Flash Fiction: June, 1974

The sun was already high over Des Moines by the time Hank pulled into the gravel lot beside the brick building on 8th Street. The air was heavy with humidity, the kind of Iowa summer day that made a man’s shirt stick to his back before lunch.

He killed the engine of the truck and sat there for a moment, staring through the dusty windshield at the squat, unmarked building across the street.

It was just after 10 a.m.

Barbra was inside.

He looked at the dashboard clock again, like that would somehow change things. Ten-oh-two.

He glanced down at the paper bag on the passenger seat. Inside was a warm bottle of Coke and a ham sandwich wrapped in wax paper. He didn’t know why he’d brought it. Habit, maybe. Something to hold in his hands.

Barbra had gone in half an hour ago. They didn’t say much on the ride over. He’d driven with both hands on the wheel, too tightly, his jaw set. She stared out the window the whole way. Once, at a red light, he reached out and put his hand on hers. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t squeeze back, either.

They had six kids between them. Four from his first marriage—Mark, Jason, and the twins—and then the two girls they had together. Lily was five and still sleeping with a nightlight. June—named after the month she was born—had just turned nine and spent her afternoons reading library books in the sunroom.

This baby wasn’t expected. And when it came, it came with warnings.

Words like malformation, limited mobility, low quality of life.

Words that changed everything.

They’d sat in the doctor’s office a week ago, stiff in their chairs, holding hands like strangers.

“You’re not bad people,” the doctor had said, gently. “You’re parents. You have other children to think about.”

Barbra had nodded. Not slowly. Not quickly. Just enough.

And so here they were.

Hank stepped out of the truck, gravel crunching under his boots. He moved over to the shade of the building, finding a narrow strip of shadow beneath the awning. The windows were too high to see through. That was probably by design.

He didn’t smoke anymore, but now he wished he had a cigarette. Something to do with his fingers. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, listening to a lawnmower whine somewhere down the block.

There was a small flower shop next door. One of those corner places, run by someone’s grandmother. On a half-baked impulse, he went in and bought a single white carnation. It felt wrong to get roses. Too romantic. Too much.

He came back out and leaned against the wall again, flower in hand.

Ten-twenty.

Then ten-thirty.

The longer he waited, the more his stomach twisted.

He wondered if they would talk about it later. What would he say? Thank you? I’m sorry? We did the right thing?

He didn’t even know what the right thing was.

The door opened.

A nurse stepped out first, holding the door with one hand. Barbra followed.

She was moving slowly, but she wasn’t crying. Her chin was up. Her face was pale, and there was a tremor in her step, but something in her posture made him pause.

She looked different.

She saw him. He didn’t move, just looked at her—at the way she held her purse tightly, like it was anchoring her to something.

When she reached him, he held out the flower.

“I didn’t do it,” she said softly, voice like a breeze over gravel.

He didn’t respond right away. The flower stayed suspended in the air between them for a moment longer.

“You sure?” he asked.

She nodded. “They called in the doctor, and I was staring at the ceiling. I could hear them prepping the tray. And then I thought—if I let this happen, I’ll never forgive myself. No matter what comes.”

Hank lowered the flower. His hand trembled. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been bracing for something final.

“I’ll build the ramp,” he said, almost without thinking.

“What?”

“I mean… if the baby needs one. I’ll build whatever they need.”

She smiled. Just a little.

And suddenly it was too much.

He stepped forward and wrapped her in his arms, holding her like a man who had almost lost something he didn’t know how to name. The flower slipped from his fingers, forgotten, and fell onto the sun-baked sidewalk.

A breeze picked up. A hot, dry, Iowa breeze.

June, 1974.

The month the baby almost wasn’t.

Thank-you for reading.

Remember there are many paths back to God.

Follow your own path,

Brenda Marie