PRESERVATION

A Vaccination Novel (Book 3)

Phillip Tomasso

Prologue

I hated clowns. Nothing about them worked for me. They painted expressions onto their faces with gobs of makeup; giant, exaggerated smiles or frowns; tears and eyebrow art. They sported honking Rudolph-red noses, oversized shoes, baggy hula-hooped pants and striped shirts with lapel-pinned flowers that sprayed water. There was also no forgetting the multi-colored afros, or horseshoe-shaped balding patterned wigs. This was funny? No. In fact it was scary; downright creepy and frightening.

Julie hired not one, but two, for Cash’s birthday party. The kid was turning three. What did he know about clowns? Cash wouldn’t even sit on Santa’s lap.

Santa.

Please, please don’t get me started on how horrifying and perpetually wrong it is for a giant fat man with an unkempt beard and red velvet suit to want kids sitting on his knee. To be fair, I might just be referring to department store Santas. Ah, excuse me? You want my kid to sit on your lap and tell you secrets? I don’t think so, you fucking pervert!

That’s just me, the kind of dad I was. Call me cheap and overprotective if you’d like. The money spent on clowns, and the time wasted in lines at malls, just didn’t add up to me at times.

“Where’s Cash?” Playing host was always a challenging and daunting task. The backyard was dressed up with colored coiled streamers that ran along branches of the Rose of Sharon that outlined the property, and if you squinted, it might have resembled a festive circus-like environment. Somehow, all I could focus on was the swarms of bees that loved those flowery tree-like bushes. The bees were freaking everywhere. It was impossible to enjoy eating outside with all of those bees. I wanted to rent a pavilion for the party. We still could have decorated, had the clowns and everything else, but we just would have been able to do it without all of the bees. Day after the party, I was taking the Rose of Sharon down. All of them. I kept thinking how nice it would be mowing the lawn and not having to run by the bushes every time just to avoid agitating the stinging insects.

The bouncy house in the center of the yard was like an inflatable red torture chamber. The ten foot high fortress was made up of rows of bulbous tube upon bulbous tube filled with air from a running air pump generator. That generator hummed, grind and stunk of gasoline. Kids disappeared inside through a Velcro sealed doorway, and we lost them. They were gone. They had vanished into a rubbery castle that shook as if it was in the midst of a constant earthquake. It bounced and bobbed, and threatened to deflate. The entire time sounds of kids screaming went ignored. Parents mingled, scooping out handful after handful of M&Ms, salted peanuts or quickly going stale potato chips from bowls spread out on tables covered in Dollar Store tablecloths that needed to be taped to the underside to keep from blowing away. No one paid any attention to the chaos erupting inside the bouncy house, no one.

“Where is Cash?” I said, again, realizing that in order to be heard I needed to speak more loudly, and actually make physical contact placing my hands on my wife’s shoulder in order to gain her attention.

“Cash? Oh, he’s with my mother over in the high-chair,” Julie said, and pointed with a nod of her head and using the tip of her nose like a finger. She carried a tray of fresh cut vegetables with homemade dipping sauce out of the house. It would be feverishly gobbled up. Family and friends were here to celebrate Cash’s birthday, and brought gifts. Their reward for giving up precious time on a Saturday afternoon was being fed. They came hungry, always did. The bowls of junk, the trays of veggies were what made up the hors d’oeuvres. The coolers lining the back of the sun porch were filled with ice, beer and soda pop and would empty soon. It was okay, because we had a backup. We’d resort to two liter bottles stored in the fridge.

“You need any help?” I held the door open, even after she set the tray down on the closest table, since I knew she would be headed back inside. Serving guests was a chore that never ended. Pasta baked in the oven and salads needed dressing mixed. The kitchen table was in the process of transformation into a grand buffet line.

“We’re set,” she said. Call it old fashioned, but most of the females were inside prepping the main courses for lunch. No one told them they had to do it. I certainly never expected my wife to do the cooking. It’s just the way things unfolded. Possibly, it had something to do with the fact I’ve been known to burn boxed mac and cheese.

I gave her a kiss. She smiled and ducked under my arm and went back into the house.

I spotted my mother-in-law standing by the highchair. Cash sat with his back toward me, his arms waved about up in the air.

“You know how to throw a party, McKinney.” My brother-in-law clapped me on the back. I could smell beer and M&M’s on his breath, despite the breeze outside. Couldn’t fault him. It was a party. Beer was free. M&Ms were everywhere. Why not get lit. If it was his party, or anyone else’s, for that matter, I would do the exact same thing.

My mother-in-law’s mouth formed a giant “O” before she covered her face with both hands.

“Mom?” I started toward her, toward my son. Felt it in my stomach; a churning, a flip-flop. Something was wrong.

She stepped away from the highchair, took several steps backwards. I heard Cash cry. Despite the shouts that echoed out from the bouncy house; from the mood music that blared from a radio set in the kitchen window; from the fucking clowns doing lame magic tricks to their screaming-kid audience in front of me, I heard, distinctly, my son crying.

“Mom!” I said.

The first clown stepped in front of me with that goofy and eccentric smile, but I saw his real mouth camouflaged under a stoned application of red lipstick. He wasn’t smiling. His lips weren’t fooling me. And why did I give a shit that he was pulling yards of scarfs out of his sleeve? Why would anyone be impressed with that? Who the fuck would care?

I pushed him aside. The more steps I took toward my son, it seemed like the further away from him I was. I just couldn’t get there, couldn’t get to him.

The second clown was stooping forward. All I could hear at that moment was the squeaking scrape of balloons being twisted and tied into shapes. A horse, a dog, a crown, a sword. It wasn’t an intentional hip-check, but I did send the clown stumbling forward and face first into a budding bush of Rose of Sharon. I heard the clown scream and watched him scramble backwards as bees stung his face and head. His swatting hands did nothing more than further irritate the bees. I did not laugh when he ran away from the bush into the bouncy house, fell flat on his back and gasped as the breath was knocked from his lungs. It was partly my fault, okay, but let’s be serious, most of the blame for his lack of balance stemmed from his fucking huge Ronald McDonald shoes.

I put out a hand like a silent apology, as if to say, oh, man, I’m sorry, are you okay, but I didn’t stop to help him up.

Cash still sat in the highchair, his back to me, my mother-in-law now letting out tiny shrieks. Her mouth was open wide with hands pressed to her cheeks.

I reached him, and removed the tray, lifted him into my arms, and spun around to face my mother-in-law, ready to ask her what the hell her problem was…when I saw Cash’s face.

I’d thought he was covered in blue cake frosting. That couldn’t be it. The cake was still in the house. We would light candles and sing Happy Birthday after we ate, not before.