Tiny Bars of Soap

this was rejected recently from a small magazine of short stories. so its definitely not my best.

When people are diagnosed with cancer, they are likely to say: "If only I had..." followed by their regretted eating habits, being born later - or maybe earlier. If they hadn't smoked for ten years. Maybe if they hadn't eaten so much red meat. If they hadn't put three packets of Sweet n' Low in their coffee every morning since the start of that office job. Or maybe if only they had exercised more regularly.
It's not too common for a cancer patient's story to begin with:
"If I hadn't gotten cancer..."
Yet, the truth remains that if Adam had not gotten cancer, he wouldn't have been concerned about his death. And if he weren't concerned about his death, then he never would have written a document that could be sent to his family and friends immediately after he died. If he hadn't had cancer while surfing the Internet, he wouldn't have looked up if coffee was safe to drink while going through chemotherapy and radiation treatments. If he hadn't looked, then he never would have known that it was fine to drink up to four cups of coffee a day, and he wouldn't have created a slight caffeine addiction. If he didn't have cancer, he wouldn't have become a regular at the coffee shop about fifty paces from his front door step.

If Adam hadn't gotten cancer, he would have never met Peter.
Usually when someone is diagnosed with a fatal disease, it's a big deal. There are phone calls, letters, and tears. Family reunions are sure to follow along with a trip to the closest art museum. Unfortunately it's different when you're thirty-five, single, and most of your family is either dead or worse - a stranger. Adam was at work when he got the phone call about his test results. He feels guilty whenever he remembers that moment; he recalls craving a cigarette only a second before he was told he had lung cancer.

Cancer.

The word has a sound to it that makes it feel like you could see it, touch it, feel it. Like you could hold it and calmly explain to it that you need it to leave, immediately.
"I would really love to have you stay a little longer, but this honestly is just not the right time. I'm sorry, Cancer." Eventually Adam realized that, unless you're a surgeon, cancer is intangible. He couldn't wake up every morning and look at it to be reminded that it was there. It wasn't some pimple or scratch that he saw looking back at him in the mirror. When he left his house in the morning and went about his day, people couldn't see it. They couldn't just look at him and say "good morning" to figure out that he was sick.

No one except Peter, that is.
It was a normal Monday morning when Adam was about to leave for his chemotherapy treatment. Before he began chemo, his work day started at nine. The clinic opened at nine, so he had to convince his boss that he had to come in at ten o'clock from now on - but only on Mondays and Wednesdays.
"Sure, but why only two days a week?"
(silence)
"Ah, gotta' drop off the kids at school?"
Reluctantly, he agreed to this scenario. He wasn't about to tell his boss about the cancer and he couldn't think of anything that would make sense. Within three to four seconds, Adam had children. And yes, he had to drop them off at school. Who knows? Maybe his wife worked those days and she needed a little pitching in from her husband.
Her husband that was slowly dying and couldn't think of the reason why he was on chemotherapy in the first place.
It was eight o'clock by the time Adam had showered, dressed, and given his dog a full bowl of water. With an hour to spare, he habitually decided to grab a cup of coffee before going to the treatment center. He hoped it would turn his morning around, considering he was already in a terrible mood from watching the bit of hair that he did have (which was very little), just fall down the drain. As he ordered from the barista, he scratched off one tally on his mental chalkboard. First cup of the day, three more allowed. He stood, awkwardly, while waiting for his coffee at the other end of the counter. The connect-the-dots began forming in his mind:
Standing-coffee shop-pretty girl-not married-single-alone-dying-coffee-four allowed-because I'm-dying-be optimistic-coffee-only four-because I'm dying-cancer. Cancer.
"Excuse me? Mister?"
Adam's game of connecting was stopped short.
"...Yes?"
He looked down to make eye contact with the tiny voice. The top of the boy's head barely made it to Adam's chest, for he must have been only about eight years old. From that second on he would never forget the color of those eyes. That intense, saturated blue to the point where he wasn't sure if he was even looking into eyes anymore. A cold blue, like a glass of milk right out of the fridge. The little boy stared at him for a few seconds until he spoke again.
"Soap?"
Adam cocked his head to the side, while still looking at the frail boy. "I'm sorry, what? Soap? Do I have any?"
"No, no, Mister. I'm asking if you want any. I'm selling it, you see. Over there? In the corner by the red love-seat...the basket? Its full of tiny soaps I made."
A small, sympathetic smile touched the corners of Adam's mouth. "You made them, really? Well, it's not every day you meet a little boy that can make his own soap."
"But today is not every day, mister? But now that I think about it, I'm not sure if I've met a little boy that makes his own soap, either. I paint little pictures on them, you see."
By this time Adam's coffee was ready and the girl had set it down in front of him. As he paid, he glanced at his watch: it was eight fifteen. Realizing that he still had time to kill, he knelt down so that they were the same height.
"Do you want to show me the soaps you made?"
The blue in the boy's eyes intensified like a flame was lit from behind them. "Yes! Very much. I have nothing else to do this morning, you see."
"I know the feeling, kiddo...I know the feeling. What's your name?"
"I'll tell you after you buy a soap from me, OK?"
Adam's head went back in a loud laugh as they walked over to the corner of the coffee shop. There he saw a wicker basket filled with hundreds of tiny soap bars, about half the size of soap bars you would buy at the store. The slight scent of vanilla filled his nose. The nameless boy started rummaging through his creations, occasionally pulling one out to show Adam.
"This one has a little painting of the beach, you see? Mister? And this one has a painting of a puppy. This one has a car and this one..." As the boy held the bars in his hand and explained the pictures, Adam noticed how skinny he was. It seemed like his fingers were barely as thick as a five year old's. His wrists were just two marbles of bone connecting the adorable gestures to his forearm. Adam wanted to know his name even more so.
"These are all very nice. How much for one of them?"
"I sell one for six dollars or you can get two for ten. It's a special that's going on right now, you see?" Again, Adam laughed. Only this time he immediately began wondering when he last laughed. Weeks, months? He occasionally laughed at the office, but it wasn't a sincere laugh. Rather the kind of laugh you give when a coworker tells a not-so-funny joke. Adam gladly pulled a ten dollar bill out of his wallet.
"I'll take a beach soap and a puppy dog soap." The boy smiled shyly as he put the two bars in a small Ziploc baggy.
"Here you are, Mister. It was a pleasure doing business with you. Maybe the soaps will help you."
Confused, Adam asked, "Help me? Help me in what way?"
"You're sick, aren't you?" The boy looked up at him with those eyes accompanied by a blank expression. Adam quickly ran their previous conversation through his mind, wondering if he had mentioned being sick. But no, he hadn't. He hadn't told anyone about the cancer, let alone this miniature stranger.
"What makes you think that, kiddo?"
The boy released the lock his eyes had on Adam and dropped them down to his feet. He shrugged, and Adam noticed the ends of his thin collar bones sticking out from his shoulders. Sticking out even through his thick sweater. "Oh, I don't-I don't know. I can just tell you're sick, is all."
Adam's eye caught the time on the coffee shop wall, it was eight thirty five. He had to leave for his chemotherapy treatment.
"Listen, I have to go. Are you going to tell me your name now? After all, I kept my end of the deal and bought soap..."

The little boy smiled, "I'm Peter."



Work was bad for Adam that day. Although he knew his body would feel worse the longer the treatment went on, he still couldn't help but feel self pity. As soon as he returned to work he felt nauseous, tired, and began to notice that foods were tasting different. They just tasted...off. Because of that he had lost about five pounds, which didn't help with his recent haggard appearance. He tried to tell himself that he had only been taking treatments for a month and a half now, and that he just had to pull through. There were no other options, and it would only get better from now on. But that couldn't keep the connect-the-dots of his mind from thinking: "Why am I even trying?"
He stopped working on his weekly report to look down at his fingers that were gently resting on the keyboard. He was sitting in his cubicle with his second cup of coffee, craving a cigarette that he knew he just couldn't have. He instantly became aware of what his life had actually become. He was a man with no family, a dead-end job, and no real friends to speak of. He chuckled sarcastically to himself when he remembered the last detail to his scenario: he was dying.

Another boring day of work had finally passed. When Adam returned home to his one-bedroom apartment, he was greeted by his dog yet again. He had decided to name him "Zzz" after the sound a fly makes, which Adam enjoyed for some odd reason unknown to him. It made him smirk when he would shout, "Zzz! Get away from that door!" Normally he would have started to read his book, but he had recently finished a Kafka story and had nothing else to read. Instead, Adam took a seat on the couch in front of his new flat screen - last year's birthday present from himself. He sat mindlessly watching the television while eating popcorn, which tasted like (to his taste buds), Parmesan cheese. Zzz laid on his lap.
The following morning as Adam was getting ready for work, he noticed the two small soaps he had purchased the previous day at the coffee house. He took the one with the painting of the beach on it in his hand to look a little closer. Peter had painted a white sand beach, cartoon-ish waves and a leaning palm tree with only one coconut. Adam decided to use that soap this morning, since it was wintertime where he was - and he may not see a real beach again. After showering he looked at the time: eight o'clock. Coffee?
On his walk to the coffee shop, it felt like it had rained the entire night before even though nothing was wet to the touch. Everything seemed gray, foggy and pessimistic, just like Adam. He began wondering about the little boy he had met the day before. Where were his parents? He didn't recall seeing anyone sitting by his basket or talking to him. Why was he so skinny? Why was he selling things? To his slight disappointment, he found that the only conversation he had that morning was with the barista.

Using the same bar of soap the next morning, Adam decided to go to the coffee house again.
"Did you like the soap?" To his surprise, standing right next to the entrance was the little boy. He seemed to be wearing the same sweater, but Adam couldn't be sure. His basket of goodies wasn't far from him. Adam grinned and bent down to be closer to him.
"Yes, Peter. I've used the beach one for the last two days now."
"And? How do you feel?" Adam wished he could tell him that he felt one hundred percent better, but the truth was he had felt nauseous every day since his chemotherapy on Monday morning. He wasn't looking forward to going in the next hour, either.
Adam gestured to the soap basket, "Has business been good?"
"Yes, Mister. People go crazy for soaps around the holidays."
"Maybe people need good presents," Adam said with a smile.
"Maybe people just need to get clean?"
"Well, I guess that's pretty logical now, isn't it." As he said this, he noticed the local bookstore across the street and was reminded that he needed a new book to read.
"Want to come across the street with me, Kiddo? To the bookstore. I need to buy a new book."
The boy's eyes lit up, "Charlie's?"
"What? The bookstore across the street I said."
"Uh huh, that's Mister Charlie's bookstore. Sure, I'll come with you. But only if you carry my basket. Please?" Without replying, Adam grabbed the handle of the soap-filled basket and held the door open for Peter. As he walked past him, he noticed again how skinny he was. Even the stubby bone near the base of his skull was noticeable. They were greeted into the store by Charlie, who until today Adam had never known that was his name. He waved to Peter and smiled before taking another sip of coffee from his mug and continuing to file his bills. Adam had heard around town that the store used to be an apartment that belonged to an old lady that died three summers ago. She had around ten cats and when she died, had no one to leave them with. Bless his heart, Charlie agreed to buy the property along with the all ten feline touches. Everything was kept pretty much the same, so the book shop felt just like an old house with tons of couches, books, and a cash register. Adam hoped that someone like Charlie would take care of Zzz for him once he wasn't around anymore. He couldn't think of anyone in his family or from work that would be willing to take him. Cancer-no one-Zzz-family-no family-work-no friends-Zzz-alone-cancer-no one.
Attempting to stop the connecting, Adam asked, "Do you like to read Peter?"
"Uh huh. I read all the time. My mother taught me how to read and she was a very good reader. So now I'm a good reader."
"What did your mom used to read to you?"
"It depended on what night it was. Sometimes it was Dr. Suess, sometimes it was Hemmingway, sometimes it was Whitman, but I never really liked Whitman, so that was only sometimes."
Adam's eyes widened. Maybe he was older then he thought?
"Wait, exactly how old are you Peter."
"I'm eight."
"And you read Hemmingway?"
"No, silly. Not anymore. That's what my mother used to read to me when I was first learning. Now I read Cummings and Faulkner. But I think Frost might be my favorite."
"OK, kiddo....what ever you say."
"Why are you saying it like that? Do you not like any of those authors?"
"No, I'm just pretty sure that you're pulling my chain. I'm thirty-five years old and I've only just recently started reading those kinds of things on my own time. Half the writers you've mentioned I only read because I had to in college."
"Well I'm not 'pulling your chain.'" Peter walked away in a small huff towards a different section of the store, seemingly irritated. Following behind, Adam saw that Peter was in front of books of poetry by Robert Frost.
"So...you're saying that you're serious. You really read those things."
Peter turned around with those gas-flame blue eyes. "Yes, I'm serious. And I wish you wouldn't think I was a liar. That-that's just mean." He spun back around to start at the spines of the books while Adam was left to stare at his.
"Do you have a favorite poem?"
"Do not test me, Mister."
"No, no. I'm not testing you. I completely believe you. I'm sorry to have thought you were fibbing - but it's not everyday you hear writers like that coming from an eight year-old. Now, do you have a favorite?"
Peter thought for a minute before answering, "I think 'The Road Not Taken'. At least, so far that's my favorite. There are other ones I like a lot, too, but I like it when it talks about how he took the road less traveled and how that was the better choice for him."
"That's a good one, Peter. A very good favorite poem." Adam watched as Peter flipped through a book of Frost, an older one that contained older writings it seemed.
"Do you want me to buy that for you?" Peter spun around to face him and his eyes were shining.
"Really? This book? The one I'm holding, Mister?"
"Yea, sure. If you want it I'll get it for you. No problem." As he offered this, he noticed that it was almost eight-thirty and he needed to leave for his appointment soon.
"You can buy it for me but only if you let me give you two more soaps in trade."
"But I already have two soaps. There's no way I could use all that soap..."
"Well, then take one more. I'm not letting you buy me the book for nothing, I will feel bad. You don't want me to feel bad, do you? Do you?" Adam laughed as they walked over to the purchasing counter. He had the Frost book and another Kafka book that he quickly grabbed off the shelf.
"Of course I don't want you to feel bad. Okay, one book in exchange for one bar of soap. But I want another beach one if you have one. Deal?"
"Deal."



After that day at Charlie's store, Adam didn't run into Peter at the coffee shop and he wouldn't see him ever again. Adam hadn't known, but when he met Peter, he had been diagnosed with leukemia the year before. He was too unhealthy to continue going to school and had begun making and selling soaps to keep himself occupied. Unfortunately, he couldn't go on chemotherapy since it was too late by the time the doctors discovered the cancer. When diagnosed, they gave Peter an expectancy of four to six months. His tiny body was able to live about six months past that.
Adam didn't keep looking for the boy because he needed to get his exchange soap, for he could have cared less. Rather, he found himself having a fondness for him, along with his innocence and his smarts. He had gone to the coffee shop intentionally every morning (including the entire weekend) with hopes to see Peter, but he was no where to be found. Neither was his basket of soaps. Adam's lonely week included only chemotherapy, work, Zzz and reading his new book. He wondered how the kiddo was enjoying the Frost book he had bought for him, or if he was reading it at all. Every morning was the same feeling for Adam: he wanted to be healthy, he longed for the chemo to work, and he was eating better. But the occasional thought would jump into his mind as sudden as a hiccup. An uncontrollable, painful hiccup reminding him that he had no legitimate reason to stick around. In the past, he had always rolled his eyes at the television if a commercial for depression medication came on. He thought it was ridiculous - a borderline scam, even - that people just couldn't put themselves into a better mood. If they recognized that they had a problem, couldn't the depressed just be optimistic? Couldn't the suicidal just find something to live for? He wracked his brain and the only things he could come up with were Zzz, reading, and Peter. He felt a personal embarrassment at this thought. He had a short time to live if his treatments didn't work and the only thing helping him to stay alive was the paranoia of people seeing his dirty laundry and who would feed Zzz in the morning.
The only human he cared for was Peter - an eight-year old boy who he had only seen twice, and seemed to have disappeared.

Reviews

[Kelley]

I don't know why the rejected this story Dana? It was a great story, and I thought besides a few typos was perfect. I had to choke back a few tears along the way but thats what makes a great story I think. I don't even know why I came to read this morning? I was going down my list of things people said and posted to read and I came upon your name.....and thought where do I know this name from? I clicked on the link to your story and then I smiled because I remembered your other great story.

I loved this story and the boy " Peter " is what made it perfect. You could picture him in your head and I felt a sadness for him. I thought it was great that the boy was so kind and so smart. It gave me a chill , and I have no idea why, but when the boy said his favorite Author was Robert Frost it did. Maybe because my last name is Frost I don't know , and I love that poem "'The Road Not Taken." I thought over all that this was a very heart warming story. Cancer can be a depressing subject , but so many people recover from each day. And besides who would feed poor Zzz right......smiles.

I think if you clean this up just a little bit and re submit it somewhere else it will do just fine. It will get bought and published and get rave reviews. By the way if I may ask how did you come up with this story?

Great story Dana thanks for sharing I wish I could write as good as you do.....smiles

Kelley Frost