Sardines

Content Warning: Themes of childhood trauma, child abuse, and death.

Haywood blinked against the sheets of soft orange light spilling in from the cracked windows. He gazed past a makeshift radio on the window sill, watching the leaves of a sycamore tree rustle outside. The front of the radio, dotted with old soda can caps, played a continuous stream of faint static from its two circular speakers.

“Anything else to drink?” someone asked over his shoulder. Haywood’s shoulders jumped. As he tried to crane his neck back, a man strode past to the opposite side of the table and set down a glass, filled to the brim with ice water. He walked around the table and stood opposite Haywood, clutching the back of the chair, and smiled.

“I beg your pardon?” Haywood asked, pulling a pair of readers from his breast pocket and placing them over his droopy ears. The readers instantly slid to the tip of his nose as he studied the man. He wore a wrinkled linen t-shirt, a shade darker than pure white. His bare face and greasy hair shone against the fading afternoon light.

The man motioned towards the glass and scratched the back of his neck. “Anything else to drink, or will water do?”

Ice cubes floated to the surface of the glass. Haywood’s nose twitched and he looked down, where a small white bowl sat on a saucer in front of him, steaming. A golden spoon and knife sat to the right of the plate, a fork and napkin sat to the left. He surveyed the room, eyeing the terrycloth sheets bawled up in the middle of the bed. A cluster of prescription bottles sat undisturbed on the bedside table in the other corner. He locked eyes with the man. “Who are you?”

“I was sent for,” the man replied. “Try the soup.”

“Have we met? If you’ll excuse me, my mind is not what it once was.”

The man pulled the chair out and sat down, placing his folded hands on top of the empty placemat in front of him. “Try the soup.”

Haywood’s hand lightly trembled as he reached for the soup spoon on the table. “You won’t be indulging yourself, I take it?” he asked, pointing towards the man's empty placemat.

“You’d be correct, though I may have dessert later.”

Haywood dunked his spoon into the bowl and slowly raised it to his nose. “Tomato?”

The man nodded. “Homemade.”

He slurped from the spoon, letting the warmth sit on his tongue for a few seconds. “My God,” he said under his breath. “I can’t believe it. How did you make this?”

“Good?” the man asked, hands still clasped.

“There’s even a dash of cinnamon in here,” Haywood said, shoveling the soup in his mouth and panting. He lifted the bowl with his crooked fingers and drank the rest. A crimson drop crept its way down the side of the bowl after he set it down on the saucer. He dabbed the drop with his thumb and sucked on it. His face softened as he stared off into empty space. “Anytime there was snow falling from the sky, Aunt Bernie made soup. We used to love this.”

“Who?”

“Mack and Mitzi.” The radio continued to hum by the window. Haywood came to and creased his forehead. “Wait. What is all this?”

“Everyone deserves a warm meal.”

“True… but would you mind at least telling me why you have Aunt Bernie’s recipe? I don’t remember you.”

A soft smile spread across the man’s face. “You lived with your aunt? How many years was that?”

Haywood studied the man and remained silent. The man finally unclasped his hands and placed his palms on the placemat.

“I spoke with a girl who lived with two sets of aunts and uncles at two different times in her life. Her parents passed while she was away at summer camp, I believe.”

“That’s horrific," Haywood said.

“And your parents?”

“You know, it’s coming back to me. Aunt Bernie always served toasted sourdough with her soup.”

The man drummed his fingers along the placemat. “Of course, how could I forget?” He stood and walked across the room, khaki pants hanging loose from his hips. He opened the door and disappeared into the hallway. Haywood sipped from his water and stared out the window, watching a flock of birds, in formation, flew towards the red sun in the sky.

The man returned, a thin white plate in his hand. The door closed behind him. He pulled the platter and bowl away from Haywood and set down the fresh plate. A short stack of toast sat before him. Haywood lowered his head and took the plate, his nose hovering above the top slice, and inhaled. “It smells just like the kitchen.”

“And your parents?” the man repeated.

He chomped a slice of toast, soggy in the center, and let it dissolve on his tongue, eyes closed. “They passed away before I could speak,” Haywood finally said. He took another bite and tossed the leftover crust on the plate. “I never got the specifics. I thought my Aunt Bernie was mom for the longest time.”

“Any siblings?”

He shook his head, swallowed, and grabbed another slice. “Nope. Just me and my cousins.”

“Mack and…”

“Maclin. But we called him Mack. He was older than me.” Haywood looked down at the plate, a pile of bread crust and crumbs in the center. He smiled. “I can see him now.”

“What do you mean?” the man asked.

“Mack. He always sat across from me at dinner. He convinced everyone to save their crusts until the end of dinner. Then he’d stack them and build these little structures.” He chuckled.

“And then there was Mitzi. She was maybe six years younger than me?” His face hardened and met the man’s eyes. “Hold on. Again, how do I know you? Do you mind telling me-”

A soft rap came from the chipped wooden door across the room. The man raised a finger and gathered the empty dishes. He slipped out into the hall, closing the door behind him. Muffled voices followed.

Haywood grasped the arms of his chair and pressed upwards. His feet, doubled-layered in heavy wool socks, remained stuck to the floor. He strained and jerked up again, blue veins bulging beneath his skin. He lifted himself a few inches above the chair, briefly, before he collapsed back into the chair, chest heaving.

The doorknob turned and the man spun back into the room. He balanced a silver platter on his fingertips and set it down in the center of the table. “The main course,” he said. “But don’t dig in yet.”

“Who are you? If you’ll please forgive me, my mind just isn't the same anymore.”

“I’m aware your memory is… faulty,” the man said. He tilted the platter lid upwards and wafted some steam towards his nose. “But we haven’t met before. Let me ask you this,” the man said. “How did you, Mack and Mitzi get along?”

Haywood’s stomach grumbled as steam curled around the platter and floated away. He eyed his silver reflection as the man lowered the lid back down. “Me and Mack, we liked each other, sure. Although, he rarely ever let me hang out with his buddies. Probably because I hated baseball.”

“And the girl?”

Haywood watched the sun dip below the treeline outside, one last ray reflecting against the silver antenna of the radio. “We got along very well, yes. She let me join her little tea parties. I gave her my action figures so she could paint them pink or purple. But only the cheap ones I didn't care about. And we used to go into town and look for old bottle caps and soda cans. If she had an unlimited pile of aluminum and hot glue, the entire house and everything inside would have been covered in caps and cut out cans.” A breeze slipped through the cracked window, fluttering dust and debris from the heavy blackout curtains. Haywood shivered and crossed his arms.

“Need a blanket?” the man asked.

Haywood shook his head. “No, but a cardigan will do.” He tried to lift a foot and grumbled to himself. “Would you mind grabbing one from the closet?” he asked. The man slid the platter back, away from Haywood, and stood up. He opened the door and combed through an assortment of hanging clothes. He pulled a tattered cream cardigan from the rack and draped it over Haywood’s shoulders.

“It sounds like you two got along quite well,” the man said.

“Very much.” Haywood drew the cardigan tighter around his shoulders and stared at the closet door, left ajar.

“Dinner,” the man said, lifting the lid from the platter. A steaming chunk of meatloaf sat next to golden mashed potatoes and a bundle of roasted asparagus. Haywood’s mouth watered. He grabbed the fork and knife from the table. The man nodded and nudged the plate over. Haywood sliced a piece of meatloaf first. He chewed and swallowed a portion with some difficulty. The rest went down after a sip of water.

“It’s even a bit dry,” Haywood said. “Unbelievable. I forgot about her meatloaf. If I remember correctly…” He moved over to the mashed potatoes and took a bite. “Yes! Margarine instead of butter.”

The man grinned and leaned back in his chair. “Did you and Mack and Mitzi ever play together?”

“Oh yes,” Haywood said, a bit of potato on his chin. “You know, we used to play this game called Sardines. Simple but very fun.”

“Go on,” the man said.

“It was similar to Hide and Seek, but only one person hides, and everyone else tries to find them. If you find the hidden player, you join them. The game keeps going until everyone is hiding, and only one Seeker remains.”

“I see. So everyone packs into the same spot like-”

“A can of sardines,” Haywood said with a smile.

“And Mitzi liked this game?” the man asked.

“It was her favorite, but I knew the best hiding spots. We played for years, even after I left for college. Mack stopped playing after he went overseas, though.”

“Which hiding spot was the best?”

Haywood scooped potato with his fork and spread it across a stalk of asparagus. “Aunt Bernie hated it when I did this.” He smiled, mouth full. “I forgot about that."

“Which hiding spot was the best?” the man repeated coolly.

“Right. We had this big closet in the basement, mostly for old towels and linen. The thing is, the basement is pretty small. My aunt packed up all these old cookie tins she refused to get rid of, and would push a stack of those boxes up against the closet door. Unless you lived there, it was nearly impossible to see the door behind it all, given how dark that corner was to begin with. And then, once you opened the closet, there was always a comforter hanging from the ceiling, almost like a curtain. I’m not sure why Aunt Bernie left it hanging all those years.”

The static from the radio lowered an octave. The man nodded and leaned forward. “You always hid in this spot, then?”

“Well, no. Not always. Otherwise everyone would know about the spot. The key was waiting to hide there towards the end of the day, when you knew that would be the last round of hiding.”

“And Mitzi, she didn’t know about this spot?”

“I don’t believe so.” Haywood scratched his fork against the silver stubble on his chin and contemplated. “Wait, actually yes. She found it later.”

“How?”

He snapped his fingers. “Yes! She did find my spot. We played when I came back from school. It was the winter of my second year, I believe.”

The man gestured with his hand to continue.

“I remember. She wanted me to play with her and her friends. I had a paper that was due the first week back from break, but Mitzi begged me to skip out on writing the paper. I eventually caved.” He stabbed a few more pieces of asparagus.

“And she was the Sardine?” he asked as he approached the closet again. He closed the door with a click.

“Yup. I found her almost immediately. I'd always sneak down by myself and check that spot first if I was seeking.”

“And you hid with her down there,” the man said, returning to the table. “Behind the curtain?”

“It was a comforter. And yes. None of her friends found us,” Haywood said, another bite of meatloaf in his cheek. “By the time we walked out, they had all given up and left for supper. We were in that closet forever.” Haywood said. Suddenly, his face turned pale. He spat the half-chewed meatloaf back onto the plate and clenched his stomach.

“Is something wrong?” the man asked, extending a fresh napkin. Haywood grabbed it and wiped his lips. He folded the napkin in half and dabbed his wet forehead.

“I’m not sure,” Haywood said, weakly. “Sorry.” He pushed the plate away and sat still, face blank.

“What is it?”

“We had meatloaf that night, after her friends left.

“Everyone had meatloaf?” the man asked.

“It was always dry, as I said earlier. But that night, it was the best meatloaf Aunt Bernie ever made. I distinctly remember.”

“Did Mitzi agree?” the man asked.

“Agree with what?”

“Did she also think it was the best meatloaf your aunt made?”

“No, she didn’t.” He took a few small sips of water, struggling to swallow. “She hated meatloaf nights. That’s why she didn’t come up for dinner.”

“She didn’t eat dinner?”

“Well, she was pretty upset that evening. Didn’t feel well,” Haywood said, peering outside past the radio. The sky had turned a deep purple.

There was another knock at the door. The man perked up and took the platter. Haywood's gaze remained fixed outside. The man opened the door, whispered out in the hall, and returned to the table empty handed.

“Was she upset the remainder of your break?” he asked.

Haywood snapped from his trance. “I wouldn’t know. I think I left the next day. Went back to university early.”

“I see,” the man said. “Did she hide in the same spot the next time?”

Haywood slid both hands underneath his right leg and lifted with all his might. His foot hung in the air, limp. He let go, pins and needles shooting up his leg as his heel struck the floor.

The man pressed on. “Did you play again?”

“No, we couldn’t,” Haywood said, digging his fingers into each thigh.

“Why not?”

He stared at his empty placemat. “Because I didn’t see her again.”

“Why?”

“She was sent to boarding school in the spring.”

“Boarding school?” The man leaned forward in his chair.

“Who are you?” Haywood whispered.

“Which school?”

“I don’t know that,” Haywood said, eyes squeezed shut.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Haywood muttered, out of breath.

“Was it really boarding school?” the man said, resting his back against the chair. “Say it.”

“I don’t know!” Haywood shouted. He opened his eyes, and found himself standing.

The man rose to his feet as well. “Where is she now?”

Haywood’s legs shook. He tried to lift a foot. A single toe. “Who are you?” he repeated.

The man calmly walked over to the window sill and took the radio. “Where is Mitzi now? Has she come and visited you here before?”

“No,” Haywood said, legs wobbling. He took a deep breath through his nose, eyes tinted pink. “No. She hasn’t.”

“Has anyone visited you here?” The man set the radio on the table, static intensifying.

Haywood remained silent.

“Do you know how long she attended this boarding school? Weeks? Months? Years?”

“Stop,” Haywood said, eyes wide, palms over his ears. “Please.”

“Months. Five months,” the man said, collapsing the silver antenna on the top of the radio. The waves of static continued to fill the room. “How did she die?”

“They didn’t tell me,” Haywood wheezed, clutching his chest.

“Did you go to the funeral?”

“No,” he muttered.

“What was that?”

“No! They didn’t let me go…” Haywood’s eyelids fluttered until his pupils disappeared and he slumped forward. His world went black.

Haywood felt a softness brush against his chin and opened his eyes again. The man pulled a comforter up to Haywood’s chest and patted the pillow behind his head. “Who the hell are you?” he whispered up to the man.

“I sometimes question that myself,” the man said. He set the radio down next to the bottles of medication on the bedside table.

“Just tell me,” Haywood croaked. The man ignored him and strode towards the windows, drawing the curtains. A darkness settled in the room. The radio dial clicked and the static intensified.

“We are skipping dessert tonight,” the man said as he walked across the room. He opened the door, letting in a sliver of light from the hall. Haywood's neck strained as he lifted his head from the pillow. The man paused and turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot. Tomorrow morning, the nurse will come in and tap your shoulder. She’ll call your name a few times. You’ll feel her hand on your shoulder. You’ll hear her voice. But, you won’t be able to open your eyes. Or your mouth. It’ll be dark. You’ll be halfway gone by then.” He shut the door.

The static from the radio cut in and out, interspersed with sobs and the clatter of silverware. Silence soon followed.