I See You -- flash fiction

Hoss, the Jack Russell, always met him at the door, and he always said the same thing. "I see you."

When she wrecked the car, she cried. She hadn't totaled the car. She was not hurt. She'd been thinking about where she was going instead of what she was doing. The officer ticketed the other driver, but if she'd been paying attention, she could have avoided the whole thing, been on time for her meeting, saved the other driver a ticket, saved herself the deductible. Tears were unnecessary. She was just so angry.

"I see you," he said as he tried to put his arm around her.

"Oh, leave me alone," she said and shrugged him off.

But he hadn't left her alone, and he didn't. Until he did.

A brain aneurysm. Asymptomatic. Can cause stroke ending in brain damage or death. "No shit Sherlock." She should be glad he died. He'd have hated brain damage. She'd have hated brain damage. She hated him being dead.

But she was learning. She had learned to go to bed alone. To get up alone. She didn't go out to eat alone or to the movies alone. Not yet.

There were good kinds of alone. Like when you're in a forest beyond the sound of humans. In the spring when everything is damp and just coming green again. Bird song, drops of rain landing on your hat, the quarreling of a squirrel when he realizes you've seen him.

Or in a warm, candle-lit bath. The house quiet, because he's already asleep. And you can almost hear him and the dog breathing.

One reason she'd married him was so she wouldn't have to deal with life alone. And because he was so practical. She'd been called a dreamer, a bleeding heart, a trouble maker. But he never faulted her for being angry or upset. He really could see her. He saw she tried to right the wrongs she railed against. That she tried to find the good in people, especially the people who were hard for her to like. That she wanted her way because she really did think it was the best way for everybody concerned. He saw that sometimes she failed. At big things. At little things. At being perfect.

Like right then. She did not know how to grieve. Not how to do it right. She read books, went to grief counselling.

 At least she could sleep.

She saw him. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe all those bad times were the dream. This seemed real. His hair was freshly cut and he smelled of bath soap and deodorant. He was coming through the trees toward her.

"I see you," he said.

"I see you," she said and reached for him.

Something landed in the middle of her, jolting her awake. Two bright black eyes in a little white face, looking down at her.

"Rotten dog." Her eyes filled with angry tears. But the little dog looked so happy to see her awake.

"I see you," she said letting go of the tears and the anger. "Wanna go to the movies? Or will breakfast do?"

Life in a Tree -- flash fiction

image from beforeitsnews.com

“Stevie, are you still up there?”

“But what about Daddy?”

“Steven Michael, you come down here this instant. We’ve got to be at the airport in six hours.” Now he decides he’s not going. I won’t have it. He does not make decisions for me. “Steven. Now!”

“I won’t leave Daddy.”

“I’m coming up there.” Climb a tree after a six-year-old? This is the stupidest damn thing I’ve done in a long while. “Steven, do I have to drag you out of this tree?”

“But, Mom, look at the world. You can see the whole world from up here.”

“Yes, very pretty.” She sat down on the limb and let her legs dangle. “Stevie, this is exactly why we’re leaving. What you can see from here is not the whole world. It’s not even a little bit of it.”

He’s just like his father, no imagination. Satisfied, satisfied, satisfied. He’s a little boy. He doesn’t understand. We’re one hundred and fifty miles from an airport. A regional airport. Not even a hub. You can’t get anywhere from here without going somewhere else first. That far from the nearest ballet company. Not that Michael cares how far his son is from a ballet company. But we’re just as far from a hospital – a Level II trauma center. There is no Level I in the whole state. God forbid if he fell out of this tree. We’re talking med flight into Salt Lake or Denver.

“Just think of it Stevie. Washington, D.C., the Capital of the United States, the most important city in the world.”

“But we won’t have a house. Where will we sleep? I don’t like hotels.”

“No, honey, we won’t live in a hotel. We have an apartment there. You’ll have your own room just like here.”

“I don’t think Rufus will like an apartment.”

“He’s too big for an apartment. Besides he can’t go on the plane with us.”

“I’m almost as big as Rufus, maybe I’m too big for an apartment.”

“We’ve been through all this before.”

And much, much more with his father. Michael knew what she was like when they married. He was handsome and brilliant. He was proud to have a wife graduating at the top of her class, then clerking for a State Supreme Court Justice. He knew she wanted out of Wyoming. She thought he would want to go where they could actually make a difference. Actually protect the wildlife he loved so well. She thought the National Park Service would be just the beginning. The first step. Decisions were made in D.C.

Michael should have been there an hour ago. He should be the one up in this tree.

“Hey! What are you two monkeys doing up in the tree?”

“Daddy! Come up. Come up.”

“Yes, Michael. Do come up and see if you can talk some sense into your son.” She moved toward the trunk of the tree. “Wait. Let me come down first.”

He lifted her out of the tree and set her on the ground. “What’s going on?”

“Steven Michael doesn’t want to come with me.”

“Okay.” He took a slow deep breath. “What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to him. Explain it to him.”

“Explain divorce to a six-year-old? I’m not sure I can.”

She snorted in disgust and stomped away.

He climbed the tree and sat on the third from the bottom most limb. Drawing his son into his lap he asked, “Now why don’t you want to go with Momma?”

“It’s too far away, and you know how she always gets lost and she needs you to tell her how to spell words and Rufus can’t go.” The little boy’s eyes filled with tears.

Michael kissed Steven’s forehead, knowing that this was one hurt he couldn’t kiss away.

“Stevie, your Momma won’t get lost and if she does there’ll be lots of people there to help her find where she wants to go. And you know she never goes anywhere without her phone so she can use it to find out how to spell any word she wants to.”

“Okay.” The child sniffled and snuggled against his dad.

“And Rufus will go to work with me most days.”

“But why, Daddy? Why?”

“Why what?” he asked, knowing very well what. “You know how unhappy Momma’s been, for a long time now. Sometimes grown-ups just don’t love each other anymore.”

She had loved him once, he was sure of that. She was beautiful and intelligent. And she had been enthralled by his intelligence. She could have had any of the campus jocks, but she loved him. She knew what he was like. He lived out-of-doors, in the wild places away from the corrosive element of human beings. Wildlife management was his way to save at least a little part of the world he loved. He thought she would settle into the life, appreciate the vitality of Wyoming, the skies, the fresh air, the unlimited opportunities for discovery.

“Daddy?” the child put his hands on either side of Michael’s face and made him look at him.

Michael would never get over how completely beautiful the child was. His child. The wild must be preserved for all the Steven Michaels.

“What?”

“Do they have elk in Washington, D.C.?”

“In the zoo, maybe. They have deer. Not mule deer like we have here, but white tail. And raccoons and rabbits and some varmints like you’ve never seen here.” He set the child on the next lower limb. “Be careful.”

Before the boy climbed down, he asked another question. “Do grown-ups stop loving little boys?”

Tenth Anniversary -- flash fiction

from spin.com

She awoke early. Not a stitch of bedding covered her. She was cold and her left hip ached. At thirty-five she was too young for arthritis. Unfortunately her hip didn’t know that.

Wrapped up in the blankets, her husband slept, breathing through his mouth. Unfortunately, he’d not brushed his teeth after that last beer. If his mouth felt and tasted like it smelled, how could he stand it? Even in his sleep?

Only twenty minutes left before the alarm. She might as well get up. One look at the bathroom floor and she almost forgot why she went in there. His work clothes, underwear, and socks drifted against the dirty clothes hamper. Against the hamper! What was so difficult about lifting the lid and dropping them in there?

And, speaking of lifting the lid, what was so difficult about closing the toilet lid?

She sighed.

She reminded herself that if it bothered her, then it was her problem and she would have to deal with it. She’d told him before that it bothered her. Did he not believe her? Did he enjoy irritating her?

She picked up the clothes and closed the toilet lid after herself.

In the kitchen she hit the coffee maker’s ‘on’ button and leaned against the counter waiting for that wonderful falling water sound that it makes as life-giving liquid pours into the carafe and the soothing aroma fills the room.

Nothing happened. Is it plugged in? Yes, it’s plugged in. There’s no water in the reservoir. There are no fresh grounds in the basket. He told her he’d set it up before he went to bed. He made a special effort to tell her he’d do it. If he hadn’t said he would, she would have.

She slammed the cabinet door. So what if it woke him up? He needed to get up anyway. And he could make his own breakfast. If he could handle pouring oatmeal into the bowl and operate the microwave. Whatever. She certainly was not going to do it.

She heard him get up and go into the bathroom. The toilet flushed. At least he flushed the toilet. He probably didn’t notice that she’d picked his clothes up.

She heard him rummaging around in the hall closet. What was he doing now? That was his closet and she never went into it. She’d be afraid to. Large, furry animals had probably set up housekeeping in there. Heaven knew he hadn’t done any housekeeping in there. Or anywhere else.

He came into the kitchen wearing a do-rag and an old T-shirt from some concert back in the old days when they went to concerts. He must have lost his mind.

Smiling like he’d won the lottery, he waved his phone at her.

“You, my beautiful wife have an appointment at the day spa.”

He HAD lost his mind. Her boss expected a full-day’s work for a full-day’s pay. She didn’t get time off for spa visits.

“It’s all arranged. Alex is letting you off at 2:30 and a taxi will take you to the spa. I’ll pick you up at 5:00. We’ll have a hamburger at that little joint on 23rd and be in the amphitheater by 7:30.”

How could he be so enthusiastic and noisy that early in the morning? She poured herself another cup of coffee.

She set the cup down barely avoiding disaster as he grabbed her around the waist and whirled her in the air. He brandished the phone at her again. This time giving her a chance to read the screen. Two tickets, $118.52. What was he thinking? That much money would almost pay the phone bill.

“Santana! My own black magic woman!” His eyes twinkled, and his breath was minty fresh. “I won the Pick Three. 10-13-4! That was our first date. Ten years ago today.” He threw his hands out wide and wiggled a little dance step. “We saw Santana and you were the most beautiful woman I knew. I couldn’t believe you’d go out with me, but you did. And I’m even gladder now than I was then.”

Gladder? Ah, well. Words were not his life. But she thought he was pretty cute.

“Wear that blue outfit, honey,” he said. “You look really hot in it.” Then he winked. “And even hotter out of it.”

She drank her second cup of coffee and smiled. She knew there were more important things in life than a man who picked up his clothes and brushed his teeth every night before bed. Any man who was lucky enough to win the Pick Three and thoughtful enough to remember their first date – not to mention, think her beautiful – had a lot going for him.