by Nathan W. Leslie

February

On Loaf Island death arrives in February. It is a month between seasons and Loaf Islanders distrust it, believing it to be cursed. With good reason. In recent history February has featured numerous earthquakes, eruptions, typhoons, floods and fires. We haven’t a clue what will strike us next.

Several years ago we suffered a series of fires and then once those were doused, vast hordes of blaze beetles and gorgindo feasted upon the scorched plants and at times it seemed as though the entire island was consumed by a buzzing, crawling mass. Then came the torrential rains, ruining many houses and farms and wiping out dozens in the deluge.

February is the month when most Loaf Islanders depart for the mainland. It is also the month of little to no tourism, as the month has a reputation that precedes it.

But this past February was mostly perfect, each day balmy and pleasant. We were paranoid, but also hopeful—perhaps the curse was broken. Perhaps another month would take the place of February as the accursed time. Or perhaps we would luck out and each month would be an uninterrupted pleasure. Yet on the very last day of February a storm hit the island, destroying hundreds of buildings in the city as a result of wind and rain and even a score of lightning strikes. The lightning struck the governor’s house, the museum, the statehouse, and the prison (many prisoners escaped in the ensuing chaos).

Edvard Kurnuckle was a man of distinction. Born on the Western side of the island in poverty, he was self-taught and became one of the most prominent historians on Loaf Island. He wrote the oft-emulated A Tableau of Loaf Island:  A History. He lived in one of the nicest homes on Loaf Island—a house perched on a cliff over the sand, a mile south of the city, surrounded by orange and red and blue flowers. 

When the storm hit, the cliff collapsed and Kurnuckle’s house slid into the sound. Edvard was seated at his writing chair, working on a chapter of his latest study of the Vurn entitled Vurn:  A History of a People. When the roof caved in upon him, he felt nothing. It was as if the hand of God smashed a gnat. Instantaneous. His unfinished manuscripts were swept away by the surf and tides. He was remembered only by a handful. 

Yellowjackets

Mike claimed that Wayne’s friend Nick was not a good friend. No one who teaches you how to cuss like that should be given access to your home and life, Mike said. The way that Mike said it, also, made Wayne believe that Mike might do something to stop Nick from spending time with him. Mike was older so he could be a protective dick. He could be an older brother, even if he did like to pile drive Wayne into the grass in their rough and tumbles. Boys, Wayne’s mother said. What can you do about all these boys?

On Wayne’s birthday Mike and Wayne tramped down to the creek and played with the garbage. There was a busted television set on a pile of rocks and a pink toilet and an array of bottles and cans and half-decomposed cardboard packaging. There were stockings and pillows and stuffed animals. The community clearly decided the creek could double as a dump and, as far as Wayne knew, it had always been that way. In the future maybe some do-gooders would organize a clean-up or the county would take over the green space and rectify the land with public funds. However, for now, it was a creek laden with trash.

Mike found an enormous peanut butter jar and they each took rocks and from fifty feet away attempted to peg the jar—the first one to do so would win a buck. Mike was not particularly athletic and missed most of his throws by a wide margin. After several close misses, Wayne though nailed the center of the glass with a heavy rock on his sixth toss. Mike high-fived him and they walked towards the jar to inspect the damage. That was when the yellow jackets emerged, unhappy. Not only was their nest shattered but so was their food source—the remaining peanut butter at the bottom of the jar. The yellow jackets, which neither kid noticed, came streaming out at both kids and Mike and Wayne high-tailed it back across the bridge and down the sidewalk and street heading back into the neighborhood. 

But Mike was stung five times. Wayne was stung sixteen times and his mother, upon seeing him, wondered if they shouldn’t take him to the hospital. She dabbed ice all over his body. 

“Good for him. He’ll toughen up,” his father said. “It’s good character builder.”

For some unknown reason Wayne’s mother decided to take his picture—with his puffed up face and his wedge chocolate cake. It was a contrast. He tried to smile through the pain, but in the image you notice the glistening icing and the swollen face—that is it. Even his fingers look puffy. You’ll never forget this day, she said. She sounded almost happy somehow, though how could she be?

Why Should I Care about a Garden Bench?

Wayne thought. Dawn was in full fill-the-house-with-furniture-mode—nice pieces from the most expensive store in town. She wanted a chandelier in the dining room that cost more than his car. She wanted a sectional couch that neared five figures. Fancy art. Fancy armoire and inlaid wood. Wayne had no idea she was like this—her dingy apartment was all hand-me downs and cheap posters. But now he made money and so did she. Life was too short, she said. All the clichés. 

The thought of burning down their house and taking the insurance money to start over crossed his mind. She was not greedy; she just wanted everything to be nice, to be a place where they could host dinner parties and have her mother over for tea (her father died when she was a little girl). Beauty meant something to her. 

If everyone has something beautiful around them the world would be a better place. It calms, she said once. It has a way of bringing the tension down in life. He liked what she said, but he didn’t feel like going broke as a result. They were bickering for the first time in their relationship. He trudged to the corner bar more often to tell his troubles to the strangers there, throw a few darts. 

When Dawn started in on the garden, Wayne initially couldn’t care less. His gardening days were behind him, he said. He did plenty as a boy. Dawn told him about her plan—rose garden, small English garden on the side, lots of manicured azaleas in front and in back a shade garden with a hand-crafted garden bench—wrought-iron preferably. 

We need a fancy bench—outside? No.

Just in case, you know, we have someone over and they are walking around in the backyard and feel faint and want to sit down.

What is this Pride and Prejudice? Those things don’t happen. Nobody will be tramping about our yard and if they do, it’s hurry up and get it over with. 

Or maybe I just want to sit out there and read. Or maybe you do?

I’m not reading surrounded by mosquitoes.

But Dawn said she didn’t want to bicker. If he didn’t like the bench idea, then no bench needed.

But then Wayne felt guilty because he was denying something essential to her. She lost her father—maybe the bench is a replacement of sorts. Maybe by sitting outside in the shade reading a book she is working out the psychological kinks of her life. Not that she has the time to do such things with the busy job and life and maybe plans on having a little one soon. But. Whatever she wanted, to keep the wheels greased and happy.

Go ahead with the bench, he said. 

Are you sure? You seem to really be against the idea. Maybe it’s best to leave it be. Maybe you are right? It’s a luxury—not a necessity. 

No, now I really want the garden bench. I must have it. If we don’t have that fucking bench I will chew my insides out, Wayne said.

So they got the bench. 

For a few weeks Dawn did use it—for reading, for sorting her mail. She seemed to make a point of making sure that Wayne saw her use the bench. But never did a guest put their bottom on the garden bench. It was located under a messy tree and covered in bird shit half the time. There would be a day when Wayne would take a sledgehammer to the bench—he could see that in his future. Until then, he would avoid sitting in it. He would walk right past it, mowing the lawn. And if the clippings gathered on the bench, he wouldn’t wipe them off. Save that for the wind.

Nathan Leslie won the 2019 Washington Writers’ Publishing House prize for fiction for his collection of short stories, Hurry Up and Relax. He is also the series editor for Best Small Fictions. Invisible Hand (2022) and A Fly in the Ointment (2023) are his latest books. Nathan’s previous books of fiction include Three Men, Root and Shoot, Sibs, and The Tall Tale of Tommy Twice. He is also the author of a collection of poems, Night Sweat. Nathan is currently the founder and organizer of the Reston Reading Series in Reston, Virginia, and the publisher and editor of the online journal Maryland Literary Review. Previously he was series editor for Best of the Web and fiction editor for Pedestal Magazine. His fiction has been published in hundreds of literary magazines such as Shenandoah, North American Review, Boulevard, Hotel Amerika, and Cimarron Review. Nathan’s nonfiction has been published in The Washington Post, Kansas City Star, and Orlando Sentinel. Nathan lives in Northern Virginia.