Kelli Short Borges: TWO MICROS • Cleaver Magazine

Kelli Short Borges
TWO MICROS

Manning Up

It was Jack’s birthday and there we were—me, Jack, and Thom, the Three Musketeers, wrestling in the pool while Dad grilled a T-bone, Jack’s favorite, he said (we knew it was really Dad’s, but kept our mouths shut for fear we’d get smacked), and the scent of summer was in the air, a meaty sizzle mixed with suntan oil and bleach-y chlorine, and we were playing “hold ‘em down,” a game Dad invented last year teaching us three to hold our breath underwater, an important skill for boys looking to join the Marines, and Dad sure was a fan, with that old-as-dirt Semper Fi sticker peeling at the edges on his Dodge Ram, and really I didn’t want to be a Marine, and neither did Jack, but Thom sure did, and he was holding Jack down like the puppies Dad took to the crick last year when we cried and he said we’d better man up, there were too many human mouths to feed, so Thom was holding Jack down even though it was his birthday—and even though the birthday boy is supposed to get dibs as the holder—and there was a devil’s food cake waiting with eight candles, but first Jack had to learn his lesson because he was a sissy and we didn’t want him to grow up to be a fruit, God forbid, and Dad watched as Jack thrashed and said “just a little longer and he’ll toughen up,” and Thom listened to Dad like he always does, even though I saw tears in his eyes and his hand was shaking, and I couldn’t move I was so scared, then Dad finally said, “pull ‘im up, he’s had enough,” but Jack’s eyes weren’t the same, they just stared criss-cross after that, and it was like he was a baby, and Dad had to feed him, and we never played that game again, not ever, we last two Musketeers.

Surfacing

Thom and I pack our suitcases, and Dad packs Jack’s, grunting as he squashes everything Jack needs into a Tony the Tiger duffle which we got from saving box tops for a year, the longest Jack ever saved for anything. Jack loved Frosted Flakes and Tony before the accident, but now his brain’s scrambled like eggs, and he stares at Tony’s stripes with a look like a blank sheet of paper.

Dad stops to wipe a thick string of drool from Jack’s mouth, and Jack makes an “uh” sound, maybe he’s telling us he likes the duffle? I wonder where the real Jack went sometimes, if he’s still under the surface somewhere, held down, thrashing. My tummy feels weird thinking about it.

Dad double checks everything: bags, Pampers, wipes, and a little plastic bulb for sucking snot. Then we head to the special van Dad traded his old Dodge for. The bumper is shiny, no Semper Fi, and when we asked Dad if he wanted a new sticker, he just looked away. Dad looks more like Grandpop now, his face closing in on itself, softer around the edges, eyes pink and raw.

We push Jack up the ramp and click his wheelchair into place next to Dad before setting off to Chesapeake Lake, our favorite place to fish. This is the first time since the accident, and Thom and I wiggle like worms.

We drive and drive and my eyes get heavy and we’re at the lake and I’m casting my line, hook sinking into the deep and what do you know there’s a tug, and Dad says, “Reel ‘im in, champ!” and I lean back and reel, and there’s a big one just below, thrashing, I can see his scales and eyeballs now, and I yank him up, up toward the surface, and his eyes are Jack’s, and I see him reaching and I pull and pull and my face is wet and he’s out of the water and in my arms, and it’s Jack it’s Jack it’s Jack.

Kelli Short Borges writes essays, short stories, and flash fiction from her home in Phoenix, Arizona. Her work appears in Gone Lawn, The Tahoma Literary Review, The Citron Review, Your Impossible Voice, MoonPark Review, Ghost Parachute, multiple anthologies, and elsewhere. Kelli is a Best of the Net and Best Microfiction nominee. Often, you can find her at her favorite local bookstore, where she gobbles up lemon cake and books in equal measure. She is currently working on her first novel.