Next To The Gutter

He arrived home from school, and entered the house, into its dead feeling. The hall as usual littered with purple Post-Its that had lost their stick. The first of his mother’s notes read “EAT,” followed by a sprinkling of others darkened with arrowheads that pointed to the kitchen.

On the fridge, a new note read “Milk’s off. Don’t toss. I’ll use for my tea.” The note below it read “Turkey’s good. Not sure about chicken, your call.” On the stove the note in red marker read “Don’t touch.” He sat at the kitchen table, lining-up crackers and the jar of peanut-butter, and moving aside the note that read “After snack, homework.”

In the living room, the yellow Post-It on the TV screen read: “Don’t you dare.” In his bedroom, on his desk, she’d written on a ruled-sheet of yellow paper: “Check your homework twice.” On his DS: “Only if you’ve done everything else.” In the bathroom, on the toilet lid her faded scribbles read “Flush. Wash Hands.” Stuck to the front of the soap dish: “Count to 25 50. Slowly!”

On her bedroom door: “Stay Out.” His father had walked-out on his mother when she was pregnant, hadn’t even waited to see what she’d give him. Lately, she’d taken to calling the boy “The Man of the House.” Under his bedcovers, pinned to his flattened Paddington Bear that he’d had since he was a baby another new note read: “Time to toss this.”

He returned to his mother’s bedroom door, sniffing from between its cracks her face powder and spicy perfume, taking it in. At six o'clock, when he heard her car pulling into the driveway, he reached for the pile of Post-Its on the kitchen counter, choosing one from the orange stack.

When she stepped through the front door, he stood waiting, Paddington Bear clutched to his stomach. She stopped short. On the Post-It pressed to the boy’s forehead he’d written “Free–Please Take.” He pushed out past her, trembling, and took-up position on the street.