I WANT TO PLAY PAUL BUNYON

The afternoon of July Fourth was moist and sticky. Outside, in Mike and Debbie’s backyard, the heat was like a steam iron pressed against bare skin. Inside, in the air-conditioned kitchen, the men sat around the table in tee-shirt and shorts, drinking, smoking, patting their bellies. The women sat around the table in shorts and modest tanks tops, drinking, smoking, lazily fanning themselves with bare open hands. Phyllis and Jen sat with their backs to the wall, Jimmy and Debbie directly across from them; Chuck was in Mike’s seat at the head of the table, and Mike, the only one standing, leaned against the stove, beer can in hand.

    The group had been friends for years. Phyllis knew Debbie through Chuck because Phyllis and Chuck had dated in high school and Debbie and Chuck were sister and brother, one year apart. In high school Chuck became best friends with Jimmy, who was going steady with Jen. Jimmy and Jen broke up before college, and Jimmy eventually married Phyllis, whom he had met through Mike. Mike met Jimmy when they both worked at Nick’s Italian Bistro, which is where Mike met Debbie the year she worked as a waitress in between semesters at college. Chuck met Jen at Jimmy’s father’s funeral. Jen went out of respect for Jimmy. They had, all of them, married within five years of each other, and they were, all of them, in each other’s weddings. Eventually, Debbie and Mike had twin girls, Madeline and Martha, aged six. Chuck and Jen had one boy, Austin, aged seven. Jimmy and Phyllis remained childless.

    While the twins and Austin played outside, inside, the grown-ups drank and smoked, picked at food, and thanked God for the central air Debbie and Mike had installed last year. The kitchen was bright, spacious, well-lived in, peppered with touches of Debbie’s version of colonial Americana, like the sepia spinning wheel prints flanking the refrigerator, and the antique milk tin doubling as a stool, haphazardly stuck in the corner. Open beer cans, half-filled glasses of wine, and busy ashtrays scattered the table. It was their annual picnic barbecue, the only time they got together as a group. After crispy hotdogs, potato salad, and baked beans, the subject had somehow gotten onto death and what would happen if one of their children died.

    “They’d have to bury me with him,” said Jen.

    “They’d have to lock me up in the looney bin,” said Phyllis, “if I had any kids, that is.”

    “Let’s air our dirty laundry at home, okay, Phyll,” said Jimmy.

    “How did we get on this subject of our kids dying, anyway?” said Jen.

    “Let’s see,” said Mike. “Jimmy said Chuck should quit if he hates his job so much. Jen said ‘Don’t you dare.’ To change the subject, I asked if anyone noticed that it’s rained every July 4^th for the past ten years. Then all of our kids died.”

    “I don’t care for this subject. Talk about something else,” said Jen.

    “How about our president?” said Mike.

    The others groaned, as their chins dropped to their chests.

    “I’d rather talk about dead babies,” said Phyllis.

    Jen sat up, alert, “I’ll talk about him,” she said, “It’s incomprehensible what he’s doing.”

    “I disagree with his methods, but I see his point,” said Mike.

  Jen banged the table, flipping a wine glass on its side. Phyllis leaned forward, uplifted the glass, and mopped the wine with her napkin. “Here we go,” she said.

    “Didn’t take long,” said Chuck.

    “Yeah, not today, kids,” said Jimmy, leaning back in his chair, “Too hot for politics.”

     “Hey,” said Mike, “Free Country. My house.”

    “I agree with Jimmy,” said Debbie, “I think you both should keep your traps shut.”

    “Here-Here,” said one of them.

    “I’ll thank you not to order me to keep my trap shut in my own kitchen,” Mike said to Debbie.

    “It’s my kitchen, too. So, keep your trap shut,” said Debbie.

    Mike toasted his wife and took a long swig of his beer, finishing it in one noisy gulp. “Reach in and grab me another,” he said to Jimmy who was sitting by the cooler of beer, “will you, bro?”

    “You’ve had enough,” said Debbie.

    “That’ll never happen,” said Mike, and nodded to Jimmy.

    Jimmy reached in the cooler, pulled out a beer, and tossed it to Mike. Mike opened the can with a deliberate flourish and drank most it. The afternoon was taking shape. If left unchecked, Mike and Debbie would bicker until something was said that could not be passed off as a spousal attempt at humor, and Mike would get an ashtray thrown at him. To ease the tension Chuck said, “How did we get on the subject of dying children?”

    “Oh, it was me,” said Debbie. “I said, sometimes I want to kill the kill the twins, and Mike started coming up with a plan.”

    “Knock it off,” warned Mike.

    “Both of you knock it off. And speaking of the kids.” said Jimmy pulling a fat joint out of nowhere. “Somebody lock the door.”

    “For crying out loud, put that away,” said Phyllis, “the kids are right outside. Okay. Just one hit.”

    Jimmy grabbed a lighter from the table, but stopped as Austin flung open the kitchen door and without uttering a word, stomped over and stood by his mother, his head lowered, his mouth frozen in distress, arms crossed, sulking.

    “What’s the matter with you?” said Chuck.

    Jen gave Chuck her leave him alone look, then turned to Austin, “What’s wrong, honey? Why don’t you go outside and play?”

    “I don’t want to.”

    “Why not?”

    “The twins want to play house. I don’t want to play house.’

    “Welcome to the club,” said Mike.

    “You’re really funny, you know that,” said Debbie.

    “It’s a gift,” said Mike.

    Debbie looked at Austin and felt a shiver of empathy for him. She knew her twins; they could be little bitches. “What do you want to play, Austin?” she asked him.

    “I want to play Paul Bunyon.”

    “Paul who?” said his father.

    “Paul Bunyon. We read about him in school last year. He’s really tall and he chops down trees and he has a giant blue ox named Babe.”

    “Coincidentally,” Mike said, turning to his wife, “so do I. Isn’t that right, babe?”

    Debbie grabbed the nearest ashtray but didn’t throw it; instead she stood, and walked it to the trash can. “Go outside, Austin,” said Debbie, flicking the ashtray’s contents into the can while glaring at Chuck, “and tell the girls that I said you’re the guest and they should play whatever you want to play.”

    “No need for that, Debbie,” said Jen. “Austin and Doctor Dave are working on ‘adjusting.’ Aren’t you honey?”

    Austin blushed behind his ears. When he blushed like this, behind his ears, no one could see it. It made him feel funny.

    “No adjusting needed,” said Debbie. “The twins need to learn how to play nice. Go on, Austin. Tell them I said so.”

    Austin looked to his mother for approval. “Go ahead,” said Jen. “But be nice about it. No smirking.”

    As Austin walked, then ran towards the door, Mike called out to him. “If you’re going to play Paul Bunyon,” he said, “there’s an axe in the tool shed. Chop me some wood while you’re at it.”

    Outside, on the back porch, Austin turned, smiled at the adults, then ran into the yard.

    “You spoil him, Debbie,” said Jen.

    “He’s my nephew. Besides, we all need a bit of spoiling once and a while. Don’t we, Mike?”

    “I’ll spoil you. Later. After we say goodbye to our guests.”

    “You mean after you get rid of any witnesses, don’t you?”

    “Come on, you two,” said Jimmy.

    “Leave them be. It beats talking politics,” said Phyllis.

    “You know, I don’t think we’ve ever had a July Fourth without someone getting stiches,” said Chuck, as he popped-open another can of beer.

    “We’re fine, everyone. Relax. Just business as usual.”

    “Don’t I know that,” said Chuck.

    “What’s that supposed to mean,” said Mike. He was standing now, breathing through his nose only.

    “Calm down. I met her before you did. I know what you’re going through.”

    “What exactly is he going through?” said Debbie, vexed.

    “You know what I mean. I know you.”

    “You do, do you?” said Jen.

    “Yeah. We all do. We all know her. We all know each other, for crissakes.”

    “Yeah? Close your eyes and tell me what I’m wearing,” said Jen

    It went on like this for a while. One couple at each other’s throat until someone in the group intervened with a joke, or at least an attempt at a joke, or someone stood and grabbed another beer or poured more wine, as if physically moving the air around the room was what was needed to put out the brushfire. Nothing, though, could calm the melee when Phyllis accused Chuck of overt racism.

    “I hate it when you say Muzzie,” said Phyllis.

    “What’ya want me to say?” said Chuck.

    “Say what you mean,” said Phyllis, “I can see it blinking behind your eyes like a neon sign.”

    “Okay. They’re a bunch of sand niggers and need to be rounded up and kept in camps.”

    “Jesus Christ, I married a racist!” said Jen, then “You want to keep them in camps. Like the Jews during the war?”

    “What war?” said Chuck.

    “World War Two, you imbecile.”

    “That was years ago. Doesn’t matter anymore.”

    “Doesn’t matter? How can you--?”

    Austin banged open the back door, holding it at arm’s length. A wave of moist hot air rolled in and over the adults.

    “Close the goddam door.”

    “Go outside, Austin,” said Chuck. “The kitchen is for grown-ups only.”

    “I don’t want to.”

    “Why not?” said Jen.

    “They won’t play Paul Bunyon.”

    “Oh, for crissakes! Make ‘em play. You hear me?” said Mike, practically screaming it, “Don’t let them get the best of you. Make those girls treat you like you were a man. Don’t be like us in here. You go and you make them play Paul Bunyon.”

    “They won’t let me, Uncle Chuck,” said Austin. He was close to tears, but held them back.

    “Make ‘em! Go on. Git!”

    Austin didn’t wait for his mother’s approval this time. He ran to the door, flung it open and dashed outside.

    “And don’t forget my wood!” Mike called out, then chuckled to himself.

    Chuck stood and closed the door. “Thanks, pal,” he said to Mike, “you’ve turned my son into…you.”

    “Nothing wrong with that.”

“Wanna lay odds?” said Debbie.

    “Shut up.”

    “Somebody better break-out the first-aid kit.”

    “Enough with the jokes, Jimmy. It is truly annoying.”

    “Better control your wife, buddy.”

    “Or what, asshole?

    “Or I’m going do something you should’ve done years ago.”

    “Lay one finger on her—"

    “I’ve laid more than a finger on her. Matter of fact, half the town—"

    “What did you say--?”

    “Did you fuck my wife?”

    “You did? You really fucked Phyllis?”

    “Mike!”

    “That must’ve been an easy pinch?”

    “You son of a bitch—”

    Jimmy grabbed Mike and shoved him against the refrigerator with such force, both spinning wheels fell off the wall and landed on the floor with a muted crash. Chuck leapt up and tried to pry Jimmy off Mike. The women screamed for them to Stop It, Stop It, for god’s sake, Stop It!

    The adults froze when they heard the back door open quietly. Barely a whisper of the hinges. Austin stepped in, blushing all over. He walked over to table and sat. A wave of heat from the open door rolled and waved across the room, reaching the tableau of adults, who unscrewed themselves from one other, giving and taking space. Jen looked at her son. Something was off.

    “Austin?” said Jen.

    Austin didn’t answer his mother. He cocked his head to the left, then to his right, as if trying to remember something important.

    “What is it, honey? Is everything all right?”

      Austin lifted his right hand. In it he held a small hatchet. He lowered it on to the table. The hatchet had blood on the blade; a tiny blob of it plopped onto the vinyl table cloth.

    “Is that blood?” screamed Jen, as she frantically hoisted Austin to his feet and inspected him for cuts and slashes. “Are you okay? Did you cut yourself?”

    “I’m okay, mom.”

    “Where did that blood come from?”

    Mike stiffened to attention, “The twins,” he said. “Where are they?”

    “They’re in the backyard. I did what you told me. I made them play Paul Bunyon.”

    The temperature in the room dropped to sub-freezing. The adults looked at each other, trying not to believe what they were all thinking. A split second of black horror froze them solid, not breathing, not moving. The only sound was when Jimmy said, “Huh.”

    Then they ran out though the kitchen door, down the back-porch steps and into the backyard. Debbie was the first one to reach the bodies.