Fat Lips

In the morning, it doesn’t look so bad, but I keep Chas home anyway with his fat lower lip because, let’s face it, neither of us slept much after he fell out of the loft last night. We drop Ford off at school and coast back home down the hill  into the pink valley smog. Hot coffee and pumpkin pie.

We discover two eggs from the newest hatch of Orpingtons (who knows which one layed them). They’re still warm, waiting for us under the southern sunshine. So we take them inside to the stove and turn on the flame. Chas picks the small stainless skillet and I let it warm up. He stands on his stool next to the stove, fat lip swollen round cranberry red, watching me grease the pan. Soon it’s hot, and we each crack an egg in, one by one. The yolks shine upright like marigold yellow balls.

With crazed maternal determination I clear a space in Ford’s bedroom for a twin bed that I haven’t bought yet. Chas will sleep in this spot, instead of the loft, because if he doesn’t fall out then eventually he’ll be kicked out and fall flat on his face again. I push furniture around like a house rat, carving a cozy, clean sleeping corner for Chas while he plays alongside me with a small white Lego trooper and a ginormous Burr oak acorn cap.

Somehow I make it home within the next hour from the Ikean labyrynth with a twin boxspring and four bed legs, and then somehow I put the bed together.

Thirty minutes later I arrive at the school. The yellow leaves are falling from maple trees atop the long blue afternoon shadows and while we wait for Ford to appear from the classroom, Chas and I stare out into the open field, quiet as mice. A jet from San Francisco scores the cloudless turquoise sky with a thin white contrail towards Los Angeles by way of the coastline. In the rear view mirror, Chas watches it pass and rests his head against the glass window. Then he asks me when we are flying to Houston.

In one week and two days, I reply, showing him 9 of my fingers, and he bites his lip to stifle his glee; I bite my lip, cringing.