Adoption
by Judy Cabito
Before kicking
the garbage can, Mary Anne slammed the garage
door behind her. The black cat jetted out the pet
door, under the rambling rosebushes and headed to
the neighbor’s yard.
Once inside
the house, Mary Anne slammed the door; took a key
out of her apron and unlocked the cupboard. From
there she retrieved a teapot and filled in with
water, set it on the stove and turned up the heat.
She pulled out of the cupboard two cups inscribed
MOM and DAD.
Harold toppled
in through the door slamming it shut. He sat down
at the table and put his head in his head and
whimpered, “Why? Why us?”
“Damned
if I know. I thought we were good people, ‘so
kind and understanding.’ Isn’t that
what they said to us?” Mary Anne said.
“That’s
what we get for not reading the fine print. No
returns.”
A shadow ran
past the window. They both looked out at the
backyard.
“Who was
that?”
“I don’t
know. How can you tell one from the other? You’d
better go look. If they get loose again, we’re
doomed.”
“Damn if
I’m going out there,” Mary Ann barked.
Harold got up,
pushed his chair across the room. “Damn it
all Mary Anne; it’s always me, never you.
Did you forget it was your idea? It would’ve
never happened if it hadn’t been for you.
All those tears and begging.”
“You went
along with it. It’s not like it was all me.
You did the renovations in the garage, the attic,
and built the shed out back. And what about that
mobile home you dragged home and parked in the
driveway? And don’t forget about those cribs
you built. And the bunk room with ten beds.”
She wiggled an accusing finger, the only one she
had left on that hand.
Harold opened
the door. “This is the last time, Mary Anne,
that is if I come back alive. You hear me, Mary
Anne? You hear me?”
“You’ll
act the same way as last time Harold, looking at
those soft faces and cooing, thinking of how cute,
thinking of all the promises of a new tomorrow.”
Harold left
out the back door, slamming it, His footsteps
down the porch thundered. Mary Anne kept
vigilance on the back window; shadows filled it.
She pushed herself up against the wall of the
living room. A disturbing noise came from the
yard: screeching, weeping, whimpers.
Peaking through the door, she saw a swirl of a
hundred shadows scurrying around.
“No,”
she screamed.
Harold crashed
in through the kitchen door. “The horror,
Mary Anne, the horror.”
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