Mother loved a good dichotomy. Thatโs how it seemed to the child.
In her blue dress she was sedate and nurturing. Bedtime stories that would lull the child to sleep were chosen.
Wrapped in her red shawl she was fierce and protective. Terrifying tales were told that were designed to excite into exhaustion.
In summer the windows would be open. When Father got in the wind could catch the door just right and slam it back into place.
Mother would scold him, in an undertone. Father would apologize, get shushed. That was that.
In winter the wood swelled. Father would coax the door open and closed. The windows were shut. There were draughts without wind. Mother kept dried plants around that stank and made it stuffy. Father called them pollutants. Mother mentioned noise pollution. So it went.
The child made mental lists. Blue was good and red was bad. Warmth was good and the cold was bad. But winter was good and summer was bad. Sometimes Mother was good and Father was bad. Sometimes it was the other way around.
But it was clear that quiet was good and loud was bad.
Loud could wake someone up.
Loud could bother someone.
Loud could startle and scare.
There were stories in which being quiet was all that stopped something terrible from happening.
The child, who loved Father, cried en route to the zoo. Unconvinced that an angry animal could abstain from devouring him while he blundered around shouting.
They stood before the entrance. Mother asked what was wrong. It was a frigid day in February and a weak sleet kept most other patrons away.
Father boomed that nothing was wrong. Just โsensory overloadโ and โa nip in the air” but nothing could beat your first trip to the zoo. He helped the child into a rickety rented stroller and forced his flannel shirt off over his arms.
โHere.โ He passed the garment into the stroller. โWarmth, cushioning. Little โa both, your choice.โ He beamed.
The shirt was blue. Red stripes crisscrossed through it. The child was old enough to walk, but swaddled itself obediently.
Father read out all the informative plaques he could find, even if the corresponding creatures were hiding.
The penguins seemed at home. They leapt around carefree and were good. Lizards lurked and had their own house. It was hot, damp and bad.
A komodo dragon had a staring contest with the child. Father thought it was a favorite until the tears started. They escaped via a bird habitat. It was hot and damp too, but it was light. The birds were beautiful. None of them made eye contact.
Out the other side, back in the natural weather, mother shivered and said “Maybe we should go.”
Father wanted to see about eating first.
The gift shop, with toys and chips and mugs and shrink wrapped sandwiches, was closed. An employee told them that there hadnโt been anyone to open it that morning, but if they liked, the ice cream cart was there.
Mother whined and Father snorted but it made sense to the child. Surely it was easier to open a kiosk than a whole building? Besides, ice cream was good.
A mother and son were already in line, laughing like they were the only people in the world crazy enough to eat ice cream on a cold day.
The child watched them.The woman looked like she was made of ice. She was snowman pale with blue eyes.
The boy had eyes like the bonobos. They were warm, molten, not quite human.
Like them he looked sad and lonely even though he played and bared his teeth with his mother.
The pair were in their own world and didnโt pay attention to anyone. That was good.
The child didnโt understand money, but knew without seeing that when Father used his Important Voice to say he would talk to someone that he was patting his wallet.
In the back of the station wagon heading home the child flapped one free arm to get rid of Fatherโs flannel. The heater was on but the windows were down. Father had explained why, but the child didnโt understand. Neither did Mother, who was upset she had to speak up to be heard while her hair whipped around.
They drove along what the child called โRegular Roadsโ which meant anything that wasnโt the highway.
Mother, who always told Father he went too fast, worried when he slowed to the speed limit.
He saw someone on the road who looked lost. The child recognized her. She was the woman from the zoo. She looked like she was made of something sweet and could melt away.
Father wanted to see if she needed a ride. Mother didnโt. Helping people was good, but strangers were bad.
The child clutched the ape Father had gotten from the gift shop at a markup. He had paid for it conspicuously with squeezed together twenty dollar bills in the way only people whoโve never done anything really unscrupulous can.
Mother noted that there had been a boy with the woman at the zoo so it couldnโt be her. Despite the evidence, this made sense to the child. Like how the stuffed animal looked lifelike except for the blank black orbs for eyes.
Father tacitly agreed. They still might have helped, but he wouldnโt turn back.
The only noises were the heater and the sound of the wind.
On a whim the child, with a death grip on it, leaned over and dangled the primate from the window.
Father barked to cut it out and that it had cost a lot of money.
The child complied, looked into the โObjects are closer than they appearโ mirror and smiled. The woman was gone, the toyโs fur was flaked with glistening bits of slushy rain and the childโs cheeks were pink, like theyโd been covered with cold kisses you could only see when you pulled yourself back into the warmth.
Max Moon is an emerging writer who currently lives and writes in Seattle, Washington. He has been told he almost died after being born early in 1993 and has been late to everything since, just to play it safe.ย
