Page 38 - WTPO Vol. VII #5

The Blue House (continued from preceding page) locked the basement door behind him, and dropped
the key in a drawer.
One evening when Helen and Francis sat at the small kitchen table, dining on tuna fish sandwiches and canned peas (one of Helen’s favorite meals), Helen inquired further into why their home often generated such volatile reactions. Earlier in school, Henry Pat- terson had waddled his fat ass up to her at lunch, his perfectly round breasts and large soft belly stretching his Atlanta Falcons t-shirt to near tearing point; and in that high-pitched way of his, said, “my dad says your house looks like something the Easter bunny shat
out.” Helen looked up at him with a succulent peanut butter and honey sandwich on de-crusted white bread held in her delicate hand, and said, “Henry, dear boy, who in the hell says ‘shat’ these days?” Henry blushed blood red and shuffled back to his table of like-minded cronies and to his meal of an entire individual meat lovers pizza, vanilla pudding, chocolate dipped banana, and a Ziploc sandwich bag filled with his mother’s homemade chocolate chip cookie dough.
“Are we fools, dad? Is everyone laughing at us ‘cause we’re stupid to be living here?” Francis took a long sip of his seasonal ale, then smiled at his daughter. He looked at her lush dark eyebrows and bright green eyes, and as he so often did, thought of her beloved mother, Violet. “Honey, we may be stupid for reasons we’ve yet to figure out, but we’re sure as hell not stupid for living here. Why?”
“Henry Patterson.” Helen said flatly. Francis nodded. The name and image had become all too familiar to him, the chubby little fuck.
“Baby, let me tell you about the Henry Pattersons of this world.”
“You don’t have to, dad, I already know more than enough about them. I just want to know if what he says is true.”
Francis stood and gathered their plates. He scraped the leftovers into Albert’s bowl, then put the plates in the sink. He opened the small kitchen window (with some difficulty), took his Lucky Strikes from his shirt pocket and lit up a cigarette, taking in that first pull deeply and blowing the blue smoke out into the chilly fall air. “No, it’s not true. It’s a little rough, yeah, but that’s part of its charm, right? And as for the color? I don’t know, baby. When your mom and I bought this place, the very first thing we said we’d change would be the color, but we never did. It never happened. And in some way I’m kinda glad it didn’t.” Helen looked at her father standing against the sink, smoking, his heav- ily furred arms crossed at his chest, the beard he’d been
growing for the last month or so now flecked with gray and silver hairs, his belly larger than she’d ever seen it before, and she felt the deep connection that held them here, a connection made from a million moments just like this one, all so small and simple, all as strong and steady as a healthy heartbeat.
“Anyway,” her father concluded, with the faintest slur to his words now. “As for the fat little Henry Patter- sons of this world, and all those drive-by douchebags with their holier than thou bullshit, well they can just go fuck themselves! Right, honey?”
Helen nodded and smiled. She knew all about the mountain of medical bills and her father’s hackneyed home repair skills, and she knew just how the ques- tion would affect him so, riling him a little, pushing a button or two, getting him to cuss like he does when he gets quietly mad. And she loved him all the more for knowing and understanding these things, and liv- ing with them too. Fuck the Pattersons of this world, indeed.
“And if you die, daddy, what then?”
“Then I die, baby. The bell tolls for us all.” “But what becomes of this house, if you do?”
‘Becomes?’ thought Francis. What a funny way this girl has about her. “It goes on living, funny girl. Just like you.” This is another moment being made right now, thought Helen, another one for the books, a goddamn keeper.
While Francis stayed behind to smoke and wash the dishes, Helen took Albert for his nightly business. He scrappily pulled this way and that, as had been his way from the first day they brought him home from the Humane Society; barking and sniffing at things Helen could neither see nor smell, yanking at her arm like a dumbbell on wheels. The night was cold and the stars stretched far above her active mind in a tapestry of brilliance. She thought about their house and their lives. She wondered what would become of them. Her father with his childishly hopeful, often overly exuber- ant and sad ways. Her with her unerringly steadfast sense of home, of being grounded, of fitting in (but not really). She allowed Albert to pull her along at
a light jogging pace, her breath bouncing from her mouth in small wispy clouds, her feet rhythmically slapping the cold sidewalk, Albert’s tongue flapping from the side of his mouth like a long boneless finger. She then dug around in her mind for her mother, a soul she had last seen when she was six; conjuring the image of a tall, slender woman, with long brown hair (like her own), green eyes, (like her own), and
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