by Marco Etheridge
He sits at the kitchen table staring at a triangle of toast held between his fingers and then beyond, through a blurred field of vision, to his wife across the table. Just the two of them and no sound save their breathing and the tick-tock passing of time. He drops the toast to the plate between his elbows, sees the crumbs dance and fall to be captured by congealing egg yolk. Hands drop to the Formica—Smack!—he pushes his shoulders back, squares his jaw, and begins to speak.
“One of these days, Marge, I’m going to yank open that damned junk drawer, dive in there with both hands. You watch me, see if I don’t. I’ll root down through those layers of mismatched hinges, random screws stuck to yellowing masking tape, keys that open no lock, tangles of broken rubber bands. Then I’ll go deeper, past the bits of paper so important once upon a time, invitations to events we never attended, an address book full of dead names, postcards stamped but not sent. Throw that crap in the waste bin, layer by layer, all that… what’s the word for it?”
He pauses, thinking perhaps. She waits, patiently perhaps. He snaps his fingers, points to the off-white ceiling, the circular fluorescent light.
“Detritus, that’s what it is, because things are decomposing in there, bits of my life rotted to uselessness. A man’s existence should not be marked by uselessness, Marge. That’s what I’m trying to say here. No. So I’m going to keep digging to the very bottom, until my fingernails scrape against that horrible floral shelf paper you put down forty years ago.
“And do you know what I’m going to find, way down there in the depths of that damned drawer? Well, I’ll tell you. My mortality, that’s what. It’s in there somewhere, I’m sure of it. Once I’ve got my hands on it, I’m going to sit back on the linoleum, right there on the floor with my back against the cupboards. Then I’ll hold my precious mortality right up close to my eyes and stare at it without blinking.
“If I get tired of staring, say my eyes start watering for some reason, I’ll slip my mortality into my shirt pocket, all safe and sound. Then I’ll yank that empty drawer clean out and throw it across the room, just to hear it smash to pieces.”
Marge raises her cup to her lips, eyeballs her husband through the rising steam. Lowers the coffee, cup against saucer—Click!
“You won’t get any quarrel from me, Harry. That drawer could stand a bit of tidying and you’re just the one for it. Something to keep you occupied and out of my hair whilst I tend to my thoughts. So much to think about these days, what with all the memories crowding in on me. Like children clamoring for attention, all of them at once. You remember how that used to be, I know you do. I swear, I can’t get a moment’s peace.
“There was a time not long ago when I had a balance point, a fulcrum you might call it, betwixt past and present. It helped me keep the tally of my still-living lovelies and the roster of my beloved dead. I can’t think what I might have done with it. One day it was just gone. I know life isn’t fair, as you yourself say far too often, but it makes me want to cry all the same.
“So many faces swimming in front of me, Harry, streaming past in a blur too fast to make sense of. I see smiles and laughter and tears. A boy with a skinned knee, a tall girl in a graduation gown, grown men and women cradling babies. Time was I could see a single image at a time, one precious face. Then I’d name you the year, the place, stitch those memories together like a quilt. Show you how they connected, and how we connected to them. Not anymore, Harry. Not anymore.”
She cradles her coffee between her hands and tries to smile. Stares into the cup but does not take a sip.
“You know it’s funny. I used to picture life as a river, and me standing on a little island midstream. That river was so beautiful. The waters flowed past on either side, bearing miracles and tragedies, happy times and sad. Can you picture it, Harry? Now my island has washed away, carried off in a great flood, and me with it. Now I’m under water and drowning, me and all my memories tumbling downstream.”
Marge lowers the cup to its saucer, then spreads her hands flat on the table, head bowed. Harry reaches out a gnarled hand, lays it atop hers, and gives her fingers a squeeze. She raises her face and smiles, her eyes bright with tears. Slips her hand from beneath his, dabs her eyes with the hem of her apron. Her chair scrapes against the linoleum and then she is standing.
“All this talk and the coffee’s gone cold. Do you want another cup?”
Harry leans back in his chair and rubs the stubble on his chin.
“No, I’d better get after trimming that hedge. Been putting it off too long.”
Marge nods, then bends to gather the dishes.
“And I need to wash these plates before the yolk sets hard.”
Harry stands, tucks in his shirt, glances around the kitchen. Marge bustles past, stops, gives him a peck on the cheek.
“You be careful. Don’t lop off any fingers.”
“Now, Marge.”
She steps to the sink. Plates clatter against stainless steel. Then her voice over the sound of running water.
“I’ll brew some iced tea. It’s going to be warm today.”
Harry stands still as a statue. He watches Marge, the way her elbows move as she scrubs the plates, rinses them, stacks them in the drainer.
Then he remembers the hedge and walks to the back door.
About the Author
Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. Power Tools is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a new ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. Author website: https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/