By Elizabeth Montoya
Published in Door is A Jar Winter 2017 Issue
“There’s a duck in the drain,” Jim says. Jim is my mother’s friend, and we are standing in his bathroom staring at the drain. He has a round face, with round glasses, and a large nose. He likes to pull quarters from behind my ears, but right now he’s telling me about the duck. In the tub, water drips and disappears, drips and disappears. The duck is white, with a yellow bill. He’s got little feet, and says it’s dark down there. I lean forward. I stand at the foot of a bathtub.
“It’s stuck,” Jim says, “But if you stay long enough, maybe you’ll hear it. Maybe it will come out.”
This tub is white, and empty. There are no toys in this tub, no bottles of shampoo. In my tub I have a plastic Elmo, my pink haired mermaid, and Fozzy the bear.
I hold my breath and I try listen. I wait for the duck, this poor little duck. I wait until my legs are tired, but then I sit on the edge of the tub and let water catch in my hands. I don’t want the water to drown the duck, or wash him away. I wonder why no one cares, why my mom is gone with Jim. They’ve gone beyond a closed door.
When my mother finds me again, I am sitting in the tub, staring at the hole. We leave the bathroom. She turns off the light behind her.
“Did you find the duck?” Jim asks in the light of the living room window, trees peeking through the parted blinds. I shake my head and wonder, why don’t you care?
Now they are both smoking cigarettes, puffs of white like thin clouds surround us. It tickles my throat. On the shelf lives a plastic flower. It sits smiling beneath its round pink petals. It has bright eyes, and a small little pot for legs.
“Sing to it,” Jim says. “Sing and it will dance for you.”
I hum, and the flower begins to wiggle and sway. It only stops when I close my lips.
We leave and return to the old brown sedan. We drive to McDonald’s where I eat fries and chicken nuggets on the way home, dropping crumbs into the car seat. Night comes, and I fall asleep—but when I wake, I can only think of the duck. Did Jim turn on the water and flush it away? I don’t know. I’ll never know.
Somewhere, I think I am still waiting.
Published in Door is A Jar Winter 2017 Issue
“There’s a duck in the drain,” Jim says. Jim is my mother’s friend, and we are standing in his bathroom staring at the drain. He has a round face, with round glasses, and a large nose. He likes to pull quarters from behind my ears, but right now he’s telling me about the duck. In the tub, water drips and disappears, drips and disappears. The duck is white, with a yellow bill. He’s got little feet, and says it’s dark down there. I lean forward. I stand at the foot of a bathtub.
“It’s stuck,” Jim says, “But if you stay long enough, maybe you’ll hear it. Maybe it will come out.”
This tub is white, and empty. There are no toys in this tub, no bottles of shampoo. In my tub I have a plastic Elmo, my pink haired mermaid, and Fozzy the bear.
I hold my breath and I try listen. I wait for the duck, this poor little duck. I wait until my legs are tired, but then I sit on the edge of the tub and let water catch in my hands. I don’t want the water to drown the duck, or wash him away. I wonder why no one cares, why my mom is gone with Jim. They’ve gone beyond a closed door.
When my mother finds me again, I am sitting in the tub, staring at the hole. We leave the bathroom. She turns off the light behind her.
“Did you find the duck?” Jim asks in the light of the living room window, trees peeking through the parted blinds. I shake my head and wonder, why don’t you care?
Now they are both smoking cigarettes, puffs of white like thin clouds surround us. It tickles my throat. On the shelf lives a plastic flower. It sits smiling beneath its round pink petals. It has bright eyes, and a small little pot for legs.
“Sing to it,” Jim says. “Sing and it will dance for you.”
I hum, and the flower begins to wiggle and sway. It only stops when I close my lips.
We leave and return to the old brown sedan. We drive to McDonald’s where I eat fries and chicken nuggets on the way home, dropping crumbs into the car seat. Night comes, and I fall asleep—but when I wake, I can only think of the duck. Did Jim turn on the water and flush it away? I don’t know. I’ll never know.
Somewhere, I think I am still waiting.