Moth and Rust, by Tim Kane

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Uncle Peter died six weeks ago on Tuesday.

But Aunt Julia kept on him—about the state of the garage where the daddy long legs tossed up cobwebs overnight; about the tassels on the rugs (which had to be aligned just so, even though every time we walked by they tangled up again); about the bird poop on the front porch (last summer I helped him glue tacks long the edges of the windows, but those birds still pooped there); and about me and the constant mess I made around the house. So Uncle Peter kept flexing his used-up hands, and creaking knees, and worn-out back. All so the house could look presentable.

Dinner was the one time Uncle Peter could sit and relax because Aunt Julia did all the cooking. Setting the table and dishing out the food was my job. Aunt Julia didn’t trust me with the Pepsi, even though I would never spill it. She took the bottle from the bottom shelf of the refrigerator and poured the glasses.

This night featured macaroni and cheese, and Aunt Julia skimped on the cheese, leaving mostly warm, wet macaroni. I powered through my bowl and even scooped up seconds while Uncle Peter continued to chew his first bite. I watched him. Each time he brought his teeth together, there was a tiny squish from the moist pasta.

Cleaning the table also fell on my shoulders. I bussed Aunt Julia’s and my dishes. Uncle Peter had managed only a few bites, so I wasn’t sure if he was done. When I reached for the plate, he swallowed with a gulp and set the fork down. That was a sure sign.

“Want to play backgammon?” I asked, grabbing his plate.

He didn’t answer. Uncle Peter hardly talked anymore. He was tired.

“We could set up the board in the living room,” I said as I lugged the dishes to the sink.

It felt weird scraping all his food back into the pot, kind of like I was scraping away his life. You need food to live, but then, I guess, Uncle Peter didn’t anymore.

I rinsed the forks and put them in the rack to dry. Uncle Peter’s fork had these sooty smudges where he’d held it. This had been going on for a while, so now almost all the silverware was spattered with those dark splotches. Aunt Julia’s knives had wooden handles and the one Uncle Peter used turned pistachio green. When I ran it under hot water, some of the handle flaked into the sink. The wood was squashy, like grabbing a mound full of dirt.

Once the dishes were in the drying rack, I sprang away from the sink. Uncle Peter was already in the living room, reclining on the sofa. I snatched the backgammon game from its shelf and carried it to the coffee table. My foot kicked some of the tassels on the area rug. Shoot. I set the game down and bent over to fix them. They had to look just right or Aunt Julia would flip out.

All this time, Uncle Peter sat perfectly still. He was worn out from his chores, and his breathing was less than a whisper.

“I’ll set up the board,” I said.

Backgammon was a game that was part luck and part skill. I needed the luck because Uncle Peter had years of skill on his side. I used to catch him making dumb moves just so I could capture his pieces and even out the game.

“A lopsided game was no fun to play,” he’d told me once.

I took out the pieces. They were plastic, so they didn’t rust or anything when he used them. As I arranged the white and black discs around the board, I looked up at Uncle Peter. The area around his cheeks sagged like the wilted weeds in the front yard. Skin peeled around his neck and fingers. The flesh underneath looked sticky—like fruit after the rind had been peeled away.

He leaned forward to grasp the dice cup. Fuzzy wings fluttered along his body, and then tiny moths scattered from his sweater and pants where they had blended in only moments before. The moths flapped away to some dark corner of the room, but they always seemed to return the next time Uncle Peter sat on the sofa.

This game went the way most had lately. Uncle Peter didn’t pay attention to his moves. I won the first game too easily. After that, I even made some dumb moves, but that wasn’t enough. He wasn’t even trying. He only shuffled the pieces around on the board.

Our game had become lopsided.

* * *

The next night, when I was cleaning up after dinner, I discovered a tooth on Uncle Peter’s plate, nestled in the green beans. At first I thought it might be a bone that had snuck into Aunt Julia’s meatloaf. I glanced up at Uncle Peter, expecting to see a gap in his smile like on the cartoons. But he kept his mouth shut and pushed away from the table.

I slipped the tooth into my pocket and worked up a thick lather of bubbles in the sink. More wood crumbled away when I dunked Uncle Peter’s knife in the water. The handle of his fork looked almost black, like a polished stone. I rinsed off the soap and tossed it in the drying rack.

When I dashed into the living room, Uncle Peter wasn’t at the sofa. He had one foot planted on the stairs. Then I heard Aunt Julia.

“We have to keep the house presentable.” She called down, probably paging through her latest thriller.

Uncle Peter trembled as he lifted the other leg up to the first step. I couldn’t see his face, but I thought it was scrunched in pain. He concentrated hard on making his legs move, hoisting his whole body to that first step. His hand clutched the banister. The white skin along his knuckles looked like the bird droppings on the porch. After he conquered the step, his hand slid up and clenched a new spot on the banister.

Uncle Peter didn’t deserve this. It needed to end.

* * *

Sometime that night, when I was supposed to be asleep, I came up with the idea of the wrench.

I slipped out of bed, put on some socks, and tiptoed to my door. The hallway creaked if you walked along the center, so I hugged the wall. Even so, the floor groaned halfway down. I froze. Aunt Julia’s snoring covered the sound. As I passed by their bedroom door, I thought I saw Uncle Peter staring at the ceiling. With the lights off, I could only make out the outline of his face. I didn’t hear him breathing, but then I probably wouldn’t over Aunt Julia’s snoring.

Down in the garage I groped along the wall for the light switch. My fingers brushed something that felt for a moment like touching cotton candy. A shiver rushed through me. I found the switch and flicked on the light. One of those daddy long legs scurried away. Ew. Thin strands of webbing clung to my fingers and I wiped them on my pajamas.

The wrench hung above the workbench where Uncle Peter had hooked it two summers ago. He’d used it to tighten the bolt on the front wheel of my bike. Even then, when he’d been in good health, he’d had to stop twice, setting the tool on the cement floor. He’d rubbed his wrist and told me he had to rest for a moment. If it was too heavy for him to hold, how was I going to manage it?

I gripped the wrench with both hands and unhooked it from the peg. It felt like two bricks tied to metal stick. It clunked to the table and I glanced up, worried the sound might wake Aunt Julia. When I heard nothing, I pulled off my pajama top and wrapped the wrench inside. Then I lugged the thing up to my room.

* * *

The next morning, Aunt Julia sent Uncle Peter out front to rake up the leaves. She was supposed to be cleaning up after breakfast, but instead she’d pulled out one of her mystery novels.

I smuggled the wrench downstairs and out into the side yard where the dinky lemon tree grew. The shriveled fruit had black dots stippling the sides. In fact the whole tree looked sick with the flu. I never drank the lemonade Aunt Julia made.

I picked up one of the lemons that had fallen into the grass and put it on a wooden chair. It seemed to be the right height. I lifted the wrench above my head. It wobbled, wanting to fall backward. I swung it down and watched the metal end thunk on the wood. A total miss. That was pitiful. I needed to hit hard the first time. I tried again, hauling the wrench high up over my head. My arms felt weak, and the wrench tilted to one side. I flung it down as hard as I could, squashing the lemon. A jet of juice sprayed my shirt. The liquid was gooey and tart. I didn’t think about what would happen when it wasn’t a lemon.

I raised the wrench again. This time, my arms gave out first. The wrench teetered backward and I lost my balance. The tool slapped the ground behind me, while my arm banged against the cement patio. I clutched my skinned elbow. That’s when I saw Uncle Peter.

I sat up, one hand cupped over my elbow. Lemon juice oozed down my shirt. He stood by the gate, staring at me. Or was he looking at the wrench? I couldn’t tell. A pair of moths fluttered around his shoulders. They circled as if marking off Uncle Peter as their territory. I pushed myself up. My elbow really hurt, but I didn’t cry. I reached in my pocket, found the tooth he had lost, and gripped it. This was the right thing to do.

I picked up the wrench, and wrapped it in the pajama shirt. When I passed Uncle Peter, I heard a strange sucking sound as if he were struggling to take a deep breath. Maybe he wanted to say something. I paused to listen, but when he opened his mouth, it smelled like rotten milk. It made me think that his insides were rotting away.

* * *

Uncle Peter stayed outside until dinnertime. When he finally came in to the table, he had something clutched in his hand. The skin along his knuckles flaked off and bits of it littered the tablecloth like spilled salt. He loosened his grip and I saw that he held the crushed lemon. Uncle Peter knew what I was going to do.

I’d stowed the wrench under the table, hidden by the tablecloth and my pajama shirt. As I laid out the silverware, I made sure Uncle Peter had his blackened fork and worn knife—now only strips of wood clung to the metal core that ran down the center. The moths scuttled around on his sweater. There were too many to count. Normally they blended in so well I could hardly see them, but tonight they were excited.

Back in the kitchen Aunt Julia turned to collect the glasses from the cupboard. I ducked down and scooped up the wrench. The shirt stuck to the metal where it had hit the lemon. I yanked it loose and small bits of fuzz clung to the top. Uncle Peter gripped the lemon. Juice leaked from between his fingers.

I had to do this. He knew it.

When Aunt Julia bent down to take the bottle of Pepsi from the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, I lifted the wrench above my head. It teetered, wanting to make me fall over. My elbow still ached, but I kept the wrench as steady as I could. Her head was the same height as the lemon on the chair. I swung hard. It was a solid blow and she fell to the floor.

Aunt Julia stayed down.

I set the wrench on the counter and returned to the table. Uncle Peter let go of the lemon. He didn’t smile exactly, but I could see it in his eyes. They seemed a little more alive.

“After dinner,” I said, “we’ll play backgammon.”

This time I knew the game wasn’t going to be lopsided.