Feral Boy Meets Girl by William Jablonsky

Author:William Jablonsky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: feral boy meets girl, william jablonsky, jablonsky fiction, unsolicited press, short story, short fiction
Publisher: Unsolicited Press
Published: 2020-08-26T16:00:00+00:00

Static

8:33 p.m.

Soledad is nervous about putting Oscar to bed, fearful as she is that the world is about to end. She is holding him a little too tight, and he’s squirming, which only makes her fight harder to contain him. She’s just been on the phone with her mother; the woman’s been at her for weeks to hurry up and get Oscar baptized before the world is swallowed up, so his soul will be saved before the end. Considering Soledad’s hormone issues, I’ve looked into changing our number, but that would only help for a day or two. For a second I swear I see her lips move in silent prayer. As far as I knew she was over that silliness, but I suppose this is a special occasion.

Because I cannot stand to see my wife reduced to a quivering mess, I try turning on the TV to distract her. The screen fades in on an affable black man in a black V-neck and camel suede blazer, explaining that the world is not actually going to end tonight—this is something NASA has been planning for years, and the space station astronauts know exactly what they’re doing. Other than being a theoretical physicist’s wet dream, there will be no impact on us beyond some power surges and pixilated TV screens. We mere mortals will not even be able to see it.

“There,” I say. “Feel better?”

I watch her grip on the baby relax, hear her breathing slow. “Yeah,” she says. “I think so.”

After some coaxing and multiple good-night kisses, she carries him upstairs and lays him gently in his crib. He is almost nine months old now and sleeps through the night, so we can finally relax.

I meet her at the bottom of the stairs with a cup of mint tea. “There now,” I say, trying not to sound condescending. “This should help.” These days, I even use the wrong intonation and the shit will hit the fan.

She pulls off the purple hair-tie and shakes out her long black hair. She is still tense. The pills her OB doctor prescribed help, but she’s always finding something new to worry about: he’s crawling like a soldier, dragging his legs limp behind him; he’s not babbling yet; he calls us both “dada,” robbing her of her special status as life-giver. This week she’s worried he’s autistic; I’ve told her it’s way too soon to tell, that it’s irrational to panic about this yet, that it’s not even a big deal if he is, but she doesn’t listen.

The astronomer on TV reiterates the instructions we’ve heard for weeks: unplug all unnecessary electronic devices, even the TV and phone, because the EM surge might short them out. Cell phone signals will be garbled at best and might get crossed. (This does not help Soledad’s mood.) NASA is sending a probe into the phenomenon, so if there’s anything to see, they’ll show us when it’s over.

We turn off everything but the baby monitor, but when I reach down to unplug the phone, Soledad stops me.

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