Thursday and Friday—both were a blur. High school inquiries went unanswered.
Saturday. Michael’s nose was the second organ of his body to arouse from sleep. His mother had prepared a hot breakfast for him. His favorite: pancakes slathered in butter and drenched in maple syrup, bacon burnt black as his coffee. For a moment, he stood there, unnoticed, watching her frail body, so bony, working at the griddle. Finally, something he hadn’t said in a long time, “Mom—” She turned. “I love you.” Stunned but stoic in the uncertainty of momentary repentance, she returned to her work without a word. Michael’s father, too, would soften at breakfast, reaffirming his love after a night of physical and emotional injury, his gargantuan hands a complete contradiction, giant fingers caressing mere hours after well-connected, hard-knuckled punches.
Michael moved toward the jittery skeleton in the frayed night gown, removed the cigarette from her mouth, took a deep drag for himself before propping it on the butter dish. He hugged his mother from behind. Strong arms that would never injure her squeezed tight—but not too tight.
“You stink, boy.”
The drug-ravaged Michael hadn’t bathed in days.
“Thanks,” he said with a smirk, after blowing a jet stream of smoke in the opposite direction, oily hair sticking to his face.
“Can’t scrub up, yet. Got some damn wood to chop.” He picked at the frayed calluses on the palms of his hands. “Since you ain’t got no meat on your bones, gotta keep this house warm in the winter—feed that hungry potbelly over there.” He nodded handsomely toward the little black stove which gave their humble house of sticks a bit of dignity.
They sat there, mother and son, two people with so much to say, saying nothing.
Breakfast concluded, Michael stood and walked to the back door, patted his flat stomach, stretched his long torso, lion-like, and raked bacon grease fingers through his lengthening mane. He turned and winked at his mother, “Chop, chop.”
And that’s what Michael did. Dull axe in hand, he chopped and chopped and chopped. Anger therapy. Prescribed by his psychiatrist. Focusing his anger and violent behavior on something inanimate, something without flesh or feelings.
In the secret place of his mind, Michael planned on putting everything in order. He started with the logs, stacking them high and tight, covering the sizable mountain with a heavy tarp. His mother thought it strange that, for once, her edgy son whistled while he worked, as if he were truly relaxed and finally at peace. He mowed the patchy grass, scrubbed the tub and toilet, washed and folded the laundry, organized his closet and bureau, made his bed. He even lined his shoes straight as soldiers along the baseboard of the wall.
Baffled and pleased by this unusual display of prioritization and organization, she said, “I don’t know what was in those pancakes, Mikey, but you sure are full of happy energy today!
Michael smiled and waved goodbye to his mother as he closed the shower door. Quick as a click, the smile abandoned his kingly face.
April Showers.
He lathered and scrubbed his body with a yellow bar of Dial soap. Barely any water pressure, it took some time and effort to rinse the shampoo from his long hair. Sculpted and dripping wet, he stared at the peeling wallpaper—curling sailboats—obsessed with thoughts of death or a life without April. He shook his head against a number of whispering voices, demons all, and shouted, “NO!”
His mother called from just beyond the door—knock, knock, knock, knock —”You alright in there, Mikey?”
Silence. The absence of an answer was his answer.
______________
Andrew Dabar
Mickey is not all right…the tension builds…
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No. He’s not alright. Not in the least.
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It’s so good to read your writing again after all this time.
I’m just now getting a website up. (behind the times much?)
Hope to hear more from you soon.
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Karen Barr!!!!!!!
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I can’t wait to visit your website!
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My website’s empty :^) I started setting it up and life sent me sideways. I lost my daughter in April, Lost my oldest pup, Pokey in May (she as 14) – my baby. Then we lost our 7-year-old Lab last week.
So everything got put on hold while I tried to deal with the loss. I’m doing better but it might be a while before I get back to the website. My problem is I have plenty of experience but not a lot of public writing to share. SO I’ll have to take a little different approach.
I really didn’t want to try to set it up feeling the way I have. Nobody wants to read depressing thoughts. 🙂
It’s good to see you again . Keep in touch! We miss you
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Karen, I am so sorry…. I can’t begin to imagine…..
I look forward to reading your work and will find myself jealous of your abilities and also nervous of your keen editorial eye reading me.
I didn’t know what I was doing when I set up my site. I still don’t!
My site is merely an experiment. I try not to take myself too seriously and write a variety of bits and pieces to see what my fans (all four of them!) like. I’m working on a novel and none of that is ever revealed.
I must have conjured you up because I was just thinking about you maybe four days ago.
See you around!
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