Category Archives: Short Fiction

Rascal—

We thought of you today. I love you. I think of you everyday.  Love, Mom

Charlie walked towards the rain streaked handmade sign. It was roughly taped to a traffic signal. Closely he peered at the words, tracing the familiar handwriting was a dirty finger. Charlie remembered grocery lists and birthday cards. Memories surged and crested over him. He leaned a hand against the pole to steady himself.

“You about to hurl?” Freddy shouted.

“Look, my boy, is hungover. How was the party, man?”  Mick laughed

“I thought you were straight edge,” Vic said, joining in the laughter.

Charlie walked away from sign and climbed up into his rig.

Freddy tossed  a stack of flattened boxes into the compactor. Vic and Mick held on to the truck’s rear. Charlie executed a tight reverse and headed out of the complex’s parking lot.

“I’m just sayin’. If you gonna hurl let a brotha know that’s all I’m sayin’,” Freddy said.

The cold front had moved out and morning was warming. The big green truck cruised around the complex’s curves. Charlie concentrated on the winding road looking for old ladies, clueless joggers, and tiny dog walkers. He could see his last Thanksgiving dinner at his Mom’s, watching football on the sofa, laughing with his cousins, helping Mom lift the turkey.

“Just let me know, man. That goes for gas, too. ‘Cause this one time Jack do you know Jack the driver not Jack the floor guy. He ate a bunch of tacos this one time—“

Mentally Charlie muted the conversation and pulled into the next parking lot. The crew hit the recycling bins. Mick was making up stories about all the things he did last Saturday while Vic and Freddy dumped bins and pretended to believe him.

“Hey there is another one of them signs,” Freddy called out.

The truck continued along its route. Charlie was back at school in the lunchroom reading a PostIt stuck to his juicebox: I love you, Mom.

“There’s another one.”

“And another.”

“ I wonder what it’s about,” asked Vic lifting a soggy loveseat

“It’s probably a viral ad like for a new app or a phone or something,” Mick explained.

“Nah, it’s a memorial for the living. Somebody is trying to call someone back into their life, man,” Freddy said carrying the other half of the furniture.

“Hey Rascal  you want a mint?

“What?”

“Mint? Dude where are you?”

Freddy ate his candy. Mick talked about all the girls dying to date him. Vic stretched his aching back. Charlie pulled out on the main road already back home.

An awkward silence lays awake between the warm sheets. Joseph wrapped his arms around Millie’s waist pulling her closer. “Don’t worry it happens to every man once in a while.” Millie is answered by a soft volley of snores.

“I love you so much. That’s what’s important,” Millie said as Joseph pretended to sleep.

“No, I’m fine. I just like being held,” Millie said to Joseph’s back.

“Don’t worry, you’re just over tired,” Millie said.

“I said, I am fine!”

“Umm, maybe you should like, talk to someone.”

“Wait, I didn’t even get my clothes off.”

“Maybe we should go talk to someone.”

“Is that it? No, I meant that was great, really. I have to get to work early tomorrow anyways.”

“It’s not you. It’s me. I need some space.” Space away from you, she thought. Shocked Joseph reached across the café table to hold her hand. Suddenly Millie grabbed her coffee mug and became fascinated by the scene outside the restaurant’s window. Joseph studied the turn of head, the set of her shoulder. He gestured for the waiter to bring the check.

“Thank you for inviting us to the party. The gingerbread was excellent. Next week the potluck is at our place,” Cassidy shouted across the driveway to Patsy, her next door neighbor. She dragged the trash can down to the curb. Wrapping her polka dotted robe tighter around her doughy middle, she waved to Mr. Miller walking his geriatric Peaches across the sun-drenched cul de sac. Cassie fetched the newspaper from the dew damp lawn and headed back inside.

Cassie scrambled eggs while she packed her husband’s lunch. Josh kissed her on the cheek before heading to the plant. She never looked up from the sink. Cassie loaded the dishwasher, started a load in the washer, and headed into her real life.

Her office was in Trevor’s old room. His Fast and Furious posters had been replaced with a pretty pink paint and a floral wallpaper accent wall. There were shelves of scrapbooking supplies and a new Cricut machine set up under the bright frilly window, but the real magic was the monitor and desktop. Cassie drew the blinds. She pressed the glowering red button. She sat her sweet tea on her Grumpy Cat coaster and waded into the electronic blue.

First her favorite online gaming site to place a few bets and see who was lurking in the corners. Cassie was gone. LuckyLeggs7 lost $300, flirted with some old pals, got invited to a late night poker game, and made promises she never intended to keep.

Next was the ‘gram to track her favorite stories and connect with her high school besties. HollistownHottie talked about who was hot and who was not. She had been stalking Bree, Trevor’s ex, teasing Bree about her size, her failed attempt at college, her nowhere job. Bree hadn’t logged on in a few days. Hottie was relentless. Condensation ran down her glass as she tapped furiously at her keyboard. Hottie scouted the internet and then sent a handful of inappropriate emails about the girl to Bree’s boss and Bree’s aunt in Wisconsin. Laughing, Cassie picked up her glass and drank it down.

Finally there were the chat rooms. Cassie rubbed her hands together. PrettyDangerous96 was provocative and like to push boundaries. Pretty was naïve and innocent. She had a folder of pictures of herself from 30 years before and carefully cropped nude photos from adult sites. PrettyDangerous96 was feisty and fun. Pretty was whatever she needed to be to be the center of attention. She flitted from chat to chat until AmericanSun logged on and begged her to answer his calls. Pretty purred and licked her lips.

“Honey?” The sound of Josh’s keys hitting the hall table wrenched Cassie away from the blue. She shut down. Arms open, Cassie ran to Josh. Her husband of thirty years was in kitchen with the mail in one hand and the other on the cold oven.

“Will dinner be late?”

Cassie leaped into his arms with a kiss. Josh held her wondering how did he get so lucky. The letters scattered across the linoleum.

Golden leaves danced across the blacktop. April hurried from her car and up to the schoolhouse door. She willed her heart to beat more slowly and then rang the office bell. Under the shadow of Saint Catherine of the Breaking Wheel, April waited to be buzzed in. Buzz! April walked to the tall front desk where a very old nun sat.

“I’m so sorry to be late the traffic—“

“Oliver’s mom, they are waiting for you in the conference room,” Sister Bernard said, with cherubic pink cheeks and dead serious eyes. The nun gestured in no particular direction with a paper thin hand. April looked perplexed. So not the vice principal’s office this time. Is that good is that worse and where in the hell was the conference room? April waited and then turned. Sister Thomas the principal was standing behind her. April jumped.

“Right this way Mrs. Grayson.”

April followed the nun quietly suddenly a schoolgirl in a plaid uniform being sent to detention. But that’s just it I never had detention I never got so much as a B. After Sister Thomas, April stepped into the school’s conference. A too large walnut conference table was squeezed into what once may have been a storage room. Sister Thomas sat down between Mrs. MacGillicuddy, Tessa’s second grade teacher, and Ms. Wicke, the school psychologist. April pushed the image of the three headed hydra out of her head and sat down opposite.

“I’m so sorry to be late the traffic…” April’s voice slipped away as she made meaningless conciliatory hand gestures.

“A grave matter has come to our attention,” said Sister Thomas.

Mrs. MacGillicuddy slid an open religion textbook towards April. There was a childlike drawing of a naked and familiar man peeing in the shower. April slapped a hand to her forehead.

“This was found in Tessa’s religion book and she claims it was drawn by her brother Oliver. We questioned Oliver and he confessed that it was a picture of his daddy in the shower. Mrs. MacGillicuddy reached over and turned the page. Here was another familiar naked man drawing peeing and tossing dollar bills.

“And this is a picture of his daddy at the bank.”

April clapped her hands over her mouth. I am going to kill that boy.

“And this Saint Joseph.” April massaged her temples. Well at least Saint Joseph had on pants but he also had a devil horns, a tail, and a pitchfork.

“Is this what you family thinks of religion!” Said Mrs. MacGillicuddy.

What do you think we are nudist exhibitionist devil worshippers. “No of course not. We’re Methodists.” April searched the hydra for a glimmer of sympathy but all she got was Ms. Wicke looking uncomfortable.

“Oliver is in the third grade. He told me had drawn silly pictures in his little sister’s book to get back at her because she ate all of his Advent chocolates. I think he thought this was an old textbook.”

“Well we respect school property at Saint Catherine,” Mrs. MacGillicuddy huffed.

“There have been other issues with Oliver regarding behavior and grades,” Sister Thomas said.

“Sister Jerome told me he really tries in her small reading group.”

“We know you work outside the home. Do the children go home to an empty house?” Sister Thomas asked.

“No.” What the hell.

“Is their father in the picture?” Mrs. MacGillicuddy asked.

“Of course, you’ve met him at Back to School Night tall guy with a beard. What are trying to say,” April demanded. Ms. Wicke looked down at the checkerboard linoleum as if to find a crack to melt into.

“We are merely looking for answers to better understand Oliver,” Sister Thomas said.

My child is not a problem in need of a solution. He is a child. A good boy with a learning disability, excellent drawing skills, and a wicked sense of humor. April simmered.

“Some parents have wondered why a boy like this is still at Saint Catherine. We have a culture here—“

“Wait are you talking about my kid with other parents?” Shit I said that out loud. April stopped , reversed and switched her code switching skills up to the highest gear. There is a price other than money parents pay to get and keep their children in good schools. Her parents paid it and now it was her turn.

“We have a culture here, a high standard, a Saint Catherine of the Breaking Wheel’s way. It has been challenging I know for the new students from Saint Martin de Porres to become part of our community,” Sister Thomas finished. She folded her hands and tilted her head in a pose of deepest concern.

“Yes, we appreciate your concern. Oliver’s father and I are also concerned and we are looking at additional resources to support our son. We will work on Oliver.” April closed the religion book. Tears burned the back of her eyes.

Suddenly, April was outside the school, holding a folder of half finished school assignments. The wind slapped at her face. Ms. Wicke stepped outside.

“You have to ask yourself is this school the best place for Oliver,” Ms. Wicke said in a hushed tone before walking quickly to her car. The stature of Saint Catherine stood over the entrance, one arm outstretched holding a sharp spiked wheel, the instrument of her torture. Weighed down, April walked to her own car.

The steel needle drove through the black fabric. She made tiny neat stitches in the knee of her youngest’s treasured must be worn tomorrow sweatpants. She admired her repair and packed away her sun-faded sewing box. It was ten minutes after her bedtime, forty minutes past when she had promised to wind down. She stretched her back on the floor and finished folding laundry.

Next she emptied the dishwasher of the clean and loaded the dishwasher with the dirty. She wiped down the stove and countertops. She closed all of the flung open kitchen cabinets with frustrated taps. She fished for socks lost under the sofa and dirty tees abandoned on the backs of chairs. She started a load a laundry and carried up a warm basket of fresh laundry from the cold basement. She folded another load. Finally finished for the day, her love hung in the air of the sleep quiet home like smoke.

The overstuffed laundry basket hangs low against her hip as she headed upstairs at last. It is some time after midnight. She does the terrible arithmetic of what time it is now against what time she has to get up. She climbed into bed but not into sleep. Surrounded by a sleeping world her mind awakens. She could draw or paint or knit or buy a Fiestaware teapot from North Dakota or find out what her favorite childhood TV stars look like now. Mentally she swipes through the kaleidoscope of diversions. The teetering stack of books on her bedside table gives her a flirtatious wink.

She knows the Japanese word for a pile of books awaiting to be read is tsundoku. Her fingers trailed down the spines. She knows the Chinese word for bedtime revenge is baofuxing aoye, the term describes workers who have to work long hours will stay up late. As she turns the page on a book on global warming or a book on fabric inspiration for mixed media or finally finds out if Lawrence Todhunter got away with murder, she snuggled into that sweet pocket of time that is hers and hers alone and wonders if there is a word for this.