Here’s my plan so far: fish the pickles out of the jar, put the pickles into the empty graham cracker box, drink the pickle juice, and then pee into the pickle jar.
It’s a terrible plan.
When I started first grade, I didn’t know a single other kid in the school. Mom had picked us up and moved us in the middle of August. I spent weeks sitting on curbs while she went around and tried to find a job. Then one day she took me to a big brick building and announced that I would be going to school there. It was horrible.
I had been to school before, of course. My preschool was at a nice church, and my kindergarten had been at this really pretty old farmhouse in the country. We had learned the alphabet out in the garden. Math was taught in the kitchen.
In comparison, my new school looked like a prison.
Mom dropped me off and then strode away fast, swinging her purse and turning the corner before I could even start to cry. The kids all shunned me and my puffy face. Who could blame them? We had a small break after lunch and before we had to sit down for our next lesson. I was at the water fountain when one kid finally approached. I thought he wanted to be my friend.
He asked, “What’s the right word for pee?”
“Huh?”
“What do you say when you mean pee?”
“Huh?”
“The real word.”
I looked up and down the hall, trying to figure out what to do. All I could think was that this was a new way to make fun of me. This kid had grown tired of making fun of my snotty nose and decided that he would ask me nonsense questions until I went crazy.
“What?” I asked.
“Urinate?”
“That’s a word,” I said.
“So I say there’s urinate on the floor?”
I finally figured out what he meant. My mom was big into the proper names of things, or I never would have been able to come up with the answer.
“Urine,” I said. “You say that there’s urine on the floor.”
“Right,” he said. He walked away.
I overheard him talking to the teacher when I went back to my seat. He said, “Someone had an accident in the bathroom. There’s urine all over the floor.”
Mrs. Baker said, “Thank you, Ted. That’s a very polite way to tell me that.”
I wanted to take credit. Ted was getting praise for using my word. Without me, he would have said the wrong thing. I wisely decided to keep my mouth shut. Ted never really became my friend. He tried to steal my baseball later that year and I fought him to get it back. In the movies, the fight would have caused us to respect each other and form a friendship. In reality, he waited until the next day and then smeared dog poop on my jacket. I never got any hard evidence, but I knew it was him. A kid name Jack said he had seen Ted hanging out near the jackets after recess.
I suppose it could have been Jack, trying to deflect suspicion. I later found out that Jack hated me too. I was never popular in that school.
The pickle jar maneuver almost succeeds. I slosh a little on my hand when I try to get the lid on. With the pickle jar back on the shelf, I get the giggles. I’m picturing the new homeowners. They will get this place at auction after I’m declared dead. They’ll finish the job I started of cleaning out my uncle’s possessions. Then, they’ll turn their attention to the pantry.
“What a strange man,” the wife will say. “Why are there rotted pickles in the graham cracker box?”
Just then, the husband will open the jar and take a whiff of what’s inside.
I laugh out loud.
I stop when the tapping comes back. They’re still out there, waiting for me.
(Is this how people go crazy?)
Is this how people go crazy?
I’ve always enjoyed time alone. Sitting solo at a restaurant never bothered me. Going to the movies by myself is a treat. I don’t understand people who don’t enjoy the silence of their own company. At least I never understood them until now.
The tapping has stopped again. If I shift my position against the door or even cough, I know it will come. I’ve revised my opinion. It’s not some kind of echolocation. The tapping is meant to make me crazy so that I will run out of the pantry and into their teeth. Either that or they’re trying to hypnotize me.
I can’t imagine how many hours I’ve been in here.
The light from the truck fire has gone out. The smell of the burned truck is horrible.
For a while, I hoped that someone might see the flames from a distance and call the fire department. Then I thought that the power company might come to investigate the outage. I’ve given up on both of those. Out here, they rely on the residents to report things like vehicle fires and downed power lines. We’re expected to be self-sufficient.
One summer, when my mom came up to spend a long weekend with us, we all went to the lake. She was horrified when Uncle Walt took off his overalls and started wading into the water.
“What happened to your leg?” she demanded.
Uncle Walt looked down. For a moment, he looked just as shocked as she was.
“Oh. I cut it.”
I had seen the scar already. It was a jagged purple line on the side of his shin where the skin was puckered and the muscle bunched in funny ways when he walked. I hadn’t thought anything of it. Mom seemed both disgusted and
