The Find

Margaret walked slowly through the living room, waiting for her mother to yell at her. Or to ignore her. She lucked out and got the latter. She could feel it hidden under her shirt, an old soccer jersey that was too big for a seven year old girl - it had belonged to Jason. Jason was dead. 

She forced herself to do everything as "normally" as she could. She closed the door to her room with just the right amount of force and gently lifted her shirt. And there it was. Amazing. Her eyes were searchlights, scanning the room ... what would she need? There was also a trilling exuberance in the back of her mind that told her she didn't need anything else. Not anymore. 

Margaret's mother was a stern woman. She was not cruel, but her rules were absolutes. 'No' meant 'don't ask again unless you want the paddle'. Margaret loved her mother, with good reason. She knew what Jason's death had done. She forgave her mother for almost everything. And, now, she would have to lie. Not just one lie. Many lies. A mountain of lies ... if she built it high enough she was sure she'd be able to see over the morass that her life had become.

Hiding it from her father would be easy. He had always focused on Jason, anyway. Now that Jason was gone, he was largely silent. A man-shaped sculpture that lurched around the living room bumping into things and then apologizing to them. She was not convinced the ottoman warranted an apology, but she did not have to worry about her father. He did not see her. Not really.

Her mother. Her mother would take it from her. Her mother would turn red and grow several inches taller and she would take it. And then she would make Margaret apologize, which she would, even as her heart was breaking. Because she knew it was wrong. She was wrong.

She knew it, and she didn't care. She had tried to understand that losing your son changes you. She still struggled to accept it. Her parents were not the same people they had been a year ago. She spent so much time trying not to remind them, trying to be in the background, silent - she often forgot to think that she had lost something, too. 

Jason had been her champion in all causes. Her protector. He had shown her the secret joys that lived in the industrial wasteland behind their house. Where everything was freedom. She had never been scared when Jason stood beside her. He had taught her to curse. To skip smooth stones. He had taught her everything.

She often felt like there was something missing from the house, now. Jason. Of course. She did not realize that he had taken all of the love with him as well, though. His death had built a cathedral of sadness. Love was no longer welcome.

But now, she would have love. Now, she would feel joy again. She watched the small orange kitten stomp around her comforter. It swatted at her hand and she laughed, her mind chirping through the things they would do. She would not have to sleep alone. Whether she was having the nightmares or not. She would have an ally. Something she could protect.

She heard her mother coming up the hallway, quick strides. She didn't knock, but Margaret had just enough time to put the kitten in the closet. Safe. She forced herself to breathe. 

"Margaret. It's almost time to eat."

"OK, Mother. I'll wash up."

"That's a good girl. How was school today?"

"Fine."

"Did you pass your..."

Margaret's mother did not finish her sentence because she was distracted by a sound. They both heard it. A high pitched whine. Then, the tumbling song of fallen toys. Margaret's mother grabbed her by the arm and pulled her in front of the closet. She could see their reflections in the mirrored doors.

"Margaret, open the closet."

And time stopped. Margaret looked at her mother's face in the mirror and saw a befuddled rage building. She scrambled for excuses in her mind. She wanted to run. She looked at her own face and, for the first time, recognized the visage of resigned horror that Jason had left behind.

Games

From under the slats of the old wooden porch, John watched the other children playing. He was playing his own game. Their game was colorful and involved much yelling and chasing. His game was in his mind, and it was a game of scenarios. He could go over and join them. He might blend in seamlessly. They might force him away. He could ask to play. It would not work as it showed weakness and a kind of antiquated moral system that would be mocked. He could stay under the porch with the beetles and ants. The decision was all his.

            Above John and above the other children, pigeons circled in lazy, looping swoops and drops. Cars backfired and the smoke from BBQ’s settled in amongst the hot green pine needles. It was one of those days that you don’t appreciate until years later. Decades later. When memory has erased the heat and oppression and the constant questioning…what to do?

            Really, the answer was simple. John knew he would decide to stay under the porch. He could already feel the relief that the finality of his decision would bring, but he was writhing in the last moments of indecision. His skin was on fire. He could feel tickles up and down his spine. He felt sick to his stomach.

            So much had happened in such a short time that it made John feel dizzy. Death, the funeral, the move…everything different, talking to each other like they were in an after-school special.

            “Tag, you’re it!”

            John could hear the children, but he was also listening to the preacher’s words. He was trying to wrap them around memories of his father, but the edges would not mesh. It was like the suit that was just slightly too small. He pulled down one sleeve and revealed an inch of white, pressed cotton on his other wrist. The man was talking about someone else. But no one said anything. John began to understand and, even if he appreciated the gesture, it angered him.

            The adults were drinking beer and becoming louder. He could hear them now, too. Their voices tangled with the voices of the children. John thought of every swear word he knew. He took out his yellow inhaler and took as many puffs as he could hold in his lungs. His vision blurred and the whole world pulsed. Helicopter chop. He shook his head. His lips were numb.

            He thumbed his pocket knife and imagined that he were the kind of boy who should have a pocket knife. That it was a fearsome thing. That, with it, he could cut down the thicket of confusion that was slowly making him deflate. Fuck. He did not know what it meant. He said it again and again. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He held the knife above his hand and imagined everyone running to see the blood. He was scared. He put the knife away.

            The sun was on a dimmer switch. John closed his eyes and squeezed them tight. He knew that soon his mother would be looking for him. She would be angry about his clothes being dirty. It would be time for bed, but he would not sleep because his mind was full of games.

The Spinner

The old man stood silently by the edge of the water. His eyes were squinting into the nigh-set sun. He was almost motionless, and the animals had taken him for one of their own. They did not fear him. He was like a tree stump. His body did not move when he made a cast. A quick flick of the wrist sent his small spinner tumbling low across the still water. Occasionally, a swallow would dip to the flying lure and the old man would smile.

There were times when the rhythm of casting could take him back in time. Decades passed in seconds. Sometimes, he would catch himself turning to look for Tommy. Then he would remember, and he would feel foolish on top of feeling the pain. He'd hear the voice of the preacher saying how it wasn't right for a child to die before their parents. He recalled being so angry when the red-faced man had said it. Now he knew that, cliche or not, it was the absolute truth.

He blinked back a tear and flicked the spinner toward a weed bed, skirting it just above the vegetation. Years and years. He could see the bottom of the lake in his mind. It was part of him.

He'd loved fishing with Tommy. That kid. God had put a lot of pepper in that kid. He was hell on wheels from the time he'd learned to walk. The folks at school had all kinds of fancy names for it, but he knew it was simpler than that: he was a boy. A boy who didn't like school.

Sometimes, he'd called his son "All or Nothing" because that's what he was. He was a passionate boy who lived by extremes. It made him hard to deal with, but there was a fire in him that was a pleasure to see. And he had been a good fisherman. He was relaxed at the lake. The sun melted the chip on his shoulder.

The old man was crushed, and was inexplicably embarrassed, remembering the morning Tommy died. Or maybe he'd died in the night. Regardless, he was dead when his father had tried to wake him. Shaking the boy gently. Then more roughly. Then with tears in his eyes. He didn't stop until the doctor had given him that shot. And, though he knew it was stupid, it shamed him. He couldn't accept that his little boy, though no longer little, was gone from the world.

He paused his retrieval when he knew the lure was right over a submerged log. He couldn't see it, but he knew it was there. And then there as a tug on the line and the old man set the hook. He added the crappie to the others in his cooler and took the spinner off. Before putting it in the empty chaw tin he kept in his back pocket, he took a close look at it. The paint was chipped. Gone, really. It was a battered wood color now. The golden spinner blade was still shiny. He watched it flop in the breeze, glinting like a little piece of magic. He held the lure in his hand and thought. How long? How many times had the little piece of wood, feather, and metal provided his dinner?

He couldn't look away. There was a memory tickling the edges of his mind. He wanted to think that this was the same lure, but he wasn't sure. It didn't matter. He smiled. He looked up the bank to the deep water Tommy had loved. He closed his fist around the lure and felt a slither of blood eke between his fingers. He looked at it and chuckled, rinsed his hand in the water. He put the lure away. And then he broke down his rod and ended another afternoon fishing the same way he had for over fifty years now. He stood perfectly still and absorbed it all. He watched the herons loop in a lazy sky. He heard the red-winged blackbird call. He could hear an osprey shrieking and there was an otter playing in the weeds, taking long strings of green to places unknown, even to the old man. He looked at the light dance on the water and smiled.

"Goodnight, son."

Tomatoes

The match dove toward the sidewalk, a smoking rocket, a NASA nightmare. He pulled the nicotine deep into his lungs, and he felt time slow down. Just a hair. So little, he barely noticed, but enough. Just enough.

The rust red, crumbling bricks shimmered in the sun. He lit another cigarette. There was no point in postponing it. He just didn't want to hear it. Even if he already knew. It was like they had to rub it in. He knew she was dead, he didn't need some slick city doctor to tell him that.

He had half a mind to just get up and leave. But there was probably some paperwork to fill out. He stubbed the cigarette out on the heel of his shoe and threw the butt in the nearest trash can.

He saw the doctor coming, and he saw his practiced look of concern, and he felt a little sick inside. Not because she was dead, but because he'd have to hear the words come out of some asshole kid's mouth.

"Sir, I'm so sorry to tell you that your wife has passed."

"Yes, sir. I know she has."

The doctor cocked his head to the side and with his round glasses he looked just like an owl. Bud chuckled.

"Sir, would you like to speak to one of our counselors?"

"Nope. Want to go home."

"Sir, I think you're in shock."

"Nope again, son. I'm not in shock. My wife is dead. I know that. Now I'd like to go home and get to work. I've been neglecting the tomatoes."

"Sir, these things can be unexpected, even when..."

"Listen, boy. Don't talk. Just listen. I know my wife is dead. She's been dying for five years. This is neither a shock, nor a disaster. It's a blessing if you ask me. I loved that woman. And I don't know what they teach you in college, but I don't appreciate your tone. You did your job, now move on."

"Sir, anger is a natural reaction..."

"Listen, boy. I ain't angry. I ain't happy, but I am something close to it. Do you know what it's like to watch the woman you love die? Do you know what it's like to have the woman you love die and have some snotnose kid insinuating you aren't grieving right?"

"Sir..."

"Jesus, son. I thought doctors were supposed to be smart?"

The doctor's eyes flashed and Bud cocked his head to the side like they were mirror images.

"Well, you go take care of your tomatoes then, sir. If's that's what is important to you right now..."

Bud's old, busted fingers wound themselves up in the boy's lab coat. Bud pushed him up against the wall. His face was inches away from the owl glasses.

"Listen to me, you son of a bitch. I don't like tomatoes. I never fucking liked tomatoes. But my wife loved them. And if those plants die, I'm going to come back here and kick every inch of your pretentious, ivy-league ass for delaying me. Do you understand now?"

The doctor looked down at his shoes.

"I understand."

"Good, then I'm going home. I'll come back tommorow and fill out any paperwork you got. Today, I need to water them tomatoes. Never do to let 'em die."