SICK HEADACHE
Look closely.
You are where it began—at a time before polio shots, seat belts, and television. A time when visitors entered houses through unlocked kitchen doors.
And, after all these years, is it as you remember?
It’s early November, just past dusk. You stop at the corner two blocks east of a grand neighborhood concealed by trees. Look. On your left is the old basement house with dirt walls and next to it the two-story house of your grade school friend. But it’s the house two doors down at 507 West Blaine you came to see—beige and weathered, one of the many shotgun houses thrown up at the end of World War II.
You park, and, in an instant you are inside, small and almost silent. A harsh light from the pole lamp casts a shadow across the living room with a divan, a chair, a clock, and you—a four-year-old child, still eager and open to the world—sitting on the floor next to the record player your mother bought and encourages you to use.
The two of you have just finished playing outside, and now she kneels on the living room floor and inserts a new sapphire needle into the tip of the cumbersome, curved metal arm to replace the needle that skipped and scratched. She smiles, and her face opens as she refocuses your question; then she answers and strokes your upper back. This evening she also brought home a few spoken-word records, the big 78 rpm kind. You choose the one about Columbus that tells of his ships and his voyage.
Then, as if on cue, your mother’s eyes shoot toward the clock. She twists her wrist, checks her watch, then shakes it as if hoping for some misreading. Her eyes grow flat. You watch. She presses her right hand against her stomach. Her shoulders curl, and once again her eyes lock onto the clock. She sways slightly and shrinks. She rises from the floor, says nothing, trudges toward the bedroom, and closes the door.
Evenings weren’t like this when you were a family of two.
Alone in the living room, you hear the kitchen door slam. Your father, recently discharged from the army, traipses past without looking down, glares at the closed bedroom door, walks forward, and opens it. You feel the shudder of door against frame.
Voices.
Silence.
Louder voices.
You flinch.
Silence.
One or two loud shouts, then nothing.
You listen, but hear only the wind, some creaks, and the record player. After a moment, the bedroom door opens. You tilt your head toward the hallway. Your left hand hovers over the arm of the record player as the narrative of Columbus’ travels continues.
You look to your right. You see your father, partially hidden behind the bedroom doorway, with only his right hand and half his face visible.
“Turn it off. It bothers your mother. She has a sick headache.”
WHAT HAPPENS IF
She heard her father’s voice for the last time inside a grove of trees. She was unaware of the rustle of leaves as her head brushed the tree limbs or the snap of the twigs when she fell.
Dance for me, darlin’, her young father had said as he lifted her onto the table, his eyes lingering. And the obedient little girl complied. Go ahead and twirl, he said, as his hands unbuttoned her dress when she was older and taller.
Over the years, she heard each request in her father’s voice, Dance for me, darlin’. She twirled and continued to hear his voice spoken by hopeful young boys echoed from dining rooms, then to other rooms, where grasping older men, who, like her father, displayed their gratitude. From boy to man, from husband to husband, she received roses with petals long dead, and chocolates their freshness dates long past. From toys to clothes, bicycles to cars, precious stones to anything she wanted. Where, in her mind, food and love flowed when she was compliant. Each man more generous than before. Fragile hearts roused and unformed passions excited by a mere crossed leg, modest smile. Even a slight touch begat more offerings.
Experience brought skills of steady eye contact, whispery breaths, leaning forward with strategic exposure, which, she learned, was easier than laughing at jokes weakened by repetition or long evenings followed by forced morning smiles, but raised hope just as much. And she continued to hear her father’s voice, Dance for me, darlin’.
Over time, however, when tired or embarrassed, something vague festered. What happens if…? With mounting reluctance, she continued to dance and twirl, and believe the choice was hers; but, even as her questions arose, she obeyed her father’s voice, alternating between obedience and compliance, anger and shame, with a brief question. What happens if …?
Then, at a weakened moment, a request for yet another out-of-town dinner. Her hesitation. His persistence. Her refusal. Their argument. The altercation. She rebelled, and, in that briefest of moments, learned the choice was no longer hers.
What happens if…? Her question never completed but answered the night she no longer heard the leaves rustle or the twigs snap. There was no longer her father’s voice but hands, brandished, which, after she fell, covered her with leaves and abandoned her inside a grove of trees.
NO CHANGES
You hate this part.
Waiting for a phone call from the man who wrote the letter.
You knew what the letter said before you opened it. You would have no questions. No need for clarification. Nevertheless, you need to hear the inflection in his voice, his intonation, pauses and hesitations before you make any decisions.
You wait, and from the bedroom window, you watch as a solitary tumbleweed careens into the fence on the other side of the river and is ensnared in its wire. As a child you helped your father wrestle clusters of brittle, prickly tumbleweeds from fence wires and burn them.
The phone rings. It’s him.
After the phone call, you assemble a cucumber and butter sandwich, as your father did for you at times like this, and place it upon a glass table on the circular balcony overlooking the river. The glint of the early morning sun reflects scarlet and warms your face while you search for that solitary tumbleweed entangled in the fence wire.
You cup your hand over the biopsy site. Just as you thought. There were no questions.
***
Thomas Elson’s short stories, poetry, and flash fiction have been published in numerous venues such as Calliope, The Cabinet of Heed, New Feathers, Pinyon, Lunaris, New Ulster, Lampeter, Selkie, and Adelaide.
