Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader Presents Flush Fiction (13 page)

Rebecca Roland

W
ill MacLeod left the office early on Friday, a welcome surprise thanks to a gas leak in the building.

He stopped to buy flowers for his wife, Laura, as an apology for the night before when he commented on how tacky he found the ceramic gnomes she’d recently placed all around their garden. As he picked out orchids in pink, her favorite color, he thought about how fortunate he was to have her. She had done a wonderful job raising their family and now, every night, he came home to a hot meal and a clean house. Part of his mind, as it had done before, wondered at how she could manage the house and frequent visits from the grandkids and still have energy for salsa lessons, but, as always, he shoved those thoughts aside.

Flowers in hand and two hours earlier than usual, Will eased the door to his house open, wanting to surprise Laura. As he stepped in, the sound of grunts and giggles came from the kitchen. A long female sigh followed.

The bottom fell from Will’s world. Could Laura be having an affair? He argued with himself even as he slipped out of his loafers and laid the flowers on a nearby table with care not to rustle the plastic around them. He adored her and let her know it all the time. Why would she turn to another man? No, his Laura would never do that. He reached for the flowers.

But then her voice, husky, reached his ears. “Mmm, that’s amazing.”

Will’s hand fell to his side. He did not want to witness his wife with another man. He didn’t want that image burned into his mind. His right hand curled into a fist. He had to know—who,
how long, why? Above all, why?

He shuffled across the oak floor through a living room dotted with patched leather furniture and the grandkids’ tiny, plastic racing cars and stuffed dolls. He glanced at the family pictures on the wall and choked down a cry at the pang of loss that tore through him. At the other end of the room, he sidled next to the wall. His pulse raced. Will took a deep, fortifying breath, then peeked around the corner.

On the kitchen table stood a half-dozen gnomes, each one about ten inches tall. They all sported beards and expansive bellies. Pointed black caps covered their heads, and they all wore dark pants, although each one had a button-down shirt of a different color.

Laura, wearing a pink tracksuit and her gray hair in a ponytail, handed a wooden spoon to one of them. A cutting board acted like a gangplank between the table and kitchen counter. The gnome trotted up the board to plop the spoon into a pot simmering on the stove.

“I think Will is going to love this stew,” Laura said.

“Who wouldn’t, with all the wine in it?” a gnome replied.

Laura waggled a finger at him. “You can’t tell me the recipe calls for an entire bottle of wine. I caught you sneaking some.”

The gnome laughed. “I can never get anything past you.”

Will remained frozen in place for half an hour as the gnomes scurried about, preparing the meal and cleaning up after themselves. A couple of them washed dishes at the stainless-steel sink. Others scrubbed down the white cabinets and dark granite counter. The remainder waxed the tile floor until it sparkled beneath the late-afternoon sunlight spilling through the window over the sink. Laura, meanwhile, hummed as she painted her toenails, occasionally giving an approving nod to the gnomes.

Will crossed the living room, slipped his feet into his shoes,
and took the flowers outside. He made a lot of noise with the car and took an inordinate amount of time to gather his computer bag and empty lunch sack. When he reached the door with flowers in hand, Laura waited there, her eyes wide and her face flushed, to give him a long welcoming kiss. Over her shoulder, Will thought he spotted a pair of gnome legs disappear through the screen door in the back of the house.

David O’Neal

C
hrist, I’m late,” Andrew said to himself. “And I’ve been working on this friggin’ deal for a month!” It was 8:30 am in Boston; the meeting was at 10:00 in Springfield, a two-hour drive. “Damn, damn.”

Andrew dressed hurriedly in the suit he had laid out the night before, put on his perfectly shined shoes, and stuffed a tie into a pocket. He gulped down a cup of coffee, poured another cup to take with him, grabbed his briefcase with the papers in it, and rushed out the door of his apartment toward his car, which was parked several blocks away.

It was cold outside; the sidewalks and streets were treacherous from ice under the two inches of snow that had fallen during the night. He lost his footing once and spilled the coffee, but managed to land on his hands, not quite going down. Andrew started the car, cleared the front window with the windshield wipers, and ran the other windows up and down to remove the rest of the snow. Then he put the car in gear and lurched out into the narrow street. Right in front of a pickup truck. The truck, being cut off, just managed to stop before hitting him. It was a painter’s truck with a ladder in the back; the startled, frowning driver wore white coveralls stained with paint. Andrew couldn’t take the time to apologize.

Andrew drove down the street as fast as he could, which, because of the slick surface, wasn’t all that fast. In his rearview mirror he could see the truck driver. The guy was swarthy and big, with broad shoulders and a nose that looked like it had been broken. He appeared to be scowling. Andrew turned a corner and accelerated. The truck turned, too, and got closer. Andrew
could see the painter gesturing with his right hand. “Jesus,” Andrew thought, “he’s giving me the finger—he must be pissed. Just what I need!”

Since he was already late for the meeting, the last thing Andrew wanted to do was stop and get into a wrangle, especially with a guy who looked so intimidating. He turned down another street, but the truck followed even more closely. Andrew began to sweat, his head hurt, and his ulcer was acting up. What to do? He was near the entrance to the freeway but realized the painter wasn’t going to give up. And if the guy dicked around with him on the freeway, they might have an accident.

Shaking, and with great reluctance, Andrew pulled over and let the driver’s side window down. His pursuer drove abreast and rolled down his passenger-side window. Andrew, inwardly groaning, got ready to engage his tormentor, hoping the battle would be only verbal.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the pickup driver. “Your briefcase is on top of your car.”

Gail Denham

V
acation time! Wife has finally agreed to try camping, one more time; last year you camped in a field where they rounded up cattle early the next morning.

This year will be different. You have planned the perfect camping trip. That is, if you can cram everything into the van. What is all this stuff? Wife has brought enough food to last until December.

As you gather the gear, the stove slips out of your hands. Oops! Someone put it away greasy. No cooking bacon this year, you decide.

Load after load of tents, lanterns, sleeping bags, cooking pots, shovels, buckets, and water toys are hauled out of their winter hiding places and shoved into the bulging vehicle. Boxes of food and soda follow. At this rate, you won’t have room for the kids. You begin pulling things back out.

Finally! You’re ready.

Wife makes the sixteenth trip through the house, unplugging everything. “I heard of a house that burned to the ground because of a faulty plug,” she says when you ask. So what’s to stop that from happening when you’re at home, you want to say, but you think better of it. She might change her mind. After all, she voted to stay at a resort.

“Come on,” you call, tapping the horn.

The lake is a four-hour drive away. You’ll have to set up tents in the dark if you don’t hurry. At last you’re off. But not far off.
“I forgot coffee,” Wife yells. Brakes screech. The van bumps over the curb as you maneuver a U-turn.

“Anyone who has to go to the bathroom, go now,” you warn as Wife dashes into the house. Kids are busy fighting over a pillow. No answer. They restrain themselves until you reach the edge of town. “Daddy,” Daughter squeaks. “I have to go—now.”

Bit by bit, with only minor interruptions, such as stopping at every rest stop and service station, you inch your way toward that paradise lakeside vacation spot. Your foot presses the accelerator as you race the sun.

You lose.

Wife and kids sit in the van and eat peanut butter on crackers while you struggle with a zillion tent pegs and rain flys.

“How about a salami sandwich?” you request. “No salami,” Wife replies.

“$364 worth of groceries, and no salami,” you mutter.

Your flashlight flickers weakly. They should make these instructions in large print. The lantern fuel didn’t get packed either.

“Okay, come on out,” you call finally. “I’m going to build a fire.”

Suddenly it hits you. You distinctly remember seeing the axe leaning against the garage wall. You do not remember seeing the axe in the van. You are correct.

Building a fire from twigs takes a long time. The sky begins to leak.

“Only a little mist,” you assure your family. “Won’t hurt anyone.”

The family doesn’t agree. In a few minutes, they head for the cozy tent.

You sit and watch newspaper burn, dreaming of long-ago fishing trips with your dad. You remember how you used to trade stories around a roaring fire. The mist puts out your puny fire and soaks your coat. You give up and crawl into your sleeping bag.

“Listen to the rain on the tent,” you murmur to Wife. “Reminds
me of the time…”

“Shut up,” growls your sweet wife.

The rain stops. You begin to relax. It will clear tomorrow. Maybe you can get in a little fishing. A cricket chirps. Frogs take up the chorus. Somewhere, something is munching, munching.

“Did you cover the food?” you whisper.

“Last one to bed does that,” Wife mutters.

“Daddy, I hear something,” Son yowls. “Probably a bear.”

“I have to go—now,” Daughter whines.

“Probably a bunch of chipmunks,” you assure them as you creep out of your warm bag. You fumble for your clothes and fall out of the tent. Your foot catches on something. You jerk it free.

“Help!” Wife yells in a muffled voice. “You’re smothering us!”

The tent collapses behind you. Whirling, you grab a nearby picnic bench for support. Something soft and squishy slimes between your fingers: wet, soggy marshmallows.

“Daddy, help!” cries split the night air.

“Quiet!” yells a nearby camper. Dogs bark.

A twenty percent chance of rain cascades down on your section of the world. You seem to be standing in a river. Your shoes are in the tent with your smothered wife and kids. You wipe hair out of your eyes; marshmallow sticks to your forehead.

The cries from the tent grow desperate. Spotlights glare from next door.

At last you locate a flashlight and the tent opening. Arms, legs, and heads emerge from the sagging, dripping tent.

Wife doesn’t speak. Children and blankets under her arm, she marches through the mud to the van. With a mournful look at the drenched fire pit, you follow. In minutes, the van smells like wet dog.

No matter which way you squirm, the steering wheel gets in your way as you try to sleep. The kids fight over a pillow.

Four more days. No axe. No lantern fuel. No salami. It’s raining. Your perfect vacation is ruined. Wife will never agree to go camping again. “Daddy,” says a sleepy Son. “Tell us a story.”

“This is fun,” Daughter sighs. “We get to stay up late, sleep in the van—and we had bears in our food. Wait till I tell the other kids.” Wife reaches over to hold your hand.

“So what’s a little rain,” you say. “We’re together, that’s what’s important.”

“Yuk,” says Wife. “What’s all over your hand?”

Settling back against a perspiring window, you begin your story,

“It was a dark and stormy Labor Day weekend when the mystery began…”