Sammie & Budgie

by Scott Semegran

  "Sure, I don't see why not."

  Sammie leapt up and ran to where the light knob perched on the wall to the left of the door to the room. He stood on his tippy toes and turned the knob--one way at first then the other way--until the fluorescent lights dimmed to an acceptable level, then he quickly returned and hopped in my lap. I really wasn't expecting that. He wiggled his butt until he was comfortably in place. Not to be outdone, little Jessie hopped in Nat's lap, performing a similar butt wiggle, a look on her face beaming victory. Sammie reached up and placed his hand on the back of my neck, pulling my head down, so I could hear him better, then he said, "Daddy, tell us the story about the time you saved my life!"

  "What time was that?" I said, honestly confused. I wasn't really sure what he was referring to and a disapproving sigh escaped from his little mouth, originating from where his broken heart resided deep in his little chest. He pulled harder on my neck and told me in my ear the event he was referring to. It really wasn't a life-threatening event but I agreed to tell it anyway. "Oh, right. The time you stepped on a rusty nail and I had to take you to the emergency room?"

  "Yeah!" he said, releasing my neck, smiling approvingly at the others. He loved that story.

  "Not again!" Jessie said, rolling her eyes. "It's so gross!"

  "Is not!" Sammie said.

  "Is too!" Jessie said.

  "Not!"

  "Too!"

  "All right, you two. Does everything have to be an argument?"

  They both crossed their arms in defiance but it didn't stop me from telling the story. One time, not long after moving into our apartment, I took the kids to a house party thrown by an acquaintance. I don't remember why I was invited but I do remember the details: a coworker's house party with food and drinks and games and pets were allowed and it was kid-friendly. That description hit all the checkmarks for me so I made a bean dip and threw the kids and the bean dip in the Volvo S70 and we went to the party. When we arrived, there were quite a few people there already with their own children and their own dip creations and all the kids were running around like banshees and there were dogs running in packs, corralling the kids like they were a herd of meandering banshees. When I found the hosts, I introduced my kids to them. The hosts were Christina and Margaret, two old-school lesbians who had been together for 30 years, and the party was an anniversary celebration for them at their house. They insisted that Sammie and Jessie enjoy their backyard because they had a water balloon station, a game of ring toss, and a trampoline. The kids accepted then ran off while I looked for a place for my bean dip to sit amongst the other mystery dips. The one named Margaret, by the way, was my coworker.

  "You thought it would be safe for kids in the backyard. Right, Daddy?" Sammie said.

  "Yeah, I thought it would be safe in their backyard."

  And that part was true. There were so many kids around with their parents doing their helicopter-parenting thing that I assumed my own kids would be OK. Why would they not be OK? It was a family-friendly party for god's sake. So I wasn't worried at all when they ran off. I was just concerned about finding a place for my bean dip and wondered if there were any single ladies around that weren't lesbians, which sometimes can be a tall order at a party thrown by lesbians, but I thought it worth a shot.

  "That's weird, Daddy!" little Jessie said. She giggled in Nat's lap, covering her little face with her little hands.

  I found a dining area near the kitchen with a table covered in potluck dishes: dips, casseroles, bowls of chips or crackers, stubby carrot and celery sticks, salsas, pickled vegetables, breads, cakes, pies, and shit like that. As I looked for a place to sit my bean dip, a woman introduced herself to me. Short, petite, and blonde with blue eyes, she told me her name was Elizabeth and she asked me how I knew Christina and Margaret. Before I could get two words out or figure out if she was single and not a lesbian, I heard Jessie screaming from the kitchen. I quickly set the bean dip on the table and ran into the kitchen.

  "It was pretty bad. Wasn't it, Daddy?" Sammie said, looking up to me from my lap.

  "Yes, it was pretty bad, son."

  There, I found Jessie in a hysterical state of panic and Sammie standing still and quiet, with a pool of bright, maroon blood under his right foot, both feet still in the rubber flip flops he wore to the party. The kitchen was empty. I quickly picked Sammie up in my arms, blood pouring from the bottom of his right foot. The flip flop dropped to the floor, covered in my son's blood, which made Jessie scream some more.

  "What happened?!" I said, frantically.

  "The nail," he said, weeping. "It stuck in my foot when I tried to see the dog."

  "What the--" I said, confused. But there really wasn't time to ask questions. There was blood everywhere--on me, on my son, on the floor. It was like something out of a horror movie. "We have to go. NOW! Come on!"

  I ran out of the kitchen with my son in my arms, little Jessie close behind. I could feel her behind me trying to grab my waistband but had a hard time doing that; I was moving too fast for her to grab it. We ran past Elizabeth then Christina then Margaret and a number of other women I hadn't met yet, me apologizing as I past each stunned partygoer, all of whom stood there dumbfounded, like they were in the Twilight Zone or something. It was a very bizarre scene. It's true.

  "Then what happened?" Jessie said, enthralled.

  "I put you guys in the car and I drove to the emergency room."

  I drove as fast as I possibly could to the closest hospital, running several stop signs and stop lights along the way, amazed that I didn't get pulled over by a cop. All the while, little Jessie screamed from the backseat and good ol' Sammie Boy wept in the front seat. Although he was crying, he wasn't making a lot of noise like his sister, who was just freaking out in the backseat.

  "I thought my big brother was going to die!" she said, still looking guilty that she couldn't keep herself together. Nat put her arms around her while she sat in her lap, rocking back and forth to comfort her.

  "I know you did. I know," I said.

  On the way to the hospital, I surmised from bits of information between screams and sniffles and gasps for air that Sammie had decided to get a peek at a dog in a neighbor's yard, so he stepped on a pile of wooden fence planks that laid next to the fence to get a better view. While standing on the pile of wooden planks, a rusty nail protruding up from the top one, sliced through the rubber sole of his flip flops when he stepped on it, and the nail penetrated his skin and carved through his flesh--between his tendons and bones and veins and capillaries--according to the doctors at the hospital that X-rayed his foot. The doctors at the hospital said he was lucky to have not damaged the tendons or bones in his foot. But for safe measure, they gave him a tetanus shot, some antibiotics, and soaked his foot in a solution made from iodine.

  "You saved my life, Daddy," said Sammie, turning around on my lap to hug me. He squeezed hard, as hard as he could with his little arms, around my neck.

  "It really wasn't a life or death situation, son," I said, hugging him back, patting him on the back.

  "It was to me," he said, wiping tears from his cheeks. The "nail incident" was definitely a traumatic experience for my little boy, I could tell. It seemed to affect him more deeply than I imagined it would at the time. I mean, I knew it would traumatize him but not to the point where he thought he might die. That's pretty goddamn traumatic, if you ask me.

  "It was scary!" Jessie said, looking up at Nat. "It was a good thing you weren't there."

  "I bet! You must have been, like, very brave to help your dad and brother."

  Little Jessie's face lit up with embarrassment, her cheeks turning bright red, her eyes twitterpated, her forehead flushed. She placed both hands on her cheeks and looked at me, then said, "Daddy, can Nat be a part of our family?"

  "What?!" Nat said, astonished.

  "Yeah!" said Sammie, agreeing. "She's like our big sister!"

  "Yeah!" said Jessie. "Like the big sister I never had!"

 
"That's very sweet of you two," Nat said, fumbling for words. "I already have a family, though."

  "But they suck!" Jessie said. "You told me yourself."

  "True. They aren't very nice to me sometimes."

  "See! Daddy?" said Jessie, clasping her hands together as if praying to G-O-D himself, praying for some kind of miracle or something.

  "You mean, like adopt her?" I said, confused. "But she's an adult. I can't adopt an adult. Can I?"

  Nat fell backwards onto the cold, tile floor, laughing a deep, guttural laugh, her arms across her stomach. Jessie turned and threw herself on Nat's belly, giggling hysterically, attempting to tickle Nat as she flopped around on the cold, hospital floor. And as Sammie and I watched them, my arms around my son, holding him close to me on my lap, there was a knock on the door. It then slowly opened and a face appeared, the face of an attractive woman, her skin the color of a roasted coffee bean, her hair shiny and straight, her outfit familiar, sporty yet professional. She was someone I wasn't expecting to see at that particular moment, someone close to my father.

  "Excuse me, everyone. Can I come in?" she said. I quickly realized who she was since we met her only the day before, PeePaw's friend: Sharice. She was wearing the same or similar outfit, one that was somewhere between workout clothes and hospital scrubs, maybe blue before or green. I couldn't remember exactly. In one arm, she cradled something in a brown, paper bag. In the other hand, the worn copy of The World According to Garp. "I'm sorry for disturbing you."

  "Of course, of course, come on in," I said, standing Sammie up from my lap, his arm intertwined with the wire from the medical machine attached to me. As he tried to untangle himself, he inadvertently pulled the wire, detaching it from me. The wire and clamp slithered across the floor but I didn't bother to fetch it. I figured the machine had compiled enough medical data and deserved a break. "Please have a seat."

  "May I?" she said, walking toward our makeshift camp site. She stepped on the blanket then sat down, setting the brown, paper bag next to her. "That's a nice camp fire you got there."

  Sammie stepped back on the blanket and the two of us sat back down. Once my boy was comfortable in my lap, he said, "Thanks! I made it myself."

  "Well then, you're welcome. Your grandpa would be proud."

  "How is my dad?" I said, curious.

  "Well, that's why I'm here. You see... he passed away early this morning. Really early."

  And with that, a heavy silence fell on our camp site, a melancholy cloud of shock and disbelief so dense that no one spoke or said a word, just four mouths agape. Nat, in particular, looked quite surprised. Sharice placed her hand on my knee as if to steady me.

  "Passed away?" I said, the words difficult for me to pronounce.

  Sammie turned his head to me and said, "PeePaw is dead?"

  And before I could answer my son, Sharice said, "Yes, dear. Your grandpa is dead. He died peacefully in his sleep."

  Both of my kids began to cry the way kids do when something upsets them but they don't understand the depth of their sorrow, their weeps starting small and sniffly, then turning to staccato gasps for air and boogery bawling. I didn't know how to take the news of my father's demise myself. More than anything, I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience, me watching a poor bastard receiving some sour, unexpected news in a nonchalant way from someone he didn't know. Nat didn't say anything, her arms around Jessie, hugging her again, comforting her. It was all just too much to take. I mean, there aren't any rules for how to process some bad news like that. You just have to absorb it and process it the best you can, preferably by not making a fool of yourself. I did the best I could to stifle all my emotions deep down inside. I'm pretty good at that, when I want to be. It's true.

  "He died?" I said, clutching for words. I didn't know what else to say. And before I could say anything more, Sharice pulled something from the brown, paper bag, something that looked like a shiny vase except that it had a tiny lid on top instead of an opening where you would shove some cheap, grocery store flowers. She set it on the blanket next to Sammie's campfire candle, the orange light from the tiny flame illuminating the shiny vase, flashes of red and orange and yellow dancing on the sides of it. I could make out a design of Asian origin, something like a dragon or a serpent or something like that, clinging to the side of the vase with its sharp claws, its tail slithering down the length of the vase. "Early this morning?"

  "Yes, he did. And he had instructions to be cremated immediately after being declared dead by a medical examiner, which by the way, happened a lot faster than I thought it would. It's amazing what well-documented estate planning can do. And prepayments! I came straight here from the funeral home."

  "Cremated?" I said.

  Rather than reply with words, Sharice's eyebrows raised like two caterpillars preparing to spar, then she tilted her head in the direction of the vase--or rather the dragon-adorned urn--sitting on the blanket next to the candle. I watched the light dance around the dragon on the side of it. It really was a dragon, I was absolutely sure of it, or at least that's what I told myself, or some kind of prehistoric reptile like a proto alligator or crocodile or komodo dragon. If that was the case, then it really was a dragon.

  "That's the Colonel, right there," she said, plainly.

  Well, shit.

  The Last Shmapter

  Sharice drove a Cadillac Escalade--a massive, shiny, black and chrome tank with tinted, black windows and a license plate that read 'QUEEN-B'--and she was proud of the fact that it was ordered especially for her by my father, retired Colonel Burchwood: PeePaw. When exactly he ordered it for her, she never did say but I assumed it was a somewhat recent purchase. The Caddy Tank seemed brand-new; there wasn't a scratch or ding or scuff on it, anywhere. But more importantly, it was decked out with every conceivable upgrade and feature including but not limited to: black leather seats, a sunroof, custom stereo and speaker system, onboard computer, running boards, chrome wheels, interior wood trim on the dash, leather trim wherever else possible, shag carpet floor mats, and on and on. Its price tag must have been in the upper 5-digits, nearing 6-digits. And I bet that Caddy Tank barely got five miles to the gallon, a hideous reality, if you asked me. She drove that thing with the careless abandon that rivaled the giddiness a 12-year old experienced driving a tricked-out go-cart on a closed circuit at an amusement park. She was laughing and cackling all over the goddamn place, drinking overly sweetened, overly caffeinated coffee from a bedazzled, pink, aluminum coffee tumbler. But before we go any further about how my family and I ended up in the Caddy Tank with Sharice, my father's "nurse," let me back-track just a bit.

  After Sharice's surprise visit with my dad's ashes in an urn with a dragon on it, the next morning was rather uneventful and anti-climactic. Dr. Yang released us from the hospital with little fanfare, probably because the injuries that Sammie and I endured were deemed not significant enough to keep us in the hospital, or rather, there weren't enough injuries to bill the insurance company for; you can't bill for treatment of bumps and bruises, I guess. So, Dr. Yang instructed us to see our primary care physicians back in Austin--Dr. Todd for me and Dr. Dimes for my son, good ol' Sammie Boy--and to contact him only if our primary doctors had any questions.

  "It's better to recover in your own home," he said. "No need to stay here in the hospital longer than necessary."

  "Thanks, doc," I said.

  He nodded then left. I never saw Dr. Yang again. But don't worry, I didn't cry over it.

  As for my trusty Volvo S70, it was not drivable. It was smashed. Totaled. The details of our car accident were still a mystery but one thing was for sure: my car was destroyed. A police officer came to take a statement at some point while I was intoxicated from all the morphine. I don't remember that part, to tell you the truth. But that's OK because I'm not comfortable around police officers anyway. Any conversion I'd have with a police officer would just lead to self-incrimination from my being nervous as a goddamn mouse in the clutches of
a demonic house cat. It's pretty stupid, if you ask me, my demeanor around officers of the law. They just make me nervous, that's all. But my trusty Volvo was demolished and that's where Sharice came in. When Nat called Autumn Grove the night before--to talk to Ms. Robyn, to ask about my dad, and to tell her what happened to us--our phone message was relayed to Sharice because (as we would soon find out) she was now the executor of my father's estate. Weird, huh? Well, at least I thought so. I had no idea that Sharice even existed until this week let alone had some control and decision-making power over some things that would affect my future.

  So here we all were--my little family--strapped into the Caddy Tank: Nat and Jessie in the third row, good ol' Sammie Boy and the urn in the middle row (the urn had its own goddamn seat), and Sharice and I in the front seats. She insisted that my father would have wanted her to drive us back to Austin, although I would beg to differ. My father just wasn't the caring type. He wouldn't have cared how we got back to Austin. It's true.

  "Your father was such a caring man," Sharice said, pontificating between sips of sweet coffee from her bedazzled tumbler, driving the Caddy Tank north on the access road to I-35, the interstate we needed to take to get back to Austin, Texas: our home. "He loved to take care of people. Yes, he did!"

  "Really?" I said, looking back at my son, who was drawing in his sketchbook, a smaller set of bandages on his head. Nat and Jessie were playing a quiet game of patty-cake way back in the third row. I turned back around and watched the Caddy Tank merge into the thick traffic. "That's not how I remember him at all. He wasn't the caring type when I was a kid."