Laura Rodley, a Pushcart Prize winner, has been nominated for the prize seven times and has also received five Best of the Net nominations. Her recent works include Turn Left at Normal (published by Big Table Publishing Company), Counter Point (published by Prolific Press), and Ribbons and Moths: Poems for Children (published by Kelsay Books). With a talent for capturing the essence of life, Rodley’s writing resonates with readers of all ages. Whether exploring the natural world or delving into human emotions, her words evoke a sense of wonder and connection. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PClY8G6HQwk
Colin’s Curse
for Remembrance Day
By Laura Rodley
He’d never wanted kids, never liked kids, never liked being a kid himself. He’d always been too grown-up to feel like a kid, taking care of his father, his whiny mother. She never stood up to his father, let him walk all over her. He’d never let anyone walk all over him. No way he was bringing a kid into this world. He’d told his wife Adare, we’re not having kids, and she’d agreed. They were partners, in this together, working as caretakers on this big upstate Vermont estate, saving for their own McMansion. Someday, someday soon.
Adare knew he didn’t like the heat, but she asked him to sit by her on the back steps of the kitchen, bask in the July sun she worshiped, just like all the rich people who visited the estate, and went jet skiing in the lake, lying on boat decks without bikini tops. He sat beside her as the sun baked through his eyelids, bringing on a migraine, spots in his eyes, sat right against her thigh the way she liked it to feel close; he didn’t need to sit so close to feel close. He’d married her, hadn’t he.
Then July’s guest stood in front of them, swishing her see-through white dress, tapping red fingernails on crossed arms. Adare jumped right up, as Colin gritted his teeth, bent his head. Gloria Adams, the guest wasn’t supposed to be there—if she wanted something, she was to ring them in the kitchen. The owners liked the old-fashioned phone system.
Bet her kid’s lost again. “I can’t find Jordan. Seen him?” Full marks—he’d guessed it.
“No, Mrs. Adams, we haven’t,” Adare turned towards the kitchen.
“What about you?” picking up speed on her tapping.
He shook his head no. This wasn’t part of his job description, finding lost kids. This kid wasn’t lost. He entered the off-limits barn to jump off hay bales, climbed trees so high he couldn’t get down, swam in the lake where there was no lifeguard, not in the chlorinated pool with the others. Kid’s father was serving in Iraq, so Colin was enlisted to find him. “When you see him last?”
“Last night. He wasn’t down for breakfast.”
I don’t have time for this, Colin thought. Blazing sun and dry weather was perfect for haying, he was due to bring in square bales for the estates’ ten Morgans. “Off on another adventure?”
“I’m so worried. With Jack gone…”
“I’ll find him,” Colin ground his cigarette in the sand in the coffee can, headed for the barn. Not in the hayloft. From the hayloft’s vantage point, Colin couldn’t spot him. What’s that; couldn’t be. Their caramel-colored shaggy Highlander bull, Nobby, was squared off with a short figure with glasses, dark hair, cargo shorts. No time to walkie-talkie back up, he ran down the steps, sped-walked to the field, couldn’t rile Nobby anymore, make him charge. Twenty yards away, gearing up spit, he hissed, “Jordan, back up, slowly, don’t run.”
“I’m not afraid. My Dad told me not to be afraid.”
“Back up, that’s a boy,” as Jordan eased back. Colin grabbed a stick, unhooked the top wire strand, stepped in. He’d argued with the owners that three-foot spread of horns were dangerous, to get another breed, de-horn him. They thought the horns were pretty. A cranky sod at the best of times, now aggravated, Nobby geared to charge, cocky, aware of the damage his horns could cause.
Colin grabbed the back of Jordan’s shirt, Jordan’s feet digging in. “I’m not afraid.”
“I am.” As Nobby charged, Colin grabbed Jordan, smacked Nobby’s nose with his stick, backed up to the fence, unhooked the wire, rolled the boy out, reset the wire. “You behave yourself,” he shook his stick at Nobby; always show who’s boss.
“My Dad said I was the man of the house, I’m supposed to be brave. My Dad is never afraid. I’m not afraid of anything.”
“I can see that. Could have been killed; what were you thinking?”
“I’m not afraid.”
How am I going to live through the rest of the summer with this kid, he wondered. “Don’t you have video games to play?”
“Dad says video games are for sissies.”
“I have to agree with him,” Colin steered him towards the front entrance.
Mrs. Adams reached out long arms and cradled Jordan’s head, even as he pulled away. “Thank you. I knew you could find him.”
“He’s to stay away from the animals; he was in the bull’s pen, could have been badly hurt.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” she turned away.
Next morning, Mrs. Adams appeared at the kitchen steps, sun back-lighting her shape. “He’s gone.”
Colin knew where to go. The bull was closer this time, horns rocking. “Back up Jordan, back up.”
“I can’t move.”
Running, Colin grabbed the stick, unhooked the fence and smacked the stick down on Nobby’s nose, the wind of Nobby’s charge spreading dust over them both. Nobby swirled to charge again.
Colin grabbed Jordan’s belt, hauled him over the fence, hooked it, and faced the bull, stick raised. “You behave!” Nobby swung his head, glaring at Colin, blood running down his nose, over the gold ring in his nose. He twitched, shook the skin on his hairy withers like he was shaking off biting flies and stalked away.
Colin let himself out, angry that he’d hit the bull, “You…”
Glasses on the ground, Jordan cried, “I was afraid. I’m not supposed to be afraid.”
“It’s OK to be afraid, son. It helps keep you safe; being afraid signals that something could hurt you. Stay away from the bull. I might not be able to get here next time.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Galway Review 