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May alphabetized the spice rack instead of doing her algebra homework.
There was no reason to do her algebra homework until the spice rack was alphabetized. If she tried now, the equations would read “x - 3 = UNALPHABETIZED SPICE RACK,” and “x + 4 = UNALPHABETIZED SPICE RACK.” That would mean that “x - 3 = UNALPHABETIZED SPICE RACK = x + 4.” And that would then mean that “x - 3 = x + 4.” And that would mean the universe was unfair, and May needed to lie down.
But there was no time to lie down! The jar of basil was set after the jar of cumin! Mustard was the last jar on the rack!
Mustard!
Who would disorganize the spice rack? No one else in the house cooked.
But apparently someone had cooked, and they’d flavored their meal with everything from ‘aniseed’ to ‘vanilla.’ And they’d put everything back wrong. And they’d probably put the dirty dishware in the washing machine, and not the dish-washer, and they might as well light the house on fire, for all they cared.
Shaken by the thought of her freshly-ironed bath towels catching fire, May took a steadying breath.
Maybe the spice bottles weren’t put away wrong. Maybe they were put away with another system. So they weren’t alphabetized! So what? Maybe they were organized according to how much was left in the jar!
...except the mustard was beside the pepper, and there was tons of mustard, but barely a teaspoon’s worth of pepper.
May looked for a color pattern, but there was none. Nor was there a grain-size pattern. What about a taste-bud pattern? Maybe the bitter spices were grouped together, ranging from ‘least bitter’ to ‘most bitter,’ and then transitioning into ‘salty.’ That would be a sensible, intuitive pattern. That would be a lovely pattern!
But mint wasn’t more bitter than crushed red pepper.
It was just chaos. Dumb, meaningless chaos that was nonetheless creative enough to keep May guessing. She should just re-organize them.
...but what if there was a pattern that she wasn’t seeing? What if she were destroying a better--no--the best spice rack pattern in the history of spice rack patterns?
And what if she chose to believe that, and didn’t re-organize them? Whether the belief was right or wrong, the spice rack would stay like this--hostage to an agnostic pattern--until the end of time!
No! May used this spice rack, and she wouldn’t stand for it!
In the living room, Fred sprawled on a recliner, his legs stretching past the foot-rest. Fred was May’s father. He was also a postman. But to be honest, he wasn’t much of anything, any more.
His heyday had ended a few years ago. Back then, his body had been too tall and sharp for dancing, but too graceful for basketball. That suited him fine: he was a swimmer. Marathon, snorkeling, SCUBA, free-diving, water polo...
...but his favorite was the high dive.
Nine feet in the air, Fred would grin at the swimming pool beneath him. His toes curled on the edge of the diving platform. Up went his arms, like Superman, and with a bend of the knees, he’d leap--!
And he’d fall--but it wasn’t a fall, because “falling” is what happens when you trip, and Fred had control--more control than he’d ever had on the ground...his body twisting and flipping and scrunching up and extending into a perfectly straight line!
And it wasn’t a dive, because “diving” was for brutes...it was for submarines, and pelicans, and young swimmers who crouched down and doubled over into the pool, rather than embracing the freedom of a jump!
That’s what it was: “freedom!”
Imagine leaping off a cliff with a hang-glider, and at first, plummeting, but then evening off and jetting through the heavens. Now imagine that without the hang-glider: you’re plummeting, alone...then suddenly soaring through a blue expanse.
Every time Fred cut the water, he stayed under as long as he could. Every time he came up for air, his heart broke. He was a great swimmer, and spent many years training his tall, sharp, graceful body for the Olympics.
But he never made it to the Olympics, and now that tall, sharp, graceful body was sprawled on a recliner, its legs too long for the foot-rest. Now he spent his free time watching video recordings of the Olympics that he hadn’t participated in. Now his height was cumbersome, his edges were dull, and his feet ached so much that when he moved, it was at the confused pace of someone trying to run underwater.
And he’d grown a belly, which made him look like a twig with a knot in its middle. You got the impression that if he stepped in the water, his belly would weigh him down to the bottom. Not that he stepped in the water any more.
And his face had drooped. When he got sad--which was often, since he’d stopped swimming--there was more face to sulk on. And when he wasn’t sad, it took longer to furl up his sulk.
He squinted at the television.
The foot-rest pressed into his calves, which numbed his throbbing feet. Fred delivered mail across town every day, except for Sundays and holidays, when he bagged groceries. His last day off was the day that May was born. Like so many things in Fred’s life, it was easier to numb his feet than assuage them.
May entered the living room, and stood menacingly behind her father’s recliner. She even tapped her foot. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Dad?”
Fred didn’t react. He’d seen both his daughter and the Olympics before, and he preferred the Olympics. After some nagging, she’d leave him alone.
And on most days, May would have left him alone, but the Spice Rack Incident was harrowing, and she intended to make that known.
“Is there something you’d like to apologize for?”
Oh, Fred wanted to apologize, alright. He was sorry he hadn’t forced May to overcome her fear of swimming. He was sorry he hadn’t yanked off her water-wings and held her head underwater to show her it wasn’t so bad. He was sorry he had abandoned his dream, and sorrier that he hadn’t passed it on to his daughter.
May stopped tapping her foot. Her father’s eyes were open and his stomach was rising, but those were the only signs of life. It didn’t look like she would get her answers. Panic tinged her voice as she asked, “Is there a pattern you’d like to explain?”
‘A pattern?’ Where had Fred gone wrong?
It had been ages since he’d tried, but he had tried, when she was little. He’d painted May’s room blue. He had bathed her too often. When she was three, he tried to teach her the front crawl by holding her afloat, paddling her legs, windmilling her arms, and turning her head for her--and he puppeted her all at once, since she only had enough coordination for one action at a time.
But she always swallowed more water than she swam in, like a basking shark without gills. By the time Fred thought to hold her head underwater, he had given up on her. She was probably too old for that sort of thing, anyway. The damage was done. His daughter had grown from a ‘drowning basking shark’ into a ‘pattern-obsessed landlubber.’
“Trying to watch,” Fred grumbled.
May checked the television. Greg Louganis was about to win a gold medal with a one-and-a-half somersaults, tuck dive. Of all the Olympic dives that Fred had recorded, May knew that this one was her father’s favorite.
The ‘one-and-a-half somersaults, tuck’ had been her father’s speciality, and even her mother said that it had been on-par with the ‘one-and-a-half somersaults, tuck’ that had won Greg Louganis a gold medal. Watching the videotape was the easiest way for Fred to become an Olympic champion, and Fred made sure to become an Olympic champion every day after work.
And May would be darned and embroidered if her father got to become an Olympic champion while she had to quell the Spice Rack Incident.
As Greg Louganis climbed the stairs to the diving platform, May leapt in front of Fred’s recliner, blocking his view of the television. Wherever he shifted, she hopped, blocking his view with geometric precision. For a skinny girl, her body was ubiquitous.
“You disorganized the spice rack,” she accused.
“I’m sorry,” said Fred, willing his eyes to X-ray through her. He could hear the announcers laud the graceful way that Greg Louganis ascended the stairs, and they discouraged Fred from blinking, lest he miss what-would-surely-be a historic dive.
“I noticed,” May continued, proud of her investigation, “that the only quantity of spice that was affected was the popcorn salt.”
“Chips needed flavor.” Fred offered her a bowl with crumbs of popcorn-salted, barbecue-flavored potato chips. “Have the rest. Daddy’s watching.”
On the television, the announcers explained the score that Greg Louganis needed to place. Having memorized the tape, Fred didn’t need to see to know that the camera was close-up on Greg Louganis, squaring his jaw and breathing deep. But Fred would’ve liked to have seen it.
May pointed to his eyes. They were reddened and deadened after years of marinating in chlorine. “You had to look at all the jars up close to read the labels--”
“I said I was sorry.”
“--and you put everything back wrong--”
“I’ll look for my prescription goggles after dinner.”
“Well, dinner will be late, since I have to re-organize a patternless spice rack, and then do my algebra homework.”
On television, the announcers went quiet. This meant that Greg Louganis was about to dive.
Fred looked at May for the first time in the conversation, pleading; desperate.
“I’ll move,” said May, slowly...very slowly, “but...I want...a real...apology.”
Behind her body, Greg Louganis performed a one-and-a-half somersaults, tuck dive. Fred heard the crowd applaud as another man won his gold medal.
He scowled. “Don’t cook, if it’s such a problem. It’s been months since we used the microwave.”
Fred’s life was filled with things that were hogging space and energy. Why have a microwave, if you didn’t use it? At what point did you pull the freeloading, wasteful, unappreciative parasites off of your neck?
May tightened her lip to stop it from trembling. “And now you can apologize for liking microwave food more than my dinners,” she demanded with such severity that her voice cracked.
“You should do your homework,” Fred said.
“I just said I was going to do my homework,” she seethed. “Please apologize.”
“And let Daddy see the TV.” Fred shooed May with his hand.
May walked backwards, toward the television. “How’s this?”
Fred glared at May, and she glared right back at him; at his dried eyes, his noodly legs, the barbecue dust and popcorn salt on his shirt.
She ejected the tape from the VCR.
Her father didn’t move, but he doubled the intensity of his glare. He never would have glared at Greg Louganis like that.
May sprinted to her room with the videotape. It would be a minute before he could vault to his feet and lumber upstairs. Whatever she did next, she’d have to be quick.
By the time Fred reached May’s door, it was locked.
This had the potential to be a squabble, and every child in every culture that has lockable doors would rather barricade themselves in their room than face a squabble, head on. It was true of May now, and had been true of Fred, when he was a child. It’s obvious to anyone who’s ever lived, and as surprising as learning that you can’t sneeze with your eyes open.
Nevertheless, it surprised Fred when he tried to turn the doorknob and it stuck. Only then did he remember this basic human truth, and even though no one saw him forget it, his angry-red face was further reddened with embarrassment. And when the right sort of anger meets the right sort of embarrassment, some truly bizarre reactions are born.
Upon finding the door locked, an articulate man would have called through it, and demand that it be opened. A polite man would have knocked, and requested entry. A pugnacious man would have used the door as a punching bag, kicking and jabbing and hurling his weight at it.
But Fred, who was angry and embarrassed, tried to turn the locked doorknob again. And again. And again. One small, repeated movement, as if he were conducting a one-note symphony.
Faster and meaner, until he was throttling the poor thing. If the door had lungs, it would have opened; it would have carried Fred on its back; it would have commanded his every wish, if only to stop the throttling. Fortunately, doors don’t have lungs, and this bought May some time.
There are many ways to destroy a videotape. Unfortunately, none of them were in May’s room--which only had soft things, like plush fish, and a beanbag chair patterned after a coral reef. Even her mattress was a waterbed!
Although she did have a dictionary. A big one, too. She needed two hands to carry it, and thought of it as a fat gargoyle that lived on her shelf. The videotape would be flattened like a pancake if she dropped the dictionary on it.
...but that might scuff the dictionary. You don’t scuff fat gargoyles who know where you sleep.
Outside, the doorknob was still being throttled. It was bad enough, having to sentence this videotape; now she felt sorry for the doorknob, which was paying for her crime. But hopefully it would wear her father out, and she’d get off light, and would only be beheaded with salad tongs.
Of course, knowing her father, he’d probably use the good salad tongs, and she’d warn him that blood would tarnish the silver, but he wouldn’t listen, and would be content eating with tarnished salad tongs for the rest of his life.
Disgraceful.
Maybe if she turned herself in, he’d have the decency to kill her with his bare hands. This feud was between them; there was no need to tarnish any silverware.
To that end, maybe she didn’t need tools to destroy the videotape. After all, a wall can be as hard as a hammer. She could throw the videotape against the wall until it shattered into LEGO pieces.
...but that might scratch the paint job. Her father showed the room to every guest, explaining how meticulously he’d sponged the blue paints to her walls. To him, it was the crown jewel of the house. Why ruin something so important to him?
Wait. Wasn’t that the point of destroying the videotape?
Of course it was, but May couldn’t help imagining the spice rack in pieces...the jars shattered...the spices jumbled in a single dune. The thought was awful, but when she pushed it from her mind, new horrors took its place. The cutting board, cracked and wet and rotting. The feather duster, plucked. Her crayons, snapped and worn into fragments that were too small to comfortably hold.
Maybe destroying her father’s videotape was too much.
But he deserved some punishment, so May tucked the videotape beneath her waterbed’s mattress, and made a mental note to withhold it for no less than a week. Let him earn Greg Louganis’ gold medal, for once.
This decision relieved a great deal of stress. She opened her algebra book and got to work, but it was hard to concentrate. The spice rack was still a shambles, nothing was defrosting for dinner, and her father was still at her door--though he was now only churning the doorknob.
After a few hours, the sound of doorknob-churning became white noise. May nodded her head with it, her pencil metronoming between either side of an ‘equals’ sign.
Fred must have sensed her adapting, because he gave up soon after, and slumped back to the living room. Poor May lost the rhythm immediately, and fought the urge to storm after him and demand that he continue churning the doorknob.
Some time later, May was algebring with gusto (and replicating the doorknob-churning sound by rapping her foot on the closet door), when suddenly, there came an apologetic knock. “Sweetheart,” cooed Tabby, from the hall, “can I come in?”
“Is Dad downstairs?” May waited for a response. When she didn’t get one, she repeated, “Is Dad downstairs?”
“Sorry, yes,” Tabby laughed. “The first time you asked, I nodded ‘yes,’ but I forgot you couldn’t see me.”
May checked beneath the door. Sure enough, there was only one pair of feet, and its toenails were painted fuchsia. Cautiously, May cracked the door and let her mother squeeze inside.
Tabby was the sort of woman who--while sitting in salons, airplanes, and funerals--will starts banal conversations with strangers. She always has a magazine handy, and when the stranger politely kills the conversation, she re-animates it by withdrawing a topic from the magazine. As an example:
Tabby might say, “What ugly boots they’re wearing in New York!”
The stranger might reply, “I wouldn’t know; I’ve been blind since birth.”
Then, after a silence, Tabby might say, “Can you believe this twelve-year-old took backless photographs?”
And so on.
It would be easy to judge her for never reading more than a sentence of any magazine article, but we should remember that no one reads more than a sentence of any magazine article. Tabby would be the first to tell you this (and the loudest to tell you this, and take the longest time, telling you this), because she was once a world-renowned magazine writer, and proudly opposed “limiting her work by proof-reading it.”
“I just type some words,” she’d laugh, “and hope my editor finds the errors.”
Since her editor didn’t read more than a sentence of any magazine article, he never found any errors. The same went for her subscribers, who imagined that they liked her writing so much that they gave her the prestigious Reader’s Choice Award, inscribed with her name (though it was misspelled).
With the Reader’s Choice Award in hand, Tabby had achieved her second dream of becoming a world-renowned journalist. It was time to pursue her first dream: motherhood.
She’d wanted to be a mother ever since her own mother had unfairly placed her in ‘time-out.’ There Tabby swore to have a daughter who she got along with. Mothers and daughters should get along and shouldn’t unfairly put one another in ‘time-out.’
To focus her energies on having “the right sort of daughter,” Tabby quit the magazine, and after two months of begging, harassing, and bartering, Fred consented, and a baby was conceived. It sat very still in her womb, which Tabby found worrisome, and not a sign of good behavior--which it was.
In order to stimulate the baby, she exercised too much, drank coffee, and pressed her fingers deep into her own stomach to massage its head. Despite this, the baby remained admirably calm. A small part of Tabby liked having a lazy fetus, because she looked forward to cuddling a sleepy lump of a newborn.
Instead, she got May, who spent her first twenty-seven hours flailing, shrieking, and vomiting. May had put up with a lot, in utero, but being born was the last straw.
‘Being with Tabby’ was the only thing that softened May’s shrieks down to ‘caterwauls,’ so the nurses relocated mother and daughter to the most remote, sound-proof room in the hospital. For Tabby, it was like being put in ‘time-out’ all over again. And instead of having a daughter who liked her, she had a demented red goblin.
But things had improved since then. Now, for instance, Tabby had a bond with her daughter. Everyone knew this because she mentioned it once a conversation.
“Your father would like his videotape back.” She sat on the bed, and--without knowing it--the videotape.
If she felt it, her face didn’t show it, and Tabby did not have a poker face. Her eyes were gravitationally large, and rarely blinked, and they served as an exclamation point to whatever her mouth was doing. If it smiled, she was pleasantly confused. If it frowned, she was aghast. If it did nothing, she was bewildered.
“He doesn’t ‘get’ us, does he?” Tabby folded her legs onto the bed and pat the spot next to her, inviting May to sit beside her. “He doesn’t ‘get’ our bond. I told him I could get his videotape back just by asking--just by asking! Because that’s how relationships work, when they’re healthy--don’t you think?”
“Sure,” shrugged May. She felt like she should comment further, and tried to think of what to say.
There was a pause.
“Can he have the tape back?” Tabby asked.
“No.”
“I understand.” Tabby stood, and opened May’s closet. She held May’s shirts up to herself, as if she intended to try them on. “I wouldn’t give it back, either. If your father weren’t always watching those tapes, he’d probably notice more when I make the effort. Do you think he notices when I make the effort?”
She turned to her daughter, a child-sized party dress draped in front of her.
“Maybe?” May remained diplomatic. It was hard not to notice her mother, but if anyone could do it, it was her father.
“I don’t know, either. But I don’t think he does. And I don’t remember the last time he said he loved me. Do you remember the last time he said he loved you?”
May didn’t, but she didn’t mind. Dad didn’t say a lot of things; he never said, “Why, thank you, May, I was craving your cauliflower!” but he ate it, all the same.
“He’s insane, you know.” Tabby returned to the bed and used two plush fish to pantomime a game of tag. “He takes pills for it. He’d be more insane without the pills, if you can believe it.”
She turned to May, suddenly earnest. “I’ve told you he takes pills before, right?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Of course I have. Not that it isn’t obvious. And not that you wouldn’t have figured it out.” She scrutinized May with her big, unblinking eyes.
May worried that she’d left a clue about the videotape’s whereabouts, until Tabby continued, “You are very smart, after all. And pretty. Are there any boys at school?”
“Sure,” May said, relieved. “There’s tons.”
Tabby burst out laughing, and flung the plush fish in the air.
“What?” May asked, and she looked so confused that it made her mother cackle. At last, it clicked, and May said, “Oh! No! No, there aren’t any boys.”
But Tabby was now vermillion with laughter and rocking back and forth.
“Stop laughing!” May pleaded.
Tabby gasped for breath. “Sorry, it’s just...” she raised her voice to impersonate May, “‘Sure, there’s tons!’”
“I don’t talk like that!”
“‘Sure, there’s tons!’” Tabby droned in a bass, and then cracked up all over again.
May blushed, but used the heat from her cheeks to stoke her glare. Just before the glare went nuclear, her mother calmed down.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Gosh, you really need to lighten up.” She kissed a plush fish at May’s impassive face. “You have no sense of humor at all. You must get that from your father.” This thought sent her back into hysterics.
“That wasn’t even a joke,” May muttered.
“Well, anyway, I’m sorry. But enough’s enough: let’s give your father back his videotape.”
May didn’t move.
“Come on,” Tabby pat May on the thigh, “I told him I could get it back.”
May didn’t move.
Tabby widened her wide eyes even wider. “You don’t want me to get in trouble, do you?”
Affected, May shook her head ‘no,’ but said nothing.
Tabby leapt forward and hugged May by the neck. “Then bring the tape downstairs and apologize, and I’ll microwave us something delicious!”
“I’m punishing Dad,” May croaked into her mother’s elbow, “for being mean.”
“Okay,” Tabby decompressed her hug, “but why would you punish me, too?”
Hadn’t Tabby suffered enough for the sins of this goblin child?
“This has nothing to do with you, Mom. It’s between me and Dad.”
Didn’t it have something to do with Tabby? She was this house’s glue! Without the glue, this house would fall apart, and it wouldn’t have decorative glue icicles along the roof, either!
“Is that what you really think?” she asked, trepidatious.
“There’s nothing to think. It’s true.”
That was the most selfish thing Tabby had ever heard. But for the sake of keeping the house together, she would let it slide. She would be downright altruistic. Oh, she was a paragon of altruism! It would be a crime to let such altruism go unappreciated!
“That is the most selfish thing I’ve ever heard,” she declared, and marched to the door. “You really are your father’s daughter.”
And she slammed the door, leaving the house a little bit sturdier.
Is Public Enemy Number One allowed to eat? It was closer to bed-time than dinner-time, so May was tempted to forego dinner, but then she might eat twice as much breakfast, and would take twice as much time in the restroom, and miss twice as much geography, and get rejected from all the good colleges because she didn’t know their states’ capitals.
No, better to eat dinner and learn about Montpelier.
After, like, forever, the television was silenced, the hall light was shut, and she felt confident that her parents were too tired to stage a guerrilla attack from behind the sofa. The coast was clear, but who knew how long that would last?
May snuck into the kitchen. There wasn’t time for anything fancy, so she settled for paneer masala. While the sauce was boiling, she made chicken salad and a steak sandwich--her parents’ favorite lunches--and put them in the fridge for the next day. Then she gobbled down the masala so fast that she couldn’t even savor the turmeric, and went to bed.
Some people--and of course, this includes May--cannot sleep late.
No matter how deep they’re sleeping, no matter how soundly they’re snoring, no matter if their dream-prince is puckering up, or their nightmare-bulldog is about to chomp down; at 6:49, their brain screeches to a halt, their eyes snap open, and they get dressed. Surprisingly, these people still have alarm clocks, because when it rings, they’re lacing up their shoes and are about to leave the house, which makes them feel ahead of the game.
For these people, feeling ‘ahead of the game’ is better than Christmas.
It was therefore a point of shame that May had to be woken up by her mother. Apparently she had out-slept both, her internal clock and her alarm clock. How late was it? Had she missed the bus?
“C’mon, sweetheart,” Tabby coached. “It’s very important.”
It was dark outside. How late had May slept? Was it ‘today,’ or ‘tomorrow,’ or even ‘next week?’ It might as well be next week. If she couldn’t count on her internal clock, anything was possible.
Tabby helped May sit up. “I know it’s late, but it’s important.”
“What is?”
“A little errand. Just a little one. But it’s very important.”
“Can we do it tomorrow?”
“C’mon; up. I mean business.”
With a sigh, May staggered to the closet. Slowly, she remembered their ‘fight,’ and as she donned a jacket, she said, “Listen, Mom...I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I--”
Her mother interrupted, grabbed the jacket off of her. “Don’t do that. You won’t need it.”
“Isn’t it cold outside?”
“It’s a little cold outside,” her mother conceded, “but you won’t need this.” She threw the jacket on the bed, and took May by the hand--but May doubled back to properly hang the jacket in the closet.
“Can I at least change into something heavier than my pajamas?”
“I said you’d be fine.”
“You also said it was cold outside.”
“I also said it was important.” Tabby stomped her feet, then lead May by the hand downstairs, cooing, “You’ll be fine, everything’s fine, just fine.”
It was much colder downstairs; in fact, there was a breeze in the house. Tabby wore a robe over her pajamas. Why was May forbidden from bundling up?
May turned to her mother as they moved into the kitchen. “Really, Mom, I’m sorry that--”
“It’s just a little errand, is all.” Tabby wasn’t making eye contact.
“Yeah, but I want to apologize for--”
“Everything’s fine.”
“The more you say that, they less true it--”
“It’s very important,” Tabby insisted. “But don’t worry.”
Behind May, her father bellowed, “Why is she wearing pajamas?!”
So that was why the house was cold: the sliding glass door was open. Outside, the patio lights were on. Fred stood in a shallow corner of the pool, toying with the drain on the floor. He was tall enough to reach it without getting his face wet.
He waded to the stairs, his movements even more restricted in his old Speedo.
May shrunk back, hugging her mother for safety.
“You’re lucky she’s not wearing more,” Tabby told Fred.
“What do you mean?”
“She wanted to wear a jacket!”
“Why not bring her whole closet out?” Fred turned to May. “How much space do you think we’ve got?”
May shivered, mostly from the cold. She was scared, but only subconsciously. Consciously, she was bewildered, which is how her mother was able to walk her to the ledge of the pool without incident.
“Oh, I don’t mind her wearing something,” Tabby said, smoothing the rumples from May’s shirt. “This would all seem wrong if she weren’t wearing something.”
“But look how comfortable those pajamas look! May, are those pajamas as comfortable as they look?”
“What’s going on?” May managed.
“Your father wants to know if your pajamas are as comfortable as they look.”
Fred caught May’s wrist and pulled her toward the water. He rubbed her sleeve against his cheek, approving. “These pajamas’ll definitely sell well.”
“Even though they’re used?” her mother asked.
“I don’t see why not.” He grabbed for May’s other wrist, which startled her, and she jumped back. Her father read this as ‘acting up,’ and he sprung after her like a frog, and pulled her shirt up over her head.
Tabby grabbed at May’s bare waist to steady her, but in so doing, obstructed Fred. May struggled free, and--with the help of the shirt over her head--fell in the pool.
As we know, May excelled at drowning, and didn’t need the shirt’s help, but it helped, nevertheless. The fall had so disoriented her that she wasn’t sure which way to turn to reach the surface, and if she had reached it, she couldn’t tell, since there was a wet shirt smothering her face.
“Figures,” her father sighed, and slumped into the pool. At last he reached her, taking her into his arms, and adjusting her shirt.
On the patio, her mother breathed easier. “So she can keep the pajamas?”
May coughed and hacked and gagged, her heart racing.
“Might as well get on with it.” Fred shifted May so that he was holding her underarm, like a battering ram. It was harder for May to cough in this position, but valiantly, she found a way.
They waded to the corner of the pool.
“Oh, I’m so glad it turned out like this,” her mother exclaimed.
“What’s going on?” May gasped between coughs.
“It really wouldn’t be right if she weren’t wearing something.”
“Stop fidgeting.” Fred shook May, which only made her cough more.
“But what’s going on?”
“Stop fidgeting,” her mother admonished. “You’ve been bad enough today.”
When they reached the corner of the pool, Fred stopped, and their wake rebounded off the walls and lapped into May’s face. The drain was beneath them, its cover as milky blue now as it was in the daylight. May remembered being held in this exact position, over this exact spot, back when her father had tried to teach her the front crawl. Those were the dark days before their treaty and amnesty.
“Mom, Dad” she pleaded, “I’m sorry.”
“If you were sorry,” her father mused, “you would have given up your pajamas.”
“I’m sorry I took the videotape!”
“We’ve discussed this, and decided it’s best for everyone,” her mother said.
“I’m sorry I didn’t involve you in me and Dad’s fight!”
Presently, May was more frightened than ‘cold’ or ‘bewildered,’ and she tried to wriggle free. This was particularly annoying, because it resulted in a serviceable front crawl. Fred knew he should’ve held her underwater.
Of course, her wriggling also made her difficult to restrain, and he beckoned Tabby to help him. As she slipped into the pool, Tabby muttered, “He can’t handle this on his own, so I have to ruin my pajamas.”
“I could handle this if she’d stop fidgeting.”
Fred maneuvered May into a bear hug, and lowered her towards the drain. The cover had been partly pried up, like the tab of a soda can. The suction rattled her toes as they disappeared into the drain.
May gripped her father’s arm as her feet followed her toes into the darkness. While this anchored her to him, he kneeled, sliding her calves in, as well.
She stretched her neck as high as it could reach, keeping her face above the water...but her father stopped there, and said, “She’s stuck.”
Her mother was beside them now. “I said we should’ve used a larger drain.”
“I bet she’d fit if she weren’t wearing anything.”
“I bet she’d fit if you pushed.”
May watched her father square his jaw at her mother, and then reach down for the drain. She gulped as much air as she could as her father pried the cover up and fed her into the drain, up to her waist. The pipe beneath her must have been huge; her legs dangled, free.
“Push!” Her mother was even loud through water.
There was no leverage--May grabbed for her father, but he parried, and forced her in up to her armpits.
“Push!”
Delicately, Fred palmed May by the scalp and shifted her head. The cover rose into view above her, as the pool shrank into a blue-colored crescent.
“Push!”
Only May’s hand was outside the drain, clamped onto her father’s wrist. The current flowed at the full weight of her body, dangling above nothing.
She felt her fingers being pried open; little piggies dispersing...and when the last little piggie went home, the blue crescent of light waned to a sliver and shut...
...and May went away.
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