A FAMILY OUTING

By Ben Greenman / @2019

From forthcoming collection of stories, as yet untitled

The father goes to see the daughter, who’s in the bin. Or is it the mother going to see the son who's in the bin? “Don’t call it the bin,” says the child. “That’s an insulting characterization. The people here are struggling through a phase in their life, all hoping they pass through this time, that time passes through them.” Or is it the parent who speaks? Neither speaks. No one speaks. They sit on a bench, out in the courtyard, an alphabet book perched on the pads of the reader’s thumbs, pages turned in faith for the read-to, there’s an anteater, there’s a ball, there’s a cow. The clues are getting simpler as time passes through the book. “I’m calling it the bin,” says the child. “And you can’t stop me.” The parent sighs. “I’m the one who’s calling it the bin,” says the parent. “And you’re the one who can’t stop me.” The child looks at the parent. The child looks for love in the parent’s eyes. The parent’s eyes stay fixed on the book, still on cow. What’s next? Is it doll? Is it dog? Is it duck? The daughter looks at the father. The son looks at the mother. Both are afraid to turn the page. One lifts a corner. The picture is revealed, In part: a mound of dirt, a cross, a shovel. One releases the corner. The picture is concealed, in full. Time does not pass. Behind them, massed in the courtyard, leaning out of windows, fingers wriggling like worms in the spaces behind the leaves of trees, are all the other children in the bin, all the other parents, too, murmuring, yelling, buzzing, grumbling, shrieks and susurrations. Everyone is speaking.