Silk Screen
by Adam Barker
The Stepmother leans her head around the bottom of the staircase to call up to him. This is how she always calls him. Never going up the stairs. Never stepping on to them. Never going to meet him in his room. Always at the bottom of the stairwell, standing in her zoris, zoris Seth heard flip flop through the hall before she ever said a word.
If she did come upstairs it was not to talk to him. It was only to put new towels or sheets in the linen closet, put new toothpaste or a toothbrush or soap in the bathroom. She would normally do this when he was at school. If she came up the stairs while he was at home his heart would quicken. He would rush out of his room to meet her as soon as he heard the stairs first creak.
Hello Wanda.
Hi Seth.
What are doing?
Putting some towels away.
Oh.
He would stay and watch, his head tracing every movement like a Henslow’s Sparrow watching crumbs fall but not going after them.
She cranes her hand around the wall and calls up to him. He meets her at the top of the stairs. He never steps a step down. He stands at the top of the stairs. His gaze passes back and forth between the silk screen of the woman bodhisattva, resting atop a lotus of nails, one blue palm open and outstretched, and Stepmother’s round disembodied Okinawan head. He stands and looks for some connection between them. He listens to her flat flower face in a dream.
Seth take out the trash.
Ok.
Now please.
Ok.
She turns and goes back to the kitchen. He comes down the stairs. Halfway down he smells the beef and shitake mushrooms simmering. Her back is to him as he enters the kitchen.
What’s for dinner.
Sukiyaki.
Mmmm.
You always want to know what’s for dinner don’t you Seth-Chan?
He ties the garbage bag closed and lifts it out of the can.
Uhhuh.
You love my cooking don’t you?
Uhhuh.
When he turns his back to walk the bag out, she stops stirring the pot and pinches his eleven year old buttocks.
He jumps and arches away from her. The garbage bag is full and nearly splits at the bottom.
Wanda!
She laughs loud and furious as he hurries out the door.
It’s nearly dark outside. He saunters around to the back of the house. The fence gate creaks in harmony with sparse late afternoon starling calls, and the wind in the branches. He lifts the lid off the can and drops it to the ground. The metallic ring touches his stomach and runs along his spine. The smell of rot reaches his nose. He sees white maggots squirming through the old bag underneath. He shudders. The bag drops into the can like a body. A dismembered body. Segmented. Loosely held together by leathery entrails.
The storm door slams it’s warning behind him as he runs up the stairs, into his room, back to his World Book Encyclopedia open to the article on Jack the Ripper. He stares at a 19th century etching of a suspicious man in hat and coat hurrying through an alleyway. Have you seen Jack the Ripper? Reads a poster in the background. He memorizes the man’s features and dreams.
He hears the flip-flop of her zoris.
Seth.
His head snaps up from the book. He rushes out of the room to the hallway.
Seth.
He stops at the top of the stairs and sees the Buddha, sitting. He sees Stepmother’s head.
Seth, you forgot to put a new lining in the trashcan.
Ok.
Come down here and do it now please.
She turns away before she’s finished the sentence.
Ok.
He watches the Buddha as he makes his way down the stairs.
New trash bags are under the sink. Under the sink is the smell of bleach. All the cleaning products are grouped and organized according to their purpose, counter cleaners, floor cleaners, oven cleaners, there are at least two bottles of each cleaner, and two rolls of paper towels. He pulls one bag from the roll of garbage bags which are set in a basket fastened to the half door. The colorful cardboard box holding the roll has been opened precisely along the perforated line. Two bags pull apart with a sharp snap. He leaves the other bag dangling half way to the floor. Cupboard door left open, he stretches the open end of the bag around the outside of the red garbage container, but leaves the rest of the bag to cling to itself, so that it makes a white plastic membrane covering the top of the container. He admires the lines and folds at the center of the membrane, how they remind him of a web or something else. He leaves the red lid on the floor.
Seth.
Yes.
The stepmother is in the living room. She’s sitting on the couch drinking a coke, smoking a cigarette, reading a novel with the TV on. He never smells her cigarettes even though she chain smokes. She holds them above her head, their smoke sucked up by one of the many air purifiers in the house. Seldom are there ever more than two cigarette butts in an ashtray. She empties them regularly. The bottoms of the ashtrays are always clean.
Dinner is going to be in forty five minutes.
Ok Wanda.
He stands watching her.
Did you finish your homework?
Uhhuh.
There’s a picture of a flower on the cover and the author’s name is written in huge silver letters. At first he thought it was the title. Then as she turns in her seat to face him he sees the title in smaller print that reads, The Lover. She puts the novel down on her lap.
You finished your homework.
Uhhuh.
He doesn’t move, but he knows she’s on to him.
Why don’t you bring it down so I can check it?
Well, I have a little more to do.
They stare at each other.
She has eyes of ivory and jello, a voice in his head whispers.
She looks away, picking the book up from her lap.
You better go do it then.
Ok Wanda.
He runs up the stairs to his room. The Bodhisattva watches him from behind. He catches her blue gaze as he turns the corner to his room. In the room he returns to Jack the Ripper. Elizabeth Stride, murdered September 30, 1888, her grainy amber face contorted to a half smile in death. In the photograph there must be a missing clue to Jack’s identity. He has read the article over twenty three times.
