‘Homer and the Mosquito’ by Cindy Withjack

[In high school] Laura was in love with a boy who killed himself with a shotgun. Sometimes, when at work folding boot cut jeans or resizing the sales rack or picking up sensors and tags left behind in fitting rooms, Laura imagines how the blast blew apart his skull in every possible direction, his blue eyes shut tightly, making the early signs of crow’s feet spread out around his temples like porcelain cracks. Presumably, he had both arms stretched, keeping the barrel extended far enough to stay within reach of the trigger but also maintaining contact with the space just under his chin. Then he’s gone; hot metal exploding from cold metal, pushing him from the neck up all over the driver side of his car. [P = (F)/(A)] That morning he hadn’t met her [before Spanish? after Physics?], even though Laura stood against his locker long after the late bell rang. He was found 24 hours later, parked near the lake, his blue sedan facing east. [West?]

*

I don’t really talk about being depressed because that’s something a depressed person would do. A few months ago, I mentioned to a friend that I had been feeling gloomy. I didn’t even linger on the word. Suddenly, squares, an Instagram page, beaded hair, her second cousin, Marlena, the yogi: after overcoming childhood trauma, she now specializes in Reiki. She is happy to give you a free consultation. Just stop by.

Even still, every third Wednesday of the month I visit my grandmother so she can tell me I should smile more.

‘Listen,’ she says. ‘Women in the fifties were truly depressed.’ She plucks a small black hair from her chin. ‘They were just getting used to it, too, when the feminists came in and told them to buck up. It was lonely and awful and do you have any idea how uncomfortable bras were back then? What is there to be depressed about now?’

We are both quiet.

‘Those Kardashians,’ she finally says.

I nod, wishing we could sit quietly together, feeling the midday heat on our shoulders, left to think about how one day the sun will give up on us. Everything will be frozen and dark, but we won’t know. They say it will be long after we’re dead.

That evening my parents ask about grandma, about therapy. My dad holds in one hand a glass of skim milk. ‘Did you talk college?’ he asks.

I shake my head slowly from side to side because my mouth is full of bread. My parents, already having told their friends that I would be the next literary sensation, alternately clear their throats. I’ve twice deferred university offers and instead have been taking random classes at the local community college. Last semester I got a B- in ‘The Art of Glass Blowing.’

My mom tucks a piece of hair behind her ears and offers me more bread. Last week she went to a new salon for a trim and ended up with a trendy lob, which suits her cheekbones and makes her look younger. I tell her again how much I like it, how it suits her cheekbones, and she smiles against her fork.

‘You left your notebook on the porch. I brought it in for you.’ She says this so quietly it takes me a moment to understand what she means.

‘Oh. Thanks.’

‘Have you been writing?’

I shrug.

My dad gets up for more milk and from the kitchen asks if anyone has heard from Andy, who a few days ago returned to his dorm room at Northwestern. He sent me the poop emoji a few hours ago. I tell my parents he’s happy to be back on campus and will probably Skype later this week.

‘That’s good. That’s really good.’ My mom watches me eat another piece of bread.

Andy added a lot more to our dinner conversations. The afternoon my brother left, I went into his bedroom, mostly empty apart from a few swimming ribbons tacked to the wall, and without getting under the blankets, napped on his bed.

*

[Now Laura can smell iron [?] in the air.]

Dr. Frank scratches his moustache and tells her to breathe through it. ‘You’re doing a very good job.’

She shifts in the chair, hoping Dr. Frank will remove his hand from her knee, and with a loud sigh Laura looks away from her therapist.

Dr. Frank likes to be addressed by his first name because medicine is already so sterile. During their first session, he explained, ‘People should know they have a friend first and a therapist second.’ Laura is sure she has neither.

‘You’re doing a very good job,’ Dr. Frank repeats. He asks how the Xanax is working out.

Relieved by the new conversation topic, she tells him the Xanax is fine. Fine because Lexapro and Citalopram made her gain weight, Paxil made her spacey, Zolpidem made her tired, constantly, and all four quelled her sex drive: the lack of sex being the main reason given for her last three breakups. [Other reasons cited were: needy, gloomy, bitchy, and weird.]

The Xanax is fine so far.

Dr. Frank tells Laura she really does seem much better. ‘Anxiety,’ he looks at his watch, ‘is to be expected.’ He puts his hand on her knee again. ‘You look brighter every time I see you, Laura.’ Dr. Frank suggests that she continue with the Xanax.

*

I recently started a part-time job. The job title is ‘Toddler Activity Coordinator’, but I’m just a babysitter at a fitness center. Parents drop off their children in the age-appropriate room – I work in the Blue Room: Age 2-5 – before yoga or Pilates or strength training or racquetball. They return anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour later, sweaty, with a peculiar look in their eyes. I sometimes wonder if maybe in that moment of ramped adrenaline, warm bodies accidentally pushed together in the smoothie line, they wish they didn’t have to come back to collect their children.

When I get home from work, my mom is snapping green beans in the sunroom. The light coming through the windows shows strands of white tucked in and around her blonde hair. She doesn’t ask me to help her because she knows that uncooked green beans make me think of broken fingers. She speaks first.

‘Hey. I’m making chicken for dinner. Are you eating with us?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Your hair seems big today.’

‘It’s humid.’

‘It doesn’t look bad.’

I pat the back of my head. She doesn’t look at the green beans as she snaps them; her eyes move from me to the dogs at her feet.

‘I saw Allison Klein at the Post Office this morning.’

‘Who?’

‘Allison Klein. You probably remember her son, Ryan. Remember Ryan? You played as kids. Ryan. Allison said he is doing so well in college. Seems very put together.’ She is snapping more green beans than we need for dinner.

*

Laura drives by the lake on her way to work. She could go another way, through the woods instead [or even take the highway?] but passing the lake makes the most sense logistically. Laura tends to work morning shifts when the mall is full of retired speed walkers and moms with strollers. When she walks by the women who sell hair straighteners from a bright pink kiosk they ask if her hair is naturally curly. [Sometimes] Laura smiles at them as she rushes by. She says, ‘Sorry. Yes, it is. But, no, thank you. Sorry.’

*

Before requesting to be his friend on Facebook, I look through most of Ryan’s public photos and then send him a message asking if he remembers hitting me with clumps of wet sand some ten years prior during a vacation in Ocean City: a prearranged company outing between his uncle and my dad, where the young moms spent the day making sure the kids were covered in sunblock and the kids spent the day sweating it off.

His profile picture is a group photo with three other people: a guy and two girls holding red solo cups and wearing glittery, oversized glasses that read 2013. I wonder if one of them is his girlfriend. I figure it’s the one with ombre hair. Guys are going crazy for ombre hair. I don’t understand it. It just looks like their roots are all grown out. I chew on my split ends.

Within the hour he responds to my message.

Ryan Klein: Yeah, I remember you. I’m pretty sure you started that war. LOL. You look great. How are you?

I look at my profile picture. In the mirror shot of me dressed up for a Christmas party, I look good, even though I took over 75 photos to prove it. I wish I had cleaned off the mirror a bit more. That night ended with me throwing up in a pile of snow.

How was I? I don’t want to go into exhaustive detail about how dull and unfulfilling community college is, how I sleep through classes and regret not getting a better score on the SATs. I do plan on transferring after another semester, but it doesn’t seem relevant or interesting.

I tell him things are great. Really great! And that picture? Yeah, that was an awesome night, so fun, thanks!

Ryan is a junior in college – majoring first in engineering, now business – more interested in sports than academics. He wants to be a coach or a physical therapist or something. College is fun for him, but he probably parties too much. His parents put a lot of pressure on him. His messages are generic.

The small pond next to the house is layered in thick slime that shimmers against the sunshine. I look through the window and give myself a delay of about eight minutes before responding. That’s cool, I write back. A few messages later, he suggests I listen to The Verve Pipe’s ‘Freshman,’ giving me the wrong impression of his potential depth and knowledge of nineties music. I set the song to play on repeat and sprawl out on the floor for twenty minutes. A dog comes into my room and nudges my face with one paw and then his nose. I wonder if he’s checking to see if I’m dead. I wonder if he would eat me if I were.

*

Laura spends several hours a day folding jeans. She organizes shelves first by wash, then by size. [Tense?] Her manager reminds her that while it’s important to fold the product and make the store presentable, she must also greet customers and smile at them. Laura tells her she will try harder to multitask. She offers to check on the customers in the fitting room. When she gets to the back of the store, Laura opens each fitting room door with the tip of her shoe. [Empty.] She walks to the last fitting room on the right and closes her eyes, the light from the mirror making the inside of her eyelids more burgundy than black.

After her shift, Laura goes to a used bookstore. Usually she buys her books online, which is maybe why the local shop is going out of business. The owner is a small old man who tells people to call him Homer, even though his name is Saul. [Or: The owner is a retired kindergarten teacher. She has a limp/an unrequited love/a severe allergy to shellfish.] He knows Laura and always says her name when greeting her. She asks him how his cat is. [Is the cat still alive? Does it matter?] Homer’s selection tends to dwindle down in the spring after the community college students stop in to buy whatever copies he has of Austen and Hemingway. Laura watches Homer rub the knuckles on his arthritic hands. [Does he tell her a story? Yes, a sad story. Probably the saddest she’s ever been told. It’s about watching a mosquito drink his blood, but that’s not really what it’s about.] She buys a wrinkled Where I’m Calling From, even though she already owns it.

*

I call my best friend to confirm how stupid it would be to drive three hours into Towson for a college party. Sarah laughs into the phone while I look through my basket of nail polish. Red seems like too much, even though it’s an appropriate colour for January. Sarah doesn’t think it’s stupid. She says we should take her car and asks if Ryan has tall friends.

‘He looks pretty hot for a short guy. Like a baseball player or something.’

‘He is a baseball player. You already looked through his photos?’

‘Of course. Do you think – hold on.’

I hear Sarah ask her sister if their parents are home yet. I can’t hear Lindsay’s response. Lindsay is a few years older than us. Last summer there was a very public breakup between Lindsay and Andy at a Fourth of July picnic that resulted in a ketchup-covered hotdog facedown on her white skirt and my brother driving off without covering up the casserole dish of potato salad in the back seat. Our parents’ van continues to smell like hot mayonnaise and Lindsay hasn’t spoken to our family since. Sarah tells Lindsay she is going to sleep at my place. There is a banging noise: Lindsey slamming her bedroom door. I hear Sarah zipping up her overnight bag. ‘She’s such a bitch. I’m coming over. We should definitely go.’

*

Her mother is in the garden when Laura gets home. When she stands, her knees show dark circles of dirt. Laura’s mother never asks her if or why she feels sad. [She has stopped asking if she has plans with friends or if she has met any guys lately. This isn’t because she’s a bad mom.] Her mother seems to look directly into her pores, waiting for something to surface, anything that makes more sense to her than [perpetual?] gloominess. When this happens, Laura does not respond to the look. She does not say, I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

With a hand on her shoulder, Laura’s mother asks if she wants anything special for dinner. Her eyes are round and wet. Laura tells her, no, she doesn’t, and really she’s not hungry anyway. Do you need help in the garden? Laura asks. They kneel together. Her mother gives her a pile of cold, damp, stringy roots. [The sky is blue and sunless, and that makes sense.]

*

Sarah is eating a chilidog from Sheetz and there is mustard in the corner of her mouth. Only a few cars go by. We are sitting in the warmth of her car watching two men put up a new billboard on the other side of the highway. It’s for an orthodontist. So far the woman only has one eye, but her teeth look fantastic. The front two are quite large, but they are even and square, and the line that separates them is exactly in the middle of her face. Sarah is waving her hands in the air between bites.

‘I think he’s sort of a dick,’ she says.

‘Why?’ I know why. Only a few hours since we had left, we were already on the way back home. Ryan’s dorm was cramped: four guys watching American History X and drinking Red Bull. Sarah and I stood near the door for forty minutes before I elbowed her. She rolled her eyes and said she needed to use the bathroom first.

‘Are you leaving?’ Ryan asked me, his hand on my lower back.

‘Yeah, the drive wasn’t so bad. We have other plans anyway.’

Ryan squinted and gave me a hug. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t have much time to talk. Maybe we can hang out again?’

‘Yeah. Maybe.’ I checked my cellphone. It was almost midnight.

Sarah came out of the bathroom wiping her hands on her jeans. We gave limp waves and walked back to her car, puffs of warm air leaving our mouths and merging with the cold outside. We couldn’t wait to get warm again, but we didn’t want to sit in the parking lot any longer than we had to. Sarah pulled out of the space before the heat kicked in. I sat on my gloved hands. Laughing all the way to the highway ramp we agreed, Ryan was decidedly unremarkable.

I dip a mozzarella stick into marinara sauce and think about how dark it is outside. I wonder if Sarah will drive by the lake on the way back to my house. I wonder if she will stop for a few minutes like I usually do. Ryan sends me a text about wanting to talk tomorrow. His message vibrates twice against my thigh. Sarah turns up the radio, and Tom Petty sings about flying.

*

Surrounded by weeds, Laura thinks of the time she tried to run away. She was six and made it as far as the laundry room where she put her treasures – Polly Pocket, her light-up sneakers, and their cat Kitty [Ginger/Midnight?] – into the dryer before climbing inside. She was afraid to close the door because of the dark, and Kitty ended up scratching the hell out of her face. Her mother, when she heard Laura screaming, jumped from the shower, almost falling down the stairs to get to her. When she pulled Laura from the dryer, first laughing, then crying, they sat together on the floor for awhile, her mother’s hair dripping onto Laura’s bloody cheeks.

Laura removes her shoes, her toes pushing into the grass. Her mother is humming, scratching and digging with her fingernails small holes to entomb seeds that will bloom and die before summer ever begins. When Laura reaches out to hug her, she can feel the pulse in her mother’s neck.

*

The following weekend I visit Ryan alone. I talk to Sarah on the drive.

‘Doesn’t he have a car? Do you still have my black romper?’

‘No, he doesn’t need it while he’s on campus. Yeah, I’m actually wearing it.’

‘Tonight? It’s freezing.’

I pass a few signs showing falling rocks. The road winds around downhill a few times before leveling out, dark and flat. The oncoming headlights seem too bright.

‘Hello? I should just give it to you. It’s too tight around my boobs. What are you even going to do? Is it a date?’

I chew on the skin around my cuticles. I know it’s not a date. ‘Sort of.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Text me?’

‘Yeah.’

When I get there, the door is open and Ryan is in his dorm with the guy from his profile picture. I introduce myself and Ryan winces. Tall and blonde guy says we met last time and, although I don’t remember, I nod and apologize. They look at each other, and then Ryan says we should get going. He guides me by my elbow from the room.

The party is in a dorm up two flights of stairs. Ryan hugs a few girls. He doesn’t introduce me. I lean against the wall while he goes to get drinks. When he comes back, he hands me a beer and says he’s going to play one game of pong and then we can sit together and talk. He kisses my cheek. Someone has thrown up on the futon behind the beer pong table. Ryan misses his first shot, and the ball bounces off the table and lands on the futon, rolling briefly in the vomit. The other player grabs the ball, dips it in a cup of water, and continues the game.

After three more games, Ryan and I walk back to his dorm. I haven’t had much to drink and consider going back home. I sit on his roommate’s bed while Ryan lays on his stomach searching for something on TV. A few minutes into Chopped my phone vibrates. Ryan has sent a smiley face. I respond with haha. This goes on for longer than it ever should, until he asks me, with a heart, if I’ll join him on his bed.

We start kissing, and as he pulls at the romper he asks me if I’m on birth control because he doesn’t have a condom.

I say, ‘It’s a romper. You can’t –’

‘If you’re not on the pill we can just fool around.’

‘You can’t take it off like that. It’s a romper –’

Ryan tugs at the fabric again and I tell him, yes, I am on the pill. Then I take off my cardigan so I can push down the top of the romper. He understands how tights work, so shortly thereafter we are having sex. His palms hold both sides of my ribcage while I stare at the ceiling. I cringe when he says how tight I am. The pressure is unbelievable. He howls in my ear and rolls onto his side. Despite my best efforts, I cry. Quietly and in the dark I assume he won’t know.

‘Oh shit.’

‘What?’

‘You’re upset.’

‘I’m fine.’

I feel around for my underwear and wonder if the sun will soon come up.

‘Do you want to sit down?

‘No. Thanks.’

‘Should we talk?’

‘About what?’

‘I know about what happened to you and if you’re feeling weird or whatever I wish you had just told me.’

‘What?’ I struggle to fit the romper back over my hips.

‘It’s really not a big deal.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘My roommate knows your brother. He told me.’ Ryan gets out of bed and walks to this bathroom. He is naked and the skin around his hips glows in the light. ‘Your boyfriend died. I get it. I mean, of course I don’t get it. Not really. But I’m not judging you, is what I’m trying to say. I wouldn’t do that. I just wish you had said you weren’t ready to mess around.’

I stare at him.

‘You really don’t have to go. We can watch a movie. You can sleep in Shawn’s bed. I won’t bother you. It’s really no big deal.’

I nod as he closes the bathroom door. I pull on my coat, unable to find my tights. The sky is three shades of pink when I get to my car. The sun will be up by the time I get on the highway.

*

Laura drives through the woods to get to work. There is a deer to one side nuzzling grass. It doesn’t look up at her.

Walking into the mall, a woman asks if Laura’s hair is naturally curly. She is holding a large straightener in one hand, the other hand palm up.

Laura stops. ‘It is. Yeah.’

The woman guides her into a chair, running her fingers through Laura’s hair. Eventually Laura will have to tell her, Sorry, I’m not going to buy a hair straightener. Yes, your hands do feel nice.

*

My shift started earlier than usual today because someone from The Violet Room – Newborns – called in sick. They bumped Britney from The Yellow Room – 5-8 – and asked me to come in early. She waved her arms around to show me the room was empty, and then I sat down on the rainbow rug to eat a few pineapple chunks from a plastic container I brought with me.

I have three pieces of pineapple in my mouth when a blonde woman walks in. There is a little boy behind her. The woman tells me she is running late and her personal trainer will be peeved. Peeved. She kisses the boy on the head and signs him in before leaving.

‘Mama. Mama. Mama?’ he says. The boy’s eyes go from me to the door and back again. He claps his hands together.

I look at the sign in sheet. The woman’s cursive leads me to believe this is Josh, or Tosh. Probably Josh.

‘Josh?’ I ask the room.

The boy continues to stare at the door. He is standing too close to it; if someone comes in they will knock him to the ground. I try to guide him to the other side of the room and ask if he wants to sit down for a while. Maybe look through the costume trunk? ‘Do you want to be a bunny?’

‘Mama. Mama,’ he starts to cry.

I make my hand into a fist and hook my index finger. ‘Maybe you want to be a pirate?’ I take a deep breath and hope he doesn’t throw himself on the ground like some children do in grocery aisles.

He hugs my legs, so I must shuffle carefully over to the trunk. ‘Mama.’ He points at the door.

‘What about a pumpkin?’ I hold up the large, round costume. The orange has faded, and pieces of green felt are missing. He smiles, letting go of me, and lifts his legs one at a time, so I can pull him into the fabric. When I’m finished he looks so pleased, this pumpkin boy, no longer crying or tugging at his hair, and without thinking I say, ‘Your Mama is going to eat you right up!’

‘Mama?’

I don’t know what to say. I look at Josh, presumably Josh, and try to imagine what my mother might do.

‘Mama. Mama?’ He sits down so hard the costume flares out and puts his face into his hands like a tiny grieving pumpkin at a funeral.

I reach out to provide a conciliatory pat on the back.

From issue #4: spring/summer 2017

About the Author
Cindy Withjack is a neurodiverse PhD researcher studying English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of York. She previously attended the University of Birmingham, where she was awarded an MA in Creative Writing. Her writing has been published in Slice Magazine, Litro Magazine, Women are Boring, and The Huffington Post. Cindy won a 2024 Northern Writers’ Debut Fiction Award for her forthcoming novel. She is represented by Imogen Pelham at Marjacq.