The Rusty Nail, December 2012
After I heat up pasta for Caleb, I change him into his pajamas. It only takes one bedtime story, and he is fast asleep. I usually watch TV after he’s in bed. Tonight there is a paper bag on the coffee table. I don’t mean to look in the bag, but when I move it to get the remote, it tips over and pictures fall out on the table. I quickly stack them up, worried that somehow I’ve messed up the order. I can’t help but notice that the woman in them looks like a younger Mrs. Garity, only I guess she wasn’t Mrs. Garity then, but Joanne. Her hair is blonde like it is now, but brighter and longer. Her blue dress is too tight and stops way above her knees. Her legs are very tan and she is sticking out her behind. She has one hand at her mouth, blowing a kiss, and the other at her hip. It’s a little disturbing. I mean, it’s immodest to wear dresses that short, especially with bare legs. And that pose? By Mrs. Garity of all people? It’s so wrong. I shake my head trying to erase the image. I stuff the pictures back in the bag. I sit there, breathing hard. And then I dump them back out on the table, knowing it’s wrong and doing it anyway. They look like pictures from college. Mrs. Garity is sitting there in shorts and wedge sandals that my mother would call trashy with a guy holding a football. She’s standing in a big group, everyone laughing with their arms around each other, holding plastic cups. She’s asleep on a couch, one leg hanging off the side. I can’t look any more. I quickly put the pictures back in the bag. It’s safer to wait in the kitchen. I take a Diet Coke from the refrigerator (I’m allowed) and sit at the table, wiping it over and over with the dish cloth. On the way home, I have forgotten about Ivy’s party. I can’t think of where to go, except to the coffee shop where Dylan works. He has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a guy. One day his black hair looked almost curly, and I wondered if it was wet. But instead of asking him, I just ordered my coffee, like I always do. Tonight he is wearing a plaid shirt, un-tucked, and dark jeans with holes in them. There is a hole just below the bottom of his shirt, and I have this desperate need to put my finger in it and touch his skin. ●
Undo the Knot by Heather Adams
I
know what Mr. Garity would say about Ivy’s party. He would lean forward and say “Mandy, you’re old enough to make your own decisions. But think about what might be going on there. Think about the temptations.” He would nod, knowing that I would make the right decision. Mr. Garity is the youth minister at our church, and most of the time, I do what he says. I’ve been attending Maranatha since I was four weeks old – not that I remember my days in the church nursery, but it wouldn’t be like my parents to miss a Sunday, even with a newborn baby. Besides, the church is three blocks from our house, walking distance on all but the snowiest days. I joined the youth group when I was twelve, and I’ve gotten to know the Garitys pretty well in the last four years. They lead our meetings on Sunday evenings and Wednesdays after choir practice. Mrs. Garity is a sweet lady who sometimes asks me to babysit their son, Caleb. When he was little, he slept in a Moses basket. Mr. Garity said that, in the Bible, Moses trusted Caleb to explore the Promised Land for him. He’s always making connections like that. The Garitys live in an apartment not too far from the river. At least they could walk to the river on a warm day, if they wanted to, but I don’t think they go many places. Whenever they ask me to babysit Caleb, it’s because they’re going to a church event. Mrs. Garity wears these tunics all the time. They remind me of pajamas, but she has to be tired with all that she does and maybe it makes her feel better to be comfortable. Tonight they’re supposed to be back home by seven o’clock, so there’s plenty of time to go to Ivy’s party afterwards. My parents don’t really care either way, just as long as I’m home by midnight. They trust me, and I’ve never given them reason not to. When I ring the doorbell, I can hear Caleb whining. He’s two years old and usually happy, but at this time of day, he might be a little clingy until he gets his dinner. “Mandy, sweetie, come on in.” Mrs. Garity is holding Caleb when she opens the door. Her blond hair is pulled back into a pony tail and her tunic has little green turtles on it. “Yes, ma’am. Here, I can take him.” I reach out and take Caleb from her. “Caleb, let’s go read a book. What do you say?” “Book,” he says, except it sounds like “Boo.” I pick out his favorite board book, the one about farm animals. “Cow!” He points to the cover, where there is a picture of a black cow standing in a field of pink flowers. “Good job, Caleb!” Mrs. Garity laughs. “I was telling him this morning that milk comes from cows.” “What a smart boy.” “It is amazing what they absorb, isn’t it?” Mrs. Garity picks up her bag and car keys. “Mike’s already at the church because they needed help setting up for the concert. It wasn’t on the schedule, but you know how he is.” She gives me a quick hug on her way out.
• • • Heather Adams has published a number of short fiction pieces, as well as non-fiction articles. She lives in Raleigh, North Carolina with her husband, Geoff, and their son, Davis.
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