Written by Francois Bereaud
Content Warning: Fertility struggle
It was dumb to have Halloween on a Monday. Dumber for there to be an unforecasted storm, six
inches of heavy wet snow by 11. And dumbest for the school district to close schools at noon
when the roads were the worst. But no one asked a 7th grade social studies teacher for logistical
advice.
After the buses carted off the amped-up, hormonally raging teenagers, I went to the teachers’
lounge to call my wife. Inexplicably, Gomez, the earth science teacher, sat in the love seat,
looking like a ghoul, eyes half shut, jowls heavy.
“School closed early,” I said.
“I heard, we’re closing too.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“What?”
“You’ll never make it up Route 13 in that car,” I said. That car was my car. Front wheel
drive with balding tires. Who puts the snows on in October? I had her Subaru, intending to hit the
lumber store on the way home. “Besides you may be pregnant,” I added, lowering my voice.
“Yeah, right.” It’d been almost a year of trying. There was a problem.
I heard clamor in her background. For a non-profit dispute resolution center, it was
always loud there. Gomez coughed. She broke the silence. “Fine, get us a movie on your way.”
Blockbuster was empty and, by myself, I was out in five minutes.
The roads were terrible. I gripped the wheel with both hands. She looked at the cassette.
“You picked a Civil War movie on Halloween?”
I shrugged. “It has Denzel.”
By three, the snow stopped, 10 inches in total, and the temperature began to drop. The
first three trick or treaters came just after five. They were dressed as miserable kids in winter
jackets. From the face makeup, I guessed a witch, a cat, and a ghost. Two more groups came
bundled, no effort at a costume. I gave two extra candy bars to a kid whose face was painted like
a mime. Finally, a crazy solo kid in a Spiderman suit, no jacket, came up our walkway, slipping
on the ice and landing hard on his ass.
“Ouch,” my wife said. “You better deal with that, we’ll get sued, I’ll make the spaghetti.”
Armed with a shovel, I went at the ice hard. It felt good to sweat as I hacked away.
Several groups of kids approached and reversed course.
“It’s better,” I said, peeling off layers. “I think we may be done with kids tonight.”
“No wonder,” my wife said, “you looked demonic out there.”
We shut off the lights and ate in the room with the TV, the hopeful baby room. Despite the setting,
Denzel did the trick and halfway through my wife led me to bed.
After, I put my hand on her low belly and began the torturous name game.
“Freddy.”
“Terrible.”
“Jason.”
“Worse. Ichabod.”
I laughed. She was always the literary one. “Morticia.”
She laughed. “Sabrina.”
“Hmm.”
“Samantha.”
“Ooh,” I said. “I’d call her Sam.”
The following July, during a triple digit heat wave, Sam, short for Samuel, was born.
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Francois Bereaud is a husband, dad, full time math professor, mentor in the San Diego Congolese refugee community, and mediocre hockey player. His stories and essays have been published online and in print and have earned Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations. He serves as an editor at Roi Fainéant Press and Porcupine Literary. The Counter Pharma-Terrorist & The Rebound Queen is his published chapbook. In 2024, Cowboy Jamboree Press will publish his first full manuscript, San Diego Stories, which is the realization of a dream Links to his writing at francoisbereaud.com.