everyadventure
02-17-2011, 01:38 PM
Daddy's forefinger rests in a jar on the mantle, the nail glowing whitely through the pale yellow liquid. He considers it an appropriate conversation piece, and the ragged flaps of skin near the joint undulate when he shakes the jar at an unfortunate visitor. "The doctor wanted to throw it out!" Daddy would exclaim. "But I told him it belonged to me, had it all my life, and I'd be damned if I was going to leave a piece of myself behind!" Mama, horrified, always attempts to appease the guests with cookies and tea, but no one ever accepts.
He lost the finger in his woodshop, when he fed a piece of knotty pine through the circular saw. He'd used the saw a thousand times before, and would use it a thousand times since. But just this once, he was careless, and BZZZZ, there was Daddy, in two separate pieces. We couldn't hear his screams over the sound of the saw, and he didn't think to turn it off. Instead he was stumbling across the backyard, blood streaming down his forearm, when Mama saw him through the kitchen window. She dropped the coffee creamer, and my brother and I watched from the breakfast table as she ran across the yard, then wrapped her apron around my father's hand. Caleb and I exchanged wide-eyed glances: what happened? What do we do?
They burst through the door, and Daddy slumped in his chair. I dropped my fork. The metallic smell of his blood mingled with the sickly sweet scent of maple syrup. Mama handed me a tin mixing bowl from the sideboard. "Go to the woodshop and find your father's finger!" I hesitated, and she flung the bowl at me. "Go!" she shouted, then turned to dial the phone.
I picked up the bowl and ran outside, gulping the cool spring air. The door to the woodshop was open, the saw still buzzing angrily. I was afraid to go in. Why did I have to do this? Why didn't she ask Caleb? But I stepped inside the shadowy shed and unplugged the saw from the socket, and the blade whirred slowly to a stop. I took a deep breath and looked at the table. It was sprayed with blood, and there was Daddy's finger, coated in a thin film of sawdust. I didn't want to touch it. I grabbed a grease covered rag from the tool cupboard, and turned my head away as I picked up the finger. It felt like a thick sausage, and made a dull thunk when I plopped it in the bowl.
The doctor wasn't able to reattach the finger; it was dirty and the risk of infection was too great. So my father came home, with his hand wrapped in gauze, and his finger in a jar beneath his arm. My brother was thrilled, his popularity soared when the other neighborhood boys learned of the gruesome prize. Mama was mortified, she begged Daddy to keep it somewhere other than the living room (perhaps the woodshop?) but Daddy was delighted by the attention it brought, and so it stayed in its place of honor, flanked by photos of Caleb and me baring naked baby bottoms on shag rugs.
Daddy's stitches caused him some pain, his hand was tender and Mama had to change the bandage several times a day. It made Daddy irritable, but I was glad anyhow because it meant he left me alone at night. But that only lasted for a few weeks, soon he could leave it unwrapped, and now the neighborhood boys had two things to stare at: the jar and Daddy's stump. He'd be sitting in his Lazy Boy, hands resting on his knees. The kids would creep closer, closer, trying to get a good peek at his stump, then suddenly Daddy would let out a big old roar and thrust his hand in their direction. The boys would scream like little girls and scatter, and Daddy would laugh and laugh.
I, for one, hate that stump. I hate the way grazes my thigh. It's disgusting, thick and short, with a tuft of coarse hair sprouting on the surface. The way it creeps, waggles, wriggles! I hate that stump, I hate that damn floating finger, I hate him.
One morning I sip my orange juice (I can't eat the pancakes, no, never again) and eye that jar from my kitchen chair. I could swear that finger bends, crooks, "Come here." Am I imagining that? I stare intently at the finger, and there! Again! It beckons.
I push back my chair and cross to the living room, confronting that jar. All right, then. All right. I pick up the jar with two hands and carry it outside. I can hear Daddy's voice in my head, "It belongs to me," but it doesn't, not anymore. I go past the woodshop, way out back to the pig pen. I try to open the jar, but the lid won't budge (is it specially sealed?), so I crack it against the metal trough. I pour out the liquid, then shake the finger out onto the pile of pig slop. Glory comes over and sniffs at it. Pigs will eat just about anything, but she is having none of this. Looks like Daddy's too nasty even for a pig. So instead I scoop up the finger in the jar, and take it over to the moldering manure pile. I dig out a little hole with a stick, and slide Daddy's finger in. I cover it back up, pat pat, and it's gone.
I guess that makes us about even.
He lost the finger in his woodshop, when he fed a piece of knotty pine through the circular saw. He'd used the saw a thousand times before, and would use it a thousand times since. But just this once, he was careless, and BZZZZ, there was Daddy, in two separate pieces. We couldn't hear his screams over the sound of the saw, and he didn't think to turn it off. Instead he was stumbling across the backyard, blood streaming down his forearm, when Mama saw him through the kitchen window. She dropped the coffee creamer, and my brother and I watched from the breakfast table as she ran across the yard, then wrapped her apron around my father's hand. Caleb and I exchanged wide-eyed glances: what happened? What do we do?
They burst through the door, and Daddy slumped in his chair. I dropped my fork. The metallic smell of his blood mingled with the sickly sweet scent of maple syrup. Mama handed me a tin mixing bowl from the sideboard. "Go to the woodshop and find your father's finger!" I hesitated, and she flung the bowl at me. "Go!" she shouted, then turned to dial the phone.
I picked up the bowl and ran outside, gulping the cool spring air. The door to the woodshop was open, the saw still buzzing angrily. I was afraid to go in. Why did I have to do this? Why didn't she ask Caleb? But I stepped inside the shadowy shed and unplugged the saw from the socket, and the blade whirred slowly to a stop. I took a deep breath and looked at the table. It was sprayed with blood, and there was Daddy's finger, coated in a thin film of sawdust. I didn't want to touch it. I grabbed a grease covered rag from the tool cupboard, and turned my head away as I picked up the finger. It felt like a thick sausage, and made a dull thunk when I plopped it in the bowl.
The doctor wasn't able to reattach the finger; it was dirty and the risk of infection was too great. So my father came home, with his hand wrapped in gauze, and his finger in a jar beneath his arm. My brother was thrilled, his popularity soared when the other neighborhood boys learned of the gruesome prize. Mama was mortified, she begged Daddy to keep it somewhere other than the living room (perhaps the woodshop?) but Daddy was delighted by the attention it brought, and so it stayed in its place of honor, flanked by photos of Caleb and me baring naked baby bottoms on shag rugs.
Daddy's stitches caused him some pain, his hand was tender and Mama had to change the bandage several times a day. It made Daddy irritable, but I was glad anyhow because it meant he left me alone at night. But that only lasted for a few weeks, soon he could leave it unwrapped, and now the neighborhood boys had two things to stare at: the jar and Daddy's stump. He'd be sitting in his Lazy Boy, hands resting on his knees. The kids would creep closer, closer, trying to get a good peek at his stump, then suddenly Daddy would let out a big old roar and thrust his hand in their direction. The boys would scream like little girls and scatter, and Daddy would laugh and laugh.
I, for one, hate that stump. I hate the way grazes my thigh. It's disgusting, thick and short, with a tuft of coarse hair sprouting on the surface. The way it creeps, waggles, wriggles! I hate that stump, I hate that damn floating finger, I hate him.
One morning I sip my orange juice (I can't eat the pancakes, no, never again) and eye that jar from my kitchen chair. I could swear that finger bends, crooks, "Come here." Am I imagining that? I stare intently at the finger, and there! Again! It beckons.
I push back my chair and cross to the living room, confronting that jar. All right, then. All right. I pick up the jar with two hands and carry it outside. I can hear Daddy's voice in my head, "It belongs to me," but it doesn't, not anymore. I go past the woodshop, way out back to the pig pen. I try to open the jar, but the lid won't budge (is it specially sealed?), so I crack it against the metal trough. I pour out the liquid, then shake the finger out onto the pile of pig slop. Glory comes over and sniffs at it. Pigs will eat just about anything, but she is having none of this. Looks like Daddy's too nasty even for a pig. So instead I scoop up the finger in the jar, and take it over to the moldering manure pile. I dig out a little hole with a stick, and slide Daddy's finger in. I cover it back up, pat pat, and it's gone.
I guess that makes us about even.