Page 37 - WTPO Vol. VII #5

and then to a fireplace used as extra storage space and never for its true intention. And as the bricks cluttered down the rolling puffy surface of the roof, to embed themselves in the dark and weed-infested loam that surrounded the house like a dried-out moat, the chimney began to take on new shapes. Helen and Francis would steal a look skyward most mornings as they left for school and work, and opine on the latest design:
“That’s a pregnant rabbit up on her hind legs,” Francis observed.
“It’s a rotting jack-o’-lantern, with a shoe in its mouth,” said Helen.
“Not at all. That’s clearly the head of a Sasquatch, left as a warning to all: beware of ten foot tall hairy beasts.”
had yet to serve a purpose, and many of the walls
and the drably patterned paper affixed to them were parting company, and large portions of the carpet were worn down to near transparency, with the few plush areas left, now home to small colonies of carpet beetles and various stains of unknown origin.
“Is that wine, dad?”
“I don’t drink wine, baby.”
“Blood?”
“Don’t drink that either. Looks like grape soda to me.” “Yuck.”
“Spaghetti sauce?”
“We haven’t had spaghetti in ages.”
“We haven’t?”
“Nope.”
“Let’s have it tonight then, baby.”
“Yeah!”
And if the ancient stove acquiesced they would indeed have pasta for dinner, all steamily gummed together and dripping with bubbling marinara sauce. And as they ate they would spin more tall tales and also a few truths, listening with equal fondness and attention to both.
The question perhaps comes to mind, why didn’t Francis make repairs to their homely abode? He was after all the man of the house, the father figure, the stalwart protector and breadwinner. And the answer was simple: a welder and musician (of sorts) Francis Gaffney was, a general handyman he was not. He had tried over the years to correct the many wrongs, but all his efforts fell short. Holes got bigger, drips grew heavier, areas of dim light were soon to be left with no light at all, the flue remained rusted shut, then became further jammed with a bird’s nest of magnificent size and design (an object Francis lacked the coldness of heart to destroy). Cracked steps were bonded together with odd scraps of wood, only to quickly fall apart again, which made going to bed a risky adventure. The basement flooded constantly and was mopped out again and again, until it flooded one too many times for Francis to care anymore, and he then covered the soaked concrete floor with pounds upon pounds of sawdust, retreated back to the sanctity of kitchen,
(continued on next page)
what would “S
become of them. Her father with his child- ishly hopeful, often overly exuberant and sad ways...”
“You’re hairy, dad.”
“True. But I’m not ten feet tall, honey. And I’m only a beast when I don’t get my beer.”
There were other observations to make of course, after all, the house really did look as though it were continuously sinking and rising in a haphazard manner, much like a wad of lichen stuck to the rump of foraging bear. And the baby blue paint did hurt Francis’s eyes on those bright Saturday mornings following an exceptionally successful Friday night gig (“success” being measured by an audience of ten or more and an extra two pitchers of beer after the show).
But the home’s interior was sound, or relatively speaking. Yes, there were holes here and there that
he wondered
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