"Landmines " by Quinn Adikes
For the past week, my son has been crapping on the front lawn. He is seven years old and takes mondo craps. I don’t know where he learned this. We don’t have a dog. But every day he gets out when I’m not looking and lets one rip. I tell him to at least go behind the house so the neighbors don’t see, but he doesn’t listen. Somehow, nobody complains. But when I come home from work and step on one, it’s the last straw.
I’ve had enough, I tell him. This isn’t normal for a seven-year-old, or anybody, for that matter, and even a seven-year-old should be able to understand that.
He cries. He says that he still misses Mommy and I say that I miss her too but I don’t see the correlation, and also I tell him that it’s been just as hard on Daddy and that Mommy was the only woman Daddy ever loved, and maybe it’s a little unfair, but I ask if he realizes how expensive it is to raise a child. How I could take the money I’ve spent and the money that I will spend and buy a mansion. I could buy fancy cars and watches and go to Aruba five times a year but will instead raise him, and I’m happy to do it, but he needs to crap in the bathroom that I just renovated on my credit card. He can even use the bidet so he doesn’t have to get it on his hands when he’s finished.
I also remind him that I love him, that I’m only looking out for him, and that if this carries into adolescence he’ll never have a girlfriend. And his job prospects? Grim.
He sniffles and says, Okay Daddy, and goes to his room and plays Angry Birds on his tablet. He really is a smart kid. All things considered, I’m lucky. I wish his mother could see him. But there’s a lot I wish she could see. And like most nights, I sit in front of the TV and picture the three of us together again until I fall asleep.
At three in the morning I wake up to him clawing at the front door.
Three in the morning. I don’t have it in me to fight. I need to be up soon. I go and unlock the door. At least it’s getting cold. Hopefully when winter kicks in he snaps out of this. I’ve broken several parenting rules by giving in, but maybe I’m doing the right thing, like when parents let their teenagers drink and throw parties under their supervision so that they can be sure everyone is at least being safe about it. Maybe by letting him do this in a controlled environment like our front yard I’m saving him from a life of dumping in alleyways and tire stacks. Maybe if I act nonchalant he’ll get bored and move on to something else.
But ten minutes go by and he still hasn’t come inside. I stand at the window and try to make out his little body on the lawn. I can’t see him, it’s so dark.
I hear him, though.
I think he’s crying.
I open the front door. I’m in a t-shirt and underwear and so the cold hits me like a fist.
Dillon, I yell, is everything okay?
I hear it for sure now, the crying. I grab a flashlight and navigate the yard, careful to avoid any landmines he may have left since the last time I cleaned.
There he is, laying on his side facing the street with his pants around his ankles, his hiney shining like a pale moon. No fresh turd around that I can see.
Are you backed up, buddy?
Shivering, he rolls over. Tears stream down his face.
He’s not backed up. It’s something else. But what can I do other than kneel and hug him, naked ass and all? He looks up at me and snot clings to my shirt, trailing like web, and I hug him tighter. The crying stops, and I carry him back to the house, the flashlight beam leading our way.
Quinn Adikes lives in Brooklyn and has an MFA from Stony Brook Southampton. His work is forthcoming or has been published in Five Points, The Southampton Review, and other journals. He is writing a novel.
