Denise H. Long

Block Party Games

by Denise H. Long

With special permission from the homeowners’ association, wooden barricades were set up at either end of the block. The white and orange diagonal stripes created our own little hazard zone.

Balloons strung from mailboxes bounced in the late morning breeze. Picnic tables were set up near the cul-de-sac jutting off our block, where the bigger, better houses were. The plastic tablecloths lifted and fell as the DJ, Mr. Ryker from across the street, played Top 40 hits at a card table flanked by two enormous black speakers. Across from him, a bounce house shuddered as little kids catapulted inside against the red and yellow nylon.

We arrived late and nobody acted surprised. As we crossed the street, Dad draped his arm around Mom’s shoulders, clasping the upper arm of the sweater he insisted that she wear. We piled our plates with pasta salad, watermelon, and hot dogs. I sidled up to the dessert table, but Mom wrinkled her nose, her eyes falling to the slope of my 12-year-old stomach.

Dad started toward a table away from the rest, but Mom stopped him. Steve. Over here. They’ll make room. And people did.

Mom hung her sweater across the back of her chair. It’s so hot out here. Her voice to no one and everyone at the same time. Dad turned away.

After lunch, the games would begin. An egg toss. A three-legged race. A shoe scramble. In past years, we always sat out. But Dad had decided we should play this year. Another on the long list of changes he was trying to make.

We didn’t see the Valkyries arrive, but it made sense that they were there. The tables were set up near the end of their driveway after all. I caught Mr. Valkyrie eyeing us and knew they had thought just like us. They won’t show up this year. But we were all there. Smiling and laughing and waiting to see what would happen next.

And that’s when Mrs. Valkyrie threw an egg at my mother.

Dad and Mom partnered for the egg toss while I sat on the curb, shoving brownies into my mouth. About eight rounds in, I heard a shriek. Mom stood there, her own egg caught in her fist but the Valkyries’ egg was dripping from her head. A red welt flowered on her forehead where it had hit.

Mom lurched toward Mrs. Valkyrie.

Mr. Valkyrie stepped in front of his wife.

And Dad just stood, waiting for his egg to be thrown back, like the game wasn’t over.

Mrs. Valkyrie spewed a stream of horrible names at my mother, words I wouldn’t have thought Mrs. Valkyrie knew, and Dad pivoted toward her. As he approached, arms extended, I thought he might scoop her into his arms, kiss her, show Mr. Valkyrie things could go both ways. But he pushed past her and kept going. His legs rushing him past the bounce house and beyond, toward where the houses grew smaller and the yards were made of more dirt than grass.

I stood and brushed the crumbs from my lap. Mom came at me, clutching thick green rope in her hands. The egg had started to harden into crusted streaks in her hair, and as she leaned over to tie my leg to hers, I touched her hair to see if it was still wet.

When I pulled my hand away, she looped her arm with mine and, together on our three legs, we staggered back to our house, the pulpy sound of the speakers filling the air behind us.

Denise Howard Long’s short fiction has appeared in Smokelong Quarterly, Pithead Chapel, Journal of the Compressed Creative Arts, The Tishman Review, The Evansville Review, and elsewhere. Her short story "Recuerdos Olvidados" was runner-up for the Larry Brown Short Story Award, and her story "Where It's Buried" won Five on the Fifth's Annual Short Story Contest in 2016. Denise lives in Nebraska, with her husband and two young sons.