Not Even Once
By: Valori Maresco
Tags: Abuse, Courage, Short Fiction, Change Your Life, Short Story

Not Even Once

A Very Short Short Story

Folks said lightning never strikes the same place twice. That’s what Mama called an old wives tale.

Tonight lightning had struck. It was a dark night, a night like any other night, dark by nature. There had been no rain or thunder or lightning outside. But there was a storm, a normal storm. With lightning.

Molly sat in the corner, pulling the thick drapery panel across her face, allowing the outer blackness to enter the dimly lit kitchen. The single 40-watt bulb swung and flickered over the table, its tired light dancing over two half empty dinner plates. A third, out of the light’s reach, lay shattered on the floor beneath the opposite wall, the same wall where the mashed potatoes clung for life, unlike the peas and meatloaf, who had yielded to their fate.

Molly couldn’t sob. She dared not sob, even if it were possible.

It was Daddy again.

“Sometimes he has bad days,” Mama always said after each storm.

Molly always went to the same corner when Daddy had a bad day. He didn’t seem to even know she was there, but she hid nonetheless. He knew where Mama was. There was never any doubt about that. Lightning always found its target.

“Some of those old wives don’t know much,” Mama would say, when the facts contradicted the tale.

Oh, how she loved Mama! She wanted to love Daddy. But Daddy’s storms drove the happy thoughts right out of her.

She heard the screen door slam shut. Twice.

The light bulb completed its swing and stilled. The whole house was still except for a soft thud as the clump of mashed potatoes succumbed to gravity. Molly peeked out from behind the drapes.

There had been sounds earlier, too many sounds, sounds so close together that the screams were indistinguishable from the thuds; the shrieks from the crash of kitchenware.

But now things were still. And in the stillness, Molly heard the soft thud of the mashed potatoes.

Mama made the best mashed potatoes! They were smooth and creamy and when she put the pat of butter on the top, it made a little yellow lake. Then, when you pressed your fork into the potatoes, the butter flowed down the sides and made pretty yellow stripes.

Molly surveyed the scene before her. She saw her and Mama’s plates on the table. She saw Daddy’s broken plate on the floor, the bits of pottery intermingled with the peas and meatloaf. She saw the mashed potatoes on the floor. And she sobbed.

Daddy usually loved mashed potatoes. But not tonight. He told Mama she should have known that. She should have known that tonight was corn on the cob night. They had already had mashed potatoes that week.

Mama told Daddy that she was sorry. She was trying to use up the rest of the potatoes in the bag and she thought he would like that since he always said how he loved mashed potatoes. And that they should save money.

Daddy did not like Mama to talk back. And he had wanted corn on the cob. And he didn’t give a damn about saving money. Not when he wanted corn on the cob.

Molly really didn’t like corn on the cob.

She crawled out from her hiding place and over to the kitchen table. Retrieving Mama’s plate, she pushed it across the floor and began to pile Daddy’s broken bits and wasted pieces onto it. She used one of the pottery shards to scrape the mashed potatoes from the floor. The good thing about mashed potatoes is that even after being thrown across the room, they were still mashed potatoes.

A car door slammed, an engine revved, tires screeched.

The screen door squeaked and banged. Just once.

Mama stood in the kitchen doorway, the lightning marks on her face and arms.

“Molly, hon, just leave it. Come with Mama.”

“But what about the mess, Mama? What about Daddy?”

“Daddy can clean up his own mess. Go get your little suitcase and pack your favorite things and come with Mama. I’ve been saving up some grocery money so we can take a nice trip. Got just enough now.”

*****

Mama looked pretty in her yellow and white striped dress as they climbed the steps of the big bus. She rested her head against the window pane and gazed out at the cloudless night sky while Molly rested her own head on Mama’s shoulder.

“Does it hurt, Mama?”

“It will be all better soon, baby.”

“Where are we goin’, Mama?”

“Someplace beautiful, Molly. Where Mama can make all the mashed potatoes she wants and where lightning never strikes, not even once.”