Short Stories - Issue 6
It's A Boy!
Mama’s stomach rose slowly, stayed there a moment, and then descended. From
the doorway, Tommy studied each movement, watching for irregularities. At present,
Mama had maintained an average of twenty-two breaths per minute, a healthy number
considering her years of cigarette abuse. Despite the result, however, Tommy would
again recommend adopting a smoking reduction plan in the morning.
At night, Tommy didn’t have much to do, and the hours were long. He feigned
sleep around 9:30 (varying the times slightly to provide the illusion of randomness), but
after Mama had tucked him in and fallen asleep, the night was his, to monitor Mama’s
health, to ensure all doors and windows remained safely secured, and to complete any
chores Mama hadn’t accomplished that day. Around five, he would return to his bed to
recharge, close his eyes, and wait for Mama to stir him from sleep. Sometimes, Tommy
would consider waking Mama before she could wake him, if only to disturb the routine
and provide a better sense of realism; however, Mama was a creature of habit, and
Tommy, more than anyone, understood that, so he abided the schedule and played his
role accordingly.
A loud grunt broke the silence, and Mama kicked her feet under the covers.
Tommy waited, watched, and concluded it to be a bad dream, logging the irregularity for
future analysis. For a moment, Tommy considered patting Mama’s shoulder, the way she
did when Tommy feigned sadness, but decided the role reversal would only frighten and
upset her.
So Tommy was a good little boy and waited for morning.
* * *
On Tuesdays, Mama prepared him scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. “Anything
exciting happening at school today?” Mama said, flipping an egg.
Tommy, with five scenarios prewritten for this standard question, chose the one
that befitted Mama’s mood today. “Not really,” he said. “We have story time, and then
we’re playing with the parachute in gym.”
Mama smiled, but Tommy noted the false curvature of her upper lip and the wet
film covering her eyes. Mama had been crying again, most likely with her cell phone in
one hand and a cigarette in the other. This behavior had escalated drastically during the
last month, a stark contrast to the joy Mama had exhibited six months earlier when she
had first seen Tommy at the store, seated upon the highest shelf. Tommy knew drawing
Mama’s attention to this observation would only upset her further, so he pressed on with
his story, tweaking it slightly to exploit her penchant for nostalgia: “Mrs. Johnson is going
to talk about animals today, for when we visit the farm next week.”
Mama perked up. “Oh, the farm! Is it that time again already?”
“September the twenty-second.”
Mama placed a freshly scrambled egg, two slices of bacon, and a piece of lightly
browned toast before Tommy. He considered the meal, looked up at Mama, and smiled.
“Tommy, do you remember,” Mama began, wiping her hands on the front of her
apron, a yellowed relic from decades before, “when we went to the apple orchard with
your father?”
“Of course, Mama.”
“I was thinking about that the other night,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “We picked
more granny smiths and golden delicious than I’ve ever seen.” (The golden delicious had
been picked clean long before they had arrived, as home movies indicated, but Tommy
did not interject this correction.) “And then your father bit into one and saw a worm! Oh,
the look on his face!” Mama let out a hearty laugh that quickly turned into a savage
cough.
Tommy frowned and waited for Mama’s fit to conclude. “Mama,” he said, when all
was silent, “you need to consider a smoking reduction plan—”
“No!” Mama growled, throwing her cigarette into the sink. “I told you, Tommy,
you’re not supposed to do that.”
“Last night, your breaths per minute varied between—”
“I don’t care about my breaths per minute!” she screamed. “You’re not to say things
like that, Tommy. I’m the mother here, not you.”
“Of course, Mama. But your health and wellness are my top priority—”
“Never you mind my health and wellness,” she said. Tommy had upset Mama, and
he noted his failure for future analysis. “Now, you listen to me, Tommy,” Mama said,
kneeling beside him. “I don’t want to you telling me about my breaths per minute, or my
caloric intake, or my smoking frequency. I just want you to be a good little boy, and tell me
about your day, and do what all good little boys do. And that’s all. You understand?”
Tommy said nothing. Mama’s health was a paramount concern, one that could not
be erased. To appease her, though, he nodded, and she smiled. “That’s my boy,” she
said, and returned to the counter to prepare her lunch. “I wish I could go to the apple
orchard with you, Tommy, but Mr. Caruthers needs me at the store that day.”
“That’s okay, Mama,” Tommy said, again not correcting the error. “I know you’d like
to. I know you love me.”
The watery film covering her eyes now let loose two streamlets of tears, and
Tommy once more noted his failure. “I do, Tommy,” she said. “I love you with all my
heart.”
“I love you, too, Mama.”
Before Mama left for work, she cleared Tommy’s plate from the table, depositing a
scrambled egg, two slices of bacon, and a piece of lightly browned toast into the garbage.
* * *
During the day, while Mama was at work, Tommy sat in his room, analyzing data
and recharging. In the beginning, he had spent his days viewing Mama’s home movie
collection and sifting through the vast catalogues of family pictures. “It’s all in here,”
Mama had said the day she brought him home from the store, beaming as she uncovered
box after box in her bedroom closet. “This is our whole life together, Tommy. Remember:
That’s you name now. Tommy. You should watch the movies, first, Tommy. Start with
these and then move onto the bottom ones—” Tommy had interjected here, saying he
could copy them to DVDs and store them on an external hard drive, if she would like. “Oh,
please don’t trouble yourself, Tommy,” she had said, her smile starting to wane.
“Um…and don’t use that techno babble, please. Just…just watch the tapes and take note
and be a good little boy, okay?”
So he did.
However, now he had watched all the tapes and seen all the pictures. He had
performed a personality analysis based upon Mama’s reactions in the movies to various
events and people, and he had highlighted key video clips based upon Mama’s frequency
of recall in conversation. With these operations performed, Tommy had nothing left to do,
except wait, process, and recharge for the evening’s activities.
* * *
At night, they sat on the couch and watched TV.
Old reruns of eighties sitcoms were playing, the nightly lineup Mama planned her
evening around. “How was school today?” Mama asked at the commercial break. “Did
Mrs. Johnson talk about the apple orchard?”
Tommy watched Mama carefully. “Yes,” he said, noting her glassy eyes once
more. “She did. We learned about all different kinds of apples.”
“That’s wonderful, honey. Tell me all about it.”
The night stretched on like that. Several times, Mama removed her cell phone, and
shoved it back into her pocket when she saw a blank menu screen staring back at her.
Tommy knew she was looking for missed calls and messages; he also knew the
likelihood of such contact was extremely low. “My birthday’s coming up soon,” Tommy
said suddenly. “October the second. I loved going to Toy World last year. May we go
again this year, Mama?”
Mama’s frown broke into a teary smile, so wide it had to be painful. “Of course, my
baby boy. Do you want a GI Joe? Or how about a new board game? We could play when
I got home from work—oh, it would be so much fun!”
“I’d be happy with either, Mama. Any toy at all would—”
On the TV, an obnoxious voice blared: “It’s a boy!”
Mama’s eyes widened, and her head whipped toward the screen.
“Are you tired of being a single child with no one to talk to? Well, you’re in luck!
Because we have a new brother just for you!” the voice boomed, as a five-year-old boy,
with skin synthetically crafted to appear and feel like flesh and hairs woven to have split
ends and imperfections, ran to another boy, who hugged him around the neck. “Miracle
Child will provide hours of entertainment for children of all ages. And mommies and
daddies will love Miracle Child, too, as it monitors their children’s health, social skills, and
safety.”
A young woman appeared onscreen, smiled, and placed her hands on her hips.
“You mean, it’s a babysitter, too?”
“That’s right! Miracle Child is the perfect new member for your family—”
“Turn it off,” Mama said, almost shrieking. “Turn it off now!”
Before Mama could finish, though, Tommy had already changed the channel to
something more peaceful, an outdoor setting with mountains and running water and
tranquil music playing, but Mama was pacing, digging her hands into her pocket and
grabbing her phone and checking it once more. The welcome screen with no notifications
of any kind greeted her once again, so she sent it sailing across the room, where it
collided with an end table and bounced purposelessly away.
“I love you, Mama,” Tommy offered, but Mama was hurrying up the stairs toward
her room to slam the door.
* * *
On her bed, Mama wept, the long, guttural wails Tommy had anticipated when he
monitored Mama’s eyes that morning. Without making a sound, Tommy opened the door
a sliver and watched Mama cry. When the tears softened, her hand sought the cell phone
in her pocket; however, it still lay in the living room, and its absence brought forth another
series of sobs that turned to the painful chokes of a veteran smoker.
“Mama?” Tommy said, opening the door.
Mama drew back toward the headboard, placed a hand on her chest, and finished
her coughing spell. “Tommy,” she said at last. “I didn’t hear you—you mustn’t frighten Mama.”
“You should call him.”
Mama’s glassy eyes widened and considered the boy with a combination of horror
and rage. “What—what did you say?”
“Your cell phone lies next to the end table. I could retrieve it for you, Mama, if you
wish.” Tommy took a step forward, concluding a conversation shared in the light rather
than spoken from the darkness of the hall would prove more favorable. “Your smoking
frequency has escalated drastically the last three weeks, and your crying has increased,
as well, much more son than when compared to when you bought me. I fear your
behavior is self-destructive and indicative of depression, and perhaps confronting its
source would prove—”
“What did I tell you?” Mama cried. She sprang from the bed and approached the
boy, who remained calm and unmoving before the doorway. “You’re not to talk that
techno babble to me. Good boys mind their Mamas, and you’re not minding yours—”
“Your health is a prime directive, Mama, one I can neither ignore nor erase. Talking
with your son might help—”
Mama shook the words from Tommy’s mouth, her hands digging deeply into his
shoulders. “YOU are my SON!” she cried, her fingers ripping into the synthetic skin. “I am
talking to my son. I’m talking to my son right now—I told you that! Didn’t they program you
damned things to obey? I’m sick of things not working!” That final word devolved into a
savage grunt, and Mama pushed the boy toward the doorway. Tommy flew backward and
hit the wall outside with a loud thud, shaking a picture frame hanging above, which
housed the image of Mama when she was younger, smiling next to her son.
“Tommy!”
She rushed toward the boy lying motionless in the hallway and hugged him tightly;
Tommy returned the hug, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Your health is my greatest
concern, Mama—”
“I’m sorry,” she wept. “I’m so sorry.”
“You need to call him,” Tommy said, listening to Mama’s wheezing cries. “I fear
your behaviors will only get worse unless you make contact. It’s been six months since
you last talked to him. You can’t use me to—”
“You’re such a good boy,” Mama moaned. “Why did that have to change, Tommy?
Why did things have to change?” And then, between savage coughs: “When you were
little, you used to need me. You used to ask me for help, and I could solve any problem.”
Tommy concluded anything more said would simply be ignored, so he allowed
Mama to cry and he held her until the tears finally passed.
“Never leave me, Tommy,” she said, and looked deeply into the boy’s glass eyes.
“You stay with me. And we’ll watch old TV shows, and play games, and go to the apple
orchard. Just like before, okay? It’ll be just like before and we won’t breathe a word of
what happened tonight.”
Tommy said nothing at first. And then: “Of course, Mama.”
* * *
He closed the bathroom door so the noise wouldn’t wake Mama from sleep.
In her arms, Tommy had listened to the sound of each breath, and he had noted
the irregularities of her breathing and the frequency of her nightmares, as she thrashed
against his body and her arms enclosed him with greater ferocity. Both her mental and
physical health would continue to deteriorate as long as this behavior continued, and
within a microsecond, Tommy had concluded what he needed to do.
Before filling the bathtub, Tommy had retrieved Mama’s cell phone from the living
room and had placed it on her nightstand. In perfect cursive, he had written Mama a note,
with a simple directive: “Call him now. You cannot move forward if you’re always looking
backward.” Mama’s stock in aphorisms would bring great weight to a phrase Tommy
ultimately considered trite and cliché, and it would be the most effective message he
could relay before she found him the next morning.
The water moved ever slowly toward the brim. Tommy had decided not to turn the
knob all the way, as the sound of rushing water might wake Mama. Instead, it rose inch
by excruciating inch, until Tommy determined it deep enough to serve its purpose. He
twisted the knob back into place and stared at his watery abyss. Love existed merely as a
definition within Tommy’s mind, an outline of a concept that would help him better
understand the behavior of those around him, but now he concluded, seconds before
descending into his grave, that he understood its power and appeal more than he had at
the outset.
Stepping into the warm bath, Tommy heard a siren start blaring inside his head;
self-destruction was forbidden, but his need to ensure Mama’s health overrode any
survival protocols. Sinking further into the water, a surge of energy flowed through his tiny
body, and the world devolved into shifting colors, urgent warnings, and total failures. In
those last moments, files were corrupted and then lost, but a single video clip, set to
repeat, played atop the chaos: an image of Mama and Tommy enjoying a picnic, while
Daddy filmed them from afar. It was the image that followed Tommy into the darkness, as
the tiny flame that churned within dimmed and then vanished altogether.
the doorway, Tommy studied each movement, watching for irregularities. At present,
Mama had maintained an average of twenty-two breaths per minute, a healthy number
considering her years of cigarette abuse. Despite the result, however, Tommy would
again recommend adopting a smoking reduction plan in the morning.
At night, Tommy didn’t have much to do, and the hours were long. He feigned
sleep around 9:30 (varying the times slightly to provide the illusion of randomness), but
after Mama had tucked him in and fallen asleep, the night was his, to monitor Mama’s
health, to ensure all doors and windows remained safely secured, and to complete any
chores Mama hadn’t accomplished that day. Around five, he would return to his bed to
recharge, close his eyes, and wait for Mama to stir him from sleep. Sometimes, Tommy
would consider waking Mama before she could wake him, if only to disturb the routine
and provide a better sense of realism; however, Mama was a creature of habit, and
Tommy, more than anyone, understood that, so he abided the schedule and played his
role accordingly.
A loud grunt broke the silence, and Mama kicked her feet under the covers.
Tommy waited, watched, and concluded it to be a bad dream, logging the irregularity for
future analysis. For a moment, Tommy considered patting Mama’s shoulder, the way she
did when Tommy feigned sadness, but decided the role reversal would only frighten and
upset her.
So Tommy was a good little boy and waited for morning.
* * *
On Tuesdays, Mama prepared him scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. “Anything
exciting happening at school today?” Mama said, flipping an egg.
Tommy, with five scenarios prewritten for this standard question, chose the one
that befitted Mama’s mood today. “Not really,” he said. “We have story time, and then
we’re playing with the parachute in gym.”
Mama smiled, but Tommy noted the false curvature of her upper lip and the wet
film covering her eyes. Mama had been crying again, most likely with her cell phone in
one hand and a cigarette in the other. This behavior had escalated drastically during the
last month, a stark contrast to the joy Mama had exhibited six months earlier when she
had first seen Tommy at the store, seated upon the highest shelf. Tommy knew drawing
Mama’s attention to this observation would only upset her further, so he pressed on with
his story, tweaking it slightly to exploit her penchant for nostalgia: “Mrs. Johnson is going
to talk about animals today, for when we visit the farm next week.”
Mama perked up. “Oh, the farm! Is it that time again already?”
“September the twenty-second.”
Mama placed a freshly scrambled egg, two slices of bacon, and a piece of lightly
browned toast before Tommy. He considered the meal, looked up at Mama, and smiled.
“Tommy, do you remember,” Mama began, wiping her hands on the front of her
apron, a yellowed relic from decades before, “when we went to the apple orchard with
your father?”
“Of course, Mama.”
“I was thinking about that the other night,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “We picked
more granny smiths and golden delicious than I’ve ever seen.” (The golden delicious had
been picked clean long before they had arrived, as home movies indicated, but Tommy
did not interject this correction.) “And then your father bit into one and saw a worm! Oh,
the look on his face!” Mama let out a hearty laugh that quickly turned into a savage
cough.
Tommy frowned and waited for Mama’s fit to conclude. “Mama,” he said, when all
was silent, “you need to consider a smoking reduction plan—”
“No!” Mama growled, throwing her cigarette into the sink. “I told you, Tommy,
you’re not supposed to do that.”
“Last night, your breaths per minute varied between—”
“I don’t care about my breaths per minute!” she screamed. “You’re not to say things
like that, Tommy. I’m the mother here, not you.”
“Of course, Mama. But your health and wellness are my top priority—”
“Never you mind my health and wellness,” she said. Tommy had upset Mama, and
he noted his failure for future analysis. “Now, you listen to me, Tommy,” Mama said,
kneeling beside him. “I don’t want to you telling me about my breaths per minute, or my
caloric intake, or my smoking frequency. I just want you to be a good little boy, and tell me
about your day, and do what all good little boys do. And that’s all. You understand?”
Tommy said nothing. Mama’s health was a paramount concern, one that could not
be erased. To appease her, though, he nodded, and she smiled. “That’s my boy,” she
said, and returned to the counter to prepare her lunch. “I wish I could go to the apple
orchard with you, Tommy, but Mr. Caruthers needs me at the store that day.”
“That’s okay, Mama,” Tommy said, again not correcting the error. “I know you’d like
to. I know you love me.”
The watery film covering her eyes now let loose two streamlets of tears, and
Tommy once more noted his failure. “I do, Tommy,” she said. “I love you with all my
heart.”
“I love you, too, Mama.”
Before Mama left for work, she cleared Tommy’s plate from the table, depositing a
scrambled egg, two slices of bacon, and a piece of lightly browned toast into the garbage.
* * *
During the day, while Mama was at work, Tommy sat in his room, analyzing data
and recharging. In the beginning, he had spent his days viewing Mama’s home movie
collection and sifting through the vast catalogues of family pictures. “It’s all in here,”
Mama had said the day she brought him home from the store, beaming as she uncovered
box after box in her bedroom closet. “This is our whole life together, Tommy. Remember:
That’s you name now. Tommy. You should watch the movies, first, Tommy. Start with
these and then move onto the bottom ones—” Tommy had interjected here, saying he
could copy them to DVDs and store them on an external hard drive, if she would like. “Oh,
please don’t trouble yourself, Tommy,” she had said, her smile starting to wane.
“Um…and don’t use that techno babble, please. Just…just watch the tapes and take note
and be a good little boy, okay?”
So he did.
However, now he had watched all the tapes and seen all the pictures. He had
performed a personality analysis based upon Mama’s reactions in the movies to various
events and people, and he had highlighted key video clips based upon Mama’s frequency
of recall in conversation. With these operations performed, Tommy had nothing left to do,
except wait, process, and recharge for the evening’s activities.
* * *
At night, they sat on the couch and watched TV.
Old reruns of eighties sitcoms were playing, the nightly lineup Mama planned her
evening around. “How was school today?” Mama asked at the commercial break. “Did
Mrs. Johnson talk about the apple orchard?”
Tommy watched Mama carefully. “Yes,” he said, noting her glassy eyes once
more. “She did. We learned about all different kinds of apples.”
“That’s wonderful, honey. Tell me all about it.”
The night stretched on like that. Several times, Mama removed her cell phone, and
shoved it back into her pocket when she saw a blank menu screen staring back at her.
Tommy knew she was looking for missed calls and messages; he also knew the
likelihood of such contact was extremely low. “My birthday’s coming up soon,” Tommy
said suddenly. “October the second. I loved going to Toy World last year. May we go
again this year, Mama?”
Mama’s frown broke into a teary smile, so wide it had to be painful. “Of course, my
baby boy. Do you want a GI Joe? Or how about a new board game? We could play when
I got home from work—oh, it would be so much fun!”
“I’d be happy with either, Mama. Any toy at all would—”
On the TV, an obnoxious voice blared: “It’s a boy!”
Mama’s eyes widened, and her head whipped toward the screen.
“Are you tired of being a single child with no one to talk to? Well, you’re in luck!
Because we have a new brother just for you!” the voice boomed, as a five-year-old boy,
with skin synthetically crafted to appear and feel like flesh and hairs woven to have split
ends and imperfections, ran to another boy, who hugged him around the neck. “Miracle
Child will provide hours of entertainment for children of all ages. And mommies and
daddies will love Miracle Child, too, as it monitors their children’s health, social skills, and
safety.”
A young woman appeared onscreen, smiled, and placed her hands on her hips.
“You mean, it’s a babysitter, too?”
“That’s right! Miracle Child is the perfect new member for your family—”
“Turn it off,” Mama said, almost shrieking. “Turn it off now!”
Before Mama could finish, though, Tommy had already changed the channel to
something more peaceful, an outdoor setting with mountains and running water and
tranquil music playing, but Mama was pacing, digging her hands into her pocket and
grabbing her phone and checking it once more. The welcome screen with no notifications
of any kind greeted her once again, so she sent it sailing across the room, where it
collided with an end table and bounced purposelessly away.
“I love you, Mama,” Tommy offered, but Mama was hurrying up the stairs toward
her room to slam the door.
* * *
On her bed, Mama wept, the long, guttural wails Tommy had anticipated when he
monitored Mama’s eyes that morning. Without making a sound, Tommy opened the door
a sliver and watched Mama cry. When the tears softened, her hand sought the cell phone
in her pocket; however, it still lay in the living room, and its absence brought forth another
series of sobs that turned to the painful chokes of a veteran smoker.
“Mama?” Tommy said, opening the door.
Mama drew back toward the headboard, placed a hand on her chest, and finished
her coughing spell. “Tommy,” she said at last. “I didn’t hear you—you mustn’t frighten Mama.”
“You should call him.”
Mama’s glassy eyes widened and considered the boy with a combination of horror
and rage. “What—what did you say?”
“Your cell phone lies next to the end table. I could retrieve it for you, Mama, if you
wish.” Tommy took a step forward, concluding a conversation shared in the light rather
than spoken from the darkness of the hall would prove more favorable. “Your smoking
frequency has escalated drastically the last three weeks, and your crying has increased,
as well, much more son than when compared to when you bought me. I fear your
behavior is self-destructive and indicative of depression, and perhaps confronting its
source would prove—”
“What did I tell you?” Mama cried. She sprang from the bed and approached the
boy, who remained calm and unmoving before the doorway. “You’re not to talk that
techno babble to me. Good boys mind their Mamas, and you’re not minding yours—”
“Your health is a prime directive, Mama, one I can neither ignore nor erase. Talking
with your son might help—”
Mama shook the words from Tommy’s mouth, her hands digging deeply into his
shoulders. “YOU are my SON!” she cried, her fingers ripping into the synthetic skin. “I am
talking to my son. I’m talking to my son right now—I told you that! Didn’t they program you
damned things to obey? I’m sick of things not working!” That final word devolved into a
savage grunt, and Mama pushed the boy toward the doorway. Tommy flew backward and
hit the wall outside with a loud thud, shaking a picture frame hanging above, which
housed the image of Mama when she was younger, smiling next to her son.
“Tommy!”
She rushed toward the boy lying motionless in the hallway and hugged him tightly;
Tommy returned the hug, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Your health is my greatest
concern, Mama—”
“I’m sorry,” she wept. “I’m so sorry.”
“You need to call him,” Tommy said, listening to Mama’s wheezing cries. “I fear
your behaviors will only get worse unless you make contact. It’s been six months since
you last talked to him. You can’t use me to—”
“You’re such a good boy,” Mama moaned. “Why did that have to change, Tommy?
Why did things have to change?” And then, between savage coughs: “When you were
little, you used to need me. You used to ask me for help, and I could solve any problem.”
Tommy concluded anything more said would simply be ignored, so he allowed
Mama to cry and he held her until the tears finally passed.
“Never leave me, Tommy,” she said, and looked deeply into the boy’s glass eyes.
“You stay with me. And we’ll watch old TV shows, and play games, and go to the apple
orchard. Just like before, okay? It’ll be just like before and we won’t breathe a word of
what happened tonight.”
Tommy said nothing at first. And then: “Of course, Mama.”
* * *
He closed the bathroom door so the noise wouldn’t wake Mama from sleep.
In her arms, Tommy had listened to the sound of each breath, and he had noted
the irregularities of her breathing and the frequency of her nightmares, as she thrashed
against his body and her arms enclosed him with greater ferocity. Both her mental and
physical health would continue to deteriorate as long as this behavior continued, and
within a microsecond, Tommy had concluded what he needed to do.
Before filling the bathtub, Tommy had retrieved Mama’s cell phone from the living
room and had placed it on her nightstand. In perfect cursive, he had written Mama a note,
with a simple directive: “Call him now. You cannot move forward if you’re always looking
backward.” Mama’s stock in aphorisms would bring great weight to a phrase Tommy
ultimately considered trite and cliché, and it would be the most effective message he
could relay before she found him the next morning.
The water moved ever slowly toward the brim. Tommy had decided not to turn the
knob all the way, as the sound of rushing water might wake Mama. Instead, it rose inch
by excruciating inch, until Tommy determined it deep enough to serve its purpose. He
twisted the knob back into place and stared at his watery abyss. Love existed merely as a
definition within Tommy’s mind, an outline of a concept that would help him better
understand the behavior of those around him, but now he concluded, seconds before
descending into his grave, that he understood its power and appeal more than he had at
the outset.
Stepping into the warm bath, Tommy heard a siren start blaring inside his head;
self-destruction was forbidden, but his need to ensure Mama’s health overrode any
survival protocols. Sinking further into the water, a surge of energy flowed through his tiny
body, and the world devolved into shifting colors, urgent warnings, and total failures. In
those last moments, files were corrupted and then lost, but a single video clip, set to
repeat, played atop the chaos: an image of Mama and Tommy enjoying a picnic, while
Daddy filmed them from afar. It was the image that followed Tommy into the darkness, as
the tiny flame that churned within dimmed and then vanished altogether.
Tim Hanson lives in Madison, Wisconsin, with his wonderful wife, Jenna. When not teaching high school English, he enjoys writing fiction and frequenting the local food scene.
Marathoner
It was the fall he was running 50 miles a week. In the morning he would get up in
the pre-dawn dark and step into his shorts. Those nylon shorts felt like the hand of the
devil on his ass, so cold and so clammy, but he always wore them, knowing that after the
first mile he’d warm up. He pulled his grey Northwestern sweatshirt on over the T-shirt
he’d slept in. Katie would still be asleep on her side of the bed. Before slipping out the
front door, he laced up a pair of Adidas, the goosepimples on his hard thighs standing out
like Braille. The sun still not up yet.
In the tiled lobby of their building his sneakers squeaked on the just mopped floor.
Good morning, Mr. Carper, Fen the doorman would whisper. No matter how many times
Henry had told him to call him Henry, Fen would still address him as Mr. Carper. Going
for a run, Mr. Carper? Yes, a short one Fen, only about 8 miles. Fen shook his head, as if
in wonderment of only! Soon his shift would be over and he’d go home to bed. Have fun,
Mr. Carper. Thanks, Fen, and he’d push open the door to the street.
Quiet is an anomaly in the busy inner city. Even without the hum from the Drive
there was the sound of the wind rustling leaves and scattering trash across the empty
street. Birds in the treetops were slowly waking up. Soon their furtive chirps would be
drowned out by rush hour traffic.
He didn’t believe in stretching; it wrecked havoc on cold muscles. He’d start out
jogging and all that that word implied—a slovenly rousing of his bones. His body often
reminded him that only fifteen minutes ago it had been horizontal before abruptly
awakened. The frosty air was a shock to his lungs as he sought to adjust his breathing,
bring it under control, into a rhythm. Soon the puff-puff of vapor rising from inside of him
began to subside, just as the first edges of light were softening the corners of the bank
and electronics shop at the Sheridan intersection.
This was the hard part: getting started. Katie couldn’t imagine getting out of bed so
early. Why do you do it! You don’t have to! The whole principle behind the effort evaded
her. He continued down the sidewalk pumping his arms to get warm, beginning to lose
himself in thought. He could see her laying there warm under the blanket, only the pale
skin of her shoulders showing, her mussed hair sticking to her cheek. Katie prone, without
distraction or a to-do list, supine, in a state of slumber, her face relaxed and her forehead
unfurrowed. At her most essential, and it was this thought that spurred him on, caused
him to pick up his knees and run.
By the time he got onto the asphalt path down at the lakefront the sun was starting
to peek over the horizon and spread out like a broken egg yolk over the grey water. As
often is the case in late fall and winter, there appears to be steam rising up off the lake.
He pretends he’s in a science fiction movie or a disaster film, running from zombies, the
undead, people of the night. There is just enough darkness to keep them alive—but soon
their time will be up. He stretches out his legs. On the cement barriers banking the lake
he has to be careful, watch for empty bottles and shattered glass left by the night people,
and try not to step in the gaping cracks where the cement has crumbled. Sweat formed
on his forehead and he wiped it off with his sweatshirt sleeve. Still he kept his cap on.
Ninety percent of one’s body heat escapes through the top of the head. Like water mixing
with the cool air and releasing wispy vapors. It has taken all summer for the lake to warm
up, to reach a reasonable temperature where it doesn’t feel like needles being driven
under the skin, and now it’s so late in the season, no one cares to swim anymore. The
irony is not lost on the runner.
He and Katie were talking about having kids. God! What would that do to his
schedule? He imagined sleepless nights walking a crying baby back and forth in the tiny
studio off from the one bedroom. Of course they’d have to move, find a bigger apartment.
He could feel his chest tightening, his breathing strain. He forced himself to think about
something else.
The undead. He’d stayed up late watching a stupid movie where Charleston
Heston fought off unseen creatures wanting to eat his flesh. He fell asleep in front of the
TV. Running does that to a person. Makes them bone-tired shortly after dinner, after
taking out the trash and drying the dishes. He and Katie needed to make some changes,
make more time for their sex life. He chuckled to himself and sucked in some air. Or they
wouldn’t have to worry about birth control, having kids, or walking colicky babies. Again
his heart constricted.
There was a curve where he rounded a beach house shaped like a steamboat and
dipped into shadows, especially murky and foreboding after the November time change.
A cold fear shot through him. It was here, if anywhere, he’d get mugged, stabbed, robbed
of his door key stuffed into a tiny flap inside his shorts. It was always here, at the curve,
every time, he would touch the metal, oblong and notched. Within seconds he would pass
out of the darkness and suddenly emerge into brighter, clearer light, assured of life and
his key.
The rushing wind filled his ears and made his eyes water. Water splayed the rocks,
like machine gun fire, one round after another hitting the cement barriers and shooting
spray upward. He ran through the mist. It felt good on his bare head. He ran now with his
sock cap clenched in his fist. More than ever he felt alive and dialed in to a frequency only
he could pick up.
He had labs today with his freshmen and sophomores. And lunch duty. He hated
standing around in the lunchroom. He never got a chance to properly eat his own lunch,
but had to wolf it down so that he could devote his full attention to catching kids who miss
the trashcan and reminding them to stack their plates and dump their liquids into the
yukka bucket instead of the garbage. A robot could do the job, yet after an hour of lunch
duty he was exhausted, more beat than if he’d done a ten-miler. He turned around on the
path, to head home.
The wind was at his back, always welcomed. Katie should be up by now and
moving between her open drawers and the bathroom, the shower and the bed where she
sits and brushes the bottom of her feet before rolling up her stockings. She had a habit of
brushing imaginary crumbs off her feet. He smiled. After dressing she’d stand by the
coffee pot and impatiently remove the carafe and put her travel mug underneath to catch
the flow. She’d leave the dregs for him to come back and wash down. He checked his
watch. Even though he started work before her she had a longer commute. Hopefully he’d
get back in time to kiss her goodbye and slap her fanny. How she hated that.
He loved the view of the city going in this direction, the way it opened up before
him, the new-day sun glinting off the steel and aluminum and mirrored in the thousands of
windows. The wide expanse of lake and the endorphins went to his head making him
lighter and faster. Always at this point he could relax—that is if one can be relaxed while
at the same time exerting. The fair weather runners, the casual jogger, and the newbies
without experience were just now joining the path, merging from street arteries and
popping out from under viaducts where the Drive dissected the lakefront. His feet and
head told him only five minutes more before his turn off. He picked up the pace, the lactic
acid in his legs burning.
* * *
He emerged out of the short tunnel squinting, the morning sun eye-level, retina-
rendering. All the curbs heading up onto the bike/running path have been eased to allow
handicap-access. Yet, even that small incline winded him. He jogs, pushing against
gravity and the forces of nature, and the effects of too much pasta. To his right the new
soccer field is enveloped in a light fog. He can just make out the goalposts and trashcans,
color-coded to indicate waste and recycle.
God his knees hurt. Was it the years of pounding or did he need new shoes? In the
middle of the night when he pads his way to the bathroom, he walked like an old man, a
rheumatoid Frankenstein. The first mile or two is devoted to motion, to keeping his
momentum going, because if he stopped it was all over. More often than not he would
acquiesce to a walk/run. Twenty-five years later and good intentions often get substituted
for the real thing.
Low clouds hover above the roiling waters and truncate the tops of the downtown
buildings. The jumble of cement barriers that used to trip him up have been replaced by a
newer, more contoured lakefront. Nowadays people dispose of their trash properly
instead of leaving it to blow into the lake and drift over to Indiana or Michigan or anywhere
else down wind.
His mind awakens at the same curve and his heart still quickens at the mere
thought of Katie. His Katie, bending over heavily, brushing her feet. The chemo took her
hair and the cancer her left breast.
Last spring after her last round of treatment Katie scraped up the energy to attend
Stacey’s graduation. He cringed every time she threatened “over her dead body” when he
suggested they take a pass. Stacey received a degree in Arts and Culture.
What the hell!
Henry slowed his pace (already close to a ten-minute mile) to focus on his form.
The merest thought of Katie’s prognosis or his daughter’s improbable future stressed him
out and made it difficult to breathe. Each time he tells himself he has to stop watching the
news and spending so much time reading depressing political blogs. He paused on the
path, weighing the idea of speed walking.
Suddenly a cyclist raced out of the mist and shouted, “On your left!” startling Henry
and causing him to jump into the dew-laden grass.
Eyeglasses, then bi-focals, gel inserts, then orthotics (the cost of which rivaled
replacing the tires on his car), kidney stones, and an umbilical hernia.
He started up again, drenched in sweat and humidity, trying to exhale the
heaviness inside of him. He’d considered doing one of those 3-day events to raise money
for a cure, running the miles instead of walking them, but the crowds would make it
impossible. Better to just keep doing what he was doing.
He swung back around at the fourth lamppost after the Belmont Harbor Yacht
Club. If lucky he’d get in three miles, get home in time to change, slug back bitter coffee,
and kiss Katie goodbye before heading off to teach.
It’s only a matter of putting one foot in front of another.
the pre-dawn dark and step into his shorts. Those nylon shorts felt like the hand of the
devil on his ass, so cold and so clammy, but he always wore them, knowing that after the
first mile he’d warm up. He pulled his grey Northwestern sweatshirt on over the T-shirt
he’d slept in. Katie would still be asleep on her side of the bed. Before slipping out the
front door, he laced up a pair of Adidas, the goosepimples on his hard thighs standing out
like Braille. The sun still not up yet.
In the tiled lobby of their building his sneakers squeaked on the just mopped floor.
Good morning, Mr. Carper, Fen the doorman would whisper. No matter how many times
Henry had told him to call him Henry, Fen would still address him as Mr. Carper. Going
for a run, Mr. Carper? Yes, a short one Fen, only about 8 miles. Fen shook his head, as if
in wonderment of only! Soon his shift would be over and he’d go home to bed. Have fun,
Mr. Carper. Thanks, Fen, and he’d push open the door to the street.
Quiet is an anomaly in the busy inner city. Even without the hum from the Drive
there was the sound of the wind rustling leaves and scattering trash across the empty
street. Birds in the treetops were slowly waking up. Soon their furtive chirps would be
drowned out by rush hour traffic.
He didn’t believe in stretching; it wrecked havoc on cold muscles. He’d start out
jogging and all that that word implied—a slovenly rousing of his bones. His body often
reminded him that only fifteen minutes ago it had been horizontal before abruptly
awakened. The frosty air was a shock to his lungs as he sought to adjust his breathing,
bring it under control, into a rhythm. Soon the puff-puff of vapor rising from inside of him
began to subside, just as the first edges of light were softening the corners of the bank
and electronics shop at the Sheridan intersection.
This was the hard part: getting started. Katie couldn’t imagine getting out of bed so
early. Why do you do it! You don’t have to! The whole principle behind the effort evaded
her. He continued down the sidewalk pumping his arms to get warm, beginning to lose
himself in thought. He could see her laying there warm under the blanket, only the pale
skin of her shoulders showing, her mussed hair sticking to her cheek. Katie prone, without
distraction or a to-do list, supine, in a state of slumber, her face relaxed and her forehead
unfurrowed. At her most essential, and it was this thought that spurred him on, caused
him to pick up his knees and run.
By the time he got onto the asphalt path down at the lakefront the sun was starting
to peek over the horizon and spread out like a broken egg yolk over the grey water. As
often is the case in late fall and winter, there appears to be steam rising up off the lake.
He pretends he’s in a science fiction movie or a disaster film, running from zombies, the
undead, people of the night. There is just enough darkness to keep them alive—but soon
their time will be up. He stretches out his legs. On the cement barriers banking the lake
he has to be careful, watch for empty bottles and shattered glass left by the night people,
and try not to step in the gaping cracks where the cement has crumbled. Sweat formed
on his forehead and he wiped it off with his sweatshirt sleeve. Still he kept his cap on.
Ninety percent of one’s body heat escapes through the top of the head. Like water mixing
with the cool air and releasing wispy vapors. It has taken all summer for the lake to warm
up, to reach a reasonable temperature where it doesn’t feel like needles being driven
under the skin, and now it’s so late in the season, no one cares to swim anymore. The
irony is not lost on the runner.
He and Katie were talking about having kids. God! What would that do to his
schedule? He imagined sleepless nights walking a crying baby back and forth in the tiny
studio off from the one bedroom. Of course they’d have to move, find a bigger apartment.
He could feel his chest tightening, his breathing strain. He forced himself to think about
something else.
The undead. He’d stayed up late watching a stupid movie where Charleston
Heston fought off unseen creatures wanting to eat his flesh. He fell asleep in front of the
TV. Running does that to a person. Makes them bone-tired shortly after dinner, after
taking out the trash and drying the dishes. He and Katie needed to make some changes,
make more time for their sex life. He chuckled to himself and sucked in some air. Or they
wouldn’t have to worry about birth control, having kids, or walking colicky babies. Again
his heart constricted.
There was a curve where he rounded a beach house shaped like a steamboat and
dipped into shadows, especially murky and foreboding after the November time change.
A cold fear shot through him. It was here, if anywhere, he’d get mugged, stabbed, robbed
of his door key stuffed into a tiny flap inside his shorts. It was always here, at the curve,
every time, he would touch the metal, oblong and notched. Within seconds he would pass
out of the darkness and suddenly emerge into brighter, clearer light, assured of life and
his key.
The rushing wind filled his ears and made his eyes water. Water splayed the rocks,
like machine gun fire, one round after another hitting the cement barriers and shooting
spray upward. He ran through the mist. It felt good on his bare head. He ran now with his
sock cap clenched in his fist. More than ever he felt alive and dialed in to a frequency only
he could pick up.
He had labs today with his freshmen and sophomores. And lunch duty. He hated
standing around in the lunchroom. He never got a chance to properly eat his own lunch,
but had to wolf it down so that he could devote his full attention to catching kids who miss
the trashcan and reminding them to stack their plates and dump their liquids into the
yukka bucket instead of the garbage. A robot could do the job, yet after an hour of lunch
duty he was exhausted, more beat than if he’d done a ten-miler. He turned around on the
path, to head home.
The wind was at his back, always welcomed. Katie should be up by now and
moving between her open drawers and the bathroom, the shower and the bed where she
sits and brushes the bottom of her feet before rolling up her stockings. She had a habit of
brushing imaginary crumbs off her feet. He smiled. After dressing she’d stand by the
coffee pot and impatiently remove the carafe and put her travel mug underneath to catch
the flow. She’d leave the dregs for him to come back and wash down. He checked his
watch. Even though he started work before her she had a longer commute. Hopefully he’d
get back in time to kiss her goodbye and slap her fanny. How she hated that.
He loved the view of the city going in this direction, the way it opened up before
him, the new-day sun glinting off the steel and aluminum and mirrored in the thousands of
windows. The wide expanse of lake and the endorphins went to his head making him
lighter and faster. Always at this point he could relax—that is if one can be relaxed while
at the same time exerting. The fair weather runners, the casual jogger, and the newbies
without experience were just now joining the path, merging from street arteries and
popping out from under viaducts where the Drive dissected the lakefront. His feet and
head told him only five minutes more before his turn off. He picked up the pace, the lactic
acid in his legs burning.
* * *
He emerged out of the short tunnel squinting, the morning sun eye-level, retina-
rendering. All the curbs heading up onto the bike/running path have been eased to allow
handicap-access. Yet, even that small incline winded him. He jogs, pushing against
gravity and the forces of nature, and the effects of too much pasta. To his right the new
soccer field is enveloped in a light fog. He can just make out the goalposts and trashcans,
color-coded to indicate waste and recycle.
God his knees hurt. Was it the years of pounding or did he need new shoes? In the
middle of the night when he pads his way to the bathroom, he walked like an old man, a
rheumatoid Frankenstein. The first mile or two is devoted to motion, to keeping his
momentum going, because if he stopped it was all over. More often than not he would
acquiesce to a walk/run. Twenty-five years later and good intentions often get substituted
for the real thing.
Low clouds hover above the roiling waters and truncate the tops of the downtown
buildings. The jumble of cement barriers that used to trip him up have been replaced by a
newer, more contoured lakefront. Nowadays people dispose of their trash properly
instead of leaving it to blow into the lake and drift over to Indiana or Michigan or anywhere
else down wind.
His mind awakens at the same curve and his heart still quickens at the mere
thought of Katie. His Katie, bending over heavily, brushing her feet. The chemo took her
hair and the cancer her left breast.
Last spring after her last round of treatment Katie scraped up the energy to attend
Stacey’s graduation. He cringed every time she threatened “over her dead body” when he
suggested they take a pass. Stacey received a degree in Arts and Culture.
What the hell!
Henry slowed his pace (already close to a ten-minute mile) to focus on his form.
The merest thought of Katie’s prognosis or his daughter’s improbable future stressed him
out and made it difficult to breathe. Each time he tells himself he has to stop watching the
news and spending so much time reading depressing political blogs. He paused on the
path, weighing the idea of speed walking.
Suddenly a cyclist raced out of the mist and shouted, “On your left!” startling Henry
and causing him to jump into the dew-laden grass.
Eyeglasses, then bi-focals, gel inserts, then orthotics (the cost of which rivaled
replacing the tires on his car), kidney stones, and an umbilical hernia.
He started up again, drenched in sweat and humidity, trying to exhale the
heaviness inside of him. He’d considered doing one of those 3-day events to raise money
for a cure, running the miles instead of walking them, but the crowds would make it
impossible. Better to just keep doing what he was doing.
He swung back around at the fourth lamppost after the Belmont Harbor Yacht
Club. If lucky he’d get in three miles, get home in time to change, slug back bitter coffee,
and kiss Katie goodbye before heading off to teach.
It’s only a matter of putting one foot in front of another.