Different Ways to Bathe
She’s of an age where a little something sometimes appears in her underpants. Where did that come from? When? During second period industrial arts, the seventh-grade boys knocking chairs, talking back, making everything teeter? Then, front row, sweet Silas, near tears: “I can’t stand it when they disrespect a guest.” Little Bear, the woman’s heart purrs, don’t you worry. Inside her a tub fills. To a girl in dark curls she admits: “I thought I was signing up for robotics!” (Not miter saws, sanders, drill press. . .) Curl girl nods, “Me too.” They share a snort. The woman lets Silas fetch someone from the office. When a portly fellow marches in, an orange-hair lass sasses, “Havin’ trouble keeping your pants up?” He walkie- talkies for backup. Ironic that it’s orange-hair girl who gets pulled. Noon, when she leaves the school, the woman stops at the grocery for a small avocado and continues home for a butt bath (that odd bedpan-looking thing—thirty bucks well spent!). Over lunch her mind drifts back to something huge. Giving birth. Not her. But Becky. Who bestowed the biggest honor of the woman’s life. To accompany Becky of lioness black mane while she moaned, refused meds, huffed hot mama-bear breath, and in One Blood Curdling Scream popped a head and—sploosh—a whole new being amongst us. The perpetual brimming bucket of the scene spills through the woman in a fifteen-second rush. Shoulders, chest, tear ducts. She carries her glass to the kitchen and pads to a padded rocker. Washed, dried, wept, she takes a seat near Silas, the girls, the boys in back. One baby breath, two. Another. The next.
This piece was featured in Volume 4. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.
