Pallindrome
“Daddy, what’s a six-letter word for ‘love’?”
The little girl is very earnest as she asks him this, fat red corkscrew curls framing a heart-shaped face bowed to the crossword puzzle before her, a chubby red pencil pockmarked with bite marks clutched in her left hand.
His response when it comes to all questions about the English language tends to be ‘ask your mother’; she, after all, has mastered modern English and is in the midst of her third semester at Michigan U – taking night courses on her way to a Master’s in French. She, unfortunately, is in the bedroom, nursing their newborn son.
He takes the easy way out, playing with the child’s hair. “Emily.”
She pouts at him, re-arranging her locks peevishly. “No, daddy – I really wanna know,” Emily demands.
He glugs his orange juice. “Did you try Jake? Or mommy?”
Emily shakes her head. “They won’t fit,” she holds out the puzzle. “See?” Her thumb rests against 28-across; a “c” the first letter, an “h” the last.
“Cherish,” Ash suggests.
“How do you spell that?” her teeth sink into her bottom lip.
Ash frowns thoughtfully. “C-h-e-r-i-s-h.” His own teeth have sunk into his own bottom lip as he parses this out. Cherish’s a pretty word – too voluminous and fancy to be a part of his vocabulary. He’s a simpler person. Short statements are his friend.
She smiles beautifully and takes back the puzzle – her “daddy’s so smart” smile that makes his own grin widen just a tad.
“Good morrow,” her mother says, entering the kitchenette in her lovely blue dress, Jake in her arms – the boy is handed to Ash, who puts him in his high chair and plops a serving of strained peaches onto his tiny plate. “What’ve you got, kitten?” Sheila addresses her daughter.
“Daddy’s helpin’ me with my puzzle.” Emily shows her mother the crossword, smiling proudly.
Ash gets a quick kiss for this – too quick, as she evades his groping arms and ducks, girlishly, toward their daughter. Sheila peeks at the puzzle and gives Emily a ravishing smile. “Wonderful – and ye’re almost finished! Shall we play with palindromes while the bram brack cooks?”
Occupied with Jake as he is, Ash can’t stop himself from asking what a palindrome is (sounds like a shellfish, a snail with purple curls, meniscus twitching under the moon). “Tis a word that makes a fresh word when spelled backwards,” Sheila rips a piece of scratch paper from the phoneside table, turns back to her daughter. “Rats backward is ‘stars’. ‘on’ is ‘no’, ‘pan’ is ‘nap’….”
The language dizzies him enough as it is. Vaguely discombobulated, Ash concentrates on spooning the orange mash into Jake’s mouth.
Sheila tugs on his wrist, dripping peaches down their brushing sleeves. “And this, love, is ‘evil’.” She presents him with the page.
He melts, just a little, at this hidden message, the affirmation. Live.
Emily’s watching, curious, her teeth sunk into her bottom lip.
Ash just smirks before turning back toward the mush-covered Jake. “Ask your mother.”