The Tell-Tale Fart

They’re looking at me like they can tell. I know they can’t. The only three that know are me, the fella in that deep hole, and my shovel. Still, Aunt Ida has paid me the not-so-subtle side eye all evening, and uncles Al and Sam have been exchanging cryptic comments and nods, and looking away at odd times. Christmas dinner is always weird, but this year it feels weirder. Mom and Dad have been cool, though. It was probably just me. 

“How’s clown college?” My cousin Alex chewed away at something green as he raised an eyebrow in half-interest. 

I huffed a quick chuckle despite his irreverent tone. “Carpool’s tough in the morning. But I’ve been getting a big foot in the door with some of my red-nosed professors.” 

Alex squinted at me like he wanted to punch my face, caught a quick glance of uncle Jack turning a listening ear toward our end of the table, and let it go with a shrug. 

“You come up with any new gags?” My kid sister kicked her feet as she smiled up at me.

She was adorable. “We’re doing a thing with a Poe story.” I knew she loved Poe and all that gothy stuff. “The Telltale Fart.”

She sneered like she smelled it, and covered her snicker. We both noticed our mother scanning the group and coming to land on us. We straightened in our seats and appreciated the dining room ceilings for a few moments before I asked her if she knew who Power Rangers were. My sister laughed and our mom moved on with a lingering trace of suspicion. “You’re a Power Ranger.” She stuck her tongue out at me.

“I wish. How cool would that be?”

She rolled her eyes and blew a raspberry. “You’re such a dork.”

“I suppose that’s fair.”

“So, Merik.” I’d forgotten that Aunt Gladys was sitting right next to me. “Your mother tells me you’re moving to California.”

Most Illinoisans saw escaping to the west coast as a kind of treason, not punishable by death, but still inexcusable. I smiled warmly. “Not until the end of summer.” Then with a squint of mischief. “You gonna come visit, Auntie?”

She clutched her invisible pearls with one hand and waved the notion away with the other. “Oh, good lord. That’ll be the day. You’ll never catch me out there with all those reefer smoking, communist hippies.” 

“Well, the Invitation’s always open. Dad’s letting me take the foldout from the den.” The ugliest orange couch ever manufactured this side of the Atlantic, with an equally uncomfortable bed. Aunt Gladys had been forced to sleep in it back in the winter of ‘87 and still hadn’t let it go almost seven years later. In fact, just the mention of the couch caused her to reflexively throw a lobby of daggers in my father’s direction.

My sister knocked a foot into my calf and leaned in with a whisper. “What’s a reefer?”

I snorted. “Uh… cigarettes. It’s just another word for cigarettes.”

She wrinkled her nose. She could always tell when I wasn’t playing it straight with her.

I shrugged and glanced around as if to say, ‘Come on. I can’t tell you stuff like that here.’

She understood and nodded knowingly as she popped a forkful of, as she called them—potatoes all rotten, in her mouth. She wasn’t much of a chewer, she ate more like a pelican than an eleven-year-old girl. “Can I come visit?”

“Just when I need help with homework.” 

She wasn’t only a little bit of a kid-genius, she was also a wiz at sarcasm. “Oh. So, like every weekend?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I don’t think I have that kind of time.”

“Few do.” 

“Besides I thought the whole point of going to acting school was to get out of homework?”

“That was my main reason.”

She plowed a trough through a pile of creamed limas. “Do you really have a ‘Telltale Fart’ skit?”

She caught me off guard and I spit a piece of french onion halfway across the table as I choked on my laugh. I thumped my chest and took a sip of water. “We don’t.” I took another sip. “Sounds like it could be pretty funny, though. Maybe you can help me write it up after dinner.”

“Yeah. like, he feels so guilty about his fart that he just jumps up and goes,” jumping onto her seat, “It was me, villains. I was the farter. Smell my butt.” Her boisterous performance drew little attention over the raucous conversation, save our mother who glared more at me than her.

I shrugged an apology. “Sit down fart master.”

She plopped back down. “You’re the fart master.”

We returned our attention to our food and listened in on conversations, nodding and agreeing when appropriate. After dinner most of the family retired to either the den or the living room. I always liked helping mom and aunt Mary attack the kitchen. I used to catch a little flack for it from some of my cousins when I was younger, but it kept me from having to pass the evening making inoffensive small talk, the childish chidings were well worth not having to listen to the inane and uninteresting chatter of my more boorish family members. My cousin, Alex, came bustling through the swinging double doors to the dining room, calling over his shoulder as he did. He turned a not-yet-glazy eye on me.

I gave him a tight lipped nod as I slid the casserole dishes back into their cupboard. “Hey.” I whipped the dish towel off of its hook and began drying the mismatched glassware, a hundred cups that were all too tiny and only used on the holidays.

“Hey, yourself.” He dug into the fridge, snapped up a beer and leaned against the kitchen sink as he took a healthy slug. 

I could feel his stare burning into the side of my face. I cleared my throat, and kept my attention on the tiny cups as I dried and stacked them. “You and Wendy going back tonight?” He remained silent until I finally regarded him.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, little cousin, we’ll be out of your hair soon enough.” 

“That drive’s got to be a slog,” I added, automatically. I’d done the trip more than a few times and it was a quick hour and half, kind of a pretty trip during the day.

“Mm-hmm.”

He continued to watch me work until I started to squirm. I finished with the last of the cups and draped the towel over my shoulder as I brought a stack of them to their cupboard. “What’s up, Alex?”

He waited until I returned for the second stack of glasses. 

“I know.”

I felt a tingle on the nape of my neck as I buried the wave of anxiety trying to rush up. I knew there was nothing to be afraid of. “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“You don’t think I know, but I know.” He took another swig.

I flashed him an overacted grimace. “Oh, no. Well, don’t tell anyone. Ok?” 

“Everyone already knows.”

I traced the contours of his stupid face, searching for the play, and hoping my eyes didn’t look as wide as they felt. “Who’s everyone?”

“Well, Jamjam, for one.” He sucked back the last of the beer, gave it a glance and slid it onto the counter. He watched my eyes follow it. He dug into the fridge again and brought out another brew. “You killed him and buried him and lied to me.”

“I… I… “ I was more confused than terrified. How the hell could he know and how could Jamjam, our octogenarian grandmother, have found out. Images of her crouched in the bushes out at the flat, watching as I shoveled the last loads of dirt onto the hobo’s grave went through my mind. The thought was ridiculous. No one saw me.

 “I heard her telling the story to my mom.” He opened his beer and took a gulp and looked into the distance. “I loved that frog, man.”

Memories of the childhood incident came flooding back. The rickety bookshelf and the terrarium. The crushed body that made more sense to hide than leave, and the lie, or as I see it the story of hope. A freewheeling frog, escaped and living on a lillypad. A wave of relief rushed over me, my brow breaking out in a flop sweat as I brayed a laugh at the ceiling. 

Alex eyeballed me, the meanness creeping back into the corner of his eye.

I held up a hand. “Oh, geez. I’m sorry. I just. I… I Wasn’t expecting that.” I held up both hands. “Honestly, I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged it off. “Eh. Probably smart you didn’t tell me. I would’ve kicked your ass good.”

I nodded in agreement as he gave me a final appraisal, then with a shrug, “Merry Christmas, Cuz.”

“Merry Christmas.”

He shook his head slowly as he sauntered through the swinging doors. “I loved that frog.”