Trip the Runner - Andrew Rolston Page 0,2

drive the property. He started every day this way, with a thorough check of the fences and gates so the cows could graze without getting out.

Rose finished her coffee and took her cup to the sink. She splashed the cold, bracing water on her face. The shock of it chased the last of her warm sleepiness away, and she got down to business.

As a girl, Rose had taken her time preparing for each day, a habit she’d been able to indulge when her mother was still with them. She would spend long minutes gazing at her closet, laying out dresses to choose from and considering each one, all while listening to music on the radio. No such leisure was available anymore — after her mother’s death, everything was suddenly on a timer. A shower —five minutes. Getting dressed —two minutes. And thirty seconds max to put on and lace up her shoes. Rose swore she could hear the stopwatch in her head.

Life with her father and her father only, no mother helping out with laundry, cooking, the animals, or the banking meant that it all fell on her. In true Dewdale tradition, Phillip Barrington had never learned to cook or clean, confident his whole life that a lovely woman would care for him and his house. Why iron? Women did that. Cook? No need, he had a wife.

Of course, when the woman of the house passes away, these duties fall to the children she leaves behind. And Rose, now in her late twenties, had no discernible plans for living on her own, attending college, or moving to another town. She didn’t feel she could go anywhere, not while her father lived and needed her more and more every day.

She showered quickly, only taking one extra minute to shampoo her long hair. She grabbed one of her cream-colored soaps in the shower and promptly scrubbed the night’s work from her skin. This particular bar was a lemon-rosemary, and the combination of its woody and citrus scent boosted her optimism for the day. It was hard to feel anything but positive once a person smelled so lovely.

She walked out in two towels — one for her body, one wrapped around her head like a turban. Her hair was so long now that she needed this whole new ritual to get it dry. She pulled on her underthings, then unwound the towel on her head and let her damp hair fall onto her shoulders. She gathered it all up and bent at the waist so her head hung upside down. In that position, she could see the portrait she had hung low and upside down on the wall in memoriam.

“Hi Mom,” she said out loud, staying upside down as long as she could to look at the lovely smile that the photographer had captured so well. That was how she remembered her mother; about to burst into a laugh, humming to herself, ready to pose for a picture. Rose flipped up and, as she did every morning, studied her own reflection in the mirror for any sign of the mother who had left the earth far too soon.

******

The smell of salt and fat beckoned Trip nose to the kitchen. Now fully dressed, he strode down the hall in his favorite red tracksuit, his medal nestled comfortably against his chest. He grinned at the smell. He turned the corner and saw his mother making her standard and his favorite: bacon, eggs, and toast. Next to her was a plate of the crisp, oily bacon strips draining onto a paper towel. He sidled up next to her and snagged a piece of bacon.

“Mom,” he said, “do you know you’re the best cook in Dewdale? Maybe in all the world?”

His mother giggled at their old joke. Every morning he complimented her skills; she washed the dishes until they sparkled, the laundry was always correctly folded, his bedroom was spotless. In return, she ignored the amount of fried pork her son ate every day.

“You flatter me, my dear. Go sit down and have some juice.” She angled her cheek out for a kiss, and he complied, giving her a soft little peck. He took his seat and poured a small glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

He heard his father’s tired, heavy footsteps walk in as he gulped from the short glass and their eyes met for an uncomfortable moment.

“Son.”

“Father.”

Bob Harrington, the man of the house and local money-lending expert, hiked up his slacks and re-tucked his button-down