A Little Piece of Fiction

Sunday night I finished editing a short story that I have been working on for a couple of months now. It is still not perfect, but I think it is at the stage where feedback is welcomed! It is untitled as of yet, so if you have an suggestions for a title feel free to post them...

The last time we saw each other the whole world was watching. In contrast to the cloud of terrible, private secrets that I shared with my father, I savoured this public moment as a fitting end to our story.

We were at a live taping of Peter Popoff’s Miracle Holy Water infomercial. It was the single most romantic and enchanting moment of my childhood. I was swept up in crowd. This was only my second time visiting my father in Vancouver and I was captivated by city life. Earlier that week my father had taken me to an interactive exhibit of First Nations Art. Hands pounded together to the beat of the worship music and I imagined that each clap was the beat of a primal drum line. I closed my eyes and the thousands of people around me changed, the skin of their palms transformed to the smooth deer hide drum heads. The crowd was hot and pounding.

I was on my father’s shoulders surveying the cloud of witnesses. My eyes were fixated on the black lady standing next to me – not only because she was the first black person that I had ever seen up close, but because she was luminous. Beads of sweat gathered at the back of her neck and the soft line above her lip. She was speaking in tongues. The enchanted words seemed to drip from her mouth. Every time a new witness testified she would wave her arms gracefully above her head, shouting “Thank you Jesus” and I would lean forward hoping that her plump, dark fingers would kiss my cheek. As we listened to the stories of people who had been rescued from financial despair, miraculously recovered from limps and ailments and those who came to know the Lord and turned from their sinful lives with a single drop from their free packet of Mr. Popoff’s Miracle Holy Water my father’s body tensed. He was trying so desperately to believe. He began to sweat profusely. The veins in his forehead pounded uncontrollably. He looked like he was going to be sick.

He hastily lifted me down from my perch and grabbed at my arm, pulling me through the crowd toward the exit. He grabbed his free packet of Miracle Holy Water and we left. He was walking so quickly I could hardly keep up, one fist clenched around his packet of Holy Water, the other squeezing my hand. Without looking he pulled me into a busy crosswalk. I hesitated, he turned back to scold me and we froze at the sound of screeching tires. A cab stopped abruptly, dream catcher swinging wildly in the rear view mirror, directly on top of my father’s foot. He did not notice immediately, but as soon as the driver saw what had happened he started to panic. My father realized that he was trapped when his prosthetic limb shifted from the socket. His fist tightened around the packet of Holy water and he began to pound the hood of the yellow cab wildly, sprinkling the vehicle’s hood with the blessed liquid and keeping time with the primal drum line. My father let out a loud and agonizing moan as the taxi driver put the car into reverse and freed his foot.

Drunk on religion and humiliation my father let go of my hand and walked slowly to the bus stop, leaving a trail of Holy Water that evaporated almost as soon as it hit the hot pavement. I walked a few steps behind, listening intently to the sounds of the city, jack hammer pounding on concrete, feet pounding on sidewalk and the hiss of bus doors opening. Content, I marched behind him to the beat of the drum line.

When I caught up to him he was sitting on a bench at the bus stop, adjusting his prosthetic leg. I sat down beside him and watched him nervously. We made eye contact briefly, but never spoke. My father got up as the bus approached, as I stood he gave me a stiff handed wave, simultaneously saying his goodbye and motioning for me to sit back down. The drum line faded as I sat motionless on the bench until the bus was out of sight.

I gathered my thoughts for a moment, trying desperately to remember the steps that my mom had rehearsed with me before I left home. She told me that she was worried I would get lost in the city, really, she was worried my father would lose me. There was payphone just up the block. Carefully I dialed 911 and spoke calmly to the operator. I returned to the bus stop and sat in the place where my father sat only minutes before. I closed my eyes trying desperately to put the city sounds to the rhythm of the drum line. Calmly, quietly, I waited. The beat was gone.