Judy Slitt
The Appendage
My wife, Shirley, and I walk in on my dad rubbing ointment into my mom’s leg stump. It’s our first morning visiting my parents. Mom’s laying back on the brown Barcalounger and Dad’s bending over her. Mom looks angry. She says, “You have to really get it in there!”
Dad’s face is scrunched into a little ball, focusing, and they’re both so in the zone that they don’t see us standing there.
I can tell this isn’t a hit with Shirley.
Shirley says, “Uh. Hi.”
Dad looks up. He’s sweating. He says, “Rob. Shirley.”
Mom makes a face at Shirley, a not-very-nice face, but you see, she had her leg amputated just last year due to her diabetes and she’s still sensitive about it. I mean, I think she’s embarrassed. That’s what I tell Shirley later that night, when we’re alone in my childhood bedroom.
“Yeah,” Shirley says. “I could tell it was an intimate moment.”
The stump looked puckered and angry. Like the end of a sausage. Like a butthole.
“It’s not like I wanted to see it either,” I say. Last time I saw Mom, she wore a muumuu to cover it up. This was my first time seeing the stump in its full glory.
Last year, Shirley said we should pay for Mom to get a prosthetic. “We have the money,” Shirley had said. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Your dad shouldn’t have to cart her around all the time.”
But my parents refused. “We won’t take money from you,” Dad said.
“I’m perfectly happy with my appendage,” Mom said.
If I’m being honest, I’m not in the most stellar mood. Visiting home makes me have mouse poops. My feces congeal into a brick inside me.
Mom isn’t pleased that Shirley and I won’t have kids. Mom says things like, “Oh, did you see the pictures of your cousin Jeannie’s baby? Let me show you,” and spends forever hunting for the pictures on her phone.
That night, Shirley says, “They don’t give a shit about cousin Jeannie’s baby. They’re just trying to pressure us.”
I say, “Yeah,” because she’s right, but what am I supposed to do, tell Mom not to show us any baby pictures? So I say, “That’s just the way they are. We’ll be home soon.”
“I still can’t shit,” says Shirley. She takes off her earrings and puts them on the dresser.
“Tell me about it,” I say.
“I mean, I haven’t had a shit this whole week,” says Shirley. “It’s like World War III in my colon.” She changes into her pajamas, a Dead Kennedys shirt that goes to her knees, and I have to say, she looks pretty fetching. Her curly hair is out of its bun and she looks like a lion.
“Yeah, totally,” I say. “So, you wanna have sex?”
~
On the last day, Shirley and I are with my parents in the living room, watching football. Dad grunts from time to time and says, “Seriously?” and sips his beer. It’s a more mellow vibe, I think, because Shirley’s anticipating a return to her routine and French press coffee and also regular shits.
Mom turns to Shirley and says, “Dear, can you fetch my ointment? It’s in the cabinet above the bathroom sink,” and Shirley brings it back and holds it up awkwardly – it’s like a jumbo toothpaste.
Shirley says, “Here you go, Mom,” because Mom likes her to call her ‘Mom’ and has made this clear on multiple occasions, even though Shirley’s face always twitches when she says it.
Mom rolls up her tie-dye muumuu to expose her leg stump. We all have to keep our faces neutral. But the stump looks angrier than last time. Maybe on account of Mom being too embarrassed to apply unguents in front of us this week. Maybe Dad still applies the unguents at night, when we’re asleep, but it’s not cutting it.
Mom can’t apply the ointment herself, on account of her stomach being in the way and her lack of flexibility. I expect her to ask Dad to help.
But she says, “Shirley. Dear. Can you rub in the ointment? My appendage gets so dry in the winter.”
Shirley stares. Then she sinks to her knees. She sneezes and shoos away my parents’ cats. Shirley’s allergic to cats and always says, “I can’t breathe with all this fur,” but I can’t tell my parents to give their cats away, can I?
Shirley uncaps the tube and squeezes ointment onto her manicured fingers. The smell of menthol fills the room.
It dawns on me: I wonder if I’m watching my marriage fall apart.
Mom smiles. Her teeth are gray. Her eyes sparkle.
Judy Slitt lives in Virginia. Her stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Bright Flash Literary Review, surely magazine, Cosmic Daffodil Journal, Moss Puppy Magazine, M E N A C E, Crow & Cross Keys, and BULL. Her website is judyslitt.com.
