Tornado Relief Flash Fiction Challenge: Have you ever seen the rain?

Here's the skinny: Devilish Dan O'Shea set a challenge to us writer-y folks that for every flash piece that was produced he'd donate $5 to the Red Cross for relief from the rash of devastating tornadoes that tore the asshole out of more then a few southern states recently. I thought it was a solid idea, so I threw in my hat. Anyway, here's my piece, I hope you like it (By the way, folks, the RED CROSS near the top of the page is a link, so if you feel up to donating, every little bit helps.)

Hide and Seek

The rain’s pissing down on me warm and rank, like god’s giving me my own special electrolyte infused golden shower. That’s just how the rain is in Phoenix in the middle of the summer. You would think that in the middle of the night it would bring some coolness, some relief from the scorching hundred degree temperatures.

Wrong.

I’ve been digging up my backyard for over an hour. I’m covered head-to-toe in tacky red clay, my hands are blistered raw, and the muscles in my lower back feel like two small dogs are tearing at each others throats underneath my skin

I guess this is what I get for spending the last ten years behind a desk instead of going into the grunt end of construction like my old man wanted.

Despite it all, I work past the pain and keep digging.

Jesus, some days I just hate my kids to pieces.

#

--So you’re sure it’s no trouble? I know with Jean out of town you’ve got to have your hands full

I do, but I don’t tell him that.

--No, it’s no trouble at all.

What the fuck else am I going to tell him? No, you asshole, the whole situation is un-fucking-acceptable. Now why don’t you just go and waddle back into your office, shut the door, close the blinds, and stroke one out to some internet porn and pretend you’re in a meeting for the rest of the afternoon and forget this whole conversation ever happened.

--Because if it is, seriously, you can tell me…

--It’s no big thing….

Liar

--I know how it is

--It’s just that it’s been so long since Marina and I have been out alone together and it’s really starting to affect us.

--Hey, Jean and I came close to ripping each other’s heads off after Scotty was born, so I know how it is.

His rotund body shutters with emotion and he knuckles a couple of tears out of the corner of his eyes.

He’s crying?

All I can think is that Marina must really be putting the heels to him.

--I can’t thank you enough, Bret…So is seven okay?

--Seven’s perfect. I know the boys will be excited, they love Tara.

#

The boys hate Tara.

And to be honest, I’m not a huge fan of her either.

I know, what kind of man hates a little girl? But honest to god, I think the little bitch is Hitler reincarnate.

Maybe that’s going a little too far?

But she’s one of those precocious kids who know she’s the apple of her parent’s eyes and thinks the rest of the world should be at her beckon call just like mom and dad. And Marina and Frank—my boss—they fall right in line with what ever she says.

Don’t get me wrong, I believe a parent should be involved in their children’s lives, but there’s a line and those two stepped over it a long time ago.

#

Frank and Marina dropped Tara off at seven right on the dot.

They stayed a couple of minutes, Marina fluttering around Tara, asking her if it’s still okay for them to leave her?

Marina’s a stick thin bird of a woman, a worrier to the core and I’m sure if she wasn’t a health nut she’d be a two pack a day smoker with her fingernails chewed to the quick from gnawing at them all days. Frank’s the same way, but instead of hitting the treadmill three hours a day he stuffs seven or eight Caramello bars down his throat throughout the day.

They’re quite a pair, perfect for each other, really.

I finally got them out the door, their mouths full of promises that they’d be back to pick up Tara by midnight at the latest and the minute they’re gone, Tara’s already starting in on Dave and Scotty, trying to get them to play along in some elaborate make believe game where she’s the queen and the boys are her lowly servants.

Dave’s your typical eight-year-old boy, loves action figures and the Power Rangers and doesn’t take shit off of cootie queens like Tara. Yeah, he’s at that ‘all girls except mom are gross’ stage. Scotty, though, that’s a different story and he falls right in line with whatever Tara says.

Scotty’s five and like most five-year-olds, he’s out to please everyone. Most of the time he’s out to please Dave, except when there’s a girl around.

What they say plays.

He’s a Casanova, my little Scotty, and most days I’m proud of how smooth he is. But some times I get these flashes of him when he’s a teenager and I have these visions of a half a dozen girls standing at our front door with swollen bellies and red eyes with their angry parents standing behind them wanting to kick Scotty’s ass

I try not think about this future too much.

After an hour of Tara’s shouted orders and Dave shouting back that he doesn’t have to listen to her.

I’m going out of my skull.

--So who’s ready for pizza! I shouted.

We live out in the sticks, so nobody delivers to us and I have to make the thirty minute drive to go and get it. Normally I don’t mind the drive, but then again, normally Jean’s home instead of helping her sister move out of her deadbeat boyfriend’s house out in Vegas.

And for a brief second, I think maybe I should just take the three of them along with me.

That would be nice and safe.

That would be nice and responsible.

But then the exhausted, negligent parent who’s been ruling the roost since Jean left on Monday kicks in and says: Fuck it, man, leave Dave in charge. Dave’s old enough to handle things. Besides, these kids are driving me up the fucking wall. I need some quiet.

--Okay, Dave’s in charge, I’ll be back in a half hour.

#

I had an ‘Oh, fuck me’ moment the minute I pulled into the drive way and step out of the SUV, two pizza boxes piled in my arms, fumbling with my keys:

I had left an eight-year-old in charge of a four and a five year-old because all their mean spirited chatter was giving me a headache.

What kind of asshole does that?

This was the statement that always popped into my head when ever I was watching the evening news and saw a story about a toddler drowning in a swimming pool or a parent who leaves their two year old in a minivan on 115 degree day with windows rolled up to let the kid cook in their own juices.

Who the fuck does that?

I did that, me.

I’m thinking this as I finally get the keys plugged in unlatch the deadbolt and I’m immediately hit with a wave of sound from the living room speakers which knocks any thoughts of irresponsible parenting clear out of my skull and is replaced by ‘those kids need to turn the TV down’, which repeats over and over again as I make my way to the dining room table with the pies

I’m not going to say I knew something was wrong the minute I turned around, because I didn’t, (Right, I was all about the TV being turned down) but then I notice the pile of toys in the middle of the living room and that the large clear plastic Tupperware container that normally houses them is missing.

And the boys are the only ones stretched out on the couch zoning out to Kung Fu Panda.

First order of business:

--Would you guys turn that down….

Second order of business:

--Where’s Tara?

#

Maybe I was a little harsh, but I think if you bury a four-year-old girl alive you deserve to have your ass beaten.

Maybe I went a little too far? Maybe I should’ve laid the belt to their asses after they showed me where they buried her and then laid into them. But instead I left them in a welted, monkey red ass pile of tears, snot and incomprehensible apologies and headed out to the backyard, grabbing a shovel along the way.

Normally, I don’t think it would be all that hard to find a small mound of dirt with a little girl stuffed into a Tupperware bin burried beneath it. I mean, how far down could the boys dig in only a half an hour?

But work men have been back here all week digging the hole our new pole is going to poured into, so the backyard is nothing but small mounds of dirt. Plus the rain turning the entire back yard into a mud pit isn’t helping things out, either.

I pull my cell from my hip pocket and check the time:

10:38

The way I figure it, Frank and Marina are going to get sick of each other around 11:00 and start making their way back over here.

Best case scenario, they get here around 11:30, worst case, 11:15.

For a second, I think about going into the house and shaking Dave awake, but then I spot a loose pile of dirt along the far side of the yard and think to myself, that’s it, that’s going to be the one she’s hiding in and I get back to work.