Torn

TORN

By

Jacqueline Druga

TORN

By Jacqueline Druga

Copyright 2011 by Jacqueline Druga.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental

Special Thanks to M. Rita Knits for her help
and to Jane Dare

Cover Art provided by Steven McGhee

“Buster!”

There was no answer to his mother’s call.

“Buster,” she beckoned again.

A bark was the response.

Sally sniffed.

It didn’t take a bloodhound to find his scent. The overwhelming aroma was distinctive, and with a few good whiffs, Sally found her son. His very first words were actually a sound that mimicked the
neighbor’s
barking dog,
which earned the two-year-old the ni
ck
name of Buster. However, they should have called him
Houdini because he had a talent for
and
the
habit of disappearing. But his mother one
-
upped him;
she always found him through her keen maternal instincts or the Buster neighborhood watch program.

“There you are,” Sally scolded gently as she opened the cupboards under the kitchen sink.

“Cookie.” Buster held up the dog biscuit.

“No.” Sally took the snack from his mouth, and pulled out the child. “Whew, you smell bad. Are you trying to tell me something, Buster?” she asked.

The child giggled.

“First barking, now dog biscuits.” She carried him in the other room.

“Play.”

“After I change you.” She laid the child on the floor. “Stay.”

Buster barked.

Sally rolled her eyes, smiled, and retrieved a diaper and wipes. She
brought them over to Buster. “Okay
. Soon enough we’ll get you trained, right?” She took a deep br
eath, undid the diaper and then…
Sally screamed.

A
large cockroach was adhered
to the
center of the fecal
-
stained disposable diaper. When Sally called Bret’s name that afternoon, she thought for certain
that
Sally was looking for her son. Never did she expect the frantic
-
sounding mother to burst through her back door holding a dirty diaper.

The petite woman, a mother herself, remained calm and prepared to tell Sally
that
Buster wasn’t there, until
Sally
placed the diaper on her kitchen counter.

“I don’t know what to do, Bret. I don’t know what to do,” Sally said hysterically.

People always considered Bret Long a sarcastic woman. Teetering on whether or not it
sh
ould be laced with anger or humor, Bret assessed the s
ituation, stepped back, pointed
and said, “Tell me that’s not a.
…” Before she could finish her sentence, she caught a whiff. “Aw, man, Sally. Get that off my counter.”

“Look, Bret, look at it.”

“I’m not looking at a dirty diaper.”

“Please,” she begged.

Hearing the seriousne
ss and desperation in her voice
led Bret to worry that perhaps there was something wrong with Buster. “Ok, show me,” she said, not wanting to touch th
e diaper. “But could you please…
take that off my counter.”

Sally lifted the diaper and unrolled it.

To prepare for the aroma, Bret inhaled before the exposure. But she wasn’t prepared to see the two-inch roach
in the
center of the mess.

“Bre
t, should I call poison control?
What?”

Knowing Buster, no one would have put it past him to pick up that bug and
eat it. However, even though
cockroach
es were
expected to outlive man and be the
sole
surviving species on
this earth, it was highly doubtful that the bug could have survived not only the chewing process, but the digestive acids as well.

It was still alive.

“Bret?” Sally beckoned for a response.

“He didn’t eat that,” Bret told her. “Look, the legs are still moving.”

“Oh, my God. I don’t have roaches.”

“Well…
Buster does.” She winced at her scream. “Sally, just because you see a roach doesn’t mean your house is dirty. However, if the
re’s one in your house, there’s.
…”

“Stop.” She held up her hand. “I have to throw up.”

“You? Me.” Bret gagged as she watched Sally in h
er frazzled state rewrap the
diaper and run her fingers
through her red hair so quickly that
she didn’t notice she had new highlights—remnants of her son’s bodily functions.

“Should I call an exterminator?” she asked.

“Call your husband first. That’s what they’re
there for. And Sally, you have…
poop in your hair.” Bret pointed.

Sally gurgled out a scream. It had Bre
t’s attention for only a moment
as
it was soon drawn to her twelve
-
year-old daughter who blasted in
to
the house.

“Mom!” Casper raced in
to
the kitchen. Born Elizabeth Ann Malone,
she
fell victim to her mother’s habit of nicknaming people
by
the age of three. She always seemed to catch a cold, and nev
er was able to suntan, hence
she acquired the
nick
name of Casper.

“Mom, you have to see this.” She was as frantic as Sally. “Come outside.”

“What is it?” Bret asked.

“You have to…
why is Mrs. Rogers holding a dirty diaper?”

Nonchalantly Bret responded, “A cockroach climbed in it.”

Casper snarled a look of disgust, and then regained her composure. “Mom. Please.”

“What is it?” she asked again.

“Just come outside.”

At th
at point
it was obvious
that
getting into a verbal ping-pong match was unproductive,
so
Bret just followed Casper out
side
.

T
o those in the lower
-
income
echelon
this
neighborhood was considered suburbs, but those who were above middle class called it the ‘poor’ section of the school district. Although it had more concrete than grass, it was a quaint little borough a few miles outs
ide of the city. Only a few feet
separ
ated most of the homes
and everyone had a sidewalk.
The sidewalk was
the destination of Bret and Casper.

Before Bret could spit out, “What am I looking at?”
she saw it on the sidewalk just in front of her property. Its identity changed with each closer look. A metamorphosis, if you will. At first glance, it looked like a man’s brown shoe, then closer
she
thought
it
was coffee
grinds…
until the huge pile move
d
.

Nine inches aro
und, at least six high, the
dark brown mound shifted
around
in one spot.

“Are they
ants?” Bret peered
a little closer. “They are.”

“Is that the grossest thing you’ve ever seen?” Casper asked.

“It’s a toss
-
up between this and the shit
ty
diaper.” Bret was st
ruck with awe over the
mound
as she crouched down to look at it. “My
God. This is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like this. I wonder what they’re eating.” She stood up straight. “Casper, go get the camera.”

“What?” she asked
,
aghast. “I’m not taking a picture of them. Why?”

“This is strange. Please? I’ll go get a bucket of water.”

“Fine,”
she
flounced
into the house. Bret followed.

Sally was still in the kitchen as Bret grabbed the bucket and started to fill it.

“What’s wrong outside?” she asked.

“Get this…
ants. A freakish amount of them,” Bret answered.

“Great.
Just great.” Sally spun on her hee
ls and opened the door. “Bugs are taking over.” She barged out.

The dramatic comment made Bret pause. Then she finished filling th
e bucket and took it
outside.

“I took their picture,” Casper said holding the camera. “They didn’t pose.”

Bret snickered, “That was good. Step back.” She held up the bucket, preparing to dump it. “I don’t want you getting wet.”

Casper stepped back.

Bret believed that the mound would wash away with whatever the ants
feverishly
devoured.

Her
mistake
.

The expulsion of water onto the sidewalk cleared nothing. It made matters worse.
H
orrified, she dropped the bucket
and Casper screamed as the mound began to wash away
.

Her head quickly jerked to the snap of a picture Casper took, then back to the sidewalk, where, like a river of mud, more ants poured from the crack in the concrete. An unstoppable amount oozed out as if washing
away the mound opened a door to
freedom.

“Shit.” Bret leapt back. “Get t
he hose.” With Casper
closely behind her, s
he
raced up the outdoor steps and grabbed the garden hose, yanking it with her in the rush back to the ants. “Casper
,
get ready to turn it on.”

Bret found her
self
a safe place
on the lip of a wall just before the sidewalk. “Full bla
st,” she instructed, eyes locked
on
to the ants that kept coming. The once
-
normal sidewalk was brown. She held tight to the hose and squeezed the nozzle, trying to clear them
off
, drown them.

“Aim for the crack, Mommy,” Casper said. “Aim there.”

She did. Casper was correct. Power
stream going, Bret blasted the
crease for a good five minutes straight until there were no more ants. Then she squirted the sidewalks
clear
of the ones th
at moved and swam for their lives
.

It was as if she was in a battle. Bret’s adrenaline spik
ed and her breathing was heavy. She lowered the hose when Casper shut down the water.

The mother and daughter joined in staring at the wet
property, w
aiting to s
ee if
the ants
would return.

“Mom? Why were there so many ants?”

Bret shook her head. Never had she seen anything like it before, but there was a first time for everything. There was no explanation for it, only the excuse of a strange occurrence in an already strange day.

Mid
-
lecture, actually mid
-
word, the dumbfounded, ‘Huh?’ made Professor Darius Cobb pause in his speaking. He chuckled as if the ‘huh’ was a joke, then
he
prepared to
continue
. Professor Cobb
,
whose age was never divulged, was somewhere around forty,
but that was hard to tell. His slight
yet toned five eight frame often made him look younger than his students—at least from a
distance. Although he added
highlights, he didn’t attempt
to cover up the occasional
gray
hair
in his tossed, slightly long brown hair. He felt that
it added an air of distinction to
him,
separated him from the students
. However, one need not speak to Darius Cobb longer than a minute before the realization came through that the highly intelligent and often humorously arrogant man was not a child.

Of course, if Professor Cobb wanted
r
espect based purely on his appearance, he could
opt to
dress
less like his students.

Back to the lecture.

He heard the ‘huh’ from the galley, shook his head, and then opened his mouth. He paused again and pointed his pencil at the young man four rows back. “Tell me you’re joking
,
right?”