Belle's Pool

My wife needs a project, she says.  An inexpensive sturdy little pool for Belle.  She picked the space, past the lawn on my decorative shale between the roses and cherry trees.  It was spring.  Blossoms were falling, beautiful for a day, to be picked up the next.  I mentioned that once.  I was a fool on Monday.  Today was Thursday.  She was done, and proud, giving me looks all afternoon.  Belle popped out of the glass doors in her favorite polka-dotted swimsuit, arm floats, frill, and all. 

I kissed my wife because I love her and was proud of her.  I walked inside because I was thirsty.  Belle screamed and I ran out because I was worried.

His beady yellow eyes said, "GO" and my world shrunk with his pupils - the pool was a mile away, lost in angry pinholes. 

I didn't think ducks could sweat.  He shuddered beads of water with the rabidity of a frayed dog.  In his glistening hues I saw a shark ready to attack my baby and I tensed.  My daughter felt it too.

"Barbara.  Barbara.  No!"

Thwack.  Glee rippled from my wife's arms, death's chill clowned her face as she turned to me with such sadism as if to say, "look at what I am for you." My Amazon.

Belle didn't see it that way.  "Mommy killed the duck!  Mo-mm-my.  Killed. The duck, daddy.  Why?!"  The tears gushed.  I gathered her to me and let her cry.  Still, no words came.  The sun began to set as Barbara lifted the stained shovel from Belle's pool.

"I don't want to swim ever again, daddy.  Water is for the ducks."

"Belle. Sweetheart."  My voice was warmer than usual.  "I'll make the pool go away and then we'll go swim where the ducks have room to play too.  Where everyone can be happy."  I was so right.  Right until I looked up at Barbara's face -- at brutal slits, her lips tight to tearing, her eyes demonically narrow. 

"Daddy..." sniff.  "Daddy, what's wrong." 

I cupped Belle's head to my chest for her protection and mine.  Mostly mine.