Flash Fiction – Momma stopped singing on a sweat-sticky day.

I dug this Flash Fiction Story out of my files. It was submitted to Long Ridge Writer’s Group in 2008 and was a prompt winner.  Maybe, I will start a Flash Fiction Friday.

I’m including a photo of my recently potted garden plants. This rake is no longer missing.

On a Sweat-sticky Day

SUMMERTIME
lyrics: Ira Gershwin, based on book by DuBose Heywood/music: George Gershwin

Listen to Billie Holiday as she sings Summertime.

Momma stopped singing on a sweat-sticky day.

 
“Where’s that water?” Uncle Ed drawls, poking a coat hanger wire into the grimy sweat stained rim of his plaster cast. “Bring me some wire cutters, too.”

 
The pump handle gives too easy, Tommy scoops some water from the bucket to prime it. Resistance is sweet, cool, Tommy lets the first stream of water pour over his hand and wipes his face, tasting a faint metallic edge. The second pump fills the pitcher half way up. “Comin’,” Tommy yells. Uncle Ed has been miserable all summer long.

 
“Summertime, an’ the livin’ is easy.” Momma sings off key in the kitchen. Catfish sizzles. She uses the hem of her apron to mop the sweat off her forehead. “Fish are jumpin’ an’ the cotton is high.”

 
“What do you want with the wire cutters?” Momma yells through the screen door. She snatches the cutters from the toolbox.

 
Tommy pours water into Uncle Ed’s glass and Momma hands off the wire cutters.

 
“I’m takin’ it off that’s what I’m doin’.” Uncle Ed gulps water and aims the cutters at the top edge of his cast.

 
Momma disappears into the house to drain the grease off the fish.

 
“Oh, Yo daddy’s rich an’ yo’ ma is good lookin’,
So hush, little baby, don’t you cry.”

 
Momma brings out a platter but no one has the energy to eat. Tommy shoos a fly and stills the swing for Momma to sit down.

 
Uncle Ed works down one side of his cast. The stench of sweat and dead skin catches in the air. Little bits of white dust puff up. He stops at his ankle and starts again at the top.

 
“You want some help with that? Let me have a go at it.” Momma was up already bowing over Uncle Ed’s lap. “Tommy, go wet a rag.”

 
Momma takes over and works the nasty plaster off the end of Uncle Ed’s foot. She mops his leg. “Jeeze, I’ve never seen such a skinny thing in my life.”

 
Uncle Ed stands up, wobbly. He puts his foot down. “Bit tender,” he says. “Tommy fetch me some pants and follow me down to the creek. A good soak’s what it needs.”

 
Uncle Ed in his grimy boxers and Tommy with Uncle Ed’s pants head off toward the creek.

 
Me and Momma brush flies away in the shade of the porch.

 
Momma picks up the song. “One of these mornin’s, you goin’ to rise up singin’.
Then you’ll spread yo’ wings an’ you’ll take the sky.”

 
Puffs of dust rise from the road behind a truck. Momma stands up from the swing and lays a hand on her chest. The color drains out of her face and a tear plops onto the front of her dress.

 
The sheriff unfolds from the truck and tips his hat.

 
“But till that mornin’, there’s a nothin’ can harm you
With daddy & mammy standin’ by.”

 
Momma stopped singing on a sweat-sticky day.