Stories
The Heckler
Abby believes it's funny to pratfall while pregnant. Holding a glass of Coke in maternity jeans, she moves into the living room. She walks only a few steps before she yells, “GRENADE!” and hurls herself onto the floor. She thinks it's funny to do this, and I grit my teeth every time. The couch plays an integral part as it blocks my view of the pillows she has placed on the ground. The rug is stained and hardened from liters of corn syrup. If I tell her to stop the slapstick routine, she’ll cry and I can’t listen to a pregnant lady cry anymore this year.
Kenforth's Baptism
My brother Kenforth's second baptism occurred on a sunny spring morning when the air was warm but the creek still cold, and it wouldn't have happened at all if he had just trusted me. “There is no money in Pentecostals,” is what I said, my exact words. “Nor Baptists either. Don’t waste our time.”
Bila
It is after we try the charts with the stars, the timeouts, the “ignore and isolate” strategy, that we tell Sila about our other son, Bila. Bila, we say, is our first son. He’s your brother. My brother? Yes. He lives in the backyard now. In the hedges. And he can never come inside. Why can’t he come inside, Sila wants to know. Well honey, we say, he was so bad, just a bad boy. We made him sleep outside until he straightened up.
The Last Detail
It started with the grass clippings. I’d just finished mowing the front yard. True, the rows lacked the zigzag symmetry of the adjacent lawns, and the edges were a bit on the shaggy side—I hadn’t yet invested in one of those trimmer gizmos—but I was nonetheless pleased with my accomplishment.