By Chris Yamashita
Here they were, staring at the smoldering, blackened smile of an extinguished house fire. Tendrils of smoke rose from the seething ground, ash swirled in the air, and Reid’s wife, Waverly, said, “I can’t believe this,” which was her new favorite thing to say. She couldn’t believe much of anything anymore — for instance, Reid having forgotten to buy carrots for the stir-fry last night. But would Amber have eaten them? Highly unlikely. Amber was the only kid in the world who wouldn’t eat carrots, and also dark chocolate, mango, pepperoni — these were things a father learned when he was, as Waverly put it, the “primary caregiver,” and Reid was a quick study after being laid off from the Bargain Ranch only a few months ago.
“I can’t believe this,” Waverly repeated. “We didn’t know them, did we?” Reid shook his head. And why had neither of them seen the fire last night, or heard the sirens?
They had been fighting especially ferociously, though. And the evening light probably had been tinged with red, but he’d assumed he was “seeing red,” as they say. One of Waverly’s high-heeled shoes was still shoved into the master bedroom’s sheetrock.
“It’s the meth house,” a gravelly voice said behind them. It was Corona, a neighbor they wished they didn’t know. She had a cigarette in her mouth and sucked at it.
“Oh,” Waverly hissed, “hi, Corona. Thanks.” Corona nodded dramatically and pointed to a hypodermic needle on the brown lawn. Clancy, their dog, tugged at the leash. Reid pulled him back. “What a neighborhood,” Corona added. She retied the belt of her dishwater-colored robe and sauntered off.
Waverly gave Reid a look. “If we have to see this” — she gestured to Corona’s generous thighs, the needle, the demolished meth house — “I’m done with Partner Walks.”
Reid sighed. He’d learned about Partner Walks from a daytime talk show called Living Your Legend. You were supposed to confess your fears and describe your goals for the day to your partner. They’d had to hustle before Amber got up. It was supposed to be a nice walk, not one where a neighbor who was named after a beer thrust her sour body in front of a fire-charred meth house.
They walked a little further. Clancy frantically sniffed the grass in front of Dr. Sexton’s Noodle Cafe. They watched him, plastic bags in hand, and Reid picked up the poop and threw it in a nearby trashcan. They turned back.
“What did the vet say?” Waverly asked. The dog’s moon-eyes peered up at them. He was a good dog — brown and white, they’d found him at an animal shelter when they’d first moved in together, when all they did was laugh, before Amber, before the miscarriage. Now Clancy had cataracts, poor guy.
“She said that we should make him comfortable and update her as it gets worse.”
“How will we know if it gets worse? Is he going to start running into tables?” Waverly looked off in the distance and sort of laughed.
“That reminds me — have you checked the crawlspace recently?”
Reid nodded, though in fact he hadn’t, couldn’t bring himself to face it. There might be flooding, or at the very least leakage, in the basement. The costs would be astronomical. The biggest problem with the house was unquestionably the swamp in the backyard. Originally it’d been a selling point — big herons snatching at fish, nutria trundling through hollows — a great place for Amber to grow up, to see all of this wildlife. But it’d swelled in recent years, swallowing the little lawn beyond the deck, hairy cattails suffocating their view of the lake. And now Waverly suspected that the swamp was snaking into the house’s foundation. Dark bulbs of mold had begun to bloom on the foundation behind the box hedges. Waverly liked to say that their house was being digested, and he didn’t want to agree.
“If we’d just known about the swamp,” Waverly said, clawing at her sternum.
“But we didn’t know.”
“Are you mocking me? Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not — ”
“You always — ”
“Sorry.”
The birds chirped, the sun shined, everything was pretty. The Partner Walk was ruined. “We should move,” Waverly said.
“We can’t afford to move right now — ”
“Haven’t you always wanted a swing set for the kids?”
“Amber never wants to play outside.”
“But if we have another.”
“If you want to finish law school — ”
“Don’t.” Waverly worked as a receptionist at a law firm, which they’d always said was temporary, just until she recuperated from the miscarriage.
Somehow, they were back home. They stood in front of the colonial door in the sweep of the morning sun. The house was too big. They didn’t need a second story.
Reid reached to open the door at the same time that Waverly did. They waved back and forth in an overly polite bird dance. Clancy peered at them regretfully.
Inside, Amber had poured a bowl of cereal with only a minor splash of milk on the counter, and hungrily sucked at her spoon. She sat cross-legged in the breakfast nook fully dressed in her Uncle Sam skirt and orange t-shirt. “Well,” Waverly said guiltily, “what a mature seven-year-old we have.”
“We sure raised her right!” Reid said.
Waverly gestured at him to clean up the splash of milk.
“Yes ma’am.” He stood straight and saluted.
“Don’t even!” She grinned, suddenly playful, adopting an athletic stance. Reid grabbed her around the waist. She made a girlish laugh, then put out her hand in front of his face and pushed a little too hard.
After Waverly hustled to work, Reid’s plan was to clean the bird shit off the deck. Some waterfowl had taken to roosting there at night, and the wood was completely painted in it. He announced this to Amber after she’d finished her cereal. “But I want to watch Little Surprise Girl!” she whined. They’d watched this cartoon every morning this summer. Was this healthy? Of course not — they needed fresh air, at least before it got too hot to do anything.
“Don’t you want to hang out with your dad, Amber?”
“No!” she shouted.
“Your dear old dad?” he said. He’d heard it in a movie.
“Go away!” she said as he tried to muss her hair.
“Fine!” he shouted. He engaged the parental lock on the TV and went outside.
Some kind of insect buzzed in the heat. The sun smeared across the sky and brown bits of water glinted around muscular cattails. He uncoiled the hose. Smooth water eased itself over the deck: barely any water pressure. He’d have to get… something. A rake? A mop?
“Look where I am,” Amber said from somewhere above him. She leaned dangerously out of the window of the abandoned nursery. Why was she upstairs? She shouldn’t be up there, not on the second story. Since the miscarriage, he’d set Amber on an air mattress in the master bedroom on the main floor. Waverly had protested, but it was just temporary and there was no harm in having the family close together. Amber had a nice little corner going in there — a nightlight, stuffed animals, her clothes in neat plastic bins.
“Amber, would you just come down here?” he said. The water splattered at his feet.
“Clancy’s with me. There are lots of pee spots up here.”
“Please come down.”
She stuck out her tongue. “I want my room back.”
“Amber, get down here,” Reid yelled.
“No!” she yelled, and disappeared from the window.
Well, what could he do? He wouldn’t chase her — that wouldn’t help. Plus, he didn’t want to make a big deal about the upstairs. It wasn’t like anybody was banned from it.
The day was already hot. A fat goose landed on the far end of the built-in wooden bench that encircled the deck. They made eye contact. It honked at him a few times. It preened its feathers and shifted on its big flat feet. Where were its friends? Was it going to fly south? “Go away!” Reid shouted at it. “Go away!”
“Dad,” Amber said. “Dad. Dad. Dad.”
“What!”
“Up here,” Amber said. She waved a purple teddy bear from the window. “I found this. Can I bring it downstairs?” Reid told her yes.
When he came back from the garage carrying a shovel, he found Amber splashing in the puddles of shit. “Ah, shit, Amber!” he yelled. “Quit it!”
She stopped and they surveyed her body. White flecks covered her Uncle Sam skirt and orange t-shirt and her purple bear. Her flip-flops were probably ruined. Reid stared at her and felt something. Sadness, anger? Clancy barked and tried to grab the bear in his mouth. Something rustled in the watery weeds behind them, something big, a big bird. It watched them and judged him and his poor parenting. Well, screw that big bird, it wasn’t even brave enough to come out of the swamp.
After putting her clothes and her bear in the wash, Reid decided to take a break. He sat down on the couch in front of the television. Little Surprise Girl was over, but Dangerous Ocean Creatures was doing a special on giant crabs. Amber sat unaccountably still, dressed only in her shirt and underwear. A ladybug crossed the coffee table in front of him and he smashed it with his heel, then looked over for Amber’s reaction. She did not react. Clancy’s tags jingled up the stairs.
He’d thought being unemployed would be fun, but it was more boring than anything. Waverly said that the primary caregiver should never be bored — if he was, he was doing it wrong. But what did it matter if he was doing it wrong? Amber would probably still grow up to be a decent enough person. Most people did, and she was not the type that seemed psychotic, although the way she was playing with her hands right now and not watching television was a little off. But did she go hungry? No. And if she was hungry, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford to make a quick run to, say, Chimichanga Explosion, and get her all the chimichangas she wanted. The girl could bathe in ground beef. Also, was she clothed? Well, not at the moment, but she was always clothed in public spaces. Was she abused? Neglected? Reid had seen a thing on the news about a parent who kept his kid in a cage. Had he kept Amber in a cage? Amber was doing just fine.
What was not fine was his marriage. Waverly was still getting angry for no reason. She was very tired, and she said a lot of things about how he was still “transitioning” into his “role.” Funny, though, how she never mentioned how she was also transitioning, transitioning to a life after a miscarriage. Granted, it was a kid they’d never met, but rather than being comforting, this grief over the miscarriage was actually suffocating, it was doubled and halved. You didn’t want to grieve that much, but then again it was a little baby, it had no chance to see sunlight and geese and hear the rustle of cattail husks at dusk. It could twist you up inside, thinking like that.
Waverly refused to talk about the miscarriage. He was getting bored with her dodging everything until he couldn’t handle it anymore and yelled at her and a shoe was pushed into the wall.
He dozed in front of the television, and flew over fields of cattails, hills and valleys of them, and geese planed in vees under him and the sky was blue. There were so many cattails, all of them the same — dried brown husks for so far that he could see the curvature of the earth and also the sand left unwhisked on his dirty deck from the previous summer, the Weber on, sunglasses, lemonade and gin, Amber skipping, the sun broad, Clancy barking, Waverly slim in a swimsuit, roast beef sandwiches, long legs, still pregnant, hand over head and then a fountain of birds turns everything gray — and he could just see, just off in the distance, the outline of two hills like shoulders hairy with departing flocks, oh my god, the whole lake was the back of a giant…
When Reid awoke, the sun was low. The microwave said it was 3:30. He could hear the rustling of waterfowl on his deck, probably shitting everywhere. “Amber?” he yelled to the empty house.
There were quick footsteps down the stairs. She’d been upstairs. She charged into the room and dove into his chest. She had a different outfit on — why hadn’t he thought to do that for her? “What have you been doing?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She stood back up and looked embarrassed. “Nothing,” she said, grinning. He thought about checking upstairs.
They went back outside and startled a flock of large black geese into flight. After the feathers had settled, Reid surveyed the damage. The deck was now a layer cake of shit. The water seemed to have become salinated — crystallized salt now bloomed on the clumpy piles. Stepping onto the deck was like walking in flan.
Amber immediately slid and fell right onto her clean clothes. She hopped up and wiped her whitened hands on the front of her t-shirt. “When’s Mom coming home?” she said. “Where’s Clancy?” She opened the door to look, and Clancy came bolting out, slipping and sliding in the shit.
A disheartened goose cried from among the cattails. It was very humid. Reid looked up into the hazy cotton sky and licked his lips. Everything was a big mistake, so when he heard the crash, he was not surprised. The satellite dish had fallen off the side of the house and into the swamp. “Oh no,” said Amber.
A large black beetle flew up from the flattened reeds and hovered in front of Reid’s face. It puzzled over him. Its long antennae were rippling horns and its plastic wings made chainsaw noises. He batted at it, starting to feel desperate. “Gross!” Amber shouted, and the marsh seemed to rise out of itself, cleared its throat, and spewed the croaking black bugs onto the little family, the poor deck, the sinking house. Clancy was running around trying to eat them and failing because of the cataracts. The bugs torpedoed themselves into the wood siding. They encrusted the hose. They lapped at the flan.
“Let’s get out of here!” Reid yelled over the screaming bugs. They ran inside and slammed the door, breathing heavily. He pursed his eyes and opened them again, little spots dancing in his vision. Clancy continued jumping and barking outside. A few beetles buzzed angrily in circles near the lights of the kitchen. Reid clasped his hands above his head and paced. Living Your Legend blared on the TV, but it was malfunctioning. The host repeated, “Welcome back. Welcome back. Welcome back.”
“I’m thirsty,” Amber whined. Reid poured her a cup of water. “Welcome back,” the TV said. “Welcome back.” Did it even matter if he was awake or asleep? Amber made a gurgling noise and heaved. The water dribbled down her chin and she coughed. “It tastes bad!” she said.
“God, Amber,” Reid muttered, grabbing the cup. But she wasn’t lying — it was salty. One of the bugs hit a hot recessed light and fell to the floor with a clatter. “I don’t like it inside today,” Amber said. Reid agreed, but where would they go? “Welcome back,” the TV said.
“You haven’t had lunch, huh? You know what? Let’s go get some burgers,” he said, even though Waverly was trying this whole vegetarian thing.
But when they got to BurgerGasm, the chairs were stacked atop the tables. “We’ll make you some burgers,” the cashier said, staring at Amber, “but you can’t stay. We’re waxing the floors.” Reid looked down at his shoes. They were partially submerged. He shifted his weight and felt the squish.
They ate their small, smashed burgers in the truck. Amber made a lot of smacking noises and only ate toward the bottom of the burger, leaving the top bun to paint her nose in yellow mustard. Soon the disc of meat splattered onto her skirt, and she said, “Oh, my skirt.” She sounded like Waverly. It was only then that Reid realized he’d let her wear the bird-shit clothes in public.
“I’m so sorry,” he told her as he wiped at her with a frail napkin. “Ugh, sweetie. Your father is…” Well, he didn’t know what he was. Certainly a male of the human species, but other than that? Overwhelmed. Underwhelmed. Awake, asleep. It certainly didn’t matter if he got anything together, because his house was sinking into a swamp and he still couldn’t make himself go upstairs, and no matter how much time he needed to get the bird shit off the deck he would never have enough time.
“It’s OK, Daddy,” Amber said, and moved on to her fries, crunching at them heartily.
The asphalt of the empty parking lot heaved and sweated. Spidery fingers threaded his windshield. He needed to get the windshield fixed, too. The towel bar had fallen off in the master bathroom. The oven was filthy. The cable company was charging too much. The dry cleaning.
But soon Reid was dozing in the hot truck. It was just so warm and there was something in that marsh, something huge and alive and it was sucking at his house, at his family, at his very soul, everything was its fault! It came up for air in clouds of black birds and beetles. Why his house? Why his family? Why had it happened to him? This time the shoulders surfaced and then pushed itself up on invisible forearms and pushed its hairy eyeless face out of the water, it had no nose, it had a straw for a mouth, it had one finger and the finger pointed at Reid, Reid floated up above the whole scene and looked down, the monster said YOU over and over, YOU YOU YOU…
When Reid awoke, the sky was navy. Amber lay on the floor in the backseat, thumb in her mouth. The cold burger still in hand, Reid munched at it for a minute, trying to reestablish reality. Awake or asleep? Awake.
He started the engine and circled the lot. The clock read 7:30. Had he been asleep that long? What time had they eaten? Well, the day was shot. Waverly probably wasn’t home yet, since he hadn’t received a phone call. A harried goose blustered in front of the car. It was dusk, but somehow its eyes glowed in the headlights as if it were much darker. He left the parking lot and drove the main stretch of road.
His cell phone rang. Amber groaned awake in the backseat. “Hello, my wife,” he said.
“Hi. Where are you guys? I got Chinese.”
“Oh. We’ll be a bit longer. I didn’t know when you’d be home so we went out for burgers.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry. I should’ve called you.”
“I am trying this whole vegetarian thing…”
“Sorry…”
She hung up. The Chinese food was sitting steaming in little white boxes on the table, Waverly was in their room at the bureau taking off her earrings in her stocking feet, the tea kettle was nearly ready, and he would be home to lights and maybe even soft piano music…
“Don’t cry, Daddy,” Amber said, from the backseat of the truck.
“Morning.”
“Did you think I was hiding? I was hiding.”
“Oh… yes.”
“Dad? I’m hungry.”
“Yeah, OK. Mom got Chinese.” His hands shook, but it was fine. It was fine. Reid, you’re fine. “Buckle up,” he said.
Reluctantly, Reid circled one conclusion: Amber could not tell Waverly about the four hours spent outside BurgerGasm. It could not be revealed that Reid had this sleeping sickness, and that he could not go upstairs, could not look at the stairs, and couldn’t even think about the existence of stairs. Waverly, he was convinced, was barely holding it together. She just went to work and came home and thought about vegetarianism and worried about the house’s foundation. Reid had to keep it together, otherwise they’d both collapse. Was that it? No. Reid had to keep it together because he could not stand to have Waverly break down, he could not stand to see her shed one tear. But no, that wasn’t it, either. He wanted Waverly at least to show some emotion. It was terrifying to think of the alternative — that the love of his life did not grieve the baby.
They approached the house. “Oh, there’s Mom,” Amber said. Waverly paced out front, her hand on her hip, speaking into her phone. She crossed in front of his headlights as he pulled into the driveway. It’d be funny to pretend to run her over. A little game. He rolled his window down and waved at her, then revved the engine a bit and shot forward, shouting, “Weeeee!”
Waverly didn’t look at him but rather down at the car’s wheels in horror. The truck’s engine was so loud that he couldn’t really hear her scream, only saw it on her face. It was an almost comical expression, and for a moment Reid thought that he’d unlocked a new side to his wife, an exhilarating feeling — she was a good actress!
Then her scream did cut in over the engine, sounding higher pitched, more girlish, than he’d expected. It startled him so much that he slammed on the brakes, but the truck didn’t react like he thought it would. On a rainy day he’d have accounted for a wet driveway, but it’d been so hot that he hadn’t anticipated standing water, and sure enough, there it was, bubbling out from under the garage door. He hadn’t seen it. How had he not seen it? But it was too late — the truck began to skid. He looked at Amber and saw that she was screaming too. “Clancy!” she was yelling.
And then he felt the slight pop of the dog’s body under his tire.
When he killed the engine, Waverly’s scream rushed into the car and it joined his daughter’s cry in a kind of harmony, as if it’d been planned. Amber curled into the seat. Reid opened the door and stepped into a mixture of blood and swamp water.
“I can’t. I can’t,” Waverly said, looking at her daughter. She dropped the phone. She shook her head back and forth, back and forth. The phone said, “Ma’am? Ma’am? You still there?” before being engulfed by water. Reid bent down to examine Clancy’s body, a broken Ferris wheel of bone, muscle, and tongue. Clancy’s eyes whirled and his tail even wagged as Reid got close. Amber’s cries dropped to a moan. Then all was still.
Waverly put her arms around herself. Neighbors’ lights were coming on, doors were opening. Mothers shepherded children inside. Corona ran toward them barefoot in a long Super Bowl t-shirt that barely covered her naked lower half. “A good dog!” she was calling. “He was such a good dog!”
Water yearned out of the garage, carrying Clancy’s blood down the driveway and into a storm drain. Reid couldn’t help but think about that one untouched place in the house: the abandoned nursery upstairs, the one room they’d have been happy to lose. Waverly, her cream-colored slacks still on, sank into the bloody waves and held out her hand toward Corona, who was splashing up the drive. Above them, a single goose flew by and gave a quiet honk. Why was it alone? It seemed too early for the fall migration, or had summer already turned? The goose’s dense torso pushed through the air, and Reid kept watching the sky even after it’d disappeared from sight, afraid to look back down.
Chris Yamashita lives in Portland, OR. He’s been published in Weave, Compose, won a diFilipis-Rosselli Award for Writers of Color, and was named a semi-finalist in Dzanc Books’ International Literature Awards. He holds an MFA from Oregon State University.
