Sugar Water

A Fictional Story

by Darnell Walker-Jones

“Hand me that flashlight.” Sarah’s father was bent down against the cedar planks, scanning for what could be up there. Woken up one night by the noise of pattering feet, Sarah had run to her father’s room screaming someone was in the attic. After lecturing her about how she was an adult and too grown to “be making all that noise”, her father reassured her that no one was in the house and that he’d investigate the source of the noise the next morning. It was now that morning.

Sarah, scared of what could possibly lie in the dark, stood 4 feet away from her father. Having rather faced death than her father’s frustration, she quickly ran over to him and handed him the flashlight before scurrying back to her original position.

“Damnit,” said her father. “It’s those raccoons again.”

Sarah took a big step backwards. “Raccoons? Dad, why would raccoons be in our attic? There’s no food up here.”

“Thats what I thought too,” said her father, “but you see that water hose right there?” He shined a light in the corner, illuminating a green hose with a yellow line spiraling down the middle. “I’d once tried using it to funnel sugar water for the hives out back, but there was a leak so I placed it back up here. They must have smelled it and made their way in.”

It had been a long time since Sarah had seen her dad attending to any bees. His days of being an apiarist had faded after he no longer could withstand the physical demand of the labor. The hose must have been there for years. If that’s true, then why were raccoons attracted to it now?, she thought to herself. Surely the water had dried up. In any case, Sarah figured her dad knew more than her on the subject of sugar water and raccoons, so she left it alone.

“Yeah that’s gotta be it. Alright. I’m gonna take this back outside, should clear up those pitter patters you’ve been hearing,” said her father. As he says this, his feet motion in an attempt to imitate the raccoons. Sarah jumps, and her father begins to chuckle. “It’s alright girl. Here, take this flashlight back downstairs.”

Sarah peers over her father’s shoulder. “You sure they’re not gonna come back?,” she says.

“I’m positive,”

Sarah receives the flashlight in her hands. The two walk downstairs, her father leading the way.

⬤

Solomon has been spoon feeding his father since he learned to feed himself. A car crash took the life of his mother and left his dad in a vegetative state. Paralyzed from the neck down, Solomon became in charge of his father’s daily routine. When he ate, when he was bathed, what pills to take and at what times, what temperature the thermostat was set to, what times the blinds were to remain open and what times they were to be closed. Solomon found himself at the helm of his father’s wellbeing, and though any son should be privileged to care after a parent, he’d felt trapped bearing it alone.

When he wasn’t taking care of his dad, he’d squeeze in time to take care of himself. He tended to his laundry typically on Sunday afternoons, as his father would still be sleeping and his remote job doesn’t require him to log on during the weekends. This week has been a long one. Solomon’s sleep schedule had been wrecked from his father’s health scares. Their rooms were adjacent and the ECG machine could easily be heard from the opposite side. Just last week, Solomon had heard the machine firing off like a cashier who had an infinite belt of groceries. When he opened the door to his father’s room, there lay his father suffering a seizure. The aftermath resulted in Solomon being in a constant state of worry, which meant less sleep.

One Sunday afternoon, while hauling his hamper full of dry clothes toward his room, the need for sleep overcame him and he cut the journey short by falling asleep on the living room couch. It didn’t take long for a dream to conjure up in Solomon’s mind, but this dream seemed different. More tangible. Solomon found himself surrounded by cardboard boxes and antique furniture. He looked around for a while, and after not recognizing it as his own home, questioned where he was located. There was chatter coming from below the staircase in front of him, so in an attempt to learn more of his whereabouts he began to walk. After only having taken one step, he quickly stopped himself from moving. He became still. His eyes had focused on his feet. They were not feet. They were paws. Grey paws. Solomon began to panic, his paws shifting around the floorboards. Unable to scream out the profanities he would normally use in a situation such as this, his squeaks served the same effect. Feeling himself begin to hyperventilate, Solomon searched for something to cool himself off. He was in an attic however, so finding a glass of water was out of the question, and surely there were people living in this house, so making his way toward the kitchen would be too risky. After searching for a few minutes, he finally came upon a desperate solution. In front of him lay a green hose. Whether or not there were any drops of water inside he could not tell, but his need to quench his thirst was unwavering. With his paws, he lifted the nozzle the best he could, and began to lick away at the inside. At first there was no luck, but after a few attempts he began to collect droplets. “Sweet,” he thought to himself. He stayed there for a few minutes, licking sugar water from the nozzle until it was all gone. Having been too scared to venture downstairs and not sure as to when he’d wake up, he balled himself up behind a box labeled “photos” and rested his head.

⬤

Unable to fall asleep, Sarah had sat up right in her bed and was about to make her way to the kitchen for a snack when suddenly she heard the pitter pattering from above her head. Like she was six years old again, she crept toward her father’s room in the wee hours of the night to seek comfort. Without a knock, she opened the door.

“Dad, the raccoons are back. I heard it upstairs,” she said.

Her father was in bed reading, and at the words of his daughter sat his book down and turned toward her direction. “Sarah, what would I do without you? I’d be a lazy old man, that’s what!,” he said.

“Dad, it’s not funny, can you please just go check it out?” said Sarah.

Her father looked down at the comforter and sighed.

“You’ve given me one incredible gift, and that’s being able to call you my daughter. I’ve looked out for you your entire life, and I think I’m finally getting the ropes of it. Now, your mother and I always saw this property falling into your hands, so once I die you’ll be the owner of this house and then maybe your kids after that and then their kids and so on and so on. But it’ll start with you. I won’t always be here to remediate these things like raccoons and plumbing and termites. It’ll have to be you, and when the time comes for you to che-”

“Dad, just hand me the flashlight please,” says Sarah.

“What, you didn’t like my speech?” says her father. He leans into his side drawer before pulling out the flashlight and handing it to Sarah.

“It was beautiful, but I’d rather be eaten alive by raccoons than hear you talk about your death,” says Sarah. The two share a smirk.

“You’re not allowed to leave me, you know that?” says Sarah.

“As you wish,” says her father before returning back to his novel.

Slowly making her way up the stairs, Sarah is repeatedly tripping over steps as she’s holding the flashlight like a bat rather than for its intended function. Her grip tightens the nearer she draws toward the top, ready to strike (or run) the moment she spots this mischievous raccoon. “Alright now, come out. You’ve been driving me insane for days”.

Something scuffles past boxes in the distance, catching the glimpse of Sarah’s eye. She quickly turns toward the movement’s direction, struggling to turn the flashlight on before maintaining a stable position.

“Come on, come on, I already don’t want to do this. The quicker you come out the easier it is for both of us,” she says. She makes her way closer to the box she believes the animal has taken shelter behind. She’s got the angle on it. “Stay right there, I’ll make… it… QUICK!” She kicks the box from beneath her feet, only to see a raccoon with his hands held high in the air. “What the hell?” The raccoon’s eyes tell Sarah that the animal is petrified. “Oh my god. Oh my god I’m so sorry.” After seeing that it isn’t a threat, she bends down on one knee in order to get closer. “You don’t have to keep your hands up little guy.” She moves his arms and paws back down to its sides with the butt end of the flashlight, still being cautious as it could have rabies, she thinks to herself.

The raccoon begins to squeak and squeak but it proves to be of no use to Sarah, who is still taking in the animal’s features. The raccoon dashes over to the water hose and squeaks some more.

“So you were the one drinking from this huh?,” she says. She grabs the nozzle and attempts to shake it, but nothing comes out. “You must be thirsty. Give me 3 minutes.” She rushes downstairs before hurriedly returning with a bowl of water and two slices of bread. “Google says you shouldn’t eat this but it’s all I could find to give you without my dad noticing food is missing.”

With the bowl on the floor the raccoon begins to drink away, taking pauses in between to nibble on the bread slices. In an effort to maintain his diet somewhat, Sarah placed sugar in the water and stirred until it disappeared. The raccoon seemed to be indifferent to it than he would any other water source.

“I best head back downstairs now before my dad worries and wonders what kept me so long. I won’t tell him you’re up here, so long as you do a good job of hiding yourself. You seem to be pretty intelligent, I’ve never seen a raccoon place their hands in the air like they were in a stick up. I’ll be back tomorrow.” Sarah turned off the flashlight and headed down the steps.

⬤

Thus began the beautiful friendship between Sarah and the raccoon, whom she had no idea was a man named Solomon. Their conversations took place every night in the attic, with most of the conversating coming from Sarah while Solomon provided the occasional squeaks. She told him of her father, his great tales of being a beekeeper and how he’d built their home himself. She told him of her career goals, her friendships, relationships (both successful and failed). Sarah was kind enough to give Solomon room to squeak, as he’d squeak about his father’s condition, how isolated he felt, and how he simply wished to get back to his normal body. Their talks were accompanied with bread slices and sugar water, to which Solomon downed in mere minutes. One night, after their talk had ended and Solomon squeaked his goodbye to Sarah, he made his way back behind the “photos” box and laid his head down to rest. He did not have dreams while he was a raccoon, but on this particular night something came about him.

⬤

Solomon awoke to find himself on the couch, his hamper of dry clothes sitting on the floor. Groggy and fuzzy, he first made his way towards his father’s room. He slowly opened the door, and rubbed his eyes until he could see his father laying in the bed. The ECG machine read his heartbeat as stable.

“You’re not allowed to leave me, you know that?” said Solomon. He closed the door and made his way toward the kitchen.

The nap had left him thirsty, and so he reached in the cabinet and pulled down a glass. He poured himself a glass of water, and at first sip felt something was off. He pulled down a few sugar packets, ripped the top of the papers open, and sprinkled the contents into the cup.

“Sweet,” he said to the room.