by James Zerndt
She told us this not long before she died.
“You’re the steak knife, D. A very sharp, very good, steak knife.”
“And you’re the butter knife,” he says and allows himself a small smile.
“That’s right. I’m the butter knife.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I remember.”
I give him another hug and I can feel his Stamp against my cheek. I swear it feels hot, like it’s burning. When I pull back, I can see the welt glistening in the rain. He never mentions it, but I know it still has to hurt.
“Don’t forget to take good care of that, okay?”
He nods, looks down.
“I love you, D. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
I let him go and he turns, starts back toward the house. Twink is still standing there, his hand over his mouth all grandma-ish, like he’s trying not to cry.
“Hey, D,” I say when he reaches the door. “We did it, huh.”
He looks up at the sky, winces as the rain courses down his cheek. “Water is good,” he says.
“Water is great,” I say back and it takes all of the five steps back to the car before I start missing him.
*
Jerusha and I are both quiet on the drive, both of us watching the windshield wipers like they’re some strange new invention. I wait as long as I can, then dig out Dustin’s poem from my pocket, hold it over the steering wheel.
I read the poem first, then turn it over.
On the back it says:
Send me a postcard sometime.
And don’t forget to use a Stamp! Ha Ha Ha!
-i love you,
Dustin.
I hand it to Jerusha.
“Looks like you’ve got another poet in the family.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Mom would be proud.”
We go back to watching the landscape pass by and Jerusha takes out her pencil, starts flipping away.
“Seriously though,” she says. “You think he’ll be okay?”
I want to tell her that I don’t know what that word means anymore, that being okay might no longer be an option, that after what’s happened I don’t know if you can stop a person’s heart from going bad, but, instead, I lie and say, “He’ll be alright. Dustin’s a steak knife.”
I explain Mom’s theory about cutlery and when I finish Jerusha asks what kind I am. When I tell her that Mom always called me the butter knife, she laughs, says, “I don’t think so.”
“Sure I am. Take me and you. I knew a long time ago I wanted to be with you but look how long that took.”
“But you got me.”
“I did?”
She leans over, kisses my cheek. “You’re a butcher knife, Thomas. You just don’t know it yet.”
Babies. Lots of them.
I turn the radio on to see if there’s any more updates, but a commercial’s on.
Be sure to buy Water-conscious apparel. It knows whether you’ve been naughty or nice! Only at participating stores...
I turn it off, say, “Are you wearing Water-conscious undergarments, Jerusha?”
She waits a few beats, then says, “Would you rather find out now or wait until we get home?”
For an answer, I pull the car over onto the shoulder.
Easiest Would You Rather ever.
A Poem
by Dustin Banks
Thomas is staring at Jerusha
Thomas loves Jerusha
Thomas is an asshole
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