Mantua Bay
1
The summer of 2017 began with Jeff Fowler putting off a pedestrian household chore: getting rid of the door stopper in his bathroom. Had he not been partial to sleeping with his bedroom window open, there would have been no chore to put off at all. But the rock stopper against the master bath door wasn't doing its job. For the last two days and nights, the winds that blew into the bedroom from off the bay caused the rock to skid across the bathroom porcelain tiles, leaving the door to slam shut.
His wife Sara had come home from shopping earlier that week toting a jagged, grey-black igneous blob from one of those touristy gift stores in downtown Mantua Bay. An extract from Puntarenas volcanic ruins, according to the owner. Sara had predicted its affecting complimentary accent against the dark blue bathroom paint, something Jeff couldn't grasp in any capacity. If anything, he saw it becoming a toy for their three-year-old son Steven.
It was the late evening of Wednesday, June twentieth when Jeff heard the door slam back into its foundation for the third night in a row—in addition to the unapologetic glissando of rock sliding over tile that preceded it. This time, it hadn’t woken him; Jeff had been filling a glass with water from the fridge spigot. It hadn’t woken Sara, who was very much a rock herself at this time of night. But as he did an about-face and made for the stairs he predicted he’d be dealing with an awake Steven.
Their son started with the night visits earlier that year. In late February or March, he would’ve still called it a rare occurrence. But what began as an anomaly accelerated to a twice-a-week trend by April. In the beginning of the summer of 2017 Steven was averaging four nights a week in their bed.
Jeff squinted through the dark of their room, aided slightly by the orange-yellow street lamp glare that lit up Sara's t-shirt sleeve. Their son was partial to sleeping in their master bed, but he also tried to prolong their discovery of him lying between them by hiding under the blankets. Even in the dark, he landmarked the boy instantly--the pitched-tent disruption in the comforter was always a decent giveaway--before rounding the corner of the bed. Jeff yanked the blanket back briskly and for the umpteenth time was met with the little Toy Story pajamas squirming at the suddenness at which he made the reveal.
“Scared, Dad.”
“I think you’re trying to scare me, bubby.” Jeff scooped Steven up by the armpits and stuffed him between him and Sara, who reflexively realigned against Steven's head. Sliding in next to him, he posited himself on his side, facing his family, his back to the bay window. Cool gusts billowed into the room and rocked the screen in the window frame, creating a white noise effect that favorably drowned out the fridge hum below the floor and the clack of the ceiling fan cord over the bed.
The wind petered off after a time, and the hums and clacks were superseded by the sound of a car motor accelerating dangerously southward on Bay Avenue in the direction of their house. Turning to face the bay window he eyed the street lamp, now flickering in response to the sound of the nearing car and its egregious violation of the 25-mile per hour speed limit. It hovered over the weathered wood post that was supposed to spell out NORTH CAROLINA AVENUE. Mantua Public Works had yet to replenish the missing black letters which had faded away with off-season weathering, causing their corner sign to read NORT CAR AVE.
A dark sedan broke desperately in front of it a moment after, swerving to clear a turn so tight for a moment Jeff was sure it had put the old street post out of its misery. Leveling itself out, the sedan resumed county-route speed quickly as it gunned up the street past Jeff's bedroom window. There was the sound of another haphazard brake and the grinding of sand on tires.
Jeff sprung up like a jackknife from the bed to watch as the speeding car finished its k-turn before descending back, speeding past his window a second time. The brakes made Jeff flinch as they achieved another meticulously calculated swerve around the corner once again, and the sedan was out of sight, heading back north on Bay Avenue.
Somewhere between jumping out of bed and watching the car make its exit, Steven’s little arms had found their way around his neck and held tight, the groove of one quivering elbow digging into the base of his Adam's apple.
"Scary, Dad," his son declared against his ear.
"Forget about it," Jeff said, lifting him off the floor. "Nothing to see here."
For the second time that night Jeff slid Steven's little body next to Sara before crawling under the covers after him. This time his son faced him, shaken and alert.
Later Jeff dreamt he was taking a driver's ed practical. His instructor (very likely the same high school coach who bawled him out for running over a construction cone years before) encouraged him to weave in and out of the heavy congestion on a highway. At least that’s what he thought he was driving on. The lanes went on fantastically in either direction, dividing him from traffic he couldn't decide he was supposed to be driving with or against.
He saw Steven from the rearview mirror, huddling in the back seat, knees at his chest, clutching at a seatbelt the way he'd been at his neck earlier in the night. He wished to find a safe spot to pull over.
Their eyes met.
"Scary, Dad," Steven said again.
