When Ben was a baby, his mother and I would bathe him in a shallow pool of water, sitting cross-legged in our ancient freestanding bathtub. He would coo and giggle and splash, but when we let the water out, he would go so, so silent. His eyes would follow the swirling path of the water as it slipped through the drain. He wouldn’t cry, but he would disappear, in a way. Only for a moment.
I suspected something wasn’t right then, but what would I have said?
When he was old enough to talk, he asked me, “Where does the water go?”
I explained about pipes. I explained about the sewage system. I explained about the ocean and how everything came back together again in the end.
He was never satisfied with my explanations.
On rainy days, he would wander out to the curb to watch the water collect and release in little, roaring rivers down into the drains. We’d have to yank him back into the house against his will.
Once I caught him in the bathroom with his head in the toilet, flushing and flushing, gasping and retching. My wife wanted to take him to a psychologist then, but I wasn’t ready. I just thought he was weird. He was young, after all. Little boys are strange.
But we got notes from his school. Apparently, he would stand at the water fountain, hand stuck on the lever, watching as the water swirled down into the darkness. “Where does it go?” he’d ask anyone who came near. “Where does it all go?”
We went to Christmas at my parents’ house. I hadn’t been there in years, so it was practically all new for Ben. My mother and Ben cleaned up the dishes after dinner. She washed and he dried. Once or twice I saw his eyes go big, but he never got transfixed the way he sometimes did. I went to bed happy that night, but only because I forgot.
I should have remembered. I should have known what he was thinking.
I don’t know if the noise woke me up or if it was that inexplicable feeling of something missing, but I knew right away Ben wasn’t there. It was 4am and the house was silent except for a deep hum I couldn’t immediately place.
I followed the sound into the hallway and down the stairs. As I got closer, the hum became a grinding sound. A rattling buzz of overworked gears. And another sound.
Ben’s voice. Laughter.
I let my guard down because of the laughter. I can still hear that laughter now.
The kitchen light was on. I stepped in. The counters, the cabinets, the floors...everything was coated in a fine red mist.
And there was Ben, standing on a chair, leaning over the kitchen sink, feeding his arm into the drain as the garbage disposal roared and ripped and moaned.
His eyes were shining.
“I’m going where the water goes!”