by Cally Taylor
Tom doesn’t show me his art anymore. He doesn’t bound into the living room with crayon sketches of Mummy, Daddy and Benji. He doesn’t run from the school gates, into my arms, thrusting egg box dragons and papier mache pigs into my hands. Sometimes I don’t see him for days. I ask, when he returns. Try to make conversation. Try for a connection with my only child. Tom grins, holds out his hands, covered in something (I’m too afraid to ask) and shrugs and goes. Goes back into his bedroom, curtains closed, furiously scratching, scraping, sawing and shouting. I tap on the door. Keep it down, son. Please. Tom doesn’t hear. Tom is creating.
When he sidles into the kitchen, grabs an apple from the fridge, I ask “How was college? Are you getting good grades?” Tom laughs at me, bites into his apple and selects a milkshake (always strawberry, always was). He shakes his head. “You don’t get it do you?” I smile, keep chopping, keep slicing vegetables, keep running the onion under the tap so my eyes don’t sting. There are dead mice, decapitated, under his bed and toilet roll, strung from the ceiling, ‘FUCK’ scrawled along its length in thick marker pen. I shrug, suggest bolognaise for dinner. “I’ll add extra garlic. The way you like it. The way you used to like it.” Tom doesn’t want bolognaise. He doesn’t want meat. Meat is murder but he’ll keep pinning dead mice to chipboard displays, slitting them open, twisting intestines into heart-shaped frames.
I push open the door to his room. This is my house but Tom’s room is his own. He made that clear. He screamed in my face when I pulled the sheets from the walls, threw them in the washing machine and boil-washed away the blood. “If you want me to leave you’re going the right way about it, Mum.” I held the sheets to my face, rubbed brushed cotton against my skin. Like baby bedding, warm and soft. Tom yanked it from my hands and stared at the place where the blood used to be. He shook his head, dropped the sheet to the floor. “Keep out, Mum. I can leave and I will.”
I can’t touch but I can hoover. I can pick my way between the detritus and the filth. I can suck up the dust, the hair and the sawdust. I can leave fresh sheets on the end of his bed.
All content in SmokeLong Quarterly copyright 2003-2014 by its authors.
Cally Taylor lives beside the seaside in Brighton, England. One of her short stories was featured in the first BBC Get Writing anthology and she is looking for homes for the rest. She is currently working on a novel.
Read the interview.
|Issue Ten (September 15, 2005): Capsicum by Anne Marie Jackson «» Donat Bobet's Halloween by Bruce Holland Rogers «» The Arrival by Nathan Leslie «» The Law by Edgar Omar Avilés, translated by Toshiya A. Kamei «» Five Fat Men in a Hot Tub by Jeff Landon «» Hoover by Cally Taylor «» Are You Okay? by Joshua Hampel «» The Kindness of Strangers by Otis Brown «» Mrs. Krishnan by Kuzhali Manickavel «» Crossing the Orinoco by William Reese Hamilton «» The Elements of Summer by Laura Stallard Petza «» Closer to Paul by Patti Jazanoski «» Hawesville, Kentucky by Nance Knauer «» He Stayed for Breakfast by Astrid Schott «» Gardening by Antonios Maltezos «» Outer Space by Tom Saunders «» Blind Love by Robert Bradley «» Arks by Alan Girling «» Chitlins by Bob Arter «» Strange Fruit by Suzanne Lafetra «» Interviews: Anne Marie Jackson «» Bruce Holland Rogers «» Nathan Leslie «» Toshiya A. Kamei «» Jeff Landon «» Cally Taylor «» Joshua Hampel «» Otis Brown «» Kuzhali Manickavel «» William Reese Hamilton «» Laura Stallard Petza «» Patti Jazanoski «» Nance Knauer «» Astrid Schott «» Antonios Maltezos «» Tom Saunders «» Robert Bradley «» Alan Girling «» Bob Arter «» Suzanne Lafetra «» Joseph Young «» Cover Art "The Creation of Time and the Plagiarism of Bosch" by Marty D. Ison «» Letter From the Editor|