Greetings from Hotch Potch Literature and Art. In this series, we present stories from our archives, posts from our editors, and other miscellany. A Friday Hotch Potch for your reading pleasure.
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Hotch Potch Literature and Art
To continue our Friday Stew series, we present The Good Ones Stay from Hotch Potch founding editor Gail Marlene Schwartz. This story was inspired by one of guest artist David Mellon’s wonderful images.
House Boat - David Mellon
And now, without further ado: The Good Ones Stay, first published in Hotch Potch Literature and Art, Volume Four, Issue One.
The Good Ones Stay
Gail Marlene Schwartz
Kairi was well-planted on the roof, the black tar warming her butt through the shimmery blue skirt. She turned her face toward the sun and she closed her eyes. House destroyed. Water as far as she could see. At least she was still here.
The skirt had been the only thing Kairi found of Mamma’s after she left. Pappa never liked it, but often the girl would wear it at night with a tee shirt as pajamas. The cool synthetic fabric relaxed her legs. The nights her father came into her room, she’d peel it off in bed and stuff it into the tightly tucked hospital corner with her toes. He never knew.
Her father also never knew about the note Kairi found in the skirt’s pocket. The letters were made with this swishing motion her mother used when she left notes in her daughter’s lunches or on the table or inside birthday cards. Kairi had never understood the words fully, and she’d often feel a cyclone building in her body each time her eyes passed over those graceful curving letters: “Run toward your dreams.”
Selfish.
If anything, she knew that the good ones stay.
She shaded her eyes from the sun. The water was absolutely everywhere, and if it weren’t so sunny and quiet, with mourning doves cooing and insects buzzing, she would have wondered if she had died.
She futzed with the edge of her tee- shirt and breathed as deeply as her tight muscles allowed. Her chest burned and sweat soaked the cotton under her arms. For the millionth time, Erica, her little sister, popped into her mind. She was at a sleepover. And their father, out on a job with his truck. Working hard for his girls, as always. Was his truck floating down the river? She imagined her Pappa, his big stomach and big voice and big beard, bellowing out country tunes.
No river could touch him.
But maybe he was worried about her and Erica. She had tried his cell and got no answer.
Never mind. What mattered was that she was here, at the house, holding things down until they returned.
When Kairi had first crawled through the attic window, she had heard something—whap whap whap. She had hoped it was a helicopter—prayed—but she didn’t actually see anything in the sky. If there was a rescue team, surely they would have stopped. Or perhaps it wasn’t worth it for just one person.
Early this morning, she had heard it again and looking out, realized it was a piece of aluminum her father had attached to the garage roof. Pappa had been patching a leak but never got around to finishing the job. It had blown off in the storm and was stuck in a tree.
She glanced at the river that now surrounded the submerged structure. Beating sun. Receding waters. Everything calm. But no way down, no way out.
The water was in charge.
She had spent the night before the storm alone, though at sixteen, she didn’t mind staying alone most nights. But that night wasn’t most nights. Most nights, she wasn’t crawling out on the roof to escape raging water. Most nights, she was firmly planted in her bed, red nightstand to her left, braided blue rug to her right, family down the hall. She wrapped her arms around herself and asked whatever was out there to take care of her father and sister.
A water memory. She preferred baths for a long time, until her tenth birthday, because unlike her bedroom, the door had a lock, a sturdy deadbolt, and her father never tried coming in. Mamma would lock the deadbolt when she bathed Kairi as a baby and a toddler, and Kairi had caught on young that it was an essential part of bathtime.
Later, when she was seven, eight, nine, after Mamma was gone, she would put on the fan whose white noise acted like a fluffy quilt, enveloping her along with the steam from the water rushing out of the faucet. She would pour in some drippy pink Mr. Bubble and, when the water rose high enough, stick in her big toe and test the temperature. She waited until the last minute to strip her clothes, leaving them in a heap behind the door. She always brought in her nightgown and clean underwear and placed them folded next to the sink. Being naked was a necessary evil.
Once in the bath, the water’s warmth penetrated her skin like moisturizer, softening her rigid body. She played with the bubbles, mooshing them between her palms, painting on a beard, spreading them over her arms like sequined sleeves. In regular life, she played very little, preferring to read or sit quietly and watch things that nobody else found interesting, like house spiders and wind and chipmunks. But in the bath, before her tenth birthday, imagination joined her in sensory delight.
The water was absolutely everywhere, and if it weren’t so sunny and quiet, with mourning doves cooing and
insects buzzing, she would have wondered if she had died.
Then, on her tenth birthday, she went into the bathroom and the deadbolt was gone.
She never told her aunt. She never told her teacher. She never told her grandmother. She never told her best friend or her best friend’s mother. She just started taking showers, always when her father was at work. Hot rivulets flowing down from her head to her feet relaxed her just as much as the baths.
Sweat trickled down Kairi’s neck. She reached up with both hands, divided her hair into three sections, and quickly braided it. Mamma always wore one braid down the back, and Kairi would go into her room every morning and watch. But Mamma never had time to braid Kairi’s hair. Her mother was always working, and when she wasn’t working, she was always tired. Her dad would braid Kairi’s hair when he wasn’t on the road. Then she got old enough and learned to do it herself.
Where was her mamma now?
It didn’t matter. Her mother was a coward. As she braided her hair, Kairi intermittently pulled the strands, as hard as she could. Pain wasn’t a big deal. She pulled again, harder, as hard as she could. Her face stayed still. No flinching. No crying.
As she manipulated each strand, her thoughts shifted to the water below. Yellow flecks swirled with white bubbles, iridescent oily spots, muck. Her stomach made noises, and she knew at some point she would need to make a decision. Would anyone come? A boat? A helicopter? A plane?
She thought about the water bottle still inside the attic. There wasn’t much left, and she was thirsty. How would she get back in? Would she slip? That water was clean and safe to drink, but was it accessible?
She thought about Erica and Pappa.
Had the flood reached them too? Did they know their house was under water? Were they worried about her? Could they sense her concern about their well-being?
Tugging on her braids, she felt tough. Courageous. Good. She would stay on the roof. She would wait.
She remembered diving into water two years ago when Pappa had insisted on a beach vacation. Her little sister Erica was excited about the ocean, with Vermont being far from the sea. Mamma had been gone for seven years, and the achiness had started feeling normal. Sometimes Pappa got ideas in his head. Kairi did the research, picking six possible motels on the coast of Maine. Pappa picked the cheapest, and they were off in the truck.
The motel was the Northern Forest, with each room door painted deep green and several paper air fresheners shaped like evergreen trees hanging inside. The two beds had tan spreads with green stripes, and gold framed prints of moose adorned the walls. The low pile carpet, a checkered pattern, was scuffed in places but reasonably clean. Kairi wondered if expensive hotels had nicer decor.
They unpacked their suitcase, the girls claiming the bed closest to the bathroom, and took turns peeing and changing into their bathing suits. Kairi made sure to wrap her beach towel around her body so just her arms and legs showed. Her father gave her the once-over and scowled. “You’re going swimming, not sledding,” he said. She shrugged and grabbed a hat and sunglasses.
They walked down to the beach and plunked down their stuff. Two boys tossed a red frisbee back and forth, spraying sand as they trotted by. A young couple ran into the ocean holding hands. The lifeguard blew her whistle, yelling, “Stay behind the rope!”
Kairi unpacked her knapsack, taking out the dolphin book she was reading, her sunscreen, her water bottle. She laid out the towel, wondering if Pappa was looking at her. He cleared his throat, which made her turn and look at him. “You going in?”
She shrugged. “I want to read.” He stared. “Go swim. You can read anytime.” She rolled her eyes, then grabbed Erica’s hand and they ran toward the tide. She stopped just as the white foam of the sea grabbed her toes and looked back at her father. He was propped up on his elbow, belly hanging down to the sand, mirrored sunglasses reflecting the rays.
Her stomach made noises, and she knew at some point she would need to make a decision. Would anyone come? A boat?
A helicopter? A plane?
Erica shrieked and pulled Kairi further in. The frigid water soaked her bathing suit bottoms, then her belly, and finally her top. She sucked in her breath and then let go, her legs billowing out to the side, her arms dancing with the water, making circles as the water lifted her like a ballet partner. She dunked her head below the surface and saw Erica’s body, the sprouting breasts, the single hairs along her bikini line. Staring at the physical changes, she wondered if her father had noticed.
She came up, sputtering and bobbing on the waves. She looked around, squinting. Erica had swum out a bit further.
“Hey,” she shouted. “Let’s go back, okay?”
But her sister didn’t answer.
Seagulls swooped and shrieked, and the surf itself rumbled and roared.
The beach is so noisy.
She shouted to Erica again. What was she doing out there? For a second, she lost sight of her sister. She stood up on the mucky sand beneath her, but couldn’t see Erica at all.
In a split second, time both slowed down and sped up. Her legs disappeared and her voice. She saw the lifeguard stand up, shade her eyes, and raise the whistle to her lips. Then, in a second, the woman hopped off her big white chair and was in the ocean, splashing and splashing as she swam.
In what felt like hours later, she emerged, Erica’s body limp in her arms. The lifeguard set her sister down on the beach as a crowd gathered.
Her father’s shouts. The lifeguard tilting the girl’s head back, the same way they had learned in school at the first aid workshop. The lifeguard’s mouth over Erica’s. Her father, wailing. Kairi’s eyes tracking everything as she stood frozen.
Finally, her sister sputtering, flailing, coughing. Her father hugging her too tightly. The lifeguard stepping back. Sensation reemerging into her limbs. The realization that she was still in the same spot as when Erica had gone under.
Kairi climbed carefully back into the soaked attic through the window, using her hands to steady her on the roof. Inside, she grabbed her water bottle. Chugged the inch that was left. No more rationing.
She sat on a cardboard box near the window where the floor was somewhat dry and felt the release of pressure as the weight moved from her sunburned feet to her butt. She inhaled a mixture of mothballs, sourness, and mold. Her energy was waning, and she knew things were going to change now that she had no more drinkable water. She looked for containers to collect rainwater in and saw useless items, more cardboard boxes, chaise longues covered with cobwebs, rusted metal hangers.
Glancing around, she saw her phone on the floor, half-submerged. She walked over to it gingerly, toes squishing in brown water, and picked it up. Pushed restart. Nothing.
No food. No water. No phone.
How long had it been? Two days? Three?
Nobody was coming to save her.
Her game had to change.
Second grade. The goldfish, Pablo, who couldn’t stay in Mrs. Levitsky’s classroom over the holiday. Kairi coming home to ask if he could stay with them. Mamma in her Champlain College sweatshirt and ragged green bandana nodding distractedly when Kairi asked. Skipping back to school the next day, bursting into the classroom, beelining for the bug-eyed beauty in the circular bowl, studying the cobalt pebbles at the bottom, the plastic green foliage, Pablo’s translucent orange fins fanning up and out from his tiny body. Kairi knew the fish was meant to stay with her, that she above all of her classmates could best care for him, keep him safe, give him special treats along with his regular food, make him feel like he had a sister in her, a protector.
The teacher helped Kairi shlep Pablo’s bowl onto the bus that Friday, with the fish food tucked safe inside her backpack with a sheet of printed instructions.
On the bus, she balanced the bowl on her skinny legs and felt cold pressure of the glass on her thighs through her black leggings. She gripped it firmly with two hands, as she yearned to take one finger and tap on the glass or snap over the top to get Pablo to swim up.
When she got home, she wasn’t expecting anyone to be there. Mamma cleaned until 4:00, and Pappa had been on the road driving for a few weeks and wasn’t due back until Monday. But she saw his 18-wheeler in the yard and knew things must have changed. She wasn’t exactly worried; Pablo was just a fish. No biggie.
She pushed open the screen door and smelled tangy-burned pot floating in from the living room. Her heart quickened and she took her time setting down the bowl on the floor, sliding her backpack off her shoulders, unzipping her jacket, kicking off her mud-caked boots. She tossed her coat on the hook and placed her boots neatly on the mat. Look at how responsible I am. She unzipped her backpack and took out the instruction sheet, folded it, and slid it into her back pocket. She then removed the baggie with Pablo’s food and stuffed it into her other pocket. She picked up the bowl and tiptoed into the kitchen toward the stairs in the hall, holding her breath.
“What’s that you got?”
“Hi, Pappa. It’s just for school.”
“Come show me, and give me a kiss while you’re at it.”
She swallowed. No choice now.
She made her way past the ladder-back chairs from Mrs. Peaseley’s garage sale, the stacks of Frosted Flakes boxes from Costco, the overflowing recycling she kept forgetting to take out, and finally faced her father. He lay in his recliner, full beard, black tee-shirt covering his bulging belly, belt unbuckled and hanging open over his jeans.
Kairi looked down, avoiding his gaze. “It’s a fish.” Her father’s smoky breath licked her cheek, and she started breathing through her mouth. Pot made her feel like barfing.
“Why do you have a fucking fish?” He sat up. “Gimme that thing.”
No. She instinctively wrapped her arms around the bowl, understanding it would have the opposite effect. Her father reached out with his oil-stained hands and grabbed. She tightened her grasp, and for a minute they struggled, water sloshing back and forth, Pablo with it. Finally, her father’s strength overpowered her, except when she lost her grip, he went flying back, and the bowl, water, and the fish went soaring through the air and crashed down.
“Now look and see what you gone and done, ya stupid girl. Go clean it up.”
She froze in place, Pablo’s tiny shimmery body wriggling and spasming on the dusty braided carpet.
Her father rolled his eyes, grabbed his joint, and headed upstairs.
Kairi felt tears sliding out of her eyes and hated them immediately. Just then, she heard her mother’s car pull up in the driveway. For a second, her body was frozen and she watched the fish wiggle. She imagined him swimming through a complicated maze of pipes and then out into open waters. She took a brave breath. Then she leaned over, picked up Pablo by the tail, walked into the bathroom, and flushed his flailing body down the toilet.
Sweat dripping from her temples. Her mother’s image, black hair, swishing hips in that skirt.
Then, a new memory: Pappa chasing Mamma down the street.
Maybe Mamma was somewhere safe now. And if she was, well, maybe that was a good thing.
She had never allowed herself that thought before this very minute.
A noise from the water. Glancing down: a woman with dark hair and a naked torso, looking up. Hair swirled around the woman’s head like trout. She stared at Kairi who leaned over and stared back. Then, a hand reached up out of the water.
Warm tar on Kairi’s burning soles. Soft wind pushing into her blue skirt. Sun-soaked cheeks. The endless azure sky.
The house, the home she had never left.
The water. Was that a fish, swimming out to the open sea?
She pulled off her tee-shirt and tossed it into the river.
Then, she dove.
***
Gail Marlene Schwartz is the author of the award-winning novel, Falling Through the Night (Demeter Press).
She is also co-editor of the collection Boyhood Reimagined: Stories of Queer Moms Raising Sons (Motina Books) which launches June 3rd 2025. Pickleball champion of her household and avid newbie fiber artist, Gail lives in Ottawa, Ontario with partner Erin, muse Miss Brisket, and occasional roommate Alexi. www.gailmarleneschwartz.com
Such an honor to collaborate with an artist of David Mellon’s caliber. I loved this image the second I saw it!