Beyond the Car Wash

By Thomas Siefert

“Sammie! You shout from the other side of the road. Where’s Da?”

Your sister shrugs.

“Where you goin’, Sammie?”

Tired of your screaming, she crosses the road where the cars were abandoned a couple days ago. That was the first thing to run out: gas. Then, there was no more fresh food and everyone moved out. You heard some of them reached the sea. Others went back to their family home, in Arkansas or Missouri.

“It all ends tomorrow, so, for once, can you stop yelling?”

As sole answer, you raise a bag with two bottles of warm Belle Rose.

“Is it French beer? How’d you get it?”

You tell her the corner store is empty now, Murray went away too.

On the way back to the house, you discuss your father’s whereabouts. He may be at the fire-station, one last time. Or at the cinema? He could give an old reel a spin. The car’s not in the driveway, the front door is open. It always is now. You never know, in this kind of situation, who might need an open door, a glass of water. But you begin to worry about your Da. People you know disappeared for good. One minute they’re here, the next, poof. You don’t want Da to go poof.

Your Ma is in the living-room, pressing buttons on the remote with frantic anxiety. The TV is just grey snow. It seems even the catholic channels decided to give it a rest.

“Sammie, Marsh! It just went like that. I don’t know what to do!”

“It’s alright, Ma, don’t worry, Sammie says. Read a book. They’re always on.”

Ma hugs you and whispers something in your ear, but you don’t really understand. For a few hours now, some words have lost their meaning. All you hear are little songs, oscillations in the air. You still get most things though. A bit of rage grows in your stomach, how unfair it is that your mother’s voice got so distant.

“Have you seen Da?” you ask.

“He took the car, went South.”

Sammie gives you that look, and you both know what he’s doing, so you tell Ma you’ll be back before dark. She doesn’t answer, and presses buttons again. The sky’s red orange when you get to the end of the road. There’s the car wash, and beyond there’s the supermarket. Your Da’s car is the only one that doesn’t look like a wreck.

Inside the store where everything’s a looted disaster, a vibrant wave of peace reigns over the aisles. It’s all so quiet, so fine. Even the mouldy bread has a kinda beauty. Following the squeaky wheel of the cart, you find your father in the breakfast aisle. He stops in front of endless rows of jam, and stares.

“Hey, Da” you say, “whatcha doin’?”

He looks at you with the eyes of a man who’s done a fine job with you but still thinks he could’ve done more. That’s love, some say.

“Hey, Marsh. I was... you know.”

“One last time,” you say.

“Yeah, that’s right. The little things.”

Sammie goes away and comes back a minute later with a few cans of beer.

“They’re warm and dented, but you know, it’s good anyway.”

You all crack them open and cheer in a heavy silence. Muttered words are exchanged, but you don’t catch them.

“The jars of jam, your Da says, they’re all the same. I wanted to check anyway. Don’t you feel they’ve got something more to tell, and we were too busy to care?”

Sammie lets a hard laugh out.

“Yeah, she says, that’s one way to put it.”

Unbothered, your Da looks at you, Marsh. He knows you understand. He knows your sister understands too, even though she tries to distance herself from this moment. He shrugs and picks up the jar of blackberry jam right in front of him. He reads the composition. You and Sammie put your hands on his shoulders.

“You know, he says, it’s nothing. It’s just... one last time. How we used to... You know what I mean. Before it all. The little things.”

Thomas Siefert is a French writer and editor. As a writer, he works with the French and English language, and focuses on the creation of new forms of story-telling and emotional effects. He has published two novels, an illustrated poetry collection, and multiple works in magazines in France, Belgium, and the US. He currently lives on the coast of Normandy. He likes cookies and Bauhaus.