NICK SCULLY

You sit in the patch of dirt in front of your house. Your blouse is itchy again and you keep pulling at the collar, even though you know Mommy would get mad if she caught you. Today the dirt is a giant kitchen in an important hotel downtown, and you have a lot of mud pies to make for the dinner rush. Susie is your only assistant chef, but she can’t help much because she ripped her arm on a branch last week and Mommy hasn’t had the chance to sew her up yet. She told you she’s all out of peach-colored thread since she used it all making Susie two years ago and that you need to be careful with her. And that’s why you’re here with Susie, trying to keep up with your mud pie order instead of at the scrap heap five blocks away playing king of the hill with your older brothers.

 

At the end of the block, Daddy stumbles into view. He’s walking back from the lumberyard on Francisco looking the same as always: wearing a white shirt with a coat of sawdust, a brown worn-out jacket hitched over his shoulder, and boots caked in mud that no amount of scrubbing will ever remove. Today he trudges a little slower, his cap is pulled a little lower, casting an extra shadow over the permanent ones beneath his eyes.

 

You run to the sidewalk like always to give him a giant hug, but he only pats you on the head, mumbles hello, and walks to the front steps. You watch him pause at the bottom step, gripping the aged wooden railing, eyes locked on the front door. He sighs before taking his time up the steps and into the house.

 

You’re puzzled, but your pies are about to burn. You rush back to the kitchen and take over; Susie wasn’t doing a very good job, and now you might not get them done in time, and delivering something late is one of the worst things you can do. You remind Susie that there are a lot of fancy people coming to the hotel tonight, but the most important is Shirley Temple. (You wish you could go see her in Curly Top, but Daddy keeps saying he doesn’t have the time to take you.)  Each and every pie has to be just perfect, no excuses. Susie should be lucky that she has such a wonderful job, and should take more pride in her work.

 

As you set the final batch on the cooling racks, voices explode from Mommy’s kitchen. You hear the back door slam, and somebody stomping down the wooden staircase. You hold Susie’s hand because she’s frightened, but you’re as big and brave as your brothers; walk to the back yard, taking care to not step on any of the branches. You find the back yard empty except for the little shed Daddy built last summer.

 

The shed door bursts open and Mommy storms out, still wearing her pale apron over her handmade navy dress. Daddy’s bag of prized golf clubs is slung over her shoulder, and she marches back to the steps before slamming them to the ground. Her sharp eyebrows are pressing down hard on her bright blue eyes. Your feet are rooted to the grass.

 

Mommy pulls out the club with the wooden head and raises it high above her tightly pinned blonde hair. She swings it down at the stairs, each impact piercing her screams.

 

“Why on earth—” whack “would you trust—” whack “that lying—” whack “scheming—” whack “arschloch—” whack “again?” thunk. 

 

The head comes flying off the end of the club and lands in the yellow grass five feet from you. Your hands are trembling but you still can’t move. You see Daddy’s face in the kitchen window for a moment, but he just covers his eyes with his hands like he does when you used to play peekaboo. Mommy has grabbed another club and continues her attack on the house.

 

“Didn’t—” whack “you learn—” whack “your lesson—” whack “last time?” crash.

 

Mommy had aimed her last blow at the kitchen window. Glass flies into the house but luckily, Daddy isn’t standing in the kitchen anymore. He yells something you can’t make out, but he doesn’t come outside. You hug Susie close to your chest to stop her from shaking. She’s scared and confused. The club that Mommy was using is bent out of shape, so she hurls it aside and picks a new one from the deflated bag. She starts hitting everything in reach: the side of the house, the stairs, the shed, the grass, the bag of clubs.

 

 “Oh, sure—” whack “Your boss knows—” whack “what he’s talking about!” smack “He’s friends with the horse’s owner!” smack “His horse has never—” whump “lost—” whump “a race!” whump “You should put all—” crack “of your savings—” whack “on this perfect—” whack “magnificent—” whack “damn—” whack “horse!” thunk.

 

The head flies right at you but you duck down at the last second. You feel it rush past the hairs on top of your head. You’ve dropped Susie.

 

Mommy finally notices you. Her eyes get huge and she clasps a hand over her mouth. She collapses on the bottom step, tears starting to fall behind the curls that had come loose. An apology escapes her fingers between the sobs.

You see Daddy standing in the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, hugging himself tight. His face is dark and he’s staring at his muddy boots. He doesn’t say anything to Mommy.

 

You slowly approach the steps, trying not to look at Daddy. You sit lightly next to your mother’s shaking figure. You have never seen her cry before. When you cry, Mommy always knows just what to say. You wonder how this is so easy for her, because you can’t think of anything.

 

You slowly wrap your arms around her waist as she continues to weep, and you wonder if you will ever learn the horse’s name.