My Place Among Men by Kris Millgate

Author:Kris Millgate
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inkshares
Published: 2019-03-19T16:00:00+00:00

I firmly lower myself into my bath, my arms starting to muscle more from crutching. That’s a useful discovery. Then I make sure my right leg is high and dry on the stool my boys first used post-potty training. That’s right: the pee stool from their toilet is now in my tub. When they first learned to pee like men, they weren’t tall like men. Their bellies, instead of their knees, were at the bowl. I bought a folding stool for them to stand on, giving them proper height for better aim. When the boys grew, the pee stool moved to the closet. It recently found new purpose in my tub.

I wonder what my bone doctor thinks of that: keeping bones dry, but using a stool once saturated in urine to do it. Deep down, disgusting. That’s what it is, but hold on. It’s brilliant in its utility. At least, that’s what I decide. The decision is a huge development for me. I’m not into people germs, but I want a bath so badly that I’m willing to put the pee stool in my tub to get it.

I close my eyes, thinking the setup is super. My ears amplify sound when my eyes are shut, so I start listening, rather than looking, for action. Not much moving in the house. The boys are asleep still, the deep purple of early rise not enough to poke at them yet. I hear the ice maker clank in the kitchen one level lower than where I am. It’s turning over another batch of cubes in its internal bucket. I’ll make good use of that batch in my ice packs in a few hours. Other than that, the house is still. But outside, there’s activity.

I keep my eyes closed and listen harder, holding still to be sure.

“Who, who, who are you?”

Yep, an owl. It’s north of the house, beyond the neighborhood, in what’s left of an undeveloped field I used to run in and had cut a cross-country ski trail through the day before my leg broke. Bet that’s buried by now. Stop sulking. Concentrate. Hooting owl here. Your leg is no big deal in the big picture. An owl is. Urban sprawl is pushing them farther out, but this one is coming in.

It’s probably hunting. For a meal or a mate, I can’t be sure. I don’t know what the call does in the dark, but I recognize it every time I hear it and I hear it more in the winter.

“Who, who, who are you?”

The call teases me to answer. It’s closer to the house now and a bit to the east, toward the bald eagle nest near our neighborhood. The eagles aren’t there much in the winter, but I bet their food supply still is.

I listen to the owl until its call drops like an unanswered ring going to voicemail or, even more abrupt, disconnecting. I picture the owl wrapping up its hunt, silencing sound, and hooding its lids over its bright yellow-orbed eyes like hanging up a phone.

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