And Then It Was October

Michelle Tang-Jackson

Just like that the swim trunk reds, creamsicle oranges, and eye-blinding whites of summer faded into the first muddy brown cakings left on the linoleum, the knitted greens of pine and August grass, and persimmon afternoons. Heidi’s neighbors were bringing everything inside—The Clearwaters snapped shut the giant patio umbrella like a flower adverse to the cold and Miss Azam finally unhooked the unsightly bra of her sagging string hammock. The slicked domes of Weber grills sat cold and stoic while huge crows pushed past morning fog like shining black buttons through a wooly gray cardigan.

Heidi rested her forehead against the bay window to look out at the trees, not caring if she left a smudge. She looked over her shoulder at her kitchen, lit by the single overhead stove light. The counters were littered with school day debris—Hannah’s construction paper cutouts of cats and bats, glittered pumpkins, at least a week’s worth of Jay’s pop-tart wrappers, a delicate arc of deli mustard. The ghostly empty milk jugs waiting to be recycled. There was the pile of kitchen towels that the family could never seem to fold and which were thus relegated to the counter purgatory, never knowing if they were dirty or clean or somewhere in between.

Heidi remembered that the leaves were going insane—frenzied in their last days. The leaves were painting on dusky crimsons and wearing their crispest golds as if they were desperate, aging women attempting to fool Mister Winter. The charming devil would soon take their faces in his palms and kiss them ever-so-gently—only to leave them cold and crumpled on the floor like used-up prophylactics.

She walked to the sink full of eggy dishes and soapy juice glasses. Stepping over a gutted gym bag, she traced her fingers along the crumbs on the counter and was startled when she found that her hand had come to rest on the toaster. The boxy mirror reflected the clutter around it. Heidi never kept the toaster on the counter—it was clunky and took up too much room and Jay ate his pop-tarts raw or unceremoniously microwaved them. Heidi pulled the plug from the wall and cradling the toaster, sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor. Months ago, Heidi had cleared out her cabinets of useless appliances and antiquated cookware to donate to the neighborhood rummage sale. She had thought of giving away the toaster—a seemingly ancient wedding gift from a marriage that had ended years earlier—specifically when Heidi had discovered her husband fucking the au pair on that very kitchen counter, their skin covered in crushed corn flakes and the blush of chagrin. But she decided to keep the toaster—it was pragmatic. If all went wrong with the world, at least she could make toast and get the kids off to school. And so she had shoved the reflective cube to the back of the cabinets and saved it for a day when she needed to pull her world together with toasted bread.
Heidi looked down at the toaster in her lap. She peered down its two black nostrils, hairy with coils and the toasting baskets. The toaster felt heavy and warm against her stomach, like metallic cat. Its little black feet were leaving gentle claw marks on her thighs. She fiddled with the springy stub of a tail, listening to the gentle creak of the toasters insides lowering and rising. Her fingers outlined the openings, playing between the slick chrome and the warm wiry grates. Heidi noticed the kettle’s impatient whistle and jumped up and refilled its belly. She returned to the toaster, hugging it slightly to her chest. Her breath made waning and waxing circles of steam on the silvered surface as Heidi pushed her face close to the bread slots, inhaling the familiar smell of sourdough and burnt crusts. She held up the toaster and blinked into its reflection. Her eyes looked wet and holy in the silver, her lips stretched wide into an indiscernible expression. Her state of undress and damp hair made her appear as a hungry baby bird. The kettle gurgled. Heidi propped up the toaster and kissed her baby bird reflection, wrapping the cord flush against her wrist. She flickered her tongue against the reflection of her own and while the toaster’s side provided a warm surface, the glint of metal couldn’t reciprocate the kiss. She hunched, rolling up one sleeve of her clingy robe. She wrapped the other arm around the toaster, supporting it like a baby’s head as she dipped her fingers into the toaster. The gentle heat rushed over Heidi’s hand like a remembering. She prodded deeper, feeling the baskets slightly hugging her fingertips. Further she pressed, surrendering her hand to the grasp of the toaster, weaving her fingers into the spaces between the coils. Heidi let out a slight gasp as she felt the toaster’s warmth flood the anxiousness that had been living in her chest for a long while now. She pulled out her hand; the pads of her fingers were thick with crumbs.
And then it was October, full of those churning gusts of wind thick enough to rattle the aluminum siding full of fall’s chilled pangs. The moans were starting, the groans of wood stretched full in the sun and then put away wet and made to shiver under the sky’s whispering silver. And the whistle of a forgotten kettle on those autumn mornings that Heidi spent remembering and cleaning the toaster.