Starting to Realize the Enormity of it All
by D.M. Kerr
The place Carole and Garth rented didn’t rate being called an apartment. Their super, a gruff but kind-hearted man whose breath often carried the faint anise scent of ouzo, had pieced it together for them from some leftover spots of the building’s basement–a corner behind the stairs, a drain the laundry facilities didn’t need, a cupboard that used to store paint. It was small, but they could afford it. And it was theirs.
In the evening, after cooking and cleaning, Garth and Carole spread out a blanket in front of the sofa. Carole lay on her side to keep the baby’s weight from pressing too hard against her stomach. Garth lay beside her, on his back.
The yellow curls of Carole’s hair lay limply across her puffy cheeks, and her eyes, with their faint lashes, were almost closed. Garth placed his hand on Carole’s blouse, ash-brown over white. The baby wriggled in joyful response.
Carole let her fingers drift lazily across Garth’s shoulder. “What are we going to do?” she asked. Her voice barely carried.
“About what?”
“About…everything.” Her ‘everything’ was not a complaint. It had become an expression of wonder.
Garth didn’t reply. He stared at the ceiling he had painted when they moved in. The latex had congealed in thin layers of frozen cream.
“When I was coming from work today,” Carole said, “this nice old man gave me his seat on the bus.”
Garth grunted.
“Garth. You asleep?”
“No.” Garth turned his face toward her. Carole’s cheeks were so calm and her breathing so steady she could have been asleep herself.
Garth began to trace the outline of her chin with his finger, black on pink. Carole giggled, and, as if that had been a switch of a battery-driven doll, began talking again. “He told me about when his son was born.”
“Was he a white guy?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” Garth rolled back to stare at the ceiling.
“Garth. So, he said...he said he was so nervous he almost drove his car off the road.”
“Why was he taking the bus?”
“Who?”
“The white guy.”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Like, if he had a car, why was he taking the bus?”
“I don’t know!” Carole’s exasperation lacked force, which made it sweetly childlike. “He was kind of old. Maybe he didn’t have a car anymore.”
“If I had a car, I wouldn’t take the bus.”
“Garth, you silly. If you–ow!” Carole clenched Garth’s shoulder.
“What?”
“Just a cramp. Oh-oh-oh, it’s okay now. It’s going away.” Her grip faded on Garth’s shoulder and her breathing returned to normal.
“Just relax, and sleep. You’ll be fine.”
Carole didn’t say any more. Garth stared at the ceiling. His mind had begun to fill with things he had never considered before.
In the evening, after cooking and cleaning, Garth and Carole spread out a blanket in front of the sofa. Carole lay on her side to keep the baby’s weight from pressing too hard against her stomach. Garth lay beside her, on his back.
The yellow curls of Carole’s hair lay limply across her puffy cheeks, and her eyes, with their faint lashes, were almost closed. Garth placed his hand on Carole’s blouse, ash-brown over white. The baby wriggled in joyful response.
Carole let her fingers drift lazily across Garth’s shoulder. “What are we going to do?” she asked. Her voice barely carried.
“About what?”
“About…everything.” Her ‘everything’ was not a complaint. It had become an expression of wonder.
Garth didn’t reply. He stared at the ceiling he had painted when they moved in. The latex had congealed in thin layers of frozen cream.
“When I was coming from work today,” Carole said, “this nice old man gave me his seat on the bus.”
Garth grunted.
“Garth. You asleep?”
“No.” Garth turned his face toward her. Carole’s cheeks were so calm and her breathing so steady she could have been asleep herself.
Garth began to trace the outline of her chin with his finger, black on pink. Carole giggled, and, as if that had been a switch of a battery-driven doll, began talking again. “He told me about when his son was born.”
“Was he a white guy?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” Garth rolled back to stare at the ceiling.
“Garth. So, he said...he said he was so nervous he almost drove his car off the road.”
“Why was he taking the bus?”
“Who?”
“The white guy.”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Like, if he had a car, why was he taking the bus?”
“I don’t know!” Carole’s exasperation lacked force, which made it sweetly childlike. “He was kind of old. Maybe he didn’t have a car anymore.”
“If I had a car, I wouldn’t take the bus.”
“Garth, you silly. If you–ow!” Carole clenched Garth’s shoulder.
“What?”
“Just a cramp. Oh-oh-oh, it’s okay now. It’s going away.” Her grip faded on Garth’s shoulder and her breathing returned to normal.
“Just relax, and sleep. You’ll be fine.”
Carole didn’t say any more. Garth stared at the ceiling. His mind had begun to fill with things he had never considered before.
D.M. Kerr is the writing name of a Canadian writer currently living and working in Singapore, where he teaches game design and programming. His work has recently been published recently in Wire’s Dream, Ideate Review, and The Interpreter’s House.