He balled up the pillow under his head and sank his face into it. It was warm and pleasant against his skin. He ignored the noise as it continued hammering against his ears. It had gotten louder as it persisted, strange and urgent, but meaningless to him. Like the Dewitt’s abominable dalmadoodle next door, barking at any stimuli, be it squirrel, human, or Civic.
He furrowed his brow as the noise continued, and turned to face the wall. The urgency of the sound began to quaver, wobbling into panic. Tickets. He needed to get the tickets. The bed was soft, enveloping his exhausted body. Two hours till the train left. He was packed and ready to leave. He wondered how nobody was pounding on his wall, or his ceiling. Sorry, I don’t know where the noise is coming from. Down the street, maybe.
A loud, buzzing spun up outside his window. He knew that sound. A tractor. Dad’s tractor. Why would Dad be driving the tractor down the street at this hour? Must be later than he thought. He needed to get tickets. The train was leaving in twenty minutes. All he needed was a backpack. His computer. Don’t forget the charger.
The tractor began passing down the field. Going east, toward the sunrise. The clerk at the counter said the train had already left. The noise swam up higher, pressing on his brain till he couldn’t think. But I had tickets. He held up his backpack, but nothing was there. I had tickets. The clerk only shook his head, staring back at him vacantly. He squeezed his eyes shut as the noise tightened around his forehead.
Fingers brushed the back of his neck.
“It’s okay, I got it,” she whispered. The noise stopped. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep.” He sighed and settled back against the bed, weary and relieved. He watched her as she worked, deliberate and fluid, a purpose of movement that mystified him.
“I missed you,” he said. She climbed back into bed next to him. Her hair rustled against the pillow and she stroked the side of his face.
“Casper.” He murmured a contented reply. “Casper.” She shook his shoulder.
“What is it?”
“Casper.” She nudged him again. “Casper.” The noise began to rise again. “Casper.”
“Yes, I’m here. What is it?” He saw her mouth move again, but the noise overtook her. She faded from view.
He opened his eyes. Striped wallpaper, blurry, but unmistakable. He’d looked at it every day for eighteen years. Green, brown, beige. Green, brown, beige.
The noise was still there. But it was clear and sharp as crystal. A voice as familiar as his own.
He sat straight up and fumbled for his glasses. He shoved a few cardboard boxes aside with his foot as he stumbled across the floor to the window.
“Sorry, sorry, buddy,” he whispered as he reached into the crib and lifted him out. “It’s okay,” he soothed, groping for the pacifier. He held him against his chest and patted his back. It was warm, sticky, and wet. “Oh, shoot.”
On went the bathroom light, down went the bath plug. He wrenched on the tub faucet and let the water run. It always started ice-cold. He squeezed himself carefully into the narrow space between the tub and the vanity and knelt on the floor, gently setting down his screaming son. He peeled off the soaked footed pajamas and tossed them in the corner, followed by the swollen, smelly diaper. He rubbed his eyes behind his glasses as the tiny, naked figure on the bathmat stared back at him, momentarily silent and relieved. Casper yawned and checked his watch. Five a.m.
He heard Dad’s tractor. They’d had a late frost at the end of April, so they had waited to plant the new crop. Dad had been stressed, obsessing over the weather forecast, checking it multiple times a day, raking his long, weathered fingers through his thick, graying hair as he studied the field. He and Nick had been at odds about it for weeks, which had put everyone on edge.
“It’s been a whole two hours since I saw you last,” Casper said, studying the small, perfect face. “Doing good?” The wriggling figure suddenly snorted and began to cry in that angry, stifled way which communicated his bewildered indignation at being so woefully neglected. He suddenly smirked at his son’s tiny, irate face. “Sorry, man. How was I supposed to know you’d had a blowout?” He flicked the running water with his hand. Nodding with approval at the temperature, he gathered up the helpless little boy and carefully set him in the plastic infant tub. Supporting his baby’s chest with one hand, he cleaned his back with the other, brushing off yellow, runny, foul-smelling stuff and rinsing it with water. He could feel the tiny, tight chest relax against his palm, and the head bobbling contentedly against his arm.
“That’s better,” he said, to no one in particular. He let the dirty water flow down the drain, then filled the baby tub with exactly one inch of water, watching closely til it reached the bill of the dancing duck printed on the plastic. He pressed a dose of baby shampoo into the warm water and watched as the bubbles formed. Tiny hands, pink from the warm water, clung to Casper’s fingers, and large hazel eyes stared at the mounds of tickling foam.
The door opened behind him and bumped his foot. Mom peeked around the door.
“Look at you,” Mom cooed, stepping over his sprawled, lanky legs and reaching for the soiled pajamas.
“Mom, don’t. I’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll just pre-treat it,” she said, also picking up the nasty diaper without a flinch.
“This bathmat, too. I’m sorry, it got everywhere,” he said, picking it up and handing it to her. “Did we wake you up? I’m sorry.” She leaned over him toward the cupboard and handed him a clean, folded towel and another bathmat, albeit rattier. He recognized it. It was older than he was.
“Does he need to eat again?” Mom asked. “I can get a bottle ready for you.”
“I don’t know,” Casper shrugged. “He just had a full bottle at three. What do you think?” Mom considered this thoughtfully, putting her hand on her hip without a thought for the gross, soiled things clutched in her fingers. Casper was not willing to admit that he didn’t want to part with another expensive scoop of formula unless it was absolutely necessary. “I might just put him back down with a pacifier and see how he does.” Mom nodded her approval and left to clean up his mess.
“You’re lucky everyone likes you so much,” Casper murmured as he laid his son back down in the crib, cleaned and pink. Immediately, the indignant mewling commenced, the tiny arms flailed out, and the footed feet angrily kicked at the mattress. Working quickly, Casper folded the muslin blanket in a tight swaddle, clamping Joule’s arms to his sides and containing his feet. Casper reached for the pacifier and plugged the wide, yowling mouth. Instantly the cries were muted as the little tongue hungrily lapped at the pacifier, followed by little grunts of contentment. The hazel eyes became instantly heavy and closed. Casper yawned and sank down against the railing of the crib, resting his chin on his arms.
Across the road, Dad’s tractor continued its long, steady task, dragging the tiller and creating perfect, rugged lines of soil behind it. He should stay up. He could possibly get a few things done before the next bottle needed to be prepared.
He yawned again and glanced down at the sleeping form. Long eyelashes and a dimple in the left cheek. The pacifier occasionally quivered between the tiny lips. The tiny limbs undulated beneath the surface of the muslin swaddling blanket, which was blue and adorned with orcas. Casper placed his hand on the tiny chest as it rose and fell, feeling the rapid, hopeful drumming of the riven heart under his palm. He said it again, for the millionth time.
“I’m sorry, Joule.”
—
Before she left for the elementary school, Mom had asked him if she could make him some scrambled eggs.
“I’m good, Mom. I’ll have some shredded wheat.”
“Don’t forget,” she said, filling a floral travel mug emblazoned with Philippians 4:13, “Nicklas is stopping by today. Rosa wants him to drop off the Baby Burkee. You knew about that, right?”
He hadn’t. But from the day he’d arrived back in Grover, his presence had attracted an unending flow of charity. Or rather, Joule’s presence. At first, it came in the form of casserole. Lasagna, beef noodle, enchiladas, and seemingly every possible crunchy, creamy, rib-sticking concoction borne out of a good-hearted mania of love mixed with condensed soup. Followed by pies, pails of formula, pallets of diapers, and plastic totes crammed with enough hand-me-downs to dress Joule for all four seasons over the next twelve years. Kind faces and greeting cards stuffed with twenty dollar bills appeared at his parents’ door almost every day without fail, and all he had to offer in return was a stilted conversation.
They asked how long he had been back, and how the baby was growing. After those pleasantries had been dispatched, there was little else anyone was willing to say, for fear of touching on a sensitive subject. He could see it in their faces: their sincere eagerness to help, their good-natured concern for him and his son, and also the unwillingness to heap any more potential embarrassment on him.
They never stayed long, but the church folks always asked when he was coming to Mercy again. He’d been to one service since he’d been back. They sang the same songs, and Pastor Bruce preached over time, and whoever was running the slides in the back was always a second too late. Like he had never left.
After the service, it immediately became clear that he had been made. He was rushed by so many familiar faces, he was shocked he remembered them all. Indeed, he had forgotten them for a long time. He had been dreading the cold reception he knew he had earned, the stiff smiles, the furtive sniff of polite disapproval when they saw the glaring evidence of his dissolution. But with each rough handshake, each tight hug, each artless grin, he slowly realized they were not about to give him what he deserved.
He hadn’t gone back since. But he promised he would. And he meant it. Just not yet.
“Well, call me if you need anything,” Mom said, kissing his cheek and Joule’s. After his bath, Joule had slept soundly for exactly thirty-two minutes before requesting, in no uncertain terms, to be held again. He further insisted to be held, not statically, but gently bounced with a slow, predictable, swaying motion. Casper had honed it well over the last two months. “I’ll be back around four,” Mom promised.
“Thanks, Mama.”
He stood at the big bay window in the living room, and watched as Mom left for her job answering phones and filing permission slips in the main office of Grover Central Elementary. The house was quiet but for the ticking clock in the living room, the tractor outside, and Joule sucking on his second bottle of the day. Casper sank into the ancient herringbone couch. One of his family’s obese mouser cats silently sprang up to the couch with surprising agility and rubbed against his arm. He stroked her tabby coat.
“Tell me something, Pepper. How is it that you’re gainfully employed, and I’m not? Right, Joule?” Joule furrowed his brow intently, sucking hungrily on the bottle. Pepper purred. “You’ve got benefits and job security. It’s an enviable situation in this economy.” He watched the soft, brindled coat ripple under his hand. “Meanwhile, I’m sitting on two degrees with nothing to show for it.” Something warm trickled down his arm. Joule was staring up at him, grinning, his tongue lolling absently at the pricey formula as it dribbled freely to the couch.
“Shoot! Shoot, shoot.” He righted Joule and placed him against his shoulder. He wiped his arm on his t-shirt and inspected the bottle. Three ounces left, golden white and still warm. At least a dollar’s worth. “I really don’t want to throw this out, bud. You sure you don’t want some more?” Joule gurgled in response, and pushed off Casper’s shoulder with his tiny arms. His head bobbled, his soft dark hair tickling Casper’s unshaved chin as he turned to inspect the world.
Casper lay down on the lumpy couch, displacing Pepper, who nimbly leapt to the top of the couch and perched. He set Joule on top of him, stomach to stomach. Joule’s tiny limbs were suspended as if he were sky diving, his eyes wide, a thread of drool slowly falling from his lips. Casper wiped it away with his thumb.
“Do you like it here, buddy?” Casper patted the tiny back with his palm. “It’s not so bad, is it?” Joule stared out the window and hiccuped. Casper could feel the small heart beating against his own chest. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Hiccup. Thump-thump.
The next second, he was soaked. Joule’s face was placid as ever, but instead of drool, a milky string of vomit trailed from his mouth to the warm, watery yellow stain spreading on Casper’s t-shirt. He sat up quickly, stifling his gag reflex as the vomit pooled off his shirt and ran down his pajama pants to his toes.
As Joule reclined in the baby tub, gleeful and clueless, Casper peeled off his soiled shirt, holding his breath so he wouldn’t have to smell it.
He ignored the knock at the front door the first and second time. Probably Amazon. Or someone infernally insisting upon wishing him well and giving him stuff.
“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” Nick demanded, standing in the doorway of the bathroom. Before Casper could answer, Nick peered past him at Joule and clocked the dirty, balled-up t-shirt and onesie in the corner. “Is that puke, pee, or poop?” Nick held out his hand. “Give it here. I’ll pre-treat those real quick.” He disappeared before Casper could say another word. In Nick’s wake, Mikayla appeared at the door, decked out in a tutu and a Goobaloo Gully t-shirt. Casper sheepishly pulled the hand towel off the counter and held it in front of his chest.
“Hey, Mik.” She waved and held up a pink plastic necklace, as if waiting for his approval. “Cool.” She stepped into the bathroom and stood over the tub, watching Joule wriggling his toes in the warm water.
“That was my tub!” she shrieked with delight. She stood for a moment, her hand on Casper’s knee. “I miss that tub,” she added thoughtfully.
“It was very nice of you to let Joule use it.” Mikayla nodded, but continued to watch, the slightest bit of envy in her eyes. “Where did you get that cool necklace?” he asked.
“Mimi,” she replied, tucking in her chin to regard the shimmery costume gems strung about her neck. “It’s my pink one but I have a blue one and a yellow one. I had a purple one but it got broke.”
“That stinks.” Mikayla nodded solemnly.
“I cried very much but Mimi said she’ll get me another one.”
“Rosa’s mom has made it her mission to fill my house with trash,” Nick sighed, appearing at the door. “I was hoping when that necklace broke that would be the end of it. But there is no end. Think fast.” He tossed him his Hobbit t-shirt. “Found that in the basket downstairs. I think it’s clean.”
“Daddy, I want to see Taron.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry to rush you, man. But Mikkie’s on her way to preschool and I’ve got to get to work. Are you almost done in here? Rosa wanted to make sure you try it on before I leave.”
“Try what on?”
It resembled a parachute harness or something. He’d seen people wearing them, but had no idea what they were called. Per Nick’s instructions, he held Joule while his brother clipped a wide, padded band around his hips.
“You’ve really gotten skinny, Cass,” Nick grunted as he tightened the straps around Casper’s body. “Rosa sent over some more of Mimi’s chilaquiles so you can finally put on some flab. I put it in the fridge.” When Nick was finished with velcro, snaps, and buckles, Joule was secured against his chest so tightly, Casper was shocked he wasn’t wriggling to escape. Instead, Joule was still, sucking his fist, his ear against Casper’s chest. Casper could feel the tiny heart against his own, assuring him. He leaned down and kissed the dark hair.
“I like it,” he admitted. “How do I take it off?”
Nick picked up Mikayla’s shoes and knelt at her side.
“There’s a clippy thing in the back and — you’ll be fine. I don’t know why Rosa was so worried you wouldn’t be able to figure it out.” Casper grinned.
“Probably because I’ve made such bad decisions lately.” Nick laughed as he strapped on Mikayla’s left shoe, then shrugged.
“You’re not the first.” He stood and smacked Casper on the back, then ruffled Joule’s hair. “Just call 911 if you get stuck.”
Casper followed them outside and waved as they drove away. He stood in the gravel road, Joule against his chest, watching as the old black Chevy truck slowly rattled away. It was so flat in Iowa, people said, you could watch your dog run away for three days. It wasn’t true. He’d looked it up once. Not the veracity of the dog claim specifically, but regarding the relative flatness of Iowa. Hillier than Ohio, flatter than Wisconsin. He definitely remembered a few gnarly hills in Madison.
The tractor that had been going since five a.m. was about a mile away now. He could still see it, generating pale clouds of dirt and exhaust in the sunlight. He checked his watch. Ten.
And there he was in flip flops and pukey pajama pants, waiting for another day to pass. He ambled along the side of the road, trying not to think about it.
A rabbit skittered in front of him and stood still, its black, beady eyes trained on him.
“Look, buddy!” he whispered. But Joule couldn’t look, not from his position in the carrier. And he was asleep. Casper stroked the dark hair and kissed it again. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
They had another check-up with Dr. Shakir next week. He’d already made the trip once, and would need to do it at least monthly till the surgery, then weekly after that, until the doctor was convinced Joule wasn’t going to fall asleep and not wake up.
There was no way he’d ever feel assured of it. It didn’t matter how much he read or how many videos he’d seen. It didn’t matter what Dr. Shakir thought. There was always a chance something would go wrong. There could never be certainty.
Be at peace. God knows, they said. And they were right. But Casper knew, too. He knew what they didn’t. And God knew far more. He knew everything.
Casper gripped the carrier in his hands as he walked, clutching his son as tightly as he dared.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. I’m sorry.
—
He stretched out his legs, his feet extending well past the end of his twin bed, and adjusted the laptop on his knees. He read over what he had written again, on the off-chance a complete thought would emerge.
Aided in creating and integrating processes
Collaborated on team projects
Consulted on
The cursor hovered over the blank space. Could it really be called “consulting?” Typing up and handing out reports hardly anyone read, only then to sit there like a sack of potatoes and contemplate the sun glinting off red hair.
He refreshed his Rezoom profile. Nine notifications. Maybe he had gotten an interview for the CAD position at Kleen-Sol. He’d loved computer-aided drafting at school, and just before he’d left Carver, he had started to be tasked with his own projects. He had been working on an improved femoral head when Joule was born. The Kleen-Sol gig was a long shot with an hour commute, but he might be able to talk them into letting him work remotely.
He glanced across his bedroom at the crib beneath the window, and saw the tiny chest rising and falling. He wasn’t surprised there were so few remote options for his particular skillset. Most biomechanics firms would require their researchers to wear pants not made from plaid flannel. But he couldn’t simply drop Joule at daycare, even if he could afford it. It was unthinkable. He had never been away from Joule for longer than a minute. Anyway, Dr. Shakir had sternly warned him to avoid contracting infection at all costs, particularly environments with other young children.
He clicked the green notification icon. The first seven bullets in the dropdown cheerfully informed him that seven positions he had applied for had been filled. The eighth admonished him to improve his profile by adding relevant skills. At the bottom, he read that Carver and Carver had posted a new position that fit his search criteria.
He smirked and clicked the link.
Research analyst. Roles include specializing and aiding in the development of mechanical cardiac valves.
“Sounds familiar,” he chuckled. He clicked the website and saw a press release from one month prior. “The new division,” he read under his breath,“will specialize in the development of superior mechanical cardiac valves with the ultimate goal of bypassing the use of bioprosthetics in cardiac valve procedures in the future. Bypass?” he muttered. They really expected to replace tissue valves altogether? Ridiculous. Jin had never said anything about that when he’d been pitching it to Casper. It would be a major conflict of interest, since Carver had been one of the pioneers in utilizing porcine tissue as valve replacements. Apparently the scope of the division had broadened since he’d been gone. Of course, press releases tended to promise a lot.
“I think you’d be great,” Jin had confided, in a rare bestowal of affirmation. Great. He could have been great. He opened the email he’d sent to Jin over six months ago, when he was on the verge of that promotion. Attached was a schematic he’d drawn up during his internship, diagramming his vision for a better 3D printed bone. Instead of merely acknowledging it, or saying it had potential or something equally dismissive, Jin had sent it back scrawled with suggestions and corrections. Casper had never been so excited about anything.
At scarcely twenty-three years old, and he would have had an office. People would have known who he was, his name appearing in journals and on patents. A raise. He could have moved into one of those beautiful apartments in the financial district, with the large windows and balcony overlooking the lake. Or he could have bought a house. Maybe in that cozy neighborhood by the zoo. A cotton candy castle.
He raked his face with his hands and stared out the window at the cloudless afternoon. It had turned cool, and a stiff plains wind stirred the black tree branches, which were tipped with pale green, pink, and white. He checked his watch. The folks would be home in a couple hours. He still had to finish the laundry. He’d told Mom he’d do it, and anyway, most of it had been generated by his offspring. But for some reason, though he’d done nothing all day but mix formula, change diapers, and walk from one room to another, he felt very, very tired.
He opened his paltry Rezoom profile. Twenty-one months at Carver, from start to finish. He stared at the blinking cursor.
Aided in creating and integrating processes
Collaborated on team projects
Consulted on
What next, what next, what next, the cursor prodded. What did you do, what did you do, what did you do.
He closed the browser and went down to the basement to fold a load of towels.
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Katie Bertola 