A Daunting Return
Every light in the kitchen was ablaze; the stove was turned high, causing the heat to settle and mount in agony for Tammy. She had already spent a blazing two hours at a tee ball game she coached for her two youngest children. Much of her strength had left her earlier that day while playing in the summer heat. Not even the comfort of her small home could cool her down. Beads of sweat formed like salty crystals at her temples while another form of liquid spilled just above her right eyelid. Brushing them away, she looked at her children sitting at the circular table at the other end of the narrow room. They were smiling, discussing their harrowing victory with excited gestures; their laughter nipping her ears from their high pitched tones. Not wishing to deter the children away from their own incitement, she did not bother to ask them to help her clean the unstable table filled with mail. Though it was important to keep the faulty table intact, it had been weeks since she'd seen them smile.
Turning towards the sink, she looked out the shapely window as a sigh escaped her lips. The sun was setting, yet the air was moist enough to touch had one ran their forefingers together. Another new strand of beads formed between her cleavage making her feel revolting and uncomfortable. If only we could pay for air conditioning, she thought to herself while squirming with discomfort. Feeling that it would be inappropriate to shove her hand within the contents of her shirt and wipe the mess away in front of her children, she allowed the sweat to form and dribble slowly down the ends of her bra.
To her dismay, she opened the window and felt a warm breeze touch her coarse skin. Not feeling relieved by her efforts to keep cool, she kept her wary eyes on the street connecting to their gravel driveway just ten yards across the lawn. Another lamenting groan burst forth from her coarse lips as she waited for the streak of light to shine from a Chevy Pick up Truck. It was eight o'clock... Where is he now?
When moving her hand from the sill, she saw that the white of the window's edge was smeared with red goo. The crimson tint was clustered as a ball, yet looked smooth from the hellish glare of the kitchen lights. To most, one would be reminded of a stray ruby circumvented from a ring; but Tammy did not think about the aesthetics of hand worn jewelery that are so commonly connected with conventional women. Rather than thinking of beauty at what looked to be an odd gem, her thoughts concentrated on nothing other than the fact that it must have been blood.
Upon further speculation, Tammy gained enough courage to pick up the piece and examine it closely. It was none other than crusted jelly. Feeling quite relieved that nothing had happened in her absence that would be cause for a dispute, she looked within the sink and found a cascading mountain of food and dishes. Feeling achy and pained, she began to wash the dishes as the inviting zephyr of Digornio Pizza began to circulate about the room. Tammy ignored the smell, knowing that if she raised it's suspicion, her children would be caught in a whirlwind of anticipation. Glancing at the children, she realized that their eyes were not on the stove, but on the clock, waiting...but for what? The pizza? Or their father?
Gravely, she turned the oven down and continued to finish the dishes, knowing fully well that they had to be finished. No...they must be finished. As new beads of sweat formed at her temples, one had actually touched the cut placed above her right eye. It seared with pain, yet she pulled the ball cap labeled “COACH” forward to hide her wincing. The innocence had long left her children's eyes; she had no need to give them new reasons to worry, or to think about blood as often as she already had. She would send them to bed early, she thought.
“Mama?” came a tiny voice.
“Yes, Westley,” she said without turning.
“Are you alright, Mama?” he asked.
“Of course. I'm fine, Westley. We won today. You and Britney hit the ball really well today. I was impressed how strong you are getting.”
There was a deep silence, one that reminded Tammy of the clam before the storm. Both of the children exchanged looks as though they could feel the effects of the storm begin to creep upon their skin despite the blazing heat of summer nights in California.
“Not as strong as....”
“Not as strong as who, sweetheart?” Tammy encouraged, “Not as strong as Babe Ruth? Roger Marris?”
“...Daddy,” interjected Britney. Tammy whirled to face her children. She did not mean to seem appalled or alarmed. But their faces were pressing, severe even. Glances were exchanged between them. Westley lowered his head while Britney continued, “He doesn't wish to be as strong as Daddy,” she murmured as she looked directly into her mother's wound.
Tammy felt a shortness of breath as she pulled down her ball cap for the second time. Not wishing to turn away from her children, but to show them courage, she regained her slouched posture and pulled the pizza from the oven. It landed with a plop on the circular table, creaked, then cracked in two, allowing the pile of mail to spin and flutter in a tornado of chaos while the pizza landed face down on the dirty, unfinished tiles—unable to eat.
“Uh-oh,” the children moaned in unison as the familiar lights of a Chevy Pick-up truck glared across the kitchen and pulled into the gravel driveway.
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