Zary Fekete
Short Fiction
I pull the car into the driveway. It’s my wife’s mother’s house. We’re here for the summer, my wife and two boys. Her mother is having a party for the people who work for her.
We ring the doorbell and her mother opens the door.
“Come in, then.” she says. She’s been drinking some. She puts a spatula in my hand and tells me to help with the grill out back. My wife tells me she can handle the bags. I walk out back and start flipping burgers.
It’s a hot evening. The grill makes where I stand hotter. Each time I flip a burger my skin feels singed. Sweat gathers by my temples and under my arms.
It’s a big party. There are people indoors and out. Most people are drinking. There are bottles and cans everywhere.
It’s been 18 months since I’ve smelled people drinking. My wife is upstairs with the boys. I flip the burgers, thinking. The downstairs fridge is just inside the door from the grill. I slip inside, looking for a bathroom.
We’ve been here a week now. I’m out back with my younger son. We’re looking at the lake. The air is heavy and thick. We’re both wearing our swim suits. We come up with a game…which one of us can jump out farther.
We play a few rounds. Each time I climb out I brush away mosquitos. One of them finds a place on my ankle. I scratch at the bite.
After we jump for awhile I squint out at the lake. There’s a small island out in the cove.
“Let’s swim out there,” I say to my son. He shields his eyes and looks out.
“Isn’t that too far?”
“No, it’ll be fine,” I say, with a grin.
We start swimming. The water is warm like a bath. Some of it sloshes sloppily into my mouth.
We get to the island and sit in the shallow water. Small waves sweep up against our wet suits, lifting the fabric up and down. I talk to my son about something.
We swim back. That night when everyone is asleep I go downstairs.
Another week. My younger son and I are out at the water again. The mosquito bites on my legs are itching me, and I scratch them hard even though someone told me that doesn’t help. My son and I play a few rounds of the jumping game.
“Island again?” I say. I can tell he doesn’t want to. It’s actually pretty far. He doesn’t say no, because he likes doing something with me.
We jump into the water and start to pull. The water is warmer. Someone said it doesn’t fully cool down here until November.
We get to the island and sit in the shallows again. The water laps against my legs while I absently brush at the mosquitos. We don’t talk much.
We’ve been here a month. My body is slack and sallow, especially in the evenings. I don’t know where my family is today. I put on my swimming suit and go down to the lake.
The water is dead still. The sun on it hurts my eyes. I squint out at the island. I jump up and down a few times. I run and jump into the water and let my body sink all the way down to the muck below. The water down here is cool. I let my feet sink into the slime at the bottom of the lake. It’s easier to stay down here, away from the hot sun and light.
I float back up to the warm surface. I get out and jump several more times, each time feeling my skin in my face move with the air, loose and lank. I feel the liquid in my stomach slosh every time I jump. Finally, exhausted, I stand by the shore, my feet covered with mosquitos, more and more arriving all the time.
I jump in one more time and start to swim toward the island alone.
Zary Fekete has worked as a teacher in Hungary, Moldova, Romania, China, and Cambodia; lives and works as a writer in Minnesota; has been featured in variations publications including Zoetic Press, Bag of Bones Press, and Mangoprism; has a debut chapbook of short stories coming in March 2023 from Alien Buddha Press; and enjoys books, podcasts, and long, slow films. Twitter: @ZaryFekete.
Photo Credit: Photo by Fermin Rodriguez Penelas on Unsplash.
L'Esprit Literary Review 