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Corrie said they had to visit her old father in Madras once a quarter. It was like they were a board of directors, checking in. Sy didn’t dislike Corrie’s father, but Madras was boring – too hot in the summer and icy in the winter, without skiing, not that he skied.
They slept in what felt like a shrunken double bed in her mother’s old room. She’d long since run off to Hawaii with a sugar cane farmer. The only reason Corrie’s father let them sleep in the same room was because it was the only extra bed in the house. He made it clear he didn’t approve, even though they’d lived together in Omaha for seven years and on his only visit, he’d clearly seen there was just one bed in the small apartment.
Her father claimed to be nicknamed Bridge by his friends, but Sy never heard any of his old buddies down at the Arco call him that. Bridge was retired from working a road roller, and distilled liquor in his garage. He’d always done this though, it had nothing to do with retirement. To hear Corrie retell it, he once added moonshine to her baby bottle and her mother didn’t know it till she burped. Then she slept for twelve hours straight.
In the mornings, Corrie and Sy waited until Bridge went out back for his first cigarette before getting in the shower together. He would never approve of them showering together, but his morning smoke, and then his check on the vats, was just enough time. The one thing they loved about the old house was the shower head – as big as a flying saucer with enough water spraying out to cover them both. They inevitably had sex, but it wasn’t even about that, it was the way the water shot perfectly out of the silver disc that Bridge claimed to have made from an old hub cap.
On this day, Corrie got in before Sy. Her body was covered in soap and he liked seeing her sudsy. He moved her aside to drench his head under the perfect drops. “There’s nothing like this spray,” he said, like always. Corrie turned her back into the water to rinse the soap while Sy soaped up his face, which he liked to do first, get the crusties from the night before out of his beard. “I don’t understand how he made this thing, but I wish he’d make us one,” he said, like always. Then he began singing Michael row the boat ashore, waiting for her to join in. He did this under the shower head, rinsing out his beard, some of the water shooting into his molars.
“By god!” he said. He shook his head to the side like a wet beach dog. Then he opened his mouth under the water again. “Holy fuck, what’s he up to?” he said with a mouthful of water. But it wasn’t water, it was gin. He swallowed. “Girl, get under here,” he said to Corrie. “Open your mouth.”
Corrie did as instructed. “My lord, this is crazy,” she said, licking her lips. “Hmmm, that is good gin.” She put her open mouth back under the spray, swallowing in big gulps. Sy put his head against hers, open-mouthed, to get his share. They stood naked and drinking, for minutes, licking their lips in between gulps. “I should shave my pits,” she said. It turned Sy on to watch her run the razor along her armpits. She staggered when she reached for the razor, and Sy steadied her. There was a knock on the door.
“How y’all doing in the there?” Bridge shouted.
“What the heck is this all about?” Sy said, then opened his mouth for more.
“I overbatched,” Bridge said.
Corrie and Sy stood soapy and swaying, lapping more, deciding if Bridge had moved on or was listening at the door.
They helped each other over the tub’s edge and handed each other towels. All they did was cover themselves, like spa customers, and flop onto their bed. When they woke, it was two p.m. Their room was over the garage, and they heard Bridge tinkering in the metal vat. Their skin, and even the towels, were dry. Their heads of hair were matted in all directions. A shower would feel good.
martha clarkson
Martha Clarkson’s writing can be found in The Seattle Times, Clackamas Literary Review, Seattle Review, Portland Review, The Sun magazine, Mothering magazine, Feminine Rising, Quarter Past Eight, and Nimrod. She is the winner of the Anderbo Fiction Prize for the story “Her Voices, Her Room,” which has been produced as a podcast by PenDust Radio. She has two notable short stories in Best American Short Stories. Martha was a former poetry editor for Word Riot. Find her here: www.marthaclarkson.com
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