Alone in a simple field, I came upon a small clearing. I laid down and propped my arm under my head. A yellow butterfly landed close by. I pushed my finger under its delicate body. "A new friend!" I thought. He squeezed in his legs a little. A bug hug for me. A puff of my breath released him from my sight. He left me in a random pattern, having nowhere to be.
STEVE! Supper was ready. If I was under water on the moon, I’d still hear her. Three more minutes of freedom! I can pet our puppy, throw a few rocks and jump this mud puddle. It’ll feel different inside the house. This spaghetti kills my stomach. Two bites will have my butt on fire. Mom will make us bathe together again tonight. My little sister’s going to turn yellow if I don’t quit peeing in the water. I don’t want to take a bath, not when the crickets are calling me back.
If the phone rings and mom kicks her door shut, I’m in big trouble. It must be my teacher. Mom’s cigarettes have sat on the kitchen table way too long. Guess I better stare really hard at this television. "STEVE, GET IN HERE!" My legs got heavier than bags of mud. The hallway seemed a quarter mile long, my head drooped and I tried not to poot. I walked in, smoke and fire bellowed out of the bedposts. Her arms were folded as she towered over me. Maybe God and the angels will open the ceiling and intervene. " Margo Wilson’s mom called and said you said you’d show her your fanny if she’d show you hers." I broke our fixed stare by cutting my eyes slightly to the right. In doing this, she may think I’m insane and also, I never can think of a lie looking straight ahead. Things get deathly quiet at times like these. We would discuss this later.
Dad called and said he was going to have us for the weekend. He’ll take us to the farm. I just know it. We spilled out of his car and ate fried fish and all the watermelon we could hold. I knew mom had told him what I’d done. After a few hours of fishing, my father hooked a large turtle. He wrapped a fist around its tail and carried it quickly, like it had been bad, into the barn. The farmer set it up on a stump. Dad had a pair of pliers around its head and the farmer stood ready, a hatchet in hand. The turtle hissed and drew in like it was going to pop. A couple of chops later, the head was off. It hung tough in that shell, requiring a strained jerk to break that one last stubborn ligament. The fish and watermelon raced for my throat. The ground zigzagged under me as I collapsed to it. The earth held me as a kind friend. The farmer’s wife took me inside. I could hear the snickering from behind. Staring into space, a cold washrag was laid on my head. I saw it was getting dark.
The farmer and my father decided to go frog gigging. What on earth was frog gigging? I skipped along and stayed a few paces back. The farmer wore a pair of rubber waders and had a small pitchfork in his hand. My father held the flashlight as we tip-toed around the dark lake’s edge. The farmer yelled, "hold the light on it!" My father, keeping his shoes clean, tried to comply. The prongs of the pitchfork would be poised with dynamic readiness over the frog’s body. The light shone above it like the rapture. The origin of bug and frog sounds held no answer in the dark. Any movement felt like a boo! A thrust of the spear into the body made a terrible sound, like punching a baby in the stomach. The farmer brought the tool up, putting the frog in a canvas bag.
Ten or so frogs later, we headed back to the basement. The bag was laid on a table and would pulse silently, like a puppy breathing under the covers. The farmer reached in and pulled a two-footer out by the legs. Walking over to the brick foundation, he swung the frogs, heads first, against the wall. WHOP! The muscular farmer delayed the hit to create as much lag as possible. That sound made my throat get warm. Bolting up the stairs, I slammed the door of the bathroom behind me, thinking of the butterfly...
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