at the Mann over the summer. I took SEPTA to the Vet and bought Phillies tickets for seven bucks a piece.
We changed our minds countless times. You wanted to be a performer, then a restaurateur, then a playwright. I wanted to be an investment banker without knowing what that meant, then a social worker, then a psychologist.
We came to desire familiarity. You met a girl and convinced her to join you in your move back to Philly, where you became a teacher. I went to Temple and continued living in my college apartment a few years following graduation, working for Aramark.
We reconnected and now our toddlers play together. Your son constantly tries to hug and kiss my daughter, sometimes knocks her over. My daughter likes to bring your son food, even when he’s not hungry.
Untimely
He drove up 5th
Street every day. Often times on
Saturdays, on the blocks approaching Lehigh Avenue, young girls jumped rope on
the sidewalk and sang songs. He always
enjoyed seeing them play together, hearing their innocent voices.
Today he saw people
dressed in black gathered outside one of the neighborhood’s many connected row
homes. Attached to and all around a
telephone pole were large and small, pink and white and brown teddy bears,
dolls, drawings and paintings that only could’ve been made by children.
“No.” He said it out loud, alone in his small
pickup truck. “Please, no.”
He pulled over to
the side of the road, shut the engine. He’d
seen these around the city from time to time, teddy bear vigils, as he referred
to them internally, and they always made him feel sick, upset, disgusted. Violent crimes around the city were bad enough
when they involved adults. But kids, a
little girl, he didn’t even know her and yet his heart sank. Maybe it wasn’t murder, he thought. Could’ve been a car accident or something
else but either way, she’s gone.
I should go
inside, he told himself, pay my respects.
Everyone should stop by and pay their respects, the entire city. Everyone should do it even though nobody can
bring her back. All the love and regrets
in the world won’t bring her back.
He reached for the
door handle and nearly opened it, but something stopped him, a sudden
realization that he’d only be trying to make himself feel better, that nobody
who’d actually known the girl would want him there. What could he say? “Hi, I don’t know you, but I drive past your
house every day, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss.” Too weird, he decided. Too presumptuous.
He wiped away the
beginnings of a tear and turned the ignition.
The radio came back on and a caller argued vehemently with Jon Marks and
Sean Brace for the Eagles to sign Plaxico Burress. He drove the rest of the way to work without
listening. He just imagined the young
girls he’d seen last week jumping rope on the sidewalk, singing songs.
Overpopulation
He could feel her glare as he drove their sedan away from the quiet, suburban street. They passed snow covered trees surrounding picturesque stone houses and rode over rock salt, plenty of it sure to stick between tire treads. Soon they’d be back in the city, where a layer of litter hid beneath the snow for now, until the sun would eventually reveal it, dirtier than ever.
“What did you think of the name?”
She waited a few moments before answering him. “I like it.”
They rode in silence for a few minutes before he broke it. He knew he should apologize for what happened earlier, and yet, he said, “Look, there’s no reason to have a coed baby shower.”
“What’s that got to do with anything? I didn’t see any other husbands there making a scene!”
“I didn’t make a scene. The guy asked what I do for a living and I told him.”
“Yeah, I know, Mark, I know.” She raised her voice. “I know all about it. You told him you’re studying overpopulation and its effect on global resources. You told him your conclusion: two kids per family. Didn’t you know he and his wife have four kids?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Couldn’t you have just said you’re a scientist? I mean, why would you bring up overpopulation at a baby shower? Don’t you think maybe it’s, um, I don't know, not the best topic?”
“Alright, alright. I’m sorry. I’ll call the guy tomorrow and apologize. I certainly didn’t mean for the conversation to turn toward vasectomies.”
“Okay, fine. Just so you know I was mortified when I heard the two of you shouting all the way from the kitchen, but it’s fine, I’ll get over it.”
“Thanks Sheila.”
They took the Broad Street exit and were on their way home when he suggested they head to Chinatown for an early dinner. He agreed to stop at her favorite place rather than his, and they were on good terms once again. His fortune cookie, full of wisdom, told him there's a time to swallow pride. He thought of China’s one-child-per-family policy and decided he stood firmly against it, though he would’ve understood if the limit were set at two. He himself had always wanted at least three children, but he’d never told anyone, not even his wife.
“What did you think of the name?”
She waited a few moments before answering him. “I like it.”
They rode in silence for a few minutes before he broke it. He knew he should apologize for what happened earlier, and yet, he said, “Look, there’s no reason to have a coed baby shower.”
“What’s that got to do with anything? I didn’t see any other husbands there making a scene!”
“I didn’t make a scene. The guy asked what I do for a living and I told him.”
“Yeah, I know, Mark, I know.” She raised her voice. “I know all about it. You told him you’re studying overpopulation and its effect on global resources. You told him your conclusion: two kids per family. Didn’t you know he and his wife have four kids?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Couldn’t you have just said you’re a scientist? I mean, why would you bring up overpopulation at a baby shower? Don’t you think maybe it’s, um, I don't know, not the best topic?”
“Alright, alright. I’m sorry. I’ll call the guy tomorrow and apologize. I certainly didn’t mean for the conversation to turn toward vasectomies.”
“Okay, fine. Just so you know I was mortified when I heard the two of you shouting all the way from the kitchen, but it’s fine, I’ll get over it.”
“Thanks Sheila.”
They took the Broad Street exit and were on their way home when he suggested they head to Chinatown for an early dinner. He agreed to stop at her favorite place rather than his, and they were on good terms once again. His fortune cookie, full of wisdom, told him there's a time to swallow pride. He thought of China’s one-child-per-family policy and decided he stood firmly against it, though he would’ve understood if the limit were set at two. He himself had always wanted at least three children, but he’d never told anyone, not even his wife.
Projecting Fear
“Follow me,” the man says.
The young boy doubts the man’s intentions, wishes he knew what life was like for his friends whose fathers still live with their mothers.
He could refuse, tell the man he has to get home, but Mom doesn’t kick a soccer ball back and forth or watch baseball games on television. It’s not her fault, the young boy knows.
The man walks into the forest and the young boy follows.
Fallen leaves crack beneath the young boy’s feet. Barren tree limbs sway with the breeze. The sun fades from view and everything changes, birds cease to chirp and squirrels freeze in place, dropping their acorns in unison.
The boy stares at a deer trotting toward them, its face transforming. The deer’s body remains but its face becomes that of Santa Claus, then the Devil. The boy is more scared than ever before in his life, but he doesn’t scream or say a word. Now the face of Jesus Christ replaces the deer’s head before it runs away, out of sight.
The man leads the young boy out of the woods, holding his hand. The boy goes home and when his mother asks him about his day, he says it was “fine.” He says nothing of his trip into the woods, remembering only the deer, but keeping it to himself.
The young boy doubts the man’s intentions, wishes he knew what life was like for his friends whose fathers still live with their mothers.
He could refuse, tell the man he has to get home, but Mom doesn’t kick a soccer ball back and forth or watch baseball games on television. It’s not her fault, the young boy knows.
The man walks into the forest and the young boy follows.
Fallen leaves crack beneath the young boy’s feet. Barren tree limbs sway with the breeze. The sun fades from view and everything changes, birds cease to chirp and squirrels freeze in place, dropping their acorns in unison.
The boy stares at a deer trotting toward them, its face transforming. The deer’s body remains but its face becomes that of Santa Claus, then the Devil. The boy is more scared than ever before in his life, but he doesn’t scream or say a word. Now the face of Jesus Christ replaces the deer’s head before it runs away, out of sight.
The man leads the young boy out of the woods, holding his hand. The boy goes home and when his mother asks him about his day, he says it was “fine.” He says nothing of his trip into the woods, remembering only the deer, but keeping it to himself.
My Father Laughed (by Wesley Jacques)
I sat where he usually sat, on the tattered armchair by the front window. He stood there awkwardly asking me for his seat with his body language but wouldn’t say the words. It was just a chair after all. And I was his son, returned only for a moment, to sit and stare out the window he’d been stingy with for years. The view was unremarkable: typical Queens avenue lined with American colonials and lower-middle-class bungalows. But it was hard for him to feign disinterest while he stood there seemingly lost, with nowhere else in the house, in the world, for him to sit and find himself.
“You’s remember when we use to pick-up Anne from work at the hospital, the one by the Van Wyck?” He asked the question like it was an answer to something else, in a thick Haitian-Creole accent that’d over time picked up New Yawk speech more readily than American-English. I nodded remembering Anne as mommy.
“Nah. You don’t remember,” he said with a wry smile. Luckily, I wasn’t thirteen anymore, easily frustrated and provoked. I could turn away and stare out the window to the streetlights flickering on and the sun setting slowly behind elm trees. He went on, “One time, she called to pick her up because they fired her.” He laughed, which I found strange due to an upbringing that hadn’t allowed me the privilege of finding unemployment any bit funny. He lost his job in ‘95 and then even smiling was strongly advised against. But he continued laughing. “In the car, when I ask why, she tell me ‘because they’re racist!’” I’m not sure I understood the punchline, if there were one, but he snickered loudly and finally grabbed another chair to finish his story seated.
All the nurses were West-Indian women like my mother and truthfully, she was fired for her poor work etiquette and attitude, which I surely believed. “They catch her sleeping, while a man almost dying in the other room!” I smiled like the sadist I am, sharing memories of my mother with my father, something I would never have expected in my hundredth year, let alone my twenty-third. But there he was - smiling and laughing, thinking about her. “She said if he wasn’t a white man, they would’ve let her continue sleeping!” We were both laughing then. My mother had always been blunt even when misguided. She used the race card like she’d walked with Dr. King but still didn’t quite know the difference between George Washington and George Washington Carver. “Silly Americans love their peanut butter; gon’ elect the man president for it. Ha!” she’d told me once while grocery shopping.
It struck me, while reminiscing, that my father had known my mother, they’d had some sort of relationship, may have even been in love. I looked at my father then, sitting and smiling like a stranger, and the realization sent me reeling through memories of the latter days of their volatile marriage.
The new more romantic image mixed poorly with the old; the one left by the image of my mother battered and abused by a man that vowed in a suit in a church in a photo album in the basement to protect and cherish her ‘til death (en Francais). My mother cried when her only son, thirteen, saw her swollen face in a gurney.
(Wesley Jacques has been writing short fiction for twenty years, not to be discredited by the fact that he is twenty-three. Born in East Flatbush, Brooklyn, New York, to Haitian immigrant parents, he was raised in a web of group homes, foster homes, and other non-homes. He has a master of arts degree in English literature.)
“You’s remember when we use to pick-up Anne from work at the hospital, the one by the Van Wyck?” He asked the question like it was an answer to something else, in a thick Haitian-Creole accent that’d over time picked up New Yawk speech more readily than American-English. I nodded remembering Anne as mommy.
“Nah. You don’t remember,” he said with a wry smile. Luckily, I wasn’t thirteen anymore, easily frustrated and provoked. I could turn away and stare out the window to the streetlights flickering on and the sun setting slowly behind elm trees. He went on, “One time, she called to pick her up because they fired her.” He laughed, which I found strange due to an upbringing that hadn’t allowed me the privilege of finding unemployment any bit funny. He lost his job in ‘95 and then even smiling was strongly advised against. But he continued laughing. “In the car, when I ask why, she tell me ‘because they’re racist!’” I’m not sure I understood the punchline, if there were one, but he snickered loudly and finally grabbed another chair to finish his story seated.
All the nurses were West-Indian women like my mother and truthfully, she was fired for her poor work etiquette and attitude, which I surely believed. “They catch her sleeping, while a man almost dying in the other room!” I smiled like the sadist I am, sharing memories of my mother with my father, something I would never have expected in my hundredth year, let alone my twenty-third. But there he was - smiling and laughing, thinking about her. “She said if he wasn’t a white man, they would’ve let her continue sleeping!” We were both laughing then. My mother had always been blunt even when misguided. She used the race card like she’d walked with Dr. King but still didn’t quite know the difference between George Washington and George Washington Carver. “Silly Americans love their peanut butter; gon’ elect the man president for it. Ha!” she’d told me once while grocery shopping.
It struck me, while reminiscing, that my father had known my mother, they’d had some sort of relationship, may have even been in love. I looked at my father then, sitting and smiling like a stranger, and the realization sent me reeling through memories of the latter days of their volatile marriage.
The new more romantic image mixed poorly with the old; the one left by the image of my mother battered and abused by a man that vowed in a suit in a church in a photo album in the basement to protect and cherish her ‘til death (en Francais). My mother cried when her only son, thirteen, saw her swollen face in a gurney.
(Wesley Jacques has been writing short fiction for twenty years, not to be discredited by the fact that he is twenty-three. Born in East Flatbush, Brooklyn, New York, to Haitian immigrant parents, he was raised in a web of group homes, foster homes, and other non-homes. He has a master of arts degree in English literature.)
Terms of Sale
You walk to the end of the dock, cast a line and wait for the fish to start biting. You wonder what you might do for a living.
People always said you need to have a lot of money, so you take a job with a large corporation and work sixty hours a week for about ten years before you decide it’s time to start your own company.
You thought your hours would become more flexible, you’d spend more time with your family, but the business demands all of your time and you work more hours than when you were an employee.
Another ten years pass in the blink of an eye and your business grows and requires more of your time and your stress level is higher than you expected it to be.
You hire people to help run the business, but you’re accustomed to having control and though your hours decrease slightly, your stress continues and you have a difficult time relaxing.
You buy a Porsche and a home with much more space than your family needs, thinking the car and the cavernous home will ease your mind on the nights and weekends.
Ten more years elapse and though you love your family, you’re on the verge of going mad.
When your youngest graduates from college, you sell the business, the Porsche, and the big house and rent a small apartment near a small lake with your spouse.
You walk to the end of the dock, cast a line and wait for the fish to start biting. You wonder how much living you have left.
People always said you need to have a lot of money, so you take a job with a large corporation and work sixty hours a week for about ten years before you decide it’s time to start your own company.
You thought your hours would become more flexible, you’d spend more time with your family, but the business demands all of your time and you work more hours than when you were an employee.
Another ten years pass in the blink of an eye and your business grows and requires more of your time and your stress level is higher than you expected it to be.
You hire people to help run the business, but you’re accustomed to having control and though your hours decrease slightly, your stress continues and you have a difficult time relaxing.
You buy a Porsche and a home with much more space than your family needs, thinking the car and the cavernous home will ease your mind on the nights and weekends.
Ten more years elapse and though you love your family, you’re on the verge of going mad.
When your youngest graduates from college, you sell the business, the Porsche, and the big house and rent a small apartment near a small lake with your spouse.
You walk to the end of the dock, cast a line and wait for the fish to start biting. You wonder how much living you have left.
The Little Things (on Bibliophilic Blather)
(Author and blogger extraordinaire Karen Wojcik Berner was kind enough to add this micro story to her Flash Fiction Fridays series, so you can now find it by clicking here.)
The Next Moment
She was so young and had so much life ahead of her. I was there when she died.
Her family meant everything to her. Her son had been accepted to college that week. She and her mother, living twenty minutes apart for years, were soon to move into a duplex in the Northeast. Private person as she was, she spoke of her son’s accomplishments, beaming, glowing, smiling. She and her mother would go out to eat around the city, always eager to try new restaurants. She’d ask me for recommendations. Her girlfriends told me she might do some dating after her son left for college.
We were all there, all of us who worked together in North Philly for so many years. It was a celebration and we went to a place downtown. Food and drink were served and no one was happier than her. She and I spoke of the latest with her son and mother but our conversation ended prematurely when one of our friends approached and shook our hands and we all laughed at whatever he said.
Half an hour later, she sat at one of the reserved tables chatting with another friend and I was still standing nearby. Her eyes had already closed by the time I turned around and saw that something was wrong. She gasped for air in heaves, unconscious, and we all stood helpless, waiting, after one of us called 911. The ambulance arrived within minutes, but it was already too late.
There were no warning signs, no pre-existing conditions. One moment alive, conversing, smiling like always. The next moment was her last.
I’ll never forget that day and I’ll never take people for granted. I ate at a place last week she would’ve loved. I wish I could tell her about the gnocchi.
Her family meant everything to her. Her son had been accepted to college that week. She and her mother, living twenty minutes apart for years, were soon to move into a duplex in the Northeast. Private person as she was, she spoke of her son’s accomplishments, beaming, glowing, smiling. She and her mother would go out to eat around the city, always eager to try new restaurants. She’d ask me for recommendations. Her girlfriends told me she might do some dating after her son left for college.
We were all there, all of us who worked together in North Philly for so many years. It was a celebration and we went to a place downtown. Food and drink were served and no one was happier than her. She and I spoke of the latest with her son and mother but our conversation ended prematurely when one of our friends approached and shook our hands and we all laughed at whatever he said.
Half an hour later, she sat at one of the reserved tables chatting with another friend and I was still standing nearby. Her eyes had already closed by the time I turned around and saw that something was wrong. She gasped for air in heaves, unconscious, and we all stood helpless, waiting, after one of us called 911. The ambulance arrived within minutes, but it was already too late.
There were no warning signs, no pre-existing conditions. One moment alive, conversing, smiling like always. The next moment was her last.
I’ll never forget that day and I’ll never take people for granted. I ate at a place last week she would’ve loved. I wish I could tell her about the gnocchi.
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