Your mother smells, terribly.
I go in five times a week to wash her hair and I can tell you it’s not because it’s one of my assignments. I’m the “change-the-sheets” kinda gal. I’m also a “Mr. Jones in 5c just shit himself and I need you to take care of business” type of lady. So when I have a break or when I’m too nauseous to stomach my lunch I go and drag the visitor’s chair, your chair, across the speckled linoleum and set it in front of the sink your mother shares with Mrs. Henderson. I relocate your mother from her bed and sit her in the seat and place a fresh hand towel around her shoulders. I set to work and your mother and I listen to all sorts of sounds: the stream of faucet water, the shampoo bottle’s inappropriate tooting, Mrs. Henderson sawing wood with each cantankerous snore.
“My son’s a marksman. He can see a shot a thousand yards away. Bang! Just like that. Been shooting rifles since his daddy bought him his first one. Third Christmas and you shoulda seen that boy smile.” Your mother births a bubble of spit at the corner of her mouth and the creases around her eyes wrinkle a thousand-fold. She is proud as I scrub-a-dub-dub, my fingers working concentric circles around her scalp. My fingers, swollen like sausages. Like fat little piggies.
But she smells on Mondays. It’s the weekend crew, a bunch of lazy fucktards run the shift and you should see the shit they pull. I heard they tried to pit Mr. McGregory and Mr. Johnson against each other but one’s too deaf and the other’s too blind to give a flying rat’s ass let alone a punch. Beth Anne should have fired the whole lot of them but workers are hard to come by in this field. Nobody interested in dealing with other people’s piss. Wonder why.
Monday through Friday I take it upon myself to wash her up even if I don’t have more than five extra minutes. Monday through Friday I sit in front of that goddamn sink rubbing my fingers raw while your mother yammers on about the fruit of her loins taking down bucks and wizarding flesh into jerky. Monday through Friday I lose the feeling in my feet while the weight in my hips and my belly crushes my sciatica. Monday through Friday I take your place.
It’s not fair to that woman and I sure as hell know you know it. While you’re out taking your shots and spit shining your medals, she’s settling into her spine and losing her sense of smell. Monday through Friday I learn this, reality’s broken record and Monday through Friday I pray my baby grows to be a better man than you.
© 2001-2013 Ericka Clay All Rights Reserved
this is an impressive piece of writing.
Aw, thanks Maggie.
Very impressive indeed. I feel as if I am right there.
Thank you, Kathryn!
This speaks of experience! If this is purely fiction you have shown a great ability to step in this woman’s shoes.
It is. Really everything I write is just the result of being an only child who had way too much time on her hands.
Did I say I like Fridays? Did I say why? Another lovely piece, Ericka.
Aw, thank you!
That was outstanding writing. I’m emotional. So damn you.
I’m going to post a warning: THIS MADE SARA CRY! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK! REPEAT: READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!
And thank you.
Nice. That was a great read.
Thank you and thank you for reading!
That’s really good. Well actually better than that
Oh wow, thank you!
Wow. You really have the skill for this, for making three or four very real characters, and just giving us a glimpse of their lives.
When you get published, I’ll be glad to say I knew you here first.
That’s so awesome of you, Faith. I’m working hard to make it happen!
Beautiful work.
Gracias.
Perfect, as usual. Sharing now.
Thanks, Ashley. You’re awesome!
Nice!
Thank you!
I stood at that sink.
Then I’ve done my job. Thanks so much for reading it.
And how this wasn’t freshly pressed is beyond me.
Thank you. Oddly enough they freshly pressed one where I went on a rant about sniffing glue and inviting strangers to my home to drink wine. So…yeah.
This is professional authorship! Why are you not getting offers left and right??
Well I have a great agent and a few publishers are reading my novel but for years I kind of/sort of wondered the same thing. That’s not horrible of me is it? Eh, I don’t care if it is.
And thank you so much for your kind compliment!