Between
the infant Skunk’s feet the bath drained off its water, sucked out in a
whirling gurgle, the centripetal foam weighted with accreted dirts, and Skunk
left again grounded and crippled in the quiet shackles of gravity and oncoming
sleep.
Taking
care to prevent his slipping, his mother assisted his clamber from the tub,
towelling him dry on the relative solidity of the floor’s cork tiling. She
marked the unusual quietude, attributing it to simple tiredness, and the hot
bath’s closure to his long day.
Mother:
Are you alright, Skunk?
Skunk:
Yes.
With
the towel wrapped around his waist he sat down upon the toilet lid; she bent
over him with a comb, sectioning his hair into four, then further divisions,
thoroughly lifting and separating the damp strands until such close scrutiny
had encompassed his entire scalp, beneath this still his passively maintained
silence.
Mother:
Right... no bugs. Let’s get your nails done now and then you can get to your
bed.
The
scissors absent from the unit above the toilet, she put the comb between her
teeth and raked around in the clutter that littered the tiled flat beside the
bathtaps.
Mother:
Skunk have you seen the
looking
to see him slowly opening his pressed-together palms to reveal the little
scissors, a flattened metal flower of pointed stem and empty petals.
Mother:
Skunk I told you... Don’t... Look, I don’t want you messing with the scissors,
okay?
Skunk:
I wasn’t.
Mother:
Okay?
Skunk:
Yes.
Mother:
Don’t say
and
sighing, sat down on the edge of the bath, massaging her temples with two
fingers of either hand.
Mother:
It isn’t just... First of all, you shouldn’t be messing around with the
scissors anyway and second, I don’t want you climbing up on the toilet.
When you’re big enough to reach into the cabinet
sighed
again, and pleading
Mother:
Please. Promise me you won’t.
His
promise came as a simple nod and their ritual continued.
After
paring his nails, she returned to each of them in turn to gently ease back the
skin that weekly crept upon their pale crescents, a task facilitated by the
softening effect of his bath.
Skunk
(finally): How come I walk funny?
and
in its tone to her suggests rehearsal, her son of no age to disguise the
question asked and asked again before its asking proper. She stared hard at the
band of skin her nail edged back into his tiny toe.
Mother:
It’s just the way you were born Skunk.
momentarily
distracted in raising her face to his by the delicate expletive embossed
between his legs and framed by the folds of towel.
Mother:
It’s the way God made you.
knowing
such truth only relative, but thankful this not the other and that really being
between him and their common God.
Skunk:
Is it because of that mark? How
Mother:
It’s just the way God made you.
His
heel rested in her palm and she opened her hand to better see the clean stain,
bright with irritation from the recent heat. She prayed with futility against
his persisting.
Skunk:
But how come he made me different?
Mother:
Skunk everybody’s different,
mussing
his hair with the towel, helplessly repeating her definitive without emphasis
Mother:
everybody’s different, that’s just the way it is. Come on, get your peejays on
and you can come down for some coffee. And then bed.
habitual
direct from his bath, but tonight, Jesus, anything.
