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Once upon a springtime eve, when the mosquitoes were not yet out, there was a father who found himself alone. His wife was out for coffee with old college friends, his two older kids, 6 and 4, were asleep, and the baby had conked out in her swing. Even the dog lay in the corner, soundless.
It came to him suddenly: the house was quiet and the weather pleasant. Could he, perhaps, sit upon the back porch, drink in one hand, a book in the other…alone?
Carefully, upon tiptoes, he crept to the kitchen. In the fridge was a half-gallon of skim milk. That was about it. He settled for a glass of cold water.
With smooth, silent motions, he slid out the screen door. He sat in his chair, sighing. The dog saw him through the door and began to bark.
The father released the dog into the backyard and sat again. He heard the cars from the street and a few birds singing. The breeze was pleasant and the sun placed just so he could sit in shade or sun as he chose. He looked about idly, feeling his limbs relax and his mind slow like a ceiling fan just turned off.
That’s when he saw the bucket and shovel in the grass. He had told the kids to put them away. He went to pick them up. Along the way he gathered a football, two Elsa dolls, a pile of rocks placed right where he’d need to mow, an empty milk jug filled with mud, three water guns, and a board with four nails half-pounded in. He dumped it all in the shed. Finally, he sat and took a sip of water.
A squirrel stopped on his fence and he watched it, sensing the peace of nature flowing through him once again. The dog saw the squirrel, too. It leapt to its feet, barking, snarling, raging madly against the fence long after the squirrel had gone.
It was then the father heard the crying from inside. He rushed in, sure the baby was awake. The crying grew louder–but the baby was still swinging peacefully.
“Daddy!” came the scream. He found his daughter standing on her bed. “I had a bad dream.”
He held her and told her there weren’t giant spiders all over her room and tried to calculate how long he had before he ran out of sun. He decided to place his daughter in his bed. He sang “God is Bigger Than the Boogie Man” from VeggieTales and snuck out of the room.
His son was standing in the hallway. “Why does Ellie get to sleep in your room?”
“She had a nightmare.”
“It’s not fair.”
“She’s younger than you. She has trouble falling back to sleep.”
“It’s not fair.”
So he bundled the boy into the bed next to his sister, said good night, and hurried downstairs and to the porch, letting the screen door slam. The sound brought him up short. He waited…waited…he took a step…. The baby’s wail pushed out into the clear, calm evening.
In a few minutes he had the baby asleep again and he lowered her, inch by inch, into her bassinet, her face peaceful, limbs limp. She lay against his hands in the bed and he slowly, slowly, pulled them away and waited…she stirred…groaned…fell back to sleep…twisted–he snatched her up before she shrieked.
Forty-five minutes later, after five more attempts and two diaper changes, he left a sleeping baby for his chair on the deck under the darkening sky.
A gust of wind had knocked his glass over. His book was dripping. He sat dejected in his chair as the sun sank somewhere beyond. His wife pulled into the drive and eventually poked her head out.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“Just reading.”
“Don’t worry, they’ll be out of here in 18 years or so.”
It was dark and he was feeling melancholy. “Don’t say that.”
They both tilted their heads–the baby again. “Your turn,” he said.
“Fine. And you finish the dishes. You forgot them.”
“Deal.”
Originally published may 4, 2016, at www.4countymall.com