Max Booth III - We Need to Do Something

“I don’t know.”

“I’m sure everybody’s fine, baby,” Mom says, still sitting against the wall next to the toilet.

“We don’t know that,” Dad says. “We don’t know anything.”

Bobby glances over his shoulder, concerned. “Do you think people died? ”

Mom shakes her head. “No, baby.”

“Highly possible,” Dad says.

“Goddammit, Robert.”

“What? You want me to lie to my son now?”

“No. I just…” She shuts her eyes and massages her temple, as if trying to erase her entire marriage through willpower. “…I just don’t want him to freak out any more than he already has.”

Dad gestures at the door. “I think it’s a perfectly reasonable time to freak out.”

From the bathtub, I emit a guttural moan. “Ugh. When is someone coming to get us?” It doesn’t make sense that we’re still here. Police exist. Rescue parties. Something.

“The storm is gone,” Mom says, and I resist responding with no shit . “Someone will see our house. They’ll see… what happened to it. Help will come.”

Dad clicks his tongue. “Unless every house is like this.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“If the tornado destroyed every house in the neighborhood, or even the town, then it could be a very long time before rescuers make it here.”

“Robert—“

“—We could be stuck here for another day or two.”

My stomach feels like acid, drip-drip-dripping into my organs. “Oh my god.”

“ Really? ” Bobby cries out, a mix of terror and excitement battling each other in his tone.

Mom sighs a familiar sigh. “Goddammit, Robert—”

He holds up his hand like a stop sign. “I’m not saying that’s what’s gonna happen. I’m just saying… we should be prepared to be here a while. It looks bad outside, right? Real bad. I hope someone finds us soon, but I’m also trying to be realistic.” He smirks at Mom. “Isn’t that what you wanted me to be, honey? Realistic?”

She glares at him, refusing to respond.

I can’t stay in the bathtub forever. Not with my phone still out there, unattended. Any sort of notification could have been sent to me by now, and there it remains, unread. Surely Amy has responded to my texts. And if she hasn’t, then screw my family, I’ll call her while in the bathroom where everybody can eavesdrop. Eventually they’ll find out the truth, anyway. Things like this, they have a way of coming out one way or the other.

You can’t light a fire and expect nobody to get burned.

I sprawl out on my stomach and reach through the door opening. Face pressed tight against the wooden frame, I blindly feel around my parents’ bedroom. First my fingers splash in the carpet and I groan. Soggy. Squishy. Flashbacks of Spot leaving puddles of urine throughout the house and everybody stepping in them in the middle of the night, barefoot, barely awake. We tried so hard to potty train that dog, but nothing we did ever seemed to take.

I remember one night, years ago, waking up to Dad screaming his voice hoarse. Normally I stayed in my room when my parents were arguing, too petrified of somehow getting caught in the crossfire, but this night wasn’t like other nights. He kept shouting something about a “goddamn dog” followed by heavy, frantic footsteps that shook the whole house. I snuck down the hall and peeked around the corner, into the living room, and found him chasing Spot in a circle. Dad’s foot was covered in shit, which he tracked around the living room the longer he tried to catch our dog. Spot was far too fast for Dad, who was obviously drunk off his ass. Eventually he gave up and passed out on the couch and Spot escaped into the safety of my bedroom. I made sure to lock the door before settling back under the covers, giving our Dalmatian plenty of kisses and reassuring him he was, in fact, a Good Boy. I hope he believed me.

I continue my sensual investigation from the wet carpet up to the tree. Its bark is rough and moist, providing a false hope for fragility. I give the tree a shove. It doesn’t even do me the common courtesy of pretending to budge. This thing is here to stay, and there’s nothing any of us inside this bathroom can do to change that.

I press my face against the opening and peer out again. This time focusing on the carpet, searching for what belongs to me and not finding a goddamn thing.

Where the fuck is my phone?

Five minutes later I give up and sit against the wall next to the door, out of breath and fuming with rage. I glare at my father and try to express with my face how much I hate his guts. He notices, but instead of acting intimidated he just laughs and shrugs.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“I can’t believe you dropped it.”

“It was an accident.”

“How are we going to get out of here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can’t we break the door down?”

“Not with the tree there.”

“What about the wall?”

“The wall?”

“What if we busted a hole through it and crawled out?”

“I don’t… how? With what?”

“Can’t you just punch it?”

“No. I can’t just punch it.”

“It’s going to be fine,” Mom cuts in. “Everything is going to be fine. It hasn’t been that long. Someone is going to come.”

“But what if they don’t, Mom? What if something happened?”

“Something like what? ”

Of course I can’t tell her about the doomsday scenario entertaining itself in my head. There would be too many questions, and I know the answers to them all.

“Everybody get up,” Dad says. “Maybe if we all push at the same time, our combined strength will open this son of a bitch once and for all.”

“Even me, Daddy?” Bobby asks.

“I don’t know. You think you’re strong enough?”

“Hmm.” Bobby rubs his chin, thinking it over. “Maybe?”

“Let me see your muscles.”

Bobby flexes both arms. Dad gasps in amazement. “Holy shit, son. You got a license to carry those guns?”

Bobby cocks his head, relaxing. “Dad, these aren’t guns. They’re just my arms.”

“Oh.” He performs an exaggerated whew . “You really fooled me there for a second.”

He giggles. “You really thought my arms were guns?”

“Big, giant machine guns.”

“Haha. You’re so stupid.”

Dad glares at him for a second, and Bobby ceases his laughter.

“I’m sorry. I was just kidding.”

“Are we going to knock this goddamn door open, or what?” He motions for all of us to rise. “C’mon, get up, let’s do this.”

Eight palms press against the door, our bodies on top and under each other, forming an awkward ball of flesh and sweat. I don’t know how long we push, or how many times Dad grunts out, “ C’mon, goddammit ,” at us, but eventually we surrender back to the floor, panting, out of breath. Except for Dad, who remains standing next to the door, staring down at us, not making the slightest attempt to hide his disappointment.

“We’re not strong enough,” Bobby says. “We don’t have enough muscles.”

“We could have tried harder,” Dad says. “We didn’t have to give up so easily.”

“Maybe if Sissy’s butt didn’t smell so bad, Dad. Maybe then we could have kept going.”

Everybody turns to me, awaiting an explanation.

“Is this true?” Dad says. “Is the smell of your butt preventing us from opening this door?”

Everybody giggles, including myself. “I hate you all so much,” I tell them, still laughing.

I claim the tub as my permanent resting area until this whole ordeal finally finishes. Either help will arrive, or I will die here in this porcelain grave and slowly decompose down its drain. As time passes, I remain uncertain which outcome I prefer most.