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Order this writing in the collection book Unlocking the Mysteries available for only $1795 |
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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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A Clean Septic Tank
Christopher A. Clark
Sam opened the door, meeting recognition filled eyes. The unshaven man, wearing soiled dark blue coveralls, tilted his ball cap back onto his thick sweat soaked hair and cleared his throat before speaking.
“Uh, Mr. Vandenberg,” he said, not even glancing at his clipboard.
Sam wasn’t surprised since he’d probably memorized the address as well by now.
“I know the office made the appointment for us to go ahead and clean out your septic tank, but I wouldn’t feel honest if I didn’t tell you it’s not needed. We just did it six months ago and another time eight months before that. Hell, you’re good for another-“
“I know,” Sam said, raising a shaking hand to interrupt. He looked back over his shoulder and stepped out onto the front porch, closing the door softly behind him.
“Your office told me the same thing on the phone,” Sam explained. His eyes struggled to meet the Septic Man’s. “But you see, my wife needs it done. It’s ahÉ important to her.”
“Gee Mr. Vandenberg, I don’t have a problem doing it for you. I appreciate the business, but like I said, I wouldn’t feel right about ripping you off.”
“Thank you,” Sam said. “You can find your way to the backyard ok?”
“Sure, sure. We remember.”
With that, Sam returned inside while the Septic Man strolled to his idling truck blocking the driveway. He climbed up into the passenger side and the truck roared into gear when it rumbled around the corner to the cul-de-sac where the back yard was more accessible over the chain link fence. All the dogs of the neighborhood barked at the rumbling truck as it parked and the two men unloaded the giant suction hose.
Sam went into the kitchen and poured a stiff glass of whiskey. Though only 11 a.m., he knew the day would be rough. Living on the other side of a locked bedroom door was the hardest thing Sam ever experienced while married. He was actually surprised she was still home. The last two times the tank was cleaned she had fled long before the truck arrived. He hoped it was a sign she was adjusting, but he wouldn’t put too much stock in that wish. She’d probably not say more than two words to him for the next several weeks when they could try again.
Thankfully, it was over again. Sam gave God kudos for making six weeks pass so quickly. He buried that thought because he worried six weeks of silence from his wife was something he had almost grown accustomed to. Nevertheless, hope returned anew and she was already marking the last day on her calendar with a smile, an expression he hadn’t seen her do since their last failure.
“We can start tomorrow,” she said in the morning while he sipped his coffee. She said it again when he got out of the shower, even winking at his nakedness. She said it during lunch and also after dinner. She said it two or three times when they lay in the dark for sleep. Part of Sam was excited at the idea of once again consummating with his wife, but the other part knew the wonderful passion would subside and turn into a borderline chore.
The last time they had tried, he had been mowing the lawn when she stepped out onto the deck, frantically waving his attention. When he strolled closer, she had announced, “I’m ovulating!” The gigantic smile on her face had reminded Sam why he found her so irresistible those five years ago when they met. Sam had looked over his shoulder to see if the neighbors heard, but soon forgot all about them when she grasped his hand and led him into the house. Intertwined in bed, her excitement of possible motherhood surpassed her lust and Sam had asked her to stop talking about possible names and dirty diapers so he could at least concentrate on his husbandly duty of planting the seed. When they were done, she lay on her back, arms holding the back of her knees so that her feet pointed to the ceiling. Sam had fallen to sleep with her murmuring about trimesters and doctor visits.
Sam fiddled with the latest empty specimen jar, knowing he’d have to make another trip to the hospital with a few ounces of sperm tucked under his arm to keep them as warm as possible, and then he’d hand the miniscule evidence of his manhood to the smirking nurse who couldn’t let him leave without some clever comment. Every last one of them needed to be counted so he wouldn’t have to endure more tests, more questions from doctors. He was about to adjourn to the bathroom to complete the task when the doorbell rang. Sighing, he left the jar on the kitchen counter and answered the door.
“Mr. Vandenberg,” said the familiar Septic Man. “I don’t know what is going on, but this has become ridiculous. Now, as a good Christian, I absolutely do NOT feel comfortable taking your money again. Hell, it’s only been five months since we were here last. There won’t be hardly anything in that tank.”
“I don’t care,” said Sam, hoping they’d be done before his wife came home from another round of God-knew-what tests. “My wife wants it done, so we called you. Please, make her happy, which will make me happy. Just pump the tank, please.”
“Well, I just don’t understand this at all. This will be the fourth time in less than 2 years. It’s unheard of.”
“Just think of it as easy money,” Sam said, trying to ease the man’s conscience.
“Is there something going on?” asked the Septic Man.
Sam’s eyes widened. He thought about telling him everything. The pressure of dealing with his wife’s apparent insanity had worn him out. Their marriage had become bouts of sterile sex between bouts of depression. Sam wanted to hug the man, weep on his shoulder and tell him he did the best he could. He wanted to punch the man for butting into his personal business. He wanted to scream, ‘It’s none of your business!’
Instead, he thanked him for his patience and directed them to clean out the tank once again and then he went back inside the house. Sam leaned against the door and slid down so he sat on the floor. Head between his knees, he closed his eyes and prayed for a miracle while he heard footsteps leave the front porch followed by the rumble of the truck when it went around the corner. An hour later, they were gone and Sam was left alone with his whiskey and specimen jar.
Three months later, his wife barged into the living room during a football game.
“I’m ovulating,” she announced, voice absent of cheer despite being naked from the waist up. Sam thought her tone of voice sounded remarkably like when she asked him to take the garbage out.
Sam turned off the TV and soon accomplished his husbandly chore. While his wife lay on the bed, knees up in the air, angling her vaginal tract so Sam’s swimmers could get a little extra help, Sam dressed, washed his hands, and returned to watching the football game.
***
Answering the door, Sam’s face drooped and his shoulders hung low. Despite being a Monday, Sam hadn’t shaved or even put on clean clothes. Friday night, when it had happened again, his wife locked herself in the bedroom and had even locked the bathroom door as well. When she had come out only to order him to call the septic company, he looked at her and said simply, “No.” Uncomprehending, she stared at him a full five seconds before she exploded. She had attacked him with her nails, frothy spittle spraying from her mouth as she hurled every horrible insult she knew at him. Sam raised his arms to keep her away from his face. Frustrated, she bullied past him down the hall, destroying anything on the walls and the kitchen counter as she whirled like a cyclone to the patio. She bolted outside and down the steps. Sam hesitantly followed and found her clawing the earth where the septic tank was buried. Her arms dug in crazed windmill motions, sending dirt against the house.
“I will not live here knowing it’s there!” she shrieked, her fists pounding the sod. “I can’t live here knowing my baby isÉ oh God!”
As fast as she had come, she returned to the house, disappearing behind the slamming bedroom door. Sam hadn’t seen her the rest of the weekend.
And now, once again he was on the porch, begging the Septic Man to clean out his tank.
“It’s for my wife,” Sam mumbled. “She can’t live here unless it’s clean. She just can’t.”
