by Hayley Swinson
The Wrong Question
“Why aren’t you eating?” the man asks his teenage step-daughter, seated across the table from him.
She pushes her food around with her fork, watches the back of her mother’s head retreating to the bathroom.
“Don’t you like it?”
She nods. Looks at her mother’s empty chair. Under the table, she touches the cheap ring on her finger, relishes the way its peeling gold coloring scratches her skin.
The bell over the restaurant’s door tingles as a group of men and women files into the restaurant: feminine chatter with undertones of male laughter, the women clutching glittering purses and the suit sleeves of their dates.
The girl looks down at her jeans and t-shirt and her face reddens. Her step-father’s eyes narrow as he takes in the new arrivals. “A little over-dressed for this place,” he mutters. He stuffs food into his mouth, speaks around it, points at the girl’s plate with his fork. “Your food’s going to get cold if you don’t eat.” He swallows a bite, barely chewed.
“It’s a salad,” the girl says, spearing a leaf of spinach with her fork, bringing it to her mouth. The single leaf bends in half to fit between her lips, pursed in a heart-shape—as if preparing for a kiss. There’s a crunch as the stem breaks, and the girl chews it slowly, deliberately until the leaf is pulp on her tongue.
Her step-father fidgets in his chair. Wipes his wet mouth with the burgundy cloth napkin. Saws at his food with his knife. “You know, proper etiquette says you’re only supposed to cut one bite at a time. But that’s not very efficient, is it?” He laughs as he chews, slicing a grid into his steak. The girl watches the edges of his mustache, the tiny crumbs lodged in its hairs, the way it moves as he chews, more expressive than his eyebrows.
A smiling waiter seats the men and women in evening attire at the table next to theirs.
The girl swallows. Sips from her water glass. Twists the ring on her finger, feeling its inner edges rub against her skin. Her eyes wander to one of the women’s evening gowns. It is a deep blue edged in a pearl beading that trails up her side and intertwines with the lacy bodice, like froth on a wave.
The women laugh, flashing their teeth at the waiter as he pours them red wine. The woman in the blue dress places a hand on the waiter’s arm as she thanks him. A diamond glitters on her ring finger. Her nails are manicured, her teeth straight and white like sun-bleached shells.
The girl tries to stab another spinach leaf, fails, moves shredded carrots around her plate. She imagines herself crumbling, vanishing like sand through open fingers.
Her step-father brings the next bite to his mouth. “Your mom said I’m supposed to ask you about school.” He chews loudly as he looks at her, eyes expectant, fork hand gesturing for her to speak.
The girl’s knife squeaks on the plate.
With the tips of her fingers, one of the women at the adjacent table tears bread off the loaf in a graceful arc.
The girl gulps from her water glass, swishes the water in her mouth.
“What’s going on at school?” her step-father asks, moving the steak around his gum like a wad of tobacco.
The girl puffs out her cheeks. There’s a shriek from the table next to them and she turns to look. One of the women laughs, head thrown back, eyes shut, fingers cupping her stomach. Her husband looks bewildered, hand hanging in the air between them, warm light flickering off his wedding band. The girl’s stepfather glares at the woman, clears his throat loudly. “Can’t even hear myself talk,” he says to no one in particular. He catches the eye of the woman’s husband and they exchange a commiserating look.
The woman’s laugh ends in a throaty chuckle, and she grins at her husband, who frowns. He moves his hand to her leg, resting it there like a tether.
Under the table, the girl slips off the cheap gold ring and places it in her pocket. On the other side of the restaurant, her mother emerges from the bathroom, heads for their table.
The man sponges the pink steak juice with his bread, refocuses on his step-daughter. “Tell me about school,” he says to the girl, shoving the bread into his mouth.
Frozencamp Creek
When you asked me to cut your hair, I said yes without hesitation, even though I’d never done it before. We went down to the stream and you took your shirt off, threw a towel around your neck.
“Nice out today, huh?” I said, as you settled down on a rock, wetting your feet in the stream.
You looked up: towards the sun that baked the river stones, creating hot waves in the air, spreading the smell of decay from upstream. “Sure,” you said, batting gnats away from your eyes. Sweat was already beading up on your shoulders and forehead.
“Can you wet it?” I asked.
Your eyebrows shot up.
“Your hair, I mean.” My cheeks burned. Why had I agreed to this?
“Oh, sure,” you said, looking away, then bending forward into the stream, bringing your hands to the back of your neck to make sure your hair was completely submerged.
As you worked, I could see your tendons running from neck to shoulders and down your back to your waist like a road map.
You pulled your head out of the water, dripping from the ends of your hair, spreading little ripples in the stream. And when you sat still on the rock, towel back in place over your shoulders, and I picked up the painted art scissors and a clump of your hair, you shivered.
“You’re not cold are you?” I asked, snipping off a curl.
“No,” you said, watching the curl drift downstream, hands clasped tight over your knees.
We fell silent, listening to the water bubble and flow and the sharp schick schick schick of my scissors until that, too, became another natural sound.
When I was done, I dug my hands into your hair at the roots, drawing it to its ends between my fingers to measure evenness. The muscles in your neck were taut and unmoving, resisting the jerk of my fingers. Before I thought better of it, I put a thumb at the apex of your spine, pressing against the tension that had grown there.
You groaned and bowed your head towards your lap. In the distance, the lunch bell tolled, but neither you nor I made any move to leave.
Surefire
Mama and I stare as the neighbor’s house burns; we stand just outside the circle of heat. Grandpa has gone in search of Mr. McNair to see if he can help. My palms are damp, clasping Mama’s hand with both of my own. Is our house going to be ok? Shouldn’t we be worried about us? Mr. McNair’s hounds bark and carry-on down the way. I wonder if their pen is heating up from the fire, and I think about going to let them out.
Far off in the direction we came, there’s the wail of a fire engine, soft but getting louder. I wonder if it will make it down the dirt driveway, if it will get stuck between the trees. I wonder if there will be anything left for them to save.
I ask Mama if we shouldn’t just go down to the lake and bring water in buckets to put the fire out. She squeezes my shoulder. “That’s a nice thought, sweetheart.”
The fire truck arrives, but the house is a mass of fire by then, glass exploding out from the attic windows. Grandpa reappears with Mr. and Mrs. McNair, all three sweating and beet-colored. They stand with their hands on their hips next to us and the firemen and watch their house burn to the ground next to the lake.
Mrs. McNair is crying silently, her hand covering her mouth. All that water and nothing doing to put the fire out. One of the firemen, shouting to be heard over the fire and the hounds, says, “Good thing it rained last night or all these trees’d be caught, too.” Mrs. McNair takes a deep, rattling breath and her husband looks down.
“Small blessings,” Mama says. She is trembling.
Grandpa kicks a rotten log on the ground, and it falls apart round the middle.
At home, Mama picks ash out of my hair as she bathes me in the tub, pouring cup after cup of water over my head.
About the Author:
Hayley Swinson has a Masters in writing from the University of Edinburgh and an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte. She is Editor-in-Chief of 'The New Southern Fugitives' literary zine, and works as a freelance copy-editor and writer in Wilmington, NC. Follow her on her blog, hayleyswinsonwriter.com.
About Weekly Flash Prose and Poetry:
CutBank Online features one work of flash prose or prose poetry every Monday. Submissions are free and open year-round. Send us your best work of 750 words or less at https://cutbank.submittable.com/submit.