Work Text:
“You’ll do what I say, and that is final.”
“But why can’t you take the papers? I don’t want to see him!” I protested, tossing the packet onto the kitchen counter. The fall sun poured through the glass pane above the sink. The dishes sat beneath, soapy and glistening. She was washing the tupperware after a big Halloween party at the office, and she’d brought home sugar cookies with little pumpkins on them. I obviously demolished them before Shelly got a single crumb.
My mother’s bottom lip trembled. “Just… just do it. My god. It needs to be done, and I can’t…” she turned, holding her gloved hands, dripping with sink water, away from her body. “Just do this one thing for me, okay?.”
I frowned. “What if he’s drunk, or he doesn’t sign?” I didn’t want to challenge her, but I also didn’t want to waste precious time pedaling to my father’s farm for no reason.
“He’s always drunk! He’s always going to be drunk! Knock on the door, get him to sign, and leave!” she exploded. “Take the car insurance papers, Stan, and tell him that if he doesn’t sign, he’ll see me in court!”
I turned to the counter and begrudgingly took the orange folder. I moved to the front door, my feet dragging along the wooden planks.
Mom noticed, then rolled her eyes. “Fine. Take forty from my purse, and stop pouting. I don’t care anymore,” she muttered. She removed her rubber gloves to rummage through her money, a mess of credit cards, unused coupons, and dollar bills threatening to fall through her fingers. She placed two twenties in front of the dish drainer. “You can go trick-or-treating after you get it done. Don’t ride your bike in the road again.”
I stuck the money in my back pocket, thinking of Kyle and the matching costumes we chose for tonight. My Terrance shirt, shoes, and wig were laid out on my bed upstairs. His mother purchased a blond wig online so he could be Philip. We had to paint the T and P on our shirts with fabric paint, but the rest of the costume was easy to improvise.
My bike sat in the driveway, neglected for weeks, maybe months. Shivering, I steadied myself on the seat, pushing on the pedals. My Schwinn didn’t ride as smoothly as it used to.
-
Dad had a big farm on the east of South Park where he grew weed and the occasional vegetable assortment. Mom was okay with him selling weed at first. I couldn’t recall the exact moment it became a breaking point for her.
The farm was a long bike ride away. I pulled my collar up over my nose to stop the chilly air from blowing in my face, thinking of my friends to pass the time. Cartman had been so pissed that Kyle and I planned a costume together, that he tried to rope Kenny into doing a costume with him. But Kenny didn’t have enough money to buy anything, and Cartman was too greedy to help him out, so he just gave up and ended up making his own robot costume. It was ugly and falling apart the last time I saw it. I wondered if he’d improved it since then.
Kyle bought Kenny a costume with his saved up allowance money. I wasn’t there when it happened, but Kyle told me during math class that tonight would be Kenny’s first time trick-or-treating. I thought about his little sister, Karen. Maybe she had never trick-or-treated either.
The farm was easy to spot. Dad had fields that stretched on forever. When I still lived with him, our neighbors would try to hop the fences and steal his products, so he heightened the fences and added barbed wire. I wondered if other farmers had to do that too, or if people only stole from him because he grew marijuana.
I didn’t see much of the “divorce.” I think Shelly knew more about it than I did. Mom moved out almost a year ago, and all I can remember was feeling relieved to be away from him, to not live on a farm anymore and have no more stupid farm chores.
The air was harsh. My collar slipped down my face, and I could immediately smell the earthy fertilizer he packed into the ground. Snow was yet to fall, a record for South Park. Shelly told me it would get hotter because of climate change, something Cartman was excited for, because he wanted to go swimming more often. But Kyle seemed angry whenever the topic came up.
I reached the gate before the driveway, which was closed. There was an electronic camera and Ring doorbell system- something he must’ve installed recently. I pushed on the metallic gray button. “Hello?” I said.
No answer.
I did see his truck down the driveway. If he wasn’t in the house, he was tending to the farm, maybe harvesting his crops before town froze over. “Dad!” I shouted, unfurling the orange folder from my backpack. “Hey, let me in!”
If he heard me at all, he didn’t respond.
I wondered if he got a new car- he certainly had the money, and mom always discouraged him from making frivolous purchases, like buying a Mercedes. But Mom left. Maybe he bought a fancy new sports car to drive around town, leaving his muddy GMC to transport farm materials. I pushed the Ring doorbell again, then tugged on the gate.
He wasn’t home. Or maybe he was asleep- another thing my mother berated him for. Dad’s sleep schedule was atrocious, often sleeping through the morning and only waking up for dinner. But it was only 5 PM when I left. Dad would be awake now.
If I returned home without the papers signed, Mom would be upset and guilt me into coming back another day, something I didn’t want to do. So I knew I had to get inside the house to wake him up. I considered forcing myself through the gate, but my head was obviously too big. I hopped back on my bike and trailed around to the back gate.
The gate did have barbed wire, but I was small enough to slip my hand through the bars and unlock it from the other side, something an adult couldn’t do. So I entered, pulling my bike alongside me.
Looking around the farm, I immediately knew something was off.
Tools laid everywhere on the back porch, some blocking the back door. The squash he planted to my left were past due, and had ripened over a month ago.
I approached the section of squash. Dad had taught me about “blossom-end rot,” where the bottom of each vegetable rots away, but this was something else. Dark browns, grays, oranges, and black hues lined the soil. The stench was earthy and sickly and sour. I raised my collar back over my mouth, struggling for air. Most of the crop had been left out for so long that it had flattened amongst the stems and leaves– it disturbed me so badly that I turned away and ran to the back door.
I forced the tools out of my way and jiggled the doorknob, doing it the same way I used to whenever I’d sneak out and need back in. Kyle used to meet me at the back gate sometimes so we could play in the woods, and knowing how to get back in came in handy.
The wood croaked under my sneakers when I came through the doorway. The house air was stale and harsh, with a hint of something pungent and wet. I decided to leave the back door open. The house needed fresh air, no matter how chilly it was outside.
The kitchen was demolished, something my mom would never let happen. A pan full of cooked, molding eggs sat on the stove, collecting flies. Before he made that batch of eggs, it looked like he hadn’t washed the pan- or stove- in decades. Maybe he used that pan every day and was too lazy to clean it.
Most of the dishes were dirty. At some point, my father had transitioned to plastic and styrofoam dishes and utensils, because they piled amongst each other in the trash can. I felt a twinge of guilt– I knew he would get bad after we left, but never this bad.
I passed the living room without much inspection. The table lined with beer cans was more than familiar to me.
“Dad?” I called out.
In the hallway room, the pungent, sour smell grew stronger. I gagged and pulled my collar up again, wishing I’d brought my face mask that I used to wear at school during Covid. Kyle bought a white canvas mask and painted my dog, Sparky, on it. He gave it to me one day at school. I wore it until the mask mandate was lifted, but it hung on a nail beside my door. I saw it before I left every day.
His bedroom door was cracked. From the doorway, I could already spot his dirty, muddy clothes lining the dresser. I pushed on the door, the harsh TV light greeting me, outlining his figure on the bed.
“Dad?” I said again. I realized all of the lights in the house were off, except for the TV. “Hey, Dad.” I clutched the folder in my hand. “Mom wants you to sign some papers.”
I hadn’t noticed the flies until I stepped inside. They gathered around him, mostly, but some decorated the half-eaten food at the foot of his bed. “Dad?” Something clenched inside my stomach. I thought he was dead first, and my eyes burned with horror. But then I knew it- he was sick. He had the flu, or he drank too much and was letting it pass over. He was too sick to take the trash out or clean dishes.
The eggs in the kitchen were moldy. I knew he hadn’t eaten in a while. I left the bedroom and returned to the kitchen, the kitchen that I used to eat cereal in every morning. The kitchen that my mom used to bake brownies and lasagna in. The kitchen that Kyle’s mom used to be so jealous of. And now, what was it? Neglected? Would it ever be used again? My dad would have to go to the hospital, for sure.
I opened the fridge, and to my disappointment (and disgust), most of the food inside was rotten or moldy as well. Most of the pantry food was fine. I grabbed a box of saltines and slowly returned to the bedroom. I didn’t want to scare him.
I crept toward the bed. It was hard to see him, and I considered turning a light on, but I didn’t want to upset him. I reached out to shake him. My fingers touched the blanket, and I wondered when it had been washed last.
“Hey, Dad? Hey, wake up.”
Dad hadn’t moved once since I entered the bedroom.
Not even to breathe.
I shook him again, before stepping away in horror. His bed stunk, the small sliver of skin that I could see from underneath the blanket was pure white.
“Daad,” I said loudly. My eyes stung again. “Ooohhh my goood…” I couldn’t help dragging my words out. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes were so cloudy with tears that I stumbled around the bedroom. “Dad… dad…” I whispered. I tapped him again.
I lifted the blanket and instantly recoiled. The sheets were stained all sorts of colors, red and brown and yellow and black, and the scent grew worse, and I had no choice but to double over and vomit right on his hardwood floor, on top of the half-eaten food.
My stomach churned and tossed and my throat closed up and puke came out of my nose. I tried to stand up and gasp for breath, I tried to spit out the rest of my vomit, but it was stuck in my throat. I fled from the room as fast as my legs would allow me.
Spitting and gagging as I went, I exited through the back door, greeted by chilly, fresh air. I couldn’t smell the rotting squash anymore. I sat on my bike, heaving and puking again, this time all over my blue winter coat.
My mind rushed– the horror of my father dying alone in bed, wondering how I would tell Mom, unsure if I could bike back home without passing out, the fact that I could never see him again, that he would never get better…
My breathing was so unsteady I knew I wouldn’t make it home. I thought of riding to the closest house. Tolkien’s.
Unsteady, I rode through the gate, my hands shaking violently at the handlebars. I wondered if this was all my fault.