Back in the Saddle
by Niles Reddick
When I saw the fireworks in two plastic bags sitting on my countertop from the A Plus stand, I was angry. I’d agreed to host friends and family for a cookout at our house because we had a saltwater pool with a nice concrete patio that swirled out in a circle for the firepit and Adirondack chairs. We had black aluminum see-through fencing and posted signage for legal purposes: Private, Keep Out; Swim at Your Own Risk (as if Jaws might appear); No Lifeguard on Duty; No Diving (we’d saved a small fortune by not having a slide or diving board); and my contribution, Keep the Pool Area Clean. We’d even installed a layer of river rock about a foot from the fence to the concrete by the pool and a foot out into the yard that when mowed and trimmed served to keep grass and weeds from being flung into the pool.
Gabe had bought a variety: smoke bombs, sparklers, poppers, spinners, firecrackers, and Roman candles. He’d even bought a few bigger ones, ones that I thought were too big for our subdivision, but the neighbors never complained, and our poodles were medicated with hemp that culled their yipping and yapping, shaking and cowering, although they had a tendency to appear hungover the next day, sitting down on walks in the street and kicking back in their beds more than usual. I imagined them to be hippies from the ’60s, full of peace and love, with their tie-dye cloth collars around their necks.
“You plan to blow off another body part?” I asked sarcastically. He’d blown off his middle finger last year lighting fireworks from China. At first, I didn’t even believe it, but he fell back on the driveway, writhing in pain. We couldn’t find his finger in the dark, but since he was right-handed, he’d lost his ability to sign his name, but more importantly to him, he’d lost his ability to flip the bird to people in traffic. I took up the few check-writing responsibilities, and since the tap feature had come out, he’d didn’t have to sign for purchases. Sometimes he’d forget, flip his phantom finger into the air and looked like he was shooting a gang signal.
“Maybe I will keep blowing off parts until I’m a blob, like a washed-up jellyfish,” he fired back. “Aww, come on. You know all the kids like the fireworks.”
“Yeah, and you drunk guys like them, too.”
He laughed. “I guess, but you women like the sparkly colors against the black sky.”
“We do, but I’m worried about the neighbors and the dogs.”
“Buy enough hemp for the neighborhood dogs, walk around and pass it out like Halloween candy.”
I shook my head and walked away to fold laundered beach towels for the crowd to dry off after splashing around. I’d already chilled the ranch dip and had the spinach and chicken dip in the oven. He’d filled the coolers with ice, one for beer and one for diet soft drinks for those on low-carb diets or a couple who were diabetic.
“We’ll be careful,” he said when I walked back into the room. “Promise.”
“Yeah,” I said, as he turned on the news and sipped his coffee. A promise wouldn’t keep me from worrying like a police officer’s or fireman’s wife, but his goal wasn’t to fight crime or put out fires. I remember the ER doc asking if we’d brought the finger on ice in a ziplock bag. It had been dark, we didn’t see it, but I’d seen a couple of turkey vultures perched on the fence the next day. Must’ve been a snack like a worm or mouse to them, not the buffet roadkill we’d seen them enjoying on our commute to town. I remember his frustration at physical therapy. He didn’t like attempts at becoming ambidextrous, so that idea died a quick death. I remember the bills insurance wouldn’t cover. The ER visit alone was fifteen hundred out of pocket.
Mostly, I noticed the looks at restaurants when he put his hand on my back, opened doors, or used his card to tap. I missed the sound of him snapping his thumb and index finger the poodles listened to most. I missed his ability to open jars easily. I missed seeing him eat with a fork instead of a spoon. I hated the stupid humor: “Did you buy a new handicapped glove for golf?” “I bet you get 10% more life out of your fingernail clippers,” “You’re excluded from cabins in the Finger lakes,” or “High four.”
The party went off without any major accidents although I admit I winced every time they lit one. I was worried about those spent ones that landed on the roofs, on top of cars, or in the yards of my neighbors. The dogs were curled in fetal positions in their kennels and stayed that way until lunch, and when Gabe got up, I asked him if he’d been nervous or felt any different this time.
“At first I was, but I knew I had to get back in the saddle.”
“Until you lose an eye or another finger,” I said.
“About thirty thousand fingers are lost every year, some at home and some at work. The odds of it happening twice are like being struck by lightning twice, one in several million. Besides, the fireworks were a success.”
“Make sure to keep it that way.”
Niles Reddick is author of a novel, four short-fiction collections, and two novellas. His work has appeared in more than five hundred publications, including The Saturday Evening Post, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bending Genres, Citron Review, Midway Journal, and Vestal Review. He is a ten-time Pushcart nominee, a three-time Best of the Net nominee, and a three-time Best Microfiction nominee.
