Childless

The kitchen smelled like winter, the air scorched and tainted by the old gas furnace. It bit into Terry's nose, and for a moment he imagined there were millions of little metal granules of pollen, digging into the tender and fried flesh of his nostrils. Though the window half-hidden behind the stove was mostly dark, the kitchen itself was brightly lit, and Terry and his wife Abby sat across from each other at a small, worn card table right in the middle.

"Well," she hissed over the rasp of crayons in the living room, "that went well."

Terry looked at the steam curling off of her coffee and his hot cocoa, and then to the right. The sink was piled with dirty dishes, and several large black trash bags lurked in the corner by the door, bulging with paper plates and broken glass. Someone was humming the same few bars of "Silent Night" over and over again.

"Oh, I don't know," he drawled, tapping his chipped mug, "the house didn't burn down. No one died."

She glanced behind him at the thirty-four year old man sitting on the floor, scribbling madly onto a sketchbook to the beat of his humming. His belly jiggled with every stroke, his chin wobbling with the sheer effort of concentrating. There were crayon shavings and bits of paper strewn about him, and Abby winced at the thought of cleaning it up. But she'd do it, because it was her responsibility. Her damn brother. She'd do it like she'd done everything else for the boy that she couldn't think of as a man, only as the almond-eyed baby too slow to thrive, sitting quietly in a doctor's office while their parents sobbed.

"How are we ever going to get the relatives to come back? We should've known better, Terry! After all this, all we've done�" her voice cracked and in the stillness the humming grated. Terry rested a warm, callused hand across hers. "All I wanted was to be like everybody else. To do normal things."

"We knew getting into this how things would change. Your parents couldn't keep taking care of him forever, Abb." He rubbed the thin skin on the back of her hand, and thought of parchment and faded, blue veins of medical tubing.

"No, we didn't," she spat, pulling her hand away and taking a gulp from her cup. "We knew what the doctors told us, that it would be 'difficult, harder than anything we'd had to deal with before, but that we was sure we were up to it'�all the pointless bullshit platitudes that doctors are supposed to say to make us feel better."

Terry took another sip of cocoa, didn't rise to the crescendo his wife was building toward. He would've preferred a shot of something, brandy or iced vodka to loosen the knot between his shoulders, but he had work in the morning and once he started drinking, he didn't stop.

"Hon, we're doing fine. Your parents did a wonderful job with him. He isn't going to be normal, but he could be a lot worse."

"Terry, he reached right across the table and took your aunt's entire plate! He was flicking cherries around and he made a tent out of the coats and he almost broke Maddie's arm trying to get that doll away from her and�" There was a rustle of paper. Both of them turned around, but Ethan had only turned the page.

"Well, what else can we do? What are you suggesting, Abigail?" he asked, leaning forward over the table. "Because I think I know, and I don't like it. He's family. We have a responsibility."

The furnace kept mumbling hot, dry air into the house, and Ethan kept coloring. Abby shriveled her nose and stood, taking both cups to the sink. But it was full of pots and pans and wine glasses and silverware and a few odd plates, and she twitched helplessly between the sink and the dishdrainer and the table, before finally stacking them precariously on top with a clear shudder.

Terry shook his head and folded up the chairs. He wouldn't get anothe rword out of her again tonight. He glanced towards the living room, already a habit and bit back a cry. Ethan wasn't there. Crayons and paper and a light confetti of colored wax but no Ethan. He dropped the chair with a clatter and ran into the room, but his brother-in-law wasn't there, wasn't in the dining room or the sitting room and the doors were all locked, and Abby was yelling but there was only silence in return� and then a wail from above.

They thundered up the steps, Terry only slightly ahead of her now, rounded the hallway, piled into the bathroom, and there he was, curled up and half out of his favorite t-shirt on the floor by the tub, bawling. Terry shouldered past his wife and knelt on the floor, cooing soft words.

Abby hovered by the door. "Are you okay, hon?"

Ethan nodded with a quiet snuffle, still not willing to speak. He'd done enough of that at dinner. He pointed at his forehead, an angry red from when he'd slammed it against the side of the tub. Terry hefted him to his feet and they staggered out of the bathroom and into a child's bedroom while Abby pulled out a particularly well-loved pair of pajammas. She didn't meet his eyes, only perched on the bed like a sparrow.

"Terry. This is exactly what I was talking about."

He looked out the window. It was dark enough, even past the yellow glow of the streetlights, to see a few stars. The sky was grey and red, and he was sure it would snow by the end of the week.