My brother Béla climbs the extension ladder, white-knuckling each rung while Father supervises, shifting his torso from right foot to left. I anchor the ladder because I’m heavier, because Father wants me to, because Mother says, “Do what you’re told.”
“Remember when you got your knee wedged in Mr. Baker’s tree?”
Béla isn’t listening. I ask again.
“Shush,” Father warns.
I dared Béla to climb that tree. He hadn’t gone very high, one pudgy knee inserted into the first crevice encountered. Father went to get his chainsaw, primed it, gave it a pull or two or three, and revved it with his trigger finger. “I’d hate to ruin a perfectly good oak,” he told Mr. Baker. “I hope you don’t mind the extra limb, or the flies it’ll invite.” Béla wrestled with the bark, his frantic movement synchronized with an intermittent motocross-buzz. He shed thirty pounds that summer, both legs intact. “Your brother’s cute,” my best friend Kaitlin says; boys aren’t interested in us. “He’s thirteen!” I argue.
“You’re almost there,” Father encourages.
Béla musters enough courage to place his left hand on the roof. He tosses clumps of rotten leaves my way.
“Watch it,” I yell. I shake the ladder, praying gravity will do its work.
Father swats the back of my head. “Stop it!”
Béla thinks the directive is meant for him. He pauses.
“Do we need to move the ladder?” Father asks.
I’m prepared to tell him about his missing Polaroids. I’ll blame Béla. They’re hidden, I’ll say, under Béla’s mattress: See. Father will confront him, give him the talk.
Béla interrupts my thoughts. “You’re not going to believe this,” he shouts. “There’s fish swimming in the gutter.”
Father gives us what sounds like a perfectly logical explanation; he says, “Birds must’ve had eggs on their feet.”
But I’m skeptical. “Show me the fish,” I demand. Show me the fish, or I’ll tell on you both.
James R. Tomlinson resides somewhere near Detroit. Chances of knowing him are greater if you’re serving a sentence in the State of Michigan and are required to attend GED classes while incarcerated. His stories have appeared in NANO Fiction, Underground Voices, Glass Fire Magazine, Clarity of Night, Pebble Lake Review, and elsewhere. Another story will appear in Diverse Voices Quarterly.
Feels very real. I remember myself an incident after a storm when we found fish in our fields. The rain and wind often brought down strange things.
James, I’m obsessed with what else writers do besides write and you’re living proof of my latest theory. See, you work teaching in a prison which is a real ass job, and so no surprise, your writing is very honest, intimate, powerful and…real. I want to read more of your stuff and invite you to submit to Dogzplot, so I’ll start by checking if you’re on FB. Thanks for the great story.
Among other things (great description & dialogue) you captured childhood – that siblings/parent phenomenon. Took me back…
Ah yes, Dogzplot. I remember the Davy Rothbart interview; he too worked in a Michigan prison, at least for a brief time anyway. Thanks for the compliments. No Facebook. I blog once in awhile instead.
Jim…Well done just the right amount and tone to present the title to the work and vice versa. I liked this very much.
Good work, JR. Nice details and flow. It tells so much with an economy of words. Awesome title, too.
JR, you nailed it. And you drew me into the moment. I dig — much.
Bloody marevellous. Supurbly surreal. Well enjoyed that. (thanks for the $50 JR)…;-)
Solid story, handled with a deft sense of dialogue, timing, and character dynamics. In other words, JR, I liked it a lot!
I love fiction that draws you into re-reading it–not for clarity, but to unearth its layers. I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t something slightly sinister on those Polaroids. Nicely done, JR-