Porcelain Moths by Joe Ricker

Author:Joe Ricker
Format: epub

TWENTY-TWO

It took Harley several minutes of thought to engage Joey. He began with a few approaches, what he thought were reasonable attempts to vocally interact, but stopped himself before he allowed any sound to form in the air between them. Finally, with Joey’s toys acting as prompts, Harley began to ask questions.

“Do you like race cars?” he asked.

The kid continued staring, frozen, waiting for his mother to comfort the situation.

“How about tractors? Spaceships?”

Joey picked his nose. Harley was humored, and tempted to coach him. After a while, the child pulled his finger from his nose dragging out a monstrous green slug that stretched from his square, uncut fingernail. Joey stared at it like it was a live creature that would squirm in his hand.

“You gonna eat that?”

Joey looked up the stairs for his mother. The water was still running. He looked back at his finger and scrambled to his feet, marching out to the kitchen. At the refrigerator, he looked back at Harley.

“Saving it for later? Good idea.”

Joey smeared the booger across the refrigerator door then squatted to admire his work. Harley rolled into a chuckle, and Joey turned to him to scrunch his face. The fire truck skidded across the floor when Joey kicked it during his high-step charge toward it. That refrigerator door empty and bare of anything but a few alphabet magnets made Harley think about Joey’s life. How he would grow, and perhaps eventually, the door would be decorated with popsicle stick projects and finger-paintings. Joey would discover paste and see other children eat it. Those were the kids that ate their own boogers. At least Joey had a chance at life.

Joey crashed his fire truck into the cups then rammed one cup, chasing it around the living room. When the cup was finally demolished, he left the fire truck on its side and tried to stand. He dropped once on his ass, making the other cups bounce slightly but managed to get to his feet again and pull a story book from a pile on the staircase. He pointed at the cover and looked at Harley.

“You want me to read you a story?”

Joey scrunched his face and made a terrible sound, relief, like he’d finished shitting himself. He brought the book to Harley and placed it on his lap. His finger was still pointing at the cover, a puppy. The Pokey Little Puppy. Harley remembered it from his own childhood. It was his favorite, the first book he’d learned how to read. He pulled Joey onto the couch, opened the book, and began reading.

Joey pointed at every picture and grumbled something. A couple of times he pushed the pages back that Harley had turned to point things out he thought Harley had missed. The child smelled like a sweaty, summer pillowcase that hadn’t been washed in a long time. It almost distracted Harley from the story. He didn’t remember the story being so stupid. As a child he was amazed by it, but that was also true about clowns and the ability to ride a bike without training wheels.

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