Part 5
The Father of Caves and Clear Water
by Chris Fillebrown
Philip Young joined his wife Sarah on the sofa in the den.
“She needs to eat again,” said Sarah. “Could you feed her this time?”
“Yes.”
“Here, I’ll hold her while you get a bottle ready.”
“Thanks,” he said, handing Angela to her.
Holding her baby, Sarah filled again with maternal air, returned to her careful, nurturing activities.
Philip went to the kitchen to prepare the bottle, an automatic process after countless repetitions. He took bottle parts from the cabinet, popped the nipple into the ring that screwed onto the bottle, measured three scoops of powdered milk into the empty bottle, filled it with water to six ounces, screwed the ring that held the nipple onto the bottle, tightened it, snapped the cap on, shook the powdered milk into solution, and placed the assembly in the microwave oven. The oven’s timer counted the seconds.
Sarah got up from the sofa, Angela in arms, to clean Tad and the high-chair after his supper.
“Here,” she said.
Philip took Angela from Sarah, carried baby and bottle to the sofa for her feeding.
Sarah wiped Tad’s face and hands with a wash cloth and lifted him out of the high-chair. The two of them played together on the floor for a few minutes. Sarah then left him to play with his toy cars while she went to the bathroom to draw a tub of water.
Philip Young sat on the sofa with Angela while Sarah laid out a fresh pair of pajamas on Tad’s bed. She came from the back of the house and announced, “Bath,” which started Tad to scramble from his toy cars, running, laughing, trying to get away. Mommy let him run free for long enough to fortify his self-esteem and to encourage his sense of independence. He had so much fun in his attempt at escape that when she caught him, he stopped his struggle and collapsed to the floor laughing, daring to be tickled.
Philip could hear Tad laughing and splashing in the tub from his seat on the sofa, Angela in arms enthusiastically drinking her bottle. Tad named everything in sight. Mommy sang, rubber ducky you’re the one, who makes bath time so much fun, rubber ducky I’m in love with you, boop boop be doop. Tad sang along, hitting some of the words and parts of the melody. In his exuberance, he slipped down to his back in the water and kicked his legs, churning water into spray. A singer and a swimmer. Philip chuckled.
The antique clock Philip’s father had passed down to him when he and Sarah were married ticked on the mantle over the fireplace. The clock, black, monolithic, white-faced, its hands, graceful and fragile, disappeared into delicate points. A portal of fine flat glass protected face and hands from the ravages of time. Philip wound the clock every Sunday using the shiny silver key that lay on the mantle next to the clock.
Philip looked through the window to the left of the fireplace into their back yard. Behind their house a stand of old trees had grown along two fingers of an old creek bed. All that remained of the creek were two shallow depressions that only filled during heavy rain. Beyond the back fence that stood on the other side of the trees were the last remaining acres of a farm that had already been staked by surveyors to locate nonexistent streets for a nonexistent neighborhood.
Philip looked at Angela’s face as he listened to the clock. His mind wrapped words around clock sounds. Pendulum clock tick. Pendulum clock tock. Pendulum clock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Pendulum clock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Clock talk. Pendulum clock tick. Pendulum clock talk. Tick tock. Click clock. Tick tock. Tick tock.
Clocking on through chaos. The clock will choke in time.
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