It’s hard to explain things to a child. Mommy was playing a game. Mommy was just trying to make sure her baby was extra clean. Mommy was seeing how tough her baby was.

His eyes had been hidden beneath the bubbles he had requested to be put in the water. His pink body had wriggled. He had flailed his arms about, knocking his shampoos and bath toys into the frothing tub. His finger tips had grazed her face, tickling her nose and eyelashes. His back had begun to spasm. Heavy bubbles had swarmed to the surface and Mommy had attempted to hold him still, but he was a strong baby. He had knocked Mommy’s glasses off. He had punched her in the teeth, which had pushed Mommy back and had torn a hole through both of their hearts. He had broken the surface and his breath had caught before he could scream.

For a moment he resembled the baby he once was.

At seven he still enjoyed it when Mommy gave him a bath, but he’d begun to become self-conscious of his nudity, so he’d worn his swimming shorts with the surfboards on them. Mouth open but mute, he’d gripped these shorts as hard as he could and slammed his fists down into the tub. His scream had forced Mommy back to the wall. A towel slid off the rack behind her.

His chin had been mottled and his bottom lip had curled over his lower row of teeth. His eyes squeezed so tightly he’d turned red. The bruise on his head from where the other child had hit him turned a violent purple. He had begun to sob, his ear pressed against the tile wall.
So, she tried to explain. Mommy was just trying to do what was best. But she’d gone about it the wrong way. That was not how a Mommy protects her baby.

She picked the towel off the floor. It smelled used. She approached her son slowly.

She would show him how to defend himself. She’d show him how to shoot. She’d show him how to hide it in his supply box, underneath the rattling scissors and crayons. He’d be ready next time. It was all Mommy could do.

For now, amends had to be made. She came forward with the towel outstretched. It was hard to see without her glasses, but she could tell that he cringed. He smelled like strawberries, like his shampoo. She told him it was okay. She told him Mommy was sorry.
—
J. David Osborne lives just outside Oklahoma City with his wife and dog. His first novel, The Calf, is due out in late 2007 from Swallowdown Press. Anyone wishing to contact J. David via the web can find him at www.myspace.com/themouseketeer.