Max Booth III - We Need to Do Something

“If anyone’s gonna fit through it, it’s gonna be you. C’mon now.”

“I… I can’t.”

“You haven’t even tried. Can’t you at least try? What’s it gonna hurt to just try?”

Bobby attempts to look around Dad to our mother, but he reaches out with a discolored hand and guides Bobby’s jaw so they’re maintaining eye contact.

“Why do you keep looking at her, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m your daddy, right?”

Bobby doesn’t say anything.

Dad clenches his jaw. “ Right? ”

“Yes.”

“And don’t you trust your daddy?”

“I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you trust me?”

“Yes. I trust you.”

“And you want to make me and your mommy happy, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then you need to help us get out of here.” He gestures to the opening again. “You need to squeeze through.” His voice lowers into a whisper. “ Please. ”

Mom leans forward. “Robert…”

Dad grits his teeth and says, “Shut up,” then, back to Bobby, “C’mon now, boy. You can do it. I believe in you. Do it. ”

Bobby hesitates several more seconds, and I’m debating trying to put an end to this, but a part of me is also curious to see if he can actually squeeze through the door. My brother isn’t the tiniest little boy on the planet, but he sure isn’t the biggest, either. Him making it to the other side may sound unlikely, but it’s far from impossible.

He steps forward, closing in on the crack between door and doorframe, and stretches his arm through it, then his leg. His foot and calf manage to make it through, but his thigh gets lodged between the wood. He pauses and glances back at our father.

“I’m too big.”

“You aren’t even trying.”

“But…”

“You can fit. I know you can fit. You have to fit, okay? So just quit being a baby and… and just fucking do it , okay? Okay? ”

“Okay…”

I don’t understand why Mom hasn’t put an end to this. She’s sitting on the floor, watching them, and I’m doing the same. Then I realize she hasn’t done anything because she’s also waiting to see if it works, hoping he can fit through and get help. It doesn’t matter if Dad’s being an asshole about it. Someone needs to escape. It only makes sense to start with the smallest in the family.

Bobby presses his head against the opening and attempts to squeeze through. Little success is reached. He groans and continues pushing. Nothing happens. He gives up and starts retreating when Dad grabs the back of his head and pushes it harder into the opening. Cramming my brother’s skull through like expired meat into a garbage disposal. Only a small diameter of his forehead makes it through. Bobby’s limbs start writhing and flailing as he screams, helpless.

“ C’mon, goddammit, squeeze , you can do it, fucking squeeze…”

Bobby’s screaming louder now, trying his best to fit through the opening, but there’s no way in hell any child, no matter the size, is going to fit. It’s simply not wide enough.

Mom snaps out of her daze and springs to her feet. She leaps on Dad’s back and wrestles him away from the door, long enough for Bobby to flee to the bathtub where I’ve been hiding this whole time, equally petrified. I wrap my arms around my brother and hug him close to my body. Dad flings Mom off and she goes sprawling across the floor and everybody’s crying now except for Dad. He towers above us, breathing heavy, studying our tears. A mixture of emotion drains from his face, from total rage to shock to confusion to slow understanding to, finally, depression. He backs against the door then lowers himself to the floor, defeated.

Several hours of silence later, he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

All four of us gather in a circle on the floor to play a game of Mexican train dominoes. We used to play this all the time when I was younger. We used to do a lot of things as a family. Like eat at the kitchen table. Watch shows. Go on walks around the neighborhood. Back when Spot was still alive, we’d all take him down to the park and get him to chase a tennis ball. But then Spot died. Then Dad started working more hours and spending more time at the bowling alley. If I stayed home, some kind of argument was bound to ensue, so I found myself spending more and more time at Amy’s house whenever possible. Maybe that’s what happened to everybody. Nothing lasts forever. One day you’re playing Mexican train dominoes with your family and the next day you haven’t spoken to your parents in a week besides the obligatory good morning and see ya later.

Until the day came where you were trapped in a bathroom with them all, and nobody came to save you, and slowly you rotted away to nothing until you finally deteriorated from existence.

“How much longer can we survive like this?”

Silence.

Mom and Dad exchanging glances.

Mom clears her throat. “It’s hard to tell, honey.”

Dad nods along with her. “The one thing that’s on our side right now, that we have to remain grateful for, is we have a steady supply of water. I think we can survive a couple weeks without food. But if we didn’t have water? I don’t even think we would have made it this long.”

Bobby gasps, the realization hitting him for the first time. “Are we going to die?”

Mom shakes her head and caresses his cheek. “No, baby. Nobody’s gonna die.”

“As long as we play it smart and don’t act like dumbasses,” Dad says. “Anybody can survive anything, assuming they handle it the right way.”

“Are we handling it the right way?” Bobby asks.

Dad holds up the thermos. “We’re staying hydrated, and that’s the most important thing right now.”

“But it’s making me have to go pee soooo much!”

The three of us giggle.

“It’s a good thing we still have a toilet, huh?” Mom says.

Bobby grins. “Yeah, and you have to all watch me shake my booty as I pee!”

“You’re disgusting,” I tell him.

Bobby sticks out his tongue.

I flip him off.

“I’m sorry if I’ve been… well, you know. Upset. Out of control.” Dad licks his lips as he struggles to figure out his apology. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve ever heard my father apologize. He must have really realized he’s gone out of line here. His body looks weak, fragile. All the fight’s drained out of him. “I guess I’m just scared, just like the rest of you, and I know that’s no excuse for the way I’ve been acting. I should be stronger for my family. For my children.” He glares at Mom. “For my wife.”

“It’s okay,” I whisper. I don’t know if I actually think it’s okay, or if I’m just telling him what he needs to hear. His words are sincere. I’ve often considered his rage to demonstrate that of a demonic possession; how he’s able to flip from perfectly nice and caring husband and father to something far more sinister and terrifying. Like right now. How long has it been since he called me a spoiled fucking brat? Now there are tears in his eyes, and looking at them generate some in my own.

Everyone in this bathroom is wondering the same thing. We’re all asking each other the same questions. Are we doomed? What is happening out there? Are we going to die? Questions with answers just out of grasp, like a prisoner jailed inches from the key to his cell.

Sit in the same room with someone long enough, and you quickly realize there’s only a finite amount of conversation starters. Especially when it’s with your immediate family, people you’ve lived your entire life with. We talk about TV shows and movies coming out soon that we’re excited to watch, as if there’s any fucking hope we’ll ever actually get to watch them. Life as we know it has dramatically changed, and the likelihood of a return to normalcy seems slim to none.