Story #37 - Buggie

Buggie

It wasn’t that she was scared.

Not at all.

She was just…prudent.

She liked that word, prudent. It sounded like a funny fruit – I’ll have two cups of the prudents, please, and a mango. It made her giggle even though she knew what it meant. Cautious. Sensible. Not-silly.

Still, the word was funny.

And she wasn’t scared. Not at all.

She pulled the door out an inch from the doorframe and peered into the darkened hall. She was supposed to be in bed and she knew it, but the need of a quick drink of water called to her – the bathroom was only a few doors down from hers. Still, it was awfully dark out there. Winter brought darkness early and Mother had been very particular. She was to be in bed.

It had been a long day, though, and she was thirsty. A break in the weather and Mother being away from home gave her a few glorious hours of freedom, skidding down the snow-packed hill like she was conquering hero, demanding the packed white mass beneath her submit. She hadn’t eaten much for dinner; Mother hadn’t made enough for them all, and though her tummy rumbled she could ignore that, sleep through it until morning. Her throat, though, hurt. Her throat burned.

There was sound further up the hallway and she tensed, one hand clasped on the knob and the other tightly clutching Buggie. He wasn’t much of a friend, Buggie, with his too-flat face and dead eyes, but Mother said it was the best that could be done, under the circumstances, because things had “changed”. That didn’t make sense – why did Mother get under the circumstances in the first place if this was happened – but at least she had Buggie.

The one and only time she’d been allowed a friend over he’d told her that Buggie was probably cut from oak or pine, but couldn’t understand why she didn’t have a plush toy like other kids. She’d laughed at that – Buggie might not be much to snuggle up to but he’d warm up nicely if she held him close. He was a thin thing, years of her childhood love having worn him down and right now he might be more harm than help, but she wasn’t going to leave him behind. He was Buggie.

A few deep breaths and a watchful eye on the hallway told her that no one was stirring in Mother’s room. One quick breath and she was out the door, pulling it softly shut behind her. Buggie thunked softly as he caught the edge of the doorframe and she froze again, crouched in the darkness like a blind cat wondering if the dog was coming.

There were no growls, no low-throated tones of displeasure drifting from Mother’s room and after a moment she took a hesitant step forward. She’d long memorized which boards in the house made noise and which didn’t, but what if a new one suddenly cropped up? What if one simply gave way? No, better to be slow. She’d get there eventually.

Buggie wanted her to hurry – he always got heavy in her hands when he was in hurry – but she forced herself to take one slow step at a time.

Almost there. Almost there. Not afraid. Not afraid.

It became a mantra, a chant she used to keep her sanity on the long trek down the hall. It had been minutes, hours, a day or more and she was still walking, creeping like a shadow when no one was looking. She was almost there.

Her throat burned; the water would be a perfect reward for her endurance, her patience in the hallway. And there it was! The bathroom door, open just a crack, just how she’d left it earlier. Mother never used this bathroom, preferring the one in her room or downstairs, and no one else had bothered it in the night. This was one of the sticky doors, one of the squealy ones in the house. Leaving it open was her only way safely in.

Now was the time for speed.

Dashing the last few feet she slipped into the bathroom between the door and the frame, being sure to flip Buggie sideways so he wouldn’t go making noise again.

On the sink counter was her favorite cup – a blue and yellow plastic affair that she’d had as long as she could remember. Mother wouldn’t let her have it in her room.

Reaching out, she gently set the cup in the sink and twisted, ever so gently, on the cold water tap. She’d “forgotten” to close it all the way when she got ready for bed, leaving it open enough that she wouldn’t have to force it but closed enough so it wouldn’t drip water. Soon, a steady little stream poured out, merrily and quietly tinkling into the glass.

Behind her, the door squealed.

Buggie jumped back and she followed, blinded by the light that seared her eyes. In her surprise the cup went over onto its side, spilling water down into the drain.

Mother raged.

“Foolish child!” Mother was red-eyed and slack-jawed, a looming monkey more than a mom. Her flowered nightgown was plastered against her floppy form, patches of sweat oozing and flowing over its cotton length. “Water’s expensive, you waster! Waster!”

She cringed. She knew what would come next. Closing her eyes, she held Buggie tight.

The slap took her full in the face and she fell, arms windmilling as she went. Buggie, sweet Buggie went forward, anger running up his wooden length.

Another slap was expected but didn’t follow. Opening her eyes showed the scene; noble Buggie, corner-first in the side of Mother’s head, Mother face down on the bathroom floor.

Tugging Buggie free, she slipped him under the water. Most of the red came off, but she’d have to put him away and work on him later. He deserved to be clean, after all.

Mother’s back made it easy to climb up and get her cup, then fill it with water and step lightly into the hallway. These must be the circumstances Mother had been talking about – she knew things had changed.

Maybe forever.

She wasn’t scared. Not at all.

- D