Monsters

“Cassandra” by Joseph Miller

The father reached for the girl’s dusty hand. She ignored his efforts, near stumbling into a purple flower that seemed to have materialized into her pathway.

Who’re you? the girl asked it.

The father towered above her and the flower. Casted a short shadow. He wore a ballcap and cargo shorts and a backpack that caused sweat to drip along his ridges. The girl wore a white tank top and red shorts and green Crocs. Her face was dirty. The plant stood straight and it seemed sharp enough to slice into his daughter’s delicate fingers. The father stifled his urge to save her, to snatch her from the earth, to strong arm her against his jiggly belly.

Where’d you come from? the girl said, still talking to the flower. Her lizard plush now laying belly up on the desert floor.

The flower said nothing, but a hawk, stretched and hovering, screeched as though it felt left out, jealous of the attention paid to this lone, silent herb.

The father watched the girl squat for better posture to scrutinize the purple petals. He absentmindedly joined in on the interrogation: where is the trickle of water that feeds you; do gila monsters eat you; will monsters one day harm my little girl?

The father had become interested in those bright-orange and deep-black reptiles when he had played Dinosaurs from the Deep while climbing red boulders or hiding amongst thorny cacti and sword-like yucca leaves. He had admired their beadlike skin, powerful bite, and folklore. They can kill humans, he had told childhood friends. They spit venom, leap to attack, strike with their fork tongues. He had stalked around like a velociraptor, capturing the attention of those around him. The father hoped one day that his little girl too would take interest in the solitary, short-legged monster. 

The little girl had celebrated her fourth birthday two months ago. The father will turn fifty-three in a few weeks. He had gifted her a similar-looking Mexican bearded lizard that day, which still lay belly up in the dirt. There were no gila monsters at the store.

Please can I have it, she had begged when they ambled by it. Its large shiny eyes staring down into her enraptured ones.

Maybe it’ll be a surprise, he had said.

The little girl smiled and wiggled about because she knew her birthday was around the bend.

On their first early morning adventure after her special day, she had it tucked under her arm, vising it tight. He loved taking long walks with his little girl. They dubbed them their Gila Monster Hunts. So they hiked every weekend, and he wanted to enjoy these moments before she felt embarrassed being seen with such a white-haired, old man: Is that your grandfather? he imagined her chattering friends asking after peeking from their phones. He too imagined her changing the subject or busying her hands or fasting her feet as a means to avoid answering.

Why’re you by yourself? The little girl asked the plant. Her nose now close enough to siphon pollen. She had laid onto her stomach. Elbows in dirt. Chin on hands.

My name is Bee, she said.

The father inhaled the 110 degree heat. His airway burned. He held the sharpness and dryness of the day in his lungs. The day smelled of sage. He closed his eyes. He waited though he wanted to ask Bee to stand, to keep moving, to make her way home. He needed to pee and he didn’t want to expose himself in front of his little girl, to already have to answer her questions: what is that; where is mine; why is it so wrinkly? 

Bee had been agreed upon. The father and his thirteen-year-younger partner had chosen not to wear a condom, had chosen to finish inside instead of pulling out. They didn’t expect that their spontaneous act would work right away, but they celebrated their success anyway. They sliced cheese with crackers, added fruit, and drank sparkling grape juice from wine glasses as a means to congratulate each other. Their talks turned to names and where to live and how to protect Bee from the partner’s mother’s angry little dog without hurting the mother’s sensitive feelings.

I want to do it right this time, the father had said after pasta carbonara one night.

His partner smiled, touched his shoulder, held her stomach though no signs of pregnancy showed.

He had been absent: from his first daughter’s birth, her first steps, day of school, and all other initial moments. He had missed the times she had cried herself to sleep, fell in love for the first time again, discovered new ice cream flavors. There were no invites to graduations or barbeques or the birth of his grandchild. They were now tentatively getting to know each other as adults.

But he had wanted to be there. He had wanted to learn a double French braid, to paint bright colors on tiny toes, and to explain the commentary on human instincts in Chicka Chicka Boom Boom. The misunderstandings that led to quibbles to shouts and shattered High Life bottles pushed him to live alone. The growing tension led to fewer hours on Saturdays which led to fewer weekends which led to finding another job in a different city as a means to distract his mind from his loneliness. His sadness. His failure as a parent.

I want to do it right this time, the father had said another time.

And you will, the partner said.

And he believed her.

Bee fluttered her legs while smelling the flower then announcing, So good, after each sniff. The father distracted his need to urinate by searching the ground for the footprints and distinct drag marks of the gila monster’s tail. He knew that tracking the heloderma suspectum was impossible, but he hoped, and he needed something to do.

Hey, Bee, it’s time to go, the father said.

Bee swiped her hair from her face, rolled onto her side, stared at her father. She smiled big. Her one dimple showed. Her thick eyebrows arched.

We have to leave, the father said. I have to use the bathroom.

Bee took a breath then turned her attention back to the flower.

Let’s go, Bee.

The father moved closer to his daughter. His new shadow longer, wider, heavier. His sandals toeing her hip. What would I have done, he thought to himself. He had gotten into the habit of wondering what his younger self’s actions might have been: would I have waited, allowed my daughter to explore, peed in front of her? Or, would I have seized her, admonished her, shouted, Do what I say.

The father gritted his teeth. Sweat ran along the front of his ear, threatening to enter.

Bee, up, he said. Now.

Flower’s gonna be all alone, she said. He doesn’t have friends.

I have to go to the bathroom.

Flower seems scared.

It doesn’t have feelings, he said.

The father reached his hand out. Bee focused on the flower. The father bent over. Grabbed her thin arm. Lifted her limp body. Bee allowed herself to dangle. The father waited for his daughter to adjust her feet, to find her footing, to right her Crocs. When she did not, he began to pull her, to drag her. He took a couple of steps. Stopped. Waited. He took another couple of steps. Stopped. Waited. He repeated the process a few more times.

Bee, walk, please, he said.

Bee stared back at the flower. The father glanced at the upturned forsaken plushy, the drag marks, then he laid his daughter down. Sweat continued to flow. Pressure continued to build as he leered at the tracks. His footprints straddling the thin lines. Gila monster, he thought. He looked at his daughter.

Please, Bee. Stand up, the father said. He exhaled long and hard.

Flower’s scared to be alone, she said.

The father sat down beside his daughter. The earth crunched and dust wafted into the air. He thought about his older girl. The grown woman. Her sometimes blonde, sometimes black, hair. He wanted to know if someone had sat beside her, had listened to her tales of solitude, had considered her truths.

I think it’ll be okay, the father said.

How do you know?

The father wanted to tell her that he didn’t know, how could he know. He didn’t know the things that had happened in his first daughter’s world, someone whom he had given life to. He didn’t know what his older daughter’s favorite color was or her goto dinner plans or her taste in music.

Did she like the ocean or the forest?

Did she read fiction or nonfiction?

Did she call it soda or pop or Coke?

He didn’t know anything about anything so how could he know of this plant’s safety?

Well, it was here before we found it, he said.

Bee tilted her head. Stared at the blurry, rippling heat in the distance. Her little hands felt the pebbles next to her legs. After a moment she scrunched her face.

What’re you thinking? the father said.

It needs a family, Bee said.

The father rolled onto one knee, wiped dust from his shorts, then stood up.

Bee, we have to go, he said.

Can we bring it to its family? she said.

If we pick it, it will die.

Like dead, Bee looked at her father, you want to kill it.

No, he stood above his daughter again. I didn’t say that. Get your lizard.

Bee spied her blue and green and yellow plush. She stood up. Brushed her hair over her ears. The father adjusted his backpack’s straps. Straightened his shirt. Turned in the direction of home.

What’re you doing? he asked Bee.

Spinning, she said. Her arms wide. One foot anchored while the other paddled.

The father sighed. He tromped to the lizard, bent over, then grasped it around its long neck. He rose upright. Held the doll at his side. He began to wonder what his older daughter would do with her child, his grandchild: would she talk in whispers; would she have laid next to her child; would she have had her child pee alongside her while they thought about places to take the flower?

He knew that his partner would have played with Bee. She would have drawn pictures in the dirt with sticks. They would have sang silly songs:

I'm a little flower bulb, small and brown,

Buried in the cool, dark ground.

As the days grow warmer, watch and see,

I'll sprout through the earth -- Yippee!

They would have twirled and giggled and took off their shoes so that their heals could have dug into the ground.

Bee, let’s go now, the father said.

He took off his ballcap. His white hair was matted to his head. With every movement he thought he felt the liquid in his bladder sloshing, brimming, dripping.

Now, he shouted.

Bee started then tripped over her tangled legs. She had fallen knees then stomach then hands to the ground. She did not rollover or search for stones stuck to her sticky skin. She lay there as though she was about to do push ups.

Get up, the father said. You’re not hurt.

He watched his daughter lay her head on the desert floor. Her eyes wet and facing him. He watched her roll onto her side then onto her butt. Tears flowed, but Bee made no sounds. The father didn’t know what to do.

Bee stopped crying. Her eyes concentrated and enlarged. She began to giggle. She pointed at her old man. Her body trembled. She cackled. Bee’s laugh echoed. She pointed at his stone-gray shorts turning dark brown. At the small dot of pee flooding into a waterfall that rained onto his feet.

Flower, Bee yelled, he had an accident. Her finger still spotting her father’s drizzling shorts.

He grinned at his daughter, but he remained silent. He let out a long breath. His shoulders drooped. The father walked to the flower. His shoes sloshing. He took off his backpack. Sat cross legged beside it. The grin remained on his face. Bee got up. Followed her father. She placed her hand on his shoulder for support as she lowered herself down to sit cross legged. She held onto her father’s arm then leaned her head against his bicep. Something skittered nearby but neither Bee nor her father looked to see what made the sound.  

Flower, this is Daddy, Bee said.

They sat quiet for a second. Then he touched Flower with his pinky.

Nice to meet you, Daddy said, not thinking about anyone or anything.

Bee looked into Daddy’s eyes, smiled, then started to hum a tune he wanted to learn.

About the Author

James Morena earned his MFA in Fiction at Mountain View Grand in Southern New Hampshire. His stories have been published in storySouth, Defunkt Magazine, Litro Magazine, The Citron Review, Pithead Chapel, Rio Grande Review and others. He also has published essays and poems. You can interact with him on Insta: @james_morena.

about the artist

Joseph A. Miller is an Associate Professor of Art at S.U.N.Y. Buffalo State, where he has taught drawing and painting since 1997. He earned a B.F.A. degree from Kutztown University, Pennsylvania in 1990 and an M.F.A. degree in painting and drawing from Southern Illinois University at Carbondale in 1993. Before being offered the teaching position at Buffalo State College Joseph worked at The Philadelphia Museum of Art in both the security and art conservation departments.