Stories

The Bath Tub - Previously published in Elimae

The ghost of past baths sat soaking up rays on the front lawn. Suds of yesteryear dripped off the porcelain surface of the tub. A bird chirped. Its bidding, its call, a young boy heard. He sat in the tub and raced a sailboat. A swell tipped the boat over, then moments later the boat stood upright and the boy pushed it along. Fine lines appeared on the base of the tub.

A man emerged from the house and turned the tub over on its side. But the boy and the sailboat didn't fall. They didn't fall. They continued sailing the boat. The man ran his hands over the bottom of the tub, "Those scratches. They weren't there yesterday. I know they weren't there. I cleaned the tub myself."

A little boy laughed as the man dumped bleach into the tub and scrubbed with a yellow sponge. The boy and his boat continued to sail. Lines appeared on both sides of the tub. The man cursed and turned the tub upside down. The little boy's laughter grew louder. The man dumped the bottle of bleach on himself and began scrubbing his skin raw. Flecks of skin fell on grass blades; pink on green, red on green.

The boy stopped laughing, "Daddy. It's ok. I'm here." He handed his father the sail boat with the little white sail and the blue bow. The father screamed.

"No, don't be scared. I just wanted to go sailing. I just wanted to go sailing. I'm a big boy."

"Was," the father said.

"You heard me, Daddy. You really heard me?"

The father flipped the tub over, sat in it and twirled the sailboat in his hand.

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Stickiness - Previously published in Insolent Rudder

Mom called it gross and Dad didn’t say anything, anything at all. Not even when the pile of gum wads in the corner of my room attracted life forms and Mom insisted I throw it out.  Dad said nothing in that recliner chair of his, the one that contoured with his body. He wore his brown leisure suits to match it, the pair inseparable. Mom said it’s cause of the booze; it made Dad the way he is. I told her nothing grabbed Dad anymore.

The old man often glanced in the direction of my room on the way to the toilet. I wondered what he thought as he walked near the blue, gray, tan and pink wads of gum. They piled up for weeks. I waited for a reaction, anything other than his blind ass stare in my room.

At night I heard the flies buzz in the corner of my room.  There’s a language in their buzzes. At first it’s annoying, like one long whiny kid scream. The longer you listen though the more you hear the frenetic buzz for what it is; the spurt of energy.

Mom didn’t see it that way.

When the ants came and their trail wound its way through the entire house Mom called the exterminator. They destroyed my mound of gum. It grew quiet at night, the flies didn’t come around.  Mom told me to listen to the radio if I wanted sounds, to be a teenager for heaven’s sake and listen to rock and roll.

When Dad slept I began to hide the gum wads in his recliner.  At first I placed a nice pink one from Bazooka bubble gum in the pillowed cushion under his head. I waited to see if he’d notice as he made his daily venture to the recliner and back to the liquor cabinet.  I watched him cart out the half opened bottle of gin, which he downed, the same with the rum.  He said nothing about the Bazooka gum.

The tan gum wads I added next, the ones from spearmint and peppermint gum. You couldn’t miss those they smelled still. Dad passed out with a bottle of Southern Comfort.  I put more peppermint gum wads under the cushions by his legs.  

When the flies came I laid next to my old man on the floor. I found home in his snores and in the buzzing. Soon I heard only the flies.  They circled his head. They spotted the gum wad under his pillow. Dad didn’t move, not that I expected him to.

The sheen of death on his face looked so much like the gray wadded up gum wads. I didn’t know which I loved more in that instance when I placed the gum wads on his cheeks. The flies they buzzed and Mom just cried when they wheeled Dad’s body
away.

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