Flood
By Mercedes Lawry
Glory be, mother of God, how can I be out of butter? Where’s my mind? Dad would’ve had a fit. We never ran out of anything, we were stocked up for the apocalypse at all times. He followed the sales like a hawk. I thought I’d inherited the trait or at least been scared into it but I have to watch the pennies. I can’t be buying five mayonnaise just because they’re on sale – two maybe. And I can’t be sure I don’t have any – the dang lazy susan cupboard won’t twirl anymore and I can’t see in the back. Getting down on my knees is dicey these days and it’s hardly worth the trouble. But you need butter, though sometimes I get the safflower oil or the yogurt as they’re cheaper. You need something for the toast and the potatoes.
And now the TV says floods are coming. One thing, then another and another, that’s all life is. I can’t do anything with this leg and the knees. I’ll not be climbing up on the roof to wave down a helicopter. So maybe no butter won’t be a problem. Maybe I’ll be swept away in my sleep. Worse fates. Consider it a second baptism as I sail into the arms of the angels. I remember the guardian angel I called Holly. Gerald laughed at me, said angels don’t have names. What about Gabriel and Michael, I said, you’re stupid and a terrible brother. He just laughed some more. No chance he’d be here rescuing me, if he's even alive. Fifteen years since I heard. I’m guessing heart attack. He was always carrying too many pounds.
I hear the rain starting, heavy on the roof like the sky opened all at once. We’ve had more rain this month than forever. We’re saturated – no wonder there’ll be floods. If Marianne still lived up the hill, I’d consider dragging myself up there but she’s gone for a decade and the house is a falling-down wreck, no shelter there. Not sure I could make it up that path anymore. Poor Marianne they called her after she shot herself. I never called her that. She got the diagnosis and decided it was time to go – who could blame her and why is death always made out to be a sad thing? She avoided the suffering, the whole indignity of a failing body. Smart, I’d say.
Oh the bloody wind. I best get the lantern and the flashlights. If the power goes, it could be ages before it’s back. If the roads get washed away, it could be days. All sorts of secrets rise up in a flood. It’s the good whiskey I’ll have tonight, just a splash. I don’t want to run out if the delivery fellows can’t get here. I should swaddle it in some bubble wrap in case the water gets in and starts toppling the furniture. I’ll get a rope around it and anchor it somewhere. I can swim to it if need be. Swimming’s easier than walking. They’ll find me with a smile on my face all green and swollen. Then it’ll be poor Kathleen and poor Marianne and if there’s a heaven we’ll be up there laughing together at the foolishness of the world. If it’s hell, well I hope we’re on a high shelf with the chance of a good whiskey so we don’t mind the flames so much. We weren’t so terribly bad after all. Just the one murder between us.
THE END
Author Bio: Mercedes Lawry has previously published short fiction in several journals including: Gravel, Blotterature, Cleaver, Gambling the Aisle, and Thrice Fiction. She was a semi-finalist in The Best Small Fictions 2016. And she’s received two nominations for Best Microfiction 2021. For many years, she has been publishing poetry in journals such as Poetry, Nimrod, Prairie Schooner, and others. Her chapbook, “In the Early Garden With Reason” won the 2018 WaterSedge Poetry Chapbook Contest, judged by Molly Peacock. Her poetry book, “Vestiges,” has just been published by Kelsay Books. Additionally, she has published stories and poems for children.