On another too-long country daytrip, the father flapped jaws with the farmer, taking on his accent and mannerisms. Even at four, the girl found this silly.
“Why is Daddy talking like that?” she asked the mother as they waited in the car.
The mother hmphed a tired laugh. “He can’t help it, sweetie.”
The girl had enjoyed tasting maple syrup from the farmer’s tree, declined to milk a cow, and was now beyond ready for dinner.
As the family drove back to town, bovine breeze wafted through the rusted Subaru’s open windows. On the roadside loomed a pile of manure with a sign.
“Look!” said the father. “Free!” He stopped the car.
The mother rolled her eyes. “Don’t you already have enough?”
“Why are we stopping?” The girl glowered.
“I’m gonna bring some home for the garden. It’s good for the crops.” The father fancied himself a farmer, but he only worked with them.
“I wanna go home.” The girl verged on a whine.
The father opened the door. The mother sighed. The father pulled out a flattened cardboard box from the trunk. He opened it and took his time sealing the edges with duct tape.
“Daddy! I want to go home!” The girl enunciated more, as if this might convince him.
He grinned garishly, puffed out his cheeks and made a whistling noise, like this was all some big joke.
“C’mon bud,” he said. “Come help me shovel.”
“I don’t want to.” Her mouth muscles twitched.
The mother leaned back, closed her eyes. “Go help Daddy. Then we’ll get home faster.”
Temporal reasoning did not work on the girl. Tears rolled.
The father opened her door, lifted her out. Ignoring her protests, he put her down and handed her the shovel.
The girl started wailing. The father popped around to the driver’s seat, opened the glove compartment and rifled through.
“What are you doing?” the mother said, eyes still closed. The girl kept crying.
The father reemerged with a camera. “Say cheese!” Once again, the stupid smile and whistling noise.
He pretended to wail too, this time in full control of his mimicry. “Ohhhhh, I knowww, life is hard!” Then switching back to his own voice, more serious than the girl had heard him today, “You’ll see.”
He snapped away as the girl gripped the shovel, snot nosed, blinded by tears and gasping.
Goldie Peacock writes stories, essays, and poems. Their words appear in HuffPost, Sundog Lit, MoonPark Review, and more. Having lived in six states across the Northeast and Midwest, Goldie now calls Brooklyn home and can be found on goldiepeacock.com.