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Authors: Michael Perry
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milkweed.
It’s quiet for a while as we dig in. The Hopper house sits on a small rise. From the porch we can see over the security fence and out beyond the Sustainability Reserves to the horizon, where several columns of smoke are visible above the tree line.
“GreyDevils are busy tonight,” says Toad.
They’re out there setting up for another night of bonfiring and slurping PartsWash. Every now and then the smoke burps up all poisonous and black, and you know they’ve pitched in something nasty, like maybe some old vinyl siding they dug up from what was left of some bulldozed house. I hope the GreyDevils gargle PartsWash all night long and get good and wiped out, because tomorrow I have to sit beside Toad on the Scary Pruner and drive right through the area where all that smoke is rising. Each black puff is a smoke signal telling me that right now we might be eating warm pie, but there is danger all around.
Ma and Dad are silent. They seem to be staring past the barn, past the Sustainability Reserves, even past the GreyDevil smoke, to some place I can’t see. It’s hard to tell if they are even hearing us. They are right here, but it seems their minds are far in the distance . . . or the past. They never talk about life before Declaration Day. When I do ask, they say the past belongs in the past. But looking at them together there, I decide to ask about the past anyway.
“Ma,” I say, “how did you and Dad meet?”
They look at each other for a second like neither one knows what to say, then Ma smiles.
“We were in college,” says Ma.
“She was a word nerd,” says Dad. “Always with her nose in a book.”
“Your Dad saw me on a bench reading Emily Dickinson,” says Ma. “He stopped and said she was his favorite poet.” Then Ma giggles and gives Dad a little shove. “I found out later everything he knew about her he’d looked up on a computer ten minutes earlier.”
“And what did you study, Dad?”
He looks at Ma again, like he’s deciding how to answer.
SPLASH!
“Henry!” says my mother, and I realize Dookie is nowhere to be seen. His pie plate is empty on the grass. We all leap from the porch and run around the house toward the sound of the splash, and we’re all thinking the same thing: the tilapia tank. Sure enough, there at the foot of the ladder is the water-telescope, lying in the grass as if it’s been dropped.
“Henry!” says my mother, for the second time. In the footrace to the tank she beats everybody, and now she is on the top rung of the ladder, hoisting Dookie out. Ma often seems worn and weary, but right now she is fierce and bright.
“Henry!” she says for a third time. Dookie’s head is lolling around, but his eyes are fluttering, and the minute Dad takes him from Ma’s arms and places him on the ground, he begins spluttering and hacking, and you have never heard such a beautiful sound.
Toad climbs down the ladder, a fish spear in his hand. Dookie must have been trying to stab tilapia while spying on them through the water-telescope. Apparently he leaned over too far, and when he lunged with the spear, in he went.
“Oh, Dookie,” I say, kneeling down to hold his soggy little hand.
Dookie is staring off into space somewhere past my left ear. Weakly, he mumbles something.
“Shibby . . . shibby . . . shibby . . .”
Huh?
Flap-flap-WHACK!
Hatchet.
Honestly! I think, even as I’m flopping over sideways. That rooster has got to go . Toad pulls him from my hair and gives him a quick dunk before launching him toward the coop, where he hides behind the hens and makes soggy clucking noises.
Arlinda and Ma take Dookie into the house to towel him down and get him some dry clothes. When he comes back out he is belted into a pair of Toad’s red long johns. They’re all baggy in the butt and the cuffs are rolled up above his ankles and wrists. I take one look at him and snort right out loud, but Dookie being Dookie, he doesn’t give two hoots how
It’s quiet for a while as we dig in. The Hopper house sits on a small rise. From the porch we can see over the security fence and out beyond the Sustainability Reserves to the horizon, where several columns of smoke are visible above the tree line.
“GreyDevils are busy tonight,” says Toad.
They’re out there setting up for another night of bonfiring and slurping PartsWash. Every now and then the smoke burps up all poisonous and black, and you know they’ve pitched in something nasty, like maybe some old vinyl siding they dug up from what was left of some bulldozed house. I hope the GreyDevils gargle PartsWash all night long and get good and wiped out, because tomorrow I have to sit beside Toad on the Scary Pruner and drive right through the area where all that smoke is rising. Each black puff is a smoke signal telling me that right now we might be eating warm pie, but there is danger all around.
Ma and Dad are silent. They seem to be staring past the barn, past the Sustainability Reserves, even past the GreyDevil smoke, to some place I can’t see. It’s hard to tell if they are even hearing us. They are right here, but it seems their minds are far in the distance . . . or the past. They never talk about life before Declaration Day. When I do ask, they say the past belongs in the past. But looking at them together there, I decide to ask about the past anyway.
“Ma,” I say, “how did you and Dad meet?”
They look at each other for a second like neither one knows what to say, then Ma smiles.
“We were in college,” says Ma.
“She was a word nerd,” says Dad. “Always with her nose in a book.”
“Your Dad saw me on a bench reading Emily Dickinson,” says Ma. “He stopped and said she was his favorite poet.” Then Ma giggles and gives Dad a little shove. “I found out later everything he knew about her he’d looked up on a computer ten minutes earlier.”
“And what did you study, Dad?”
He looks at Ma again, like he’s deciding how to answer.
SPLASH!
“Henry!” says my mother, and I realize Dookie is nowhere to be seen. His pie plate is empty on the grass. We all leap from the porch and run around the house toward the sound of the splash, and we’re all thinking the same thing: the tilapia tank. Sure enough, there at the foot of the ladder is the water-telescope, lying in the grass as if it’s been dropped.
“Henry!” says my mother, for the second time. In the footrace to the tank she beats everybody, and now she is on the top rung of the ladder, hoisting Dookie out. Ma often seems worn and weary, but right now she is fierce and bright.
“Henry!” she says for a third time. Dookie’s head is lolling around, but his eyes are fluttering, and the minute Dad takes him from Ma’s arms and places him on the ground, he begins spluttering and hacking, and you have never heard such a beautiful sound.
Toad climbs down the ladder, a fish spear in his hand. Dookie must have been trying to stab tilapia while spying on them through the water-telescope. Apparently he leaned over too far, and when he lunged with the spear, in he went.
“Oh, Dookie,” I say, kneeling down to hold his soggy little hand.
Dookie is staring off into space somewhere past my left ear. Weakly, he mumbles something.
“Shibby . . . shibby . . . shibby . . .”
Huh?
Flap-flap-WHACK!
Hatchet.
Honestly! I think, even as I’m flopping over sideways. That rooster has got to go . Toad pulls him from my hair and gives him a quick dunk before launching him toward the coop, where he hides behind the hens and makes soggy clucking noises.
Arlinda and Ma take Dookie into the house to towel him down and get him some dry clothes. When he comes back out he is belted into a pair of Toad’s red long johns. They’re all baggy in the butt and the cuffs are rolled up above his ankles and wrists. I take one look at him and snort right out loud, but Dookie being Dookie, he doesn’t give two hoots how
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