The Goddammit Well
“How long did it take yuh, Ted?” his wife asked. Her name was Martha. She was hard-toothed as pure donkey.
“Long ‘nuf” he answered in a wheeze of breath. “Changed her tire was all, Martie. Told her to git to Benny’s first thing in the mornin’ so he kin fix the flat – ”
“You didn’t hit on her for – ”
“No, goddammit! All I did was help someone in need! That’s all!”
His inflection had risen with each syllable, their son August noticed. He had turned fourteen earlier that summer, 2011. He was “a late gift,” said his mother, now forty-six. His father was fifty. His parents had married in the spring of 1996. August’s birth came on the first day of August the following year.
One of their arguments, not as frequent as might seem, revealed that neither Ted nor Martha had ever contemplated seriously being a parent until their first Thanksgiving together when she first announced her pregnancy, not even warning her husband.
“There’s the dad” she gestured at Ted, who was suddenly wide-eyed. The others present – ten, including her parents and his mother, a few siblings, no kids – were surprised but polite. No one said, “Oh, I was wondering.”
August had heard this in at least four different versions and had always thought the implied humor was incomplete.
“You can goddammit all you like,” Martha fired back. “So you did a good deed! May come in handy – if . . . .”
“If I want a little nookie on the side? Is that what you’re meaning?”
Martha smirked, and then displayed her radiant dental work. Ted merely frowned, his pout on full-blast.
“You said it, sweetie boy!” she chirped back. “I didn’t.”
Ted frowned more. August sighed deep, bored with the sniping.
“State fair starts next Thursday,” he ventured. “I was thinking – we could all go together – maybe.”
His father, never one to take exception to August’s peace-making, merely nodded, saying nothing at first.
“That’s a good idea, August!” his mother said.
“We had fun last year, I remember,” his father conceded with a dry grin, selecting a piece of celery off the platter Martha had just set down. He bit off a piece.
August looked at his father chewing celery. The lines in his father’s upper cheeks and just below his eyes had become more pronounced than in the picture now in his bedroom taken nine years earlier. August was five then. He remembered the occasion. He also knew his parents were older than all his friends’ parents. By several years, he considered, so that much closer to the end.
His father stood up and raised his hands to his face for three seconds.
“Goddammit,” he muttered, as if no one else were present. Martha looked at him blankly as she moved to the opposite edge of the table.
“You okay, Ted?” she asked calmly. “Did you – take your pills this morning?”
He nodded quickly, his hands now at his sides. He took a deep breath. Then he sat back down and displayed a rueful grin, which vanished quickly.
“Is he in pain?” she wondered. “What’s happening?”
“I say that word a lot,” Ted admitted reflectively, looking at his wife, then at August.
“You’ve always had a deep well of ‘goddammits’ – husband, dear,” Martha piped mockingly. “I began to notice it after our honeymoon. Odd how these things evolve!”
“Yeah,” their son agreed. “Why is that?”
Now they all had faint amusement.
“Us, for example,” August said. “Do we – evolve?”
“You bet,” Ted answered. “All the time, boy!”
“That’s right,” his mother agreed, turning back to the kitchen. “Soup’s about ready! August, please fetch the saltines. And plates for under the bowls.”
The boy stood up and followed her into the kitchen. Ted did not move as he watched them. He was suddenly very happy.
James Naiden’s third novel, The Chafings of Mortals, was published in 2011. He lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota and is a regular reviewer for IS&T.