A Temporary Arrangement
Raising kids is hard. Marriages fall apart. Sometimes, you need a little help.
Last week, I found Mothman sleeping on the back porch. He was curled in a tight ball, wings wrapped around his body for warmth, but he still shivered, gray skin mottled with icy blue patches. That night, I left a stack of old blankets beside the front door. He used them to fashion himself a nest between the banister and the grill that rusted through last summer.
I know he’s supposed to be a harbinger of doom, but you should see the way he keeps the rat population down—better than a black snake. We’ve had a colony digging tunnels under the yard since we moved in. Scott used to say he’d plug up all the exits and gas them, but when I argued against that kind of cruelty he shrugged, did nothing. Since then, their tunnel system has widened, entrances all over the backyard.
A few weeks ago, I twisted my ankle after stepping in a hole. Laid me up for three days. The kids ran wild, pulling toys out of their rooms and strewing them through the house, climbing the pantry shelves until they reach the HoHos I bought for school lunches, eating an entire box in one sitting. Then Marlin insisted ten is old enough to cook dinner and made pasta with sauce that tasted better than mine usually does. But apparently ten isn’t old enough to wash dishes. By the time I got back on my feet, it took me two days to clean the mess.
Then, I’d have gladly let Scott gas the mischief, but he was long gone. A girl who delivered saplings to the greenhouse where he works caught his eye, and before I even knew what was happening, he’d moved into her apartment over the Elks Lodge. He only takes the kids on Saturdays now, says her place is too small for them to stay over. But at least Mothman’s here to take care of the rats.
When Scott picks up the kids and says he’ll have them back before dinner (because God forbid he has to feed them), I decide to clean Desi’s bedroom. In the months since Scott moved out, she’s been stealing items from around the house and squirreling them away in her room. Last week, I found my collection of milk glass lined up under her bed. The week before, I discovered all the remote controls tucked in the back of her underwear drawer. Marlin screamed when his basketball shoes went missing, and I retrieved them from the back of her closet. Other items are missing from around the house: the metal trivet in the shape of an owl that usually sits on the stove, the rubber dishwashing gloves I keep under the sink, the bottles of perfume that usually line my dresser. I don’t ask Desi about them. Instead, I do occasional raids of her room and put everything back where it belongs. We don’t talk about it afterward.
This time, I find a treasure trove I missed before: a shoe box with Scott’s watch, a credit card he accused me of taking, the wedding ring I misplaced after he moved out, the retainer Marlin swears he wears every night. A few things I don’t even recognize—a single gold hoop earring, a tube of pink lipstick, a tin of breath mints. I wonder if Desi’s teacher is walking around with one earring, naked lips, and bad breath.
In the very back of the closet, I find Scott’s bathrobe, a green plaid thing he’s worn since we got married. Once, I bought him a new robe, but he argued his old one was perfectly fine. Then, he sewed patches to the worn-through elbows and said, “Good as new.” I assumed he took the robe with him, but here it is, and it still smells like him, a sharp odor I never been able to place. When we first started dating, I thought it was an odd cologne, but over the years I’ve realized he exudes it from his pores—earth and grass and sawdust and a few other scents that elude me. I used to love it. After he moved out, I spent an afternoon crying with my face pressed into his pillow, inhaling his scent. Then, I washed the bedding and curtains, shampooed the carpet, wiped down the walls until every trace of him was gone.
Early in the morning, if I wake before the sun comes up, he’s curled in his nest, an arm thrown across his eyes. He snores louder than you’d expect from a cryptid.
Now, I hold the robe at arm’s length, decide to throw it in the trash. But when I go out the backdoor, I see Mothman has dragged the old grill to the roadside for the garbage men to pick up. He’s swept the leaves off the porch, has emptied dead flowers from the planters that still sit on the banister. He’s even dragged a chair that’s been in the middle of the yard since summer onto the porch. It sits beside his nest, and a paperback of The Five Love Languages lies face down on the banister. I sometimes tell people I always knew Scott and I wouldn’t last—we spoke different love languages. He thought everything could be fixed with a gift, while all I ever wanted was his time. I won’t be surprised if he shows up in a few months with a pair of diamond studs, expecting that’ll make everything okay. I pick up the book, flip through the pages, see notes written in the margins, set it down. I do my best to put it in the exact same place, don’t want to look like a snoop.
Mothman’s nowhere in sight. I almost never see him during the day. Sometimes, I’ll catch a glimpse of him darting between the garage and the trees, or I’ll see his outline as he swoops over the neighbor’s pool. Early in the morning, if I wake before the sun comes up, he’s curled in his nest, an arm thrown across his eyes. He snores louder than you’d expect from a cryptid. I drape Scott’s robe over the back of the chair, figure he might need it.
Marlin and Desi struggle up the walk, each holding one side of a metal dog kennel. Scott walks behind them, a half-full bag of dog food clenched in one fist, a leash in the other. At the end of the leash is a standard poodle, full-grown, still intact. The kids almost levitate onto the porch, laughing together like they never do.
I stand in the doorway, already shaking my head.
“Surprise!” Scott wears a big grin, like he’s brought me a present instead of unwanted responsibility.
“Nope.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Uh-uh.”
Marlin drops his end of the crate, says, “Moooooom.” A long whine.
Scott shakes his head, says, “You always assume the worst.”
I wave to the kennel, the food, the dog. “You’re kind of telegraphing it.”
Desi runs to the dog, wraps her arm around his neck, wails, “I won’t let you go. I love you. I love you. I love you.”
I know Scott put her up to it. When we were married, it was cute sometimes, the way he’d get the kids to go along with his schemes. That’s how we ended up at the beach for a week last summer (a vacation all of us needed), how we traded my car for a minivan a few years ago (a decidedly uncool car that is much more practical), how we bought the house the kids and I live in now (a snap decision that saved us a ton of headaches in the long run). Except Scott no longer lives here, and I don’t see how the addition of a dog will be anything but a pain in my ass.
“Hear me out,” Scott says, holding palms toward me. “This boy is purebred, and I got him for a song. We’re going to rent him out as a stud, make a mint off him.” I make a face. “We” does not include me. He drops his arms, puts on his serious face. “It’s not forever. Just until Trix and I can find a place with a yard.”
I wonder if I’m the only one who knows the dog is now mine, that I’ll end up feeding it and walking it and scooping its poop, that I’ll be the one who takes it to the vet, who trims its nails, who has to decide when to put it down, who will rub the kids’ backs while they cry.
Trix. Trixie. His girlfriend. For real. When he said her name the first time, I laughed. Thought he was joking. When I met her, which I insisted on before letting the kids visit the apartment, I expected her to look like a Trixie—barely legal, blonde, giggly. Instead, she’s a plain-looking woman with shoulder-length brown hair and thick glasses that rest halfway down her nose. I resist the urge to push them snug to her face. She’s cute, but not too cute. Nerdier than I thought Scott would go for. I bet she loves gifts.
“You won’t even know he’s here,” Marlin says. “I’ll walk him and clean up his poop.”
“And I’ll feed him,” Desi says.
It’s all rehearsed. Every single word. But this is the happiest I’ve seen the kids since Scott moved out. Last month, I had to drag Marlin out of a birthday party early when he lost it on another kid for taking the piece of cake he wanted. You’ve never seen a room full of parents get quieter than when a ten-year-old screams, “Give it here, motherfucker.” We have received no invitations since then. Desi’s sadness has been subtler, stealing from around the house, complaining of stomach aches at school and insisting the nurse call her dad. Who always follows up by calling me.
“You have two weeks.” I hold up two fingers. “If he’s not out of here by then, I’ll take him to the pound.”
“You have my word,” Scott says.
The kids squeal, jumping up and down. Marlin hugs me around the waist. I pull Desi close, and both kids cling to me, squealing in delight.
I wonder if I’m the only one who knows the dog is now mine, that I’ll end up feeding it and walking it and scooping its poop, that I’ll be the one who takes it to the vet, who trims its nails, who has to decide when to put it down, who will rub the kids’ backs while they cry. But for the next couple weeks, we’ll all pretend this is a temporary arrangement.
“His name is Bubba,” Marlin says.
“Bubba,” I repeat. I don’t reach for the leash, not yet.
Marlin takes the dog out religiously for the first two days. On the third day, I unplug his video game when he won’t look away from the screen. He screams, then takes the dog out but leaves Bubba’s giant pile of shit in the yard. Sunday afternoon, I suggest he take the dog for a walk, and he says, “But I still have homework.”
I sigh. “At least take him out to pee.”
They’re back inside within minutes.
The dog trots to his water bowl, which is empty again.
“Desi,” I call.
She doesn’t answer. I consider calling again but stop myself. If I really want her to fill his bowl, I have to climb the stairs, knock on her door, listen to her whine, then follow her back downstairs and watch as she does what I ask. It isn’t worth the trouble. I fill the bowl myself, then return to the meal prep I’ve spent the morning on. It’s the only way the kids and I eat through the week.
An hour later, after almost crying over a burnt meatloaf I forgot in the oven, I discover my favorite work flats punctured with holes and covered in drool. One of the running shoes I just bought—an attempt at putting myself first for once—is gone. Well, half of it is. I assume the rest is in Bubba’s stomach. I lock him in the laundry room. As soon as I close the door, he starts barking and scratching the door. I hope he doesn’t break through the flimsy wood, but if I let him out, I’m going to do something the kids might not forgive. I close myself in my bedroom, breathe, listen to the increasing frenzy of Bubba’s barks.
When Desi rattles the doorknob, I call, “Give me a minute,” but then continue lying on my bed, taking long breaths. A minute passes. Another. I don’t move.
“Mom?” she calls.
I remain silent. Another minute and her footsteps retreat.
Sometime later, I wake to find the house quiet and dark. I sit, rub my eyes, say, “Shit, shit, shit,” but the clock only reads 6:00. Still early enough to assess the damage Bubba did to the laundry room, heat up a box of mac and cheese for dinner, get the kids in the bath, and settle them in bed before I pass out.
Mothman was first spotted around town just before Scott moved out. When people started whispering about him, Scott and I rolled our eyes at the crazies. Soon, people at work swore they’d seen him. People we knew. People we liked.
But when I open the door to the laundry room, it’s empty. There are gouge marks in the wood from the dog’s nails, but besides that, nothing is amiss. Except the missing dog.
Then, I hear a bark.
I turn, look in the back yard. Bubba leaps and snatches a tennis ball from the air. I step closer to the window, expect Marlin or Desi. Instead, the dog trots across the yard and drops the ball at Mothman’s feet. He wears Scott’s robe, but he’s cut slits into its back through which he’s slid his wings. I stand in the dark kitchen and watch my cryptid hurl the ball as hard as he can. Bubba bounds after it and returns it to Mothman again and again. The cryptid never seems to get tired. He just takes the ball from the dog’s mouth, scratches him under the chin, and then flings it into the darkness.
After the kids are in bed, the kitchen is clean, and tomorrow’s lunches are packed, I turn the deadbolt on the back door and pick up clothing the kids stripped off as they made their way toward the bath. I toss rogue socks and shirts in the laundry room, start toward my room, then pause.
I return to the kitchen and peer out the door. Mothman’s bed is empty. He’s probably hunting—at the grocery store a cashier loudly regaled customers with gossip she’d heard earlier in the day. Apparently, he’s been spotted soaring above the woods at night, dipping down into the trees, emerging a few minutes later with jaws that are suspiciously red. I wanted to ask her who got close enough to see the blood but kept my head down at the self-checkout. Her voice rose as she described a deer carcass someone came across the next day.
“It was torn to shreds,” she said, her voice rising in pitch. “Apparently, its bones were ripped out of its body. They were broken, snapped like toothpicks.” Then, in a stage whisper, “Can you imagine what sort of monster does that?” She shivered, kept running groceries across the scanner.
Mothman was first spotted around town just before Scott moved out. When people started whispering about him, Scott and I rolled our eyes at the crazies. Soon, people at work swore they’d seen him. People we knew. People we liked. The stories really started to get crazy after someone took a picture of him flying over the Dairy Queen. Every week there was something new: he busted the streetlights up and down Main Street, he ate someone’s pet cat, he broke a water pipe at the middle school the same day as standardized testing. The whole town points to him when something goes wrong, but no one’s ever provided any proof. He just takes on whatever reality we need him to.
I look out the window, but Mothman’s nest is still empty. I pause before unlocking the deadbolt. Then, I pull the door open a crack. The air is icy. Too cold to sleep outside. I leave the door ajar, tiptoe back to bed.
“I shouldn’t have to find out from the kids you’re letting some random man sleep in the house.” It’s Saturday morning, an hour past when Scott was supposed to pick up the kids, and now he yells at me over the phone.
“The kids are waiting for you,” I say.
Marlin sits on the front steps, waiting. It’s the same every weekend. Desi is always delighted when her dad shows up, but she never seems to expect him. Marlin plants himself on the steps at eight a.m. and refuses to move until his dad arrives. Sometimes, Scott shows up an hour late. Sometimes two. He’s never not shown up, though once he showed up at four, took the kids to the Dairy Queen, and then returned them too full for dinner and too ramped up for anything else.
“You met Trixie before the kids did, but Marlin tells me there’s been some stranger on the couch every night this week.”
I sigh. Bubba shoves his head under my hand, and I scratch an ear. “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say. “He just needs a place to stay for a while.”
“I want to meet him,” Scott says. “Fair’s fair.”
Which isn’t wrong. “Great,” I say. Then, “You can meet him when you pick up Bubba.” It’s been two weeks.
“About that,” Scott says, then stops.
I am supposed to pick up the sentence, tell him it’s okay. I let the silence hang.
Scott sighs. “It’s taking a little longer to get a place than I thought it would.”
“Then it’s taking a little longer than I thought for you to meet my friend.”
“That’s not fair.” His voice is loud.
“But it is.” I keep my voice even.
“You can’t let some guy start fathering the kids and not let me meet him.”
“No one is fathering the kids.”
But he doesn’t even get the dig, says, “Trixie had to live up to your standards before she was allowed to start mothering.”
I can feel the blood drain from my face, wonder how much pressure it would take to crush the phone. I swallow. “The kids are waiting for you.” I hang up.
I barely have energy for the Friday night movie and popcorn we’ve been doing since Marlin was old enough to watch something all the way through. I usually fall asleep thirty minutes in now, Desi lying across my lap, Marlin curled up in the corner of the couch with the last of the popcorn.
If the kids weren’t here, I’d scream. If I drank, I’d pour myself something strong. Instead, I grab a sponge from the sink, scrub at a splotch of egg yolk that’s adhered to the counter. I scour it so hard the paint fades. I take a deep breath, turn to the microwave. Inside, bits of food cling to the plastic walls. Scott never used the plate cover I bought, so neither do the kids. I’ve let food build up inside for over a year now, a protest no one’s noticed.
I switch to a mesh sponge and attack the inside of the microwave. Chunks of food I can’t identify fall from the ceiling. I rinse the sponge again and again. More and more food collects on the bottom. I can’t believe I let it get this bad, but I haven’t had the energy to do anything extra since Scott moved out. Most days, it’s enough to get the kids to school, me to work, and all of us clean and back in bed each night. I barely have energy for the Friday night movie and popcorn we’ve been doing since Marlin was old enough to watch something all the way through. I usually fall asleep thirty minutes in now, Desi lying across my lap, Marlin curled up in the corner of the couch with the last of the popcorn. Sometimes, I wake after midnight, carry the kids to bed, even Marlin, who’s so tall his feet bang my shins.
Once the ceiling and walls are clean, I get a wet cloth and wipe all the food onto a paper towel. I dump the pile in the trash and then wipe the inside of the microwave one last time, making sure every scrap of food is gone. By the time I’m done, the insides are gleaming white, and I’m sweaty from the work, but I no longer hear Scott claiming Trixie does anything to my kids that resembles mothering.
I rinse the rag in the sink and stare out the back window. Marlin is in the middle of the yard, not on the steps. He wears a baseball glove, catches the ball cleanly, then turns and tosses it to his sister. Bubba follows the ball through the air, and when Desi fumbles, he zooms toward it. But she scoops it from the grass in one fluid motion, then lobs it to Mothman, who catches it in his bare hand. His wings flap as he turns to Marlin, and the robe fans out behind him. He points at his eyes, then his hand. Marlin nods, holds up his glove, waits for the ball. For a moment, I forget Scott and Trixie and the microwave and the water that still runs into the sink, and I watch my family.
About the author
Laura Leigh Morris is the author of The Stone Catchers: A Novel (2024) and Jaws of Life: Stories (2018). She's previously published short fiction in STORY Magazine, North American Review, The Florida Review, and other journals. She teaches creative writing and literature at Furman University in Greenville, South Carolina.