JASPER’S FIRST GRIN: By Stephen Hill
Thursday, December 31st, 2009The baby was grinning at him. Finally.
Garth had been waiting for it for seven weeks. Through sleepless nights that had him gripping the bottle like a dagger when his wife’s tits were tapped, through the shrieking and the blubbering, and through the shit that exploded from his kid’s ass like a spray of wet buckshot–finally, a smile. It didn’t make everything worth it, but at least a smile was something. “Hey June!” he called out. “June, check this out!”
Jasper’s grin widened, pink lips parting above the crease on his chin. Garth felt the warm flesh of the baby’s cheek through the rough grain of calluses riveted to his fingers. As his thumb tracked down the baby’s face, it left a soupy smear of grease, dirt and dung. Sure his wife wouldn’t like it, but tough shit. He didn’t exactly like shoveling down overcooked macaroni after roasting in the chicken barn for 12 hours. Yep, and even though the pasta was as soggy-soft as his wife’s post-pregnant ass, she still set his place with a steak knife. A steak knife. Un-fucking-believable.
He leaned into the crib and cooed, tracking filth over the baby’s perfect sphere of a head. With the only light seeping into the baby’s room from the hallway, the grime almost looked like hair. The dimples in Jasper’s chubby cheeks deepened with an even bigger smile, and his blue eyes gleamed. Incredible.
“Oh, you like your new lid?” said Garth, painting the rest of Jasper’s scalp with muck. “You like the toupee Daddy gotcha?”
He knew this couldn’t keep going. The kid was a bawler, and it was amazing he’d lasted five minutes without crying out. Still, while he was quiet, why not have some fun? Besides, when Jasper went into brat mode, his wife would be there to put out the fire. June was a crappy cook, but–no matter how tired she got–she still knew what was good for her. A year back he’d had to yell for her twice, and had quickly made it clear twice was unacceptable. Crystal clear.
He hadn’t had to yell out a second time since.
Garth’s fingers stroked Jasper’s other cheek. Wiped almost clean, they now left only faint traces of oily brown. I guess you only get half a beard, he thought. “Quit while we’re ahead, right ya little monster?” Garth said, and kicked one leg of the crib, making it shake.
The baby’s grin broadened into something so huge Garth burst out laughing, and Jasper laughed right along with him. Oh my god, he loves it, thought Garth. He loves his new look, and he loves his daddy. “All right then,” he said. “You ask for more, you got it.”
More was the stuff he squeezed from under his finger nails – greasy, grimy chunks of black crud that smelled like fresh turds dunked in gasoline. He figured some of it had been there a couple days, but it mashed up nicely between his fingers, and left a streak along Jasper’s supple cheek like fresh tarmac choked with pebble. “Now we’re done,” Garth murmured. “Now we’re finished.”
But Jasper’s head rolled to one side, and his soft doll’s fingers clamped onto his father’s thumb with an insistent, needy strength. He’s really holding on, thought Garth. For the first time, really holding on. “We’re not done?” Garth asked, delighted. “You’re really not do-“
Garth recognized the blade an instant before it stabbed through his neck, cutting off his words as neatly as it hacked through his windpipe. When his wife twisted the handle, blood like black ink drenched the tiny fist that hung on tight.
A steak knife, thought Garth. Un-fucking-believable.
©2009 Stephen Hill
Stephen Hill is a writer living at working in Toronto, Ontario - though his mind is most often elsewhere.
