~ Butterflies ~
“Tom, look at what you’ve done. You’ve tracked dirt from the side door into the kitchen and your shorts are a mess. You’re old enough to know better than to rush in here without cleaning off first.” Mrs. G placed her hands on her hips and glared. Her face was flushed from the food cooking on the stove; dinner was an hour away. “And who exactly is going to clean up that mess before your father comes home from work?”
“But, Mom, I’m thirsty. It’s hot outside and we were exploring all over the lot down the block. Can’t I at least have a glass of water?”
“You can first go back to the hall and take off all your dirty clothes. Leave them there and brush off whatever remains. Tom, I’m so mad – I cleaned all morning! I’ve a good mind to send you to bed without supper. No dessert – and that’s final! Now get moving and then straight to the bathroom. You can turn on the taps in the bathtub. I’ll be in to give you a shampoo as soon as I finish here. And you can get a drink from the bathroom sink; there’s a glass by the toothbrushes.”
Ten minutes later, Mrs. G found Tom playing with his battleships in the tub. The water was tepid and the dirt around his neck had formed brown deltas underneath his collarbone. She grabbed a large measuring cup from under the sink and filled it with water. “Tommy, you’re a mess and now the bathtub is going to take ages to clean. What do you think you’re doing?”
“Playing battleships. This is a destroyer, see.” Tom circled the toy boat under the faucets, muttering, “Full speed ahead.”
Mrs. G poured the water over his head.
“Ouch, that’s cold, Mom!”
“Hmm. Serves you right, you weren’t supposed to go into the lot. There’s all kinds of garbage in there and you can get hurt.”
“Oh, it was OK this time. Me and Charlie saw a bunch of butterflies and were chasing them down the street. Big Joe saw them too, said they were pretty nifty. He came with us and when we stopped at the corner, telling him we weren’t allowed to cross by ourselves, he said he’d come. I mean, he’s at least 11, maybe even 12. He said it was alright and then we chased those butterflies all over the place. And he was with us the whole time. Even showed us his favorite hole. Said he was digging for buried treasure there and we mustn’t tell anyone, not even our own mothers. But you’re special so that’s alright. And then Big Joe said it was almost supper time, so we all crossed the street together. So it was alright, wasn’t it?”
Mrs. G ran the water in the sink until it became warm. “Tom, you close your mouth and eyes now. Your hair’s still full of dirt. Were you digging those holes with your head? No, don’t answer.” She slowly spilled the water on his head, squeezed on baby shampoo and then worked it into a lather.
“Ouch. What are you doing?”
“Getting the clumps out of your hair and who knows what from your scalp. For all I know you could have an ant farm living up there.”
“Can I keep them in a jar, Mom?”
“Tommy, that’s enough. Stand up. I’m going to rinse you off with a couple more cups. Then you can dry yourself and get dressed. Next, get the dust pan and brush. You can start at the side door and clean up your tracks. Then I’ll give you a damp rag to finish. And this better be done before your father gets home, you understand?”
“Yes, Mother.”
At supper, Tom was on his best behavior. He was beaming from his adventure with Big Joe, just waiting for his father to ask him what he’d done all day. Mrs. G relented and served him dessert. His father took a bite of the apple pie, commenting that it was delicious, “Just the right amount of cinnamon, Honey. Thanks.” He put down his fork. “Well, Tommy, what did you do with your day?”
Tom swallowed quickly. A piece of apple stuck in his throat and he grabbed for his water glass, gulping down two mouthfuls. “I went chasing butterflies in the big lot down the street. Big Joe came with us. They were all kinds of colors, yellows and reds. And then we saw some little ones that were all white. And there was this big hole Joe was digging for buried treasure. Wow, what an afternoon! I’m so tired, I may have to go to bed early.” He filled his chest and let out a big sigh, repeating, “It was quite a day, let me tell you.”
Mrs. G smiled. “That’s sweet, Tommy, but once you’ve finished, maybe my big men can help me clean up and then your father can read you a bedtime story.”
Mr. G laughed. “Sounds like a good idea, right Tommy? Chasing butterflies sure can tire a man out!” ~ Bluebirds ~
Tom was doing his homework in the breakfast nook. He never liked the desk in the corner of his bedroom. His room was dark and smelled like an adolescent boy’s bedroom; he felt that said it all. Besides, as he explained to his mother, “I can make a cup of Lipton tea if I need a pickup when the assignment su…” He usually caught himself in time; his mother detested vulgarity, and if he used vulgarity to emphasize a point, she often retaliated by hiding the cookies.
When he was home alone, he could also daydream, staring out the window, blankly looking out at the backyard on his way to and from the whistling kettle on the stove. He had a good imagination; his father had always said so before he died. “You don’t have to worry about our Tommy. He’ll always be able to dream himself a happy ending.”
He was staring out the window now. He had poured boiling water over the teabag in his cup, the second steeping. He would wait a minute before tossing the spent bag in the garbage. He liked staring, emptying his mind and wondering if anything would fill it besides girls. The backyard was bare. The grass struggled against the weeds, both losing out to an exceptionally dry Spring. Only the rose of Sharon in back, shaded by the garage, and the forsythia bush in one corner next to the driveway, appeared to be in good health. Since the garden hose was yet to be connected, he guessed his mother had turned on the outside tap just opposite and let the water run across the sidewalk to keep the it happy.
It was spring and the new branches were yellow. His mother liked them. Maybe I should cut her a bunch of branches and put them in a vase like she used to do before dad died. Now that she has to work, she’s too tired to cut flowers. Bummer she has to work so hard and do all the cooking and cleaning too. Tom was just happy they didn’t have to move. He’d read a couple of novels where that happened.
He closed his eyes: Steven Simon was fading fast. His family gathered at the foot of his bed. He motioned to his wife to come closer. When she leaned over, he whispered, “Don’t you worry. I’ve provided well for you and the children. You won’t have to work and I made sure the house was paid for.”
And then he realized the tea was getting over-brewed and cold. He went to the stove, removed the teabag, and started back to the breakfast nook, glancing out at the forsythia. There were two bluebirds resting in the top branches!
He swallowed and muttered, “Hardly ever see even one bluebird and now there’re two. Mom won’t believe me.” Watching them peck away at each other, he wanted to open the window to hear their chatter, but was afraid the noise would scare them away. Bet they’re trying to decide where to build a nest.
He breathed slowly and then started to rethink his novel:
Mr. S straightened his back. It was hard work putting in the kitchen garden. But his family would be sustained by what he could grow. He looked towards the kitchen window and the lilac bush beside it. “Darned if there ain’t two jays just landed. Now they’re jabbering away at each other. Probably debating if they should build a nest in that big cottonwood out back.
“Damn. There go the bluebirds and my tea’s ice cold by now.” Tom sat down and made a face at his math assignment. “This crap’s never going to help me write the great American novel.” He pushed the book to one side, deciding he’d go outside with a knife and cut a couple of yellow forsythia branches for his mother. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and see if the birds flew around front to our silver maple.”//
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kenneth M. Kapp was a Professor of Mathematics, a ceramicist, a welder, an IBMer, and yoga teacher.
He lives with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late at night in his man-cave.
He enjoys chamber music and mysteries.
Please visit www.kmkbooks.com.
About the Author
