Torn Read online

  TORN

  By

  Jacqueline Druga

  TORN

  By Jacqueline Druga

  Copyright 2011 by Jacqueline Druga.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental

  Special Thanks to M. Rita Knits for her help and to Jane Dare

  Cover Art provided by Steven McGhee

  NATURE’S FURY

  ODD

  May 3rd …

  “Buster!”

  There was no answer to his mother’s call.

  “Buster,” she beckoned again.

  A bark was the response.

  Sally sniffed.

  It didn’t take a bloodhound to find his scent. The overwhelming aroma was distinctive, and with a few good whiffs, Sally found her son. His very first words were actually a sound that mimicked the neighbor’s barking dog, which earned the two-year-old the nickname of Buster. However, they should have called him Houdini because he had a talent for and the habit of disappearing. But his mother one-upped him; she always found him through her keen maternal instincts or the Buster neighborhood watch program.

  “There you are,” Sally scolded gently as she opened the cupboards under the kitchen sink.

  “Cookie.” Buster held up the dog biscuit.

  “No.” Sally took the snack from his mouth, and pulled out the child. “Whew, you smell bad. Are you trying to tell me something, Buster?” she asked.

  The child giggled.

  “First barking, now dog biscuits.” She carried him in the other room.

  “Play.”

  “After I change you.” She laid the child on the floor. “Stay.”

  Buster barked.

  Sally rolled her eyes, smiled, and retrieved a diaper and wipes. She brought them over to Buster. “Okay. Soon enough we’ll get you trained, right?” She took a deep breath, undid the diaper and then…Sally screamed.

  ***

  A large cockroach was adhered to the center of the fecal-stained disposable diaper. When Sally called Bret’s name that afternoon, she thought for certain that Sally was looking for her son. Never did she expect the frantic-sounding mother to burst through her back door holding a dirty diaper.

  The petite woman, a mother herself, remained calm and prepared to tell Sally that Buster wasn’t there, until Sally placed the diaper on her kitchen counter.

  “I don’t know what to do, Bret. I don’t know what to do,” Sally said hysterically.

  People always considered Bret Long a sarcastic woman. Teetering on whether or not it should be laced with anger or humor, Bret assessed the situation, stepped back, pointed and said, “Tell me that’s not a.…” Before she could finish her sentence, she caught a whiff. “Aw, man, Sally. Get that off my counter.”

  “Look, Bret, look at it.”

  “I’m not looking at a dirty diaper.”

  “Please,” she begged.

  Hearing the seriousness and desperation in her voice led Bret to worry that perhaps there was something wrong with Buster. “Ok, show me,” she said, not wanting to touch the diaper. “But could you please…take that off my counter.”

  Sally lifted the diaper and unrolled it.

  To prepare for the aroma, Bret inhaled before the exposure. But she wasn’t prepared to see the two-inch roach in the center of the mess.

  “Bret, should I call poison control? What?”

  Knowing Buster, no one would have put it past him to pick up that bug and eat it. However, even though cockroaches were expected to outlive man and be the sole surviving species on this earth, it was highly doubtful that the bug could have survived not only the chewing process, but the digestive acids as well.

  It was still alive.

  “Bret?” Sally beckoned for a response.

  “He didn’t eat that,” Bret told her. “Look, the legs are still moving.”

  “Oh, my God. I don’t have roaches.”

  “Well…Buster does.” She winced at her scream. “Sally, just because you see a roach doesn’t mean your house is dirty. However, if there’s one in your house, there’s.…”

  “Stop.” She held up her hand. “I have to throw up.”

  “You? Me.” Bret gagged as she watched Sally in her frazzled state rewrap the diaper and run her fingers through her red hair so quickly that she didn’t notice she had new highlights—remnants of her son’s bodily functions.

  “Should I call an exterminator?” she asked.

  “Call your husband first. That’s what they’re there for. And Sally, you have…poop in your hair.” Bret pointed.

  Sally gurgled out a scream. It had Bret’s attention for only a moment as it was soon drawn to her twelve-year-old daughter who blasted into the house.

  “Mom!” Casper raced into the kitchen. Born Elizabeth Ann Malone, she fell victim to her mother’s habit of nicknaming people by the age of three. She always seemed to catch a cold, and never was able to suntan, hence she acquired the nickname of Casper.

  “Mom, you have to see this.” She was as frantic as Sally. “Come outside.”

  “What is it?” Bret asked.

  “You have to…why is Mrs. Rogers holding a dirty diaper?”

  Nonchalantly Bret responded, “A cockroach climbed in it.”

  Casper snarled a look of disgust, and then regained her composure. “Mom. Please.”

  “What is it?” she asked again.

  “Just come outside.”

  At that point it was obvious that getting into a verbal ping-pong match was unproductive, so Bret just followed Casper outside.

  To those in the lower-income echelon this neighborhood was considered suburbs, but those who were above middle class called it the ‘poor’ section of the school district. Although it had more concrete than grass, it was a quaint little borough a few miles outside of the city. Only a few feet separated most of the homes and everyone had a sidewalk. The sidewalk was the destination of Bret and Casper.

  Before Bret could spit out, “What am I looking at?” she saw it on the sidewalk just in front of her property. Its identity changed with each closer look. A metamorphosis, if you will. At first glance, it looked like a man’s brown shoe, then closer she thought it was coffee grinds…until the huge pile moved.

  Nine inches around, at least six high, the dark brown mound shifted around in one spot.

  “Are they ants?” Bret peered a little closer. “They are.”

  “Is that the grossest thing you’ve ever seen?” Casper asked.

  “It’s a toss-up between this and the shitty diaper.” Bret was struck with awe over the mound as she crouched down to look at it. “My God. This is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like this. I wonder what they’re eating.” She stood up straight. “Casper, go get the camera.”

  “What?” she asked, aghast. “I’m not taking a picture of them. Why?”

  “This is strange. Please? I’ll go get a bucket of water.”

  “Fine,” she flounced into the house. Bret followed.

  Sally was still in the kitchen as Bret grabbed the bucket and started to fill it.

  “What’s wrong outside?” she asked.

  “Get this…ants. A freakish amount of them,” Bret answered.

  “Great. Just great.” Sally spun on her heels and opened the door. “Bugs are taking over.” She barged out.

  The dramatic comment made Bret pause. Then she finished filling the bucket and took it outside.

  “I took their picture,” Casper said holding the camera. “They didn’t pose.”

  Bret snickered, “That was good. Step back.” She held up the bucket, preparing to dump it. “I don’
t want you getting wet.”

  Casper stepped back.

  Bret believed that the mound would wash away with whatever the ants feverishly devoured.

  Her mistake.

  The expulsion of water onto the sidewalk cleared nothing. It made matters worse. Horrified, she dropped the bucket and Casper screamed as the mound began to wash away.

  Her head quickly jerked to the snap of a picture Casper took, then back to the sidewalk, where, like a river of mud, more ants poured from the crack in the concrete. An unstoppable amount oozed out as if washing away the mound opened a door to freedom.

  “Shit.” Bret leapt back. “Get the hose.” With Casper closely behind her, she raced up the outdoor steps and grabbed the garden hose, yanking it with her in the rush back to the ants. “Casper, get ready to turn it on.”

  Bret found herself a safe place on the lip of a wall just before the sidewalk. “Full blast,” she instructed, eyes locked onto the ants that kept coming. The once-normal sidewalk was brown. She held tight to the hose and squeezed the nozzle, trying to clear them off, drown them.

  “Aim for the crack, Mommy,” Casper said. “Aim there.”

  She did. Casper was correct. Power stream going, Bret blasted the crease for a good five minutes straight until there were no more ants. Then she squirted the sidewalks clear of the ones that moved and swam for their lives.

  It was as if she was in a battle. Bret’s adrenaline spiked and her breathing was heavy. She lowered the hose when Casper shut down the water.

  The mother and daughter joined in staring at the wet property, waiting to see if the ants would return.

  “Mom? Why were there so many ants?”

  Bret shook her head. Never had she seen anything like it before, but there was a first time for everything. There was no explanation for it, only the excuse of a strange occurrence in an already strange day.

  ***

  Mid-lecture, actually mid-word, the dumbfounded, ‘Huh?’ made Professor Darius Cobb pause in his speaking. He chuckled as if the ‘huh’ was a joke, then he prepared to continue. Professor Cobb, whose age was never divulged, was somewhere around forty, but that was hard to tell. His slight yet toned five eight frame often made him look younger than his students—at least from a distance. Although he added highlights, he didn’t attempt to cover up the occasional gray hair in his tossed, slightly long brown hair. He felt that it added an air of distinction to him, separated him from the students. However, one need not speak to Darius Cobb longer than a minute before the realization came through that the highly intelligent and often humorously arrogant man was not a child.

  Of course, if Professor Cobb wanted respect based purely on his appearance, he could opt to dress less like his students.

  Back to the lecture.

  He heard the ‘huh’ from the galley, shook his head, and then opened his mouth. He paused again and pointed his pencil at the young man four rows back. “Tell me you’re joking, right?”

  “About?” the young man asked.

  “The ‘huh’. When I said the word Chernobyl, you said ‘huh’.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You…you don’t know what Chernobyl was?”

  The boy of nineteen shook his head.

  Just as Darius was about to explain, he saw hands rising. “I’m gonna assume none of you know about Chernobyl.”

  Silence and awkward nods.

  “Figures. Ok.” Darius walked around his podium. “Listen, go home and blast your parent or parents for me, please. This is a big part of world history here. Especially ecologically, and that’s why most of you are in my class.” He paced as he spoke. “Chernobyl plays a big role as an example. Therefore, when I said to you, technological and modernized impacts on our ecology such as Chernobyl, I was hoping that all of you would understand. Yes, Melinda.” He pointed to a young woman.

  “Wasn’t that like a place where a nuclear bomb went off by accident,” she said.

  “Yeah,” another male student said brightly. “China or something.”

  “What?” Darius laughed. “You have got to be kidding me. All of you got together and planned this joke. Okay. Stop. How many of you know about Chernobyl? Show me hands.”

  Darius scanned the room. Eleven of the thirty raised their hands, including the young man and young woman who believed Chernobyl was an accidental nuclear bomb that exploded in China.

  In defeat, Darius set down his pen, walked to the white board, picked up a marker and wrote the word, ‘Chernobyl.’

  “Now,” he continued. “Chernobyl is in Russia.”

  A group of ‘ahs’ emanated from the class.

  “See, we’re learning.” He smiled. “In 1986, a nuclear reactor meltdown caused an explosion in a nuclear power plant, Chernobyl,” Darius said. “This happened without warning, and the plant spewed radiation into.…” he paused and looked up when the whap of paper, followed by a mumbled ‘shit’, caught his attention. Shrugging it off, Darius continued his lecture. “Spewed into the air. The radiation levels were estimated to be about 400 times stronger than the radiation released by the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs. But.…” with excitement he lifted his finger. “Compared to bomb testing, Chernobyl’s ecological effect pales in comparison to bombs tested in say 1970. When this.…” Another pause at another ‘whap’ sound. A shift of his eyes and Darius caught a glimpse of one his students. Paying no mind, he went on. “The casualties primarily consisted of firefighters on the scene, then people began to fall ill from the radiation. The cloud itself spread and reached as far around the world as Europe. Contaminated areas.…” Again he stopped; this time not only was the student swinging a paper but also jumping around. “Scott, problem?”

  “Uh, yeah. Roaches,” Scott said.

  “What?” Darius asked.

  “Cockroaches. First there was one, now shit!” he jumped up.

  Darius moved up the few steps to Scott’s seating level. “How do you like that?” Darius grabbed a notebook, and scooped up one of the seven roaches.

  A female student winced and scooted away.

  “Ironic.” Darius held up the notebook. “We’re talking about radiation and this here, the cockroach, is supposed to outlive man when it comes to radiation. Its body is like a suit of armor.” He stared at the roach.

  “Sir,” Scott said. “Why is my desk infested?

  “Your desk is not infested. Probably the room is,” Darius said nonchalantly as he turned and walked down the steps. He snickered at the cringes of disgust that rang out in the room. “I’ll report it to environmental services. As far as this little fellow.” After examining the roach, he let it dropped to his desk. “He may be immune to radiation. But.…” With a slam he smashed the bug with the book. “Not to me.” He stared up at his students who audibly groaned. “Now.” He grinned. “Back to class.”

  1. LIFE

  The so-called ‘ideal’ housewife supposedly disappeared right after the women’s liberation movement. However, in the Long home, Bret was stuck in a rut of modern working woman meets Donna Reed.

  She didn’t complain, especially when it came to her children. She was very grateful for the closeness, except when it came to dinner. Whether all of her children were present at the table or only half, it was a madhouse. It could easily be said that Bret hadn’t eaten a hot meal, uninterrupted, since she became a very young mother.

  It was a given that her oldest son, Perry, wasn't going to show for dinner. He rarely did since he proclaimed his independence on his eighteenth birthday, three months earlier. Of course, he was a free man until he needed food, laundry done, or a couple bucks to get him through. Bret wished he’d come home more often.

  The other three made for a noisy supper. Luke, the second son, was upbeat, bubbly, and sixteen going on twelve. Blessed with twin daughters, Casper and Andi, Bret swore they hated each other. How many times did she hear from them, ‘We shared a womb for eight months, that’s enough for a lifetime.’ They were only twelve. All the while Jesse, her
husband, pretty much ate and listened, only speaking up when he had something funny or sarcastic to say.

  That evening in particular didn’t start out much differently. Like someone from a 1950s sitcom, Bret was walking around the dining room table putting food on everyone’s plate.

  “Thanks. Looks good.” Jesse peered up. “Perry not coming?”

  “When does Perry come anymore,” she said.

  “Who knows. Thought for sure he’d be asking for money. It’s been weeks. Where’s Luke?” he asked.

  Just as he inquired, the front door slammed and the sound of Luke rushing in could be heard.

  “Sorry I’m late!” he hollered as he raced up the stairs. “I have to wash my hands. Wait until you hear this.”

  The bathroom door slammed.

  “Must be big,” Bret commented and took her seat. “How was your day, Jesse?”

  “Fine.” He shrugged. “Hot. Too hot for May. Did I ever tell you how much I hate Wal-Mart?”

  Curiously, Bret looked at him. It was a well-known fact that Jesse wasn’t always the brightest bulb in the bunch; it wasn’t uncommon for him to say things that didn’t make sense, and it was evident by the look on Bret’s face that Jesse just uttered one of those things. “Wal-Mart?” Bret asked. “Why were you at Wal-Mart today?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “But you said it was too hot and it made you hate Wal-Mart.”

  “My crew is by the brand new Wal-Mart. Where do you think the traffic was going? Made it impossible. Wal-Mart.”

  “Anyhow.…” Bret folded her hands and perked up with excitement. “Wait until you hear.…”

  “Check this out.” Luke barreled into the dining room. “Oh, sorry, were you talking, Mom?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “But go on, tell yours first. Something really weird happened to me and Casper today.”

  “No, mine’s cooler,” Luke said. “Go on.”

  “No way,” Bret argued.