Friday Flash: "Good"

"Good"by Jen Brubacher Vera wound her old hands around themselves over and over as if she were washing them. Harriet thought it didn’t matter how often Vera washed them, using water or otherwise. They would never be clean.

"He’s a good boy," Vera croaked, for perhaps the eighteenth time.

And Harriet nodded, for the eighteenth time.

There was a muted click as she set her tea cup to its saucer on the glass table.

Vera waved her hand near her wrinkled throat. "Is it six o’clock yet?"

"No."

The police would be there at six o’clock. The detective had promised. Spring sunlight was melting over the far hills to the west and it might be dark before anyone arrived. Harriet got up to light the candles and the thick smell of beeswax filled the conservatory. She stared with longing through the windows at those far hills. But there was no use in running with Neil still away.

"I suppose we could put together a stew and ask the detectives to stay." Vera tilted her head as if imagining the ingredients.

Harriet could imagine them too well. The thick chunks of red meat, hacked off the bone. Blood soup. She gagged.

Vera frowned at her. "Goodness, girl. Get ahold of yourself."

"Sorry."

"You don’t want to be making faces like that when the police arrive, do you?"

"No."

"Neil handled it just fine. He’s a good boy."

"He should be back soon." Harriet hugged herself and forced the images away. "It isn’t far to the lake."


"Don’t patronize me," Vera snapped. "This is my home.  I know where the lake is."

"Okay."

The old woman reached for the last biscuit on the bone china plate. A Blue Italian pattern showed peaceful peasants herding their cows into a river. The biscuit scraped over the dish and was taken between Vera’s fingernails. She nibbled and brown crumbs fell from her sagging lip.


"We can ask them to stay for dinner and it will put them off their guard."

"Yes." Harriet let herself be mesmerized by Vera’s false teeth as they chewed. She didn’t want to think about the police, or the house or the family, or what would come next, tomorrow. When Neil was back and Vera was sleeping she could beg him to tell her what they should do. For now she just had to hang on. She listened to the biscuit crunching and tried not think about crushed bones and a cry cut short.

Vera caught her staring and glared.

"I hope you aren’t making plans."

"No, of course not."

"We’ve no need of your plans. Neil handled it just fine."

"Yes."

"Anyway," the old woman continued. "It’s not like it’s the first time."

They both froze as footsteps started in the great hall outside the conservatory. Their eyes went to the door. It was opened, and Neil stood framed, the cut-glass chandelier in the hall shining out from behind his head.

"It’s done." His voice dragged with weariness.

The overalls he’d been wearing were gone, perhaps sunk into the lake with the rest. They’d been stained, anyway. But he’d kept the boots. Harriet saw chunks of mud stuck to the laces. She glanced up to his big hands and saw dirt beneath his fingernails. Just dirt? He caught her looking and put his hands behind his back like a naughty child.

Vera grinned. Her mouth stretched out, crumbs trapped at its corners. "Good boy."

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Click here for my previous Friday Flash.

This story came about from an exercise called "An Iceberg," from The 3a.m. Epiphany and suggested by Angela Dorsey.  The idea was to write a scene where much of it is below the surface, untold.