The Fever For The World
Under diligent care, as the weather outside continued growing dim and windy, Mary had her son Benji sleep two nights in the attic. Decorated specifically for guests’ kids: for example, whenever Mary’s friends going through hard times needed a place to stay and had kids to come along with them, a comfortable guest room, per say, was thought of when moving into the house.
Having one twin bed by the window facing the front yard, a desk in case Benji had homework to complete online, and a small TV plugged into one of the two outlets; Benji developed a fever and asked Mary, after being sent home from school, if he could settle himself in the attic. “So I could listen to the thunder,” he said dreamily. Her son, as Mary can remember, was 17 years old. From what she could recall, every fever Benji’s gotten, there always came with it a routine.
Waking up at 3 in the morning, usually, his father, now living in an apartment somewhere downtown, would hear screaming coming from Benji’s bedroom. After quickly running past the hall, both would find Benji in a trance state, swinging his body back and forth from a horrible nightmare. Meanwhile, outside the black window, thunder and wind roared through the street; and on the TV, mass destruction raged across the coasts, causing damages and several deaths. A big coincidence, every time, his father assures Mary. This occasional symptom was always guaranteed, and every morning, when asked while Mary or her husband set themselves for the day in the kitchen that morning- the weather suddenly at decent rest - Benji wouldn’t recall the nightmares he had. As usual, grabbing his breakfast and heading down the sidewalk for the school bus, nose cleared and all, barely recounting them later.
Now, when Mary awoke from a nap and looked at her phone to shut her alarm, a loose howl came from the window, she realized - a notification set last month - today was Benji’s birthday, and many guests, like her mother, were coming; she took the day off; and half of the dishes were washed and the living room needed vacuuming since it was Benji’s chore to do those.
With the afternoon sun slightly glaring across her bedroom sheets, it needs washing as well, she thought; she took time getting out of bed. Above, she could hear Benji, as well, awakening from his bed, the floor creaking very tiredly from the cold build from last night.
Looking out the window facing the front yard, Benji peeked at his phone for the time, hearing below him his mother’s alarm. While opening the curtains to observe the street, letting his arms, hands, and legs gather much sunlight, he suddenly wondered why today he should be curiously aware, other than the face of dark clouds a few miles away. Looking down the front yard, the dead tree near the garage swayed stiffly; from the grass below, tiny leaves circled around the thick branch; as looking in the distance of houses and thick clouds covering most of the sky, there came a mourning Benji enjoyed sinking within. A moth caressed the corner of the window frame and Benji didn’t mind it. The smell of the wood, along with the warm conditioning on his legs from the heater, he imagined he was in his childhood bed, laying in a coma; his parents, all the while a bit younger, waited, with a doctor, to wake up from a long dream of Benji living through adolescent and experiencing everything, from their fights, divorce, and the separation, going from one place to another. He sighed, suddenly remembering he had a fever - the back of his nose clogging both his throat and speech. He walked towards his bed and sat to think what to do. I think I finished the English essay for Dante’s Inferno, he thought; now I believe there was a math assignment and a two-page reading for history that I need to check…
Mary prepared the table in the dining room. She came downstairs after a good bath, knowing at any minute she would hear knocking; going from one end of the table, placing paper plates and treats and plastic forks along, she then stopped. She listened.
Two trucks pulled up on the driveway, and a few minutes later, a knock occurred. She took a breath and walked over to the front door. Before opening, she looked towards the stairs and her smartphone and wondered if Benji would really care if his father would come or not. With one last breath, she opened the door, greeted with, “Hello, long time no see. Sure is raining out there…” or “What's up, girl. The weather is getting nasty.”
Later more guests would arrive; “please make yourself home,” Mary said, grabbing their coats, hanging them, then going back to the table to set the napkins and cups.
The guests were set in the kitchen and living room after a few more, like her sister and brother, or neighbors from down the street, entered and greeted Mary before checking in on other guests. Making their way across the vacuumed floor and near the kitchen, avoiding the backyard.
While Mary, in the kitchen near the fridge, was checking on the cake, Mrs. Smith, her mother, walked in holding her drink and asked about Benji’s health. Looking out the window, the wind was beginning to pick up, and the tree from the front yard was heard smacking against the window. All jumped, silenced, and then went back to chattering.
“He seems to be getting along. Only last night, no nightmares surprisingly,” Mary said. She placed her oven gloves on the counter, turned around, and opened the fridge to grab a drink. Unsure if wine would carry away her heavy distinction, barely at well terms if she did anything right. At least the way she wanted it.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mrs. Smith said, walking over with her empty glass. Observing it, using the soft light from the kitchen window to see smudges. As Mary pulled out a bottle before pouring it into her glass, she let Mrs. Smith serve first; “We all want him better,” she began, as though Mary thought otherwise. “Is there any way you could have him come down? I want to give this to him face-to-face.” She pulled from her purse a red envelope, and set it gently on the counter with the bottle. Mrs. Smith then pats the surface, feeling there was dust on top.
Mary then grabs the bottle, looks at the envelope, and says, “I’ll see if he can. Though, he really is getting better.”
“I’m sure,” Mrs. Smith said agreeably, raised her glass, slowly turned, and went back to the living room with the rest of the guests.
With unexpected relief, Mary, unconscious of how tightly she gripped the bottle, poured in her glass - small sips, Mary, she told herself - walked to the counter and, with her fingertip, graced the edge of the envelope. With the wind picking up, someone in the living room said, “Mary, come look at this; they're sending out flood warnings across the coast,” she put the envelope in one of the pantries and walked steadily into the living room where all the guests watched the TV.
Then, next to her, a young woman who worked at the high school - Benji’s English teacher, “I’m telling you, this will only get worse. I’m letting the kids read Dante’s Inferno; I’m sure that whole voodoo is gonna be our world, for sure.” Mary smiled, nodded, then continued watching the screen like everyone else. The tree with no leaves caused a startle among the faces of the living room, as it toppled, luckily, away from the vehicles of her guests.
For as little as many gathered they should leave before the storm got worse, Mary, coming from upstairs with Benji, asked who could stay to sing happy 18th birthday, then walked to the kitchen to prepare the cake. She and the other guests, the lights turned off, including Mrs. Smith, his uncle and auntie, his English teacher, and some parents from down the street - all of them sang neatly, trying to overpower the thunder and windows, as they continued to clatter, and the wind increasingly howling through some opening in the living room. “Oh dear,” Mrs. Smith said, searching in her pocket. Looking at Mary, passing her with Benji, and entering the dining room, “Sweetie, do you have my envelope? I can’t remember where I put it.”
They all followed, in the dark - flashes of thunder appearing within the windows. Mary and Benji sat together at the end of the table, as the guests gathered around, taking out their cameras, and watched as Benji looked in awe at the candles on the cake. His eyes sparkling, his face softly lit from the small dancing flames. He looks up at Mary. Then to the guests. Then at Mrs. Smith, who smiled. He looks down, realizing his father wasn’t among them ; the skies turning dark. “I love you, mom,” he says.
“I love you, too,” Mary says. Handing him the red envelope without Mrs. Smith's approval. Removing the paper, Benji saw a white card. He opened it and saw a hundred dollar bill, then, in black pen, read: ‘Happy 18th birthday. You are so much like your father, full of depth and wonder, love and charisma, you could cause the world to end with a touch of your finger, and the beating of your healthy heart.’
And right when Benji blows the candles, his throat is nearly clogged by snot and mucus, getting worse - a window upstairs broke - and the whole room goes dark. The storm over us is just beginning its rath, Benji thought.
