BIGFOOT
There are three lightning bugs in her backyard thatIrene can count from her porch. It’s
the first she’s seen all Spring, and she names themApollo, Gatsby, and Jolene. They dance
around the tomatoes and cucumbers in the garden, theMagnolia tree, and the empty bonfire pit.
The oppressive humidity of summer hasn’t set in fullforce yet, but it hovers nearby. Her wife’s
humming floats out from the open window above theirkitchen sink, and when her phone ringing
interrupts it, she almost loathes to answer. But it’sher father, and they agreed to talk tonight.
“Hey. It’s your dad,” his voice muffled through thedevice, but it’s him alright. His y’s are
particularly thick, and his voice enthusiastic asif they’ve talked to each other every day for
years.
“I know. I saved your number.”
“Oh. You know how you always said you wanted to gohunting for bigfoot when you
were a teenager?”
She remembers.
“I think we should do it finally. We never got aroundto it because of work and stuff, but I
got this spot at a campsite near Eldorado this weekend.”
“Yeah. Okay. That sounds fun.”
“We’ll take the camper and I’ll grill hamburgers.You can bring her too-”
“No. She’s got work.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve got papers to grade this weekend so I’ll needto be back by Sunday.”
“Ooh what are the kids writing about this time? Ibet it’s that mockingbird book.”