Tilt - Alan Cumyn [14]
The browny white ones weren’t real butterflies. They floated in the wind and sometimes he sneezed them and then it was hard to keep his sneakers out of the muck.
There would be swimming after this. Somewhere at the end of the path. He was listening for the swimming but he couldn’t hear it. All he could hear was the rustle of wind through the brown dry stalks and the green wet ones. The green and the brown together made a messy wall that could open up and swallow you, so that’s why he had to stay on the path.
And then his sneakers were wet, swallowed by the muck on what should have been a dry spot. First one, then the other, squelch squelch, and the muck smelled like toilet gas and his feet squirmed in the mucky sneakers that wanted to stay glued where they were. He nearly pulled them off just by stepping another step. So he ran and the muck got worse as the path squirmed and snaked.
Where were his parents? Where was the swimming?
So he ran and he ran and it didn’t matter anymore what muck he stepped into, up to his ankles, splattering his knees.
There they were, his parents. He almost missed them! He almost ran past them hiding off the path in the green and brown wall where they’d thrown down the blanket.
He pushed through to them and said, “Where’s the swimming?”
It was so hot they’d taken off some of their clothes. It was so hot down there on the blanket in the green and brown wall that Daddy and Mommy were squirming. Their underpants were at their ankles!
Stan said again, “Where is the swimming?” because his sneakers and his legs were mucky.
And Mommy turned her face to him. She looked like she’d been dreaming. Daddy had his face hiding into her neck.
“What are you doing?” Stan asked.
That’s when his father lifted up his face, too. He was lying right on top of her in the hot hot and his face looked like he’d just been swimming himself.
“We’re planting your little brother, Sport,” he said. And Mommy hit him — it wasn’t much of a slap. Her arms were mostly trapped in his.
So Stan ran to where the swimming was. It wasn’t far at all and he did splash water on the sneakers and his legs till all the muck came off. Later when he looked up his parents were on the blanket on the beach in their swimsuits. His mother was reading a book and his father was sitting in his dark glasses staring at something far far away.
—
At breakfast Stan and Lily sat alone over two bowls of brown flakes. His mom and Gary were upstairs still. At least they were being quiet.
Sometimes they weren’t.
“When did Dad say he was coming?” Stan pressed.
“I had a dream about kitty-cats,” Lily said.
“If he’s coming we really need to know,” Stan said.
“There was a black one and a tawny one. Tawny is a color,” she said.
“Mom, for one, is going to hit the roof.”
“And that was his name, too. Tawny and Rick. They were racing and jumping off the rooftop and Rick thought he could fly.” She picked up her spoon and held it, flying, over her head. Milk dripped onto the shoulder of her blouse. “And Tawny yelled out, ‘Look out below!’”
Stan grabbed the spoon and put it down on the table. Lily shook her hand as if he’d hurt her.
“When is he coming?”
Lily picked up her spoon again and slurped her milk. “Rick hit the ground and died.”
“How did you get that phone?”
“There was a little bounce and then his feet went splat! And there was blood where his little head —”
“Is he back in town? Did he bring it to you?”
“— bounced around like a little ball.”
Stan drilled his big-brother eyes into hers until she had to look at him.
“Filled with blood,” she said. “Everywhere it bounced it left a little mark.”
“Lily — did he come to your school or something and bring you the phone?”
“He didn’t look like any pictures. It was all gray.