The Underdog Parade. Michael Mihaley

Peter said, defensively. “You should have seen what happened when the truck driver asked.”

      CJ wiped her hands on her shirt. “Josh is weird,” she said. She jumped down from the top of the stool, landing on her feet, then fell on her knees. She placed her hand on Uncle Herb’s leg. “All done, Uncle Herb.”

      Uncle Herb pushed the joystick of his wheelchair and it jerked forward, almost hitting CJ.

      They all found this to be the funniest thing in the world.

      Bath Time

      After dinner Peter helped his mother bathe Uncle Herb. The setting sun immersed the bathroom in golden hues as they lowered Herb slowly, propping his back against the back of the acrylic tub. Peter held him steady. They worked fast and in unison like a pit crew.

      Uncle Herb watched the bathwater engulf him. “Tie-umin-in,” he said. Tide coming in.

      Peter remembered the first time he’d helped bathe Uncle Herb, so nervous he could’ve puked on the spot. It felt so unnatural seeing a naked adult so close. His mother, annoyed at his transparent awkwardness, yelled at him. “There’s nothing that he has that you don’t,” she said, which embarrassed Peter because she’d said it right in front of Uncle Herb. It wasn’t even a true statement. Peter’s chest was as hairless as a baby chicken, and before the water and bubble hid half his body, Peter noticed another patch of hair on Uncle Herb where he had none.

      Peter held his uncle by his thin arms as his mother ran a soapy sponge along Herb’s chest and shoulders. Peter watched in silence as she cleaned Herb’s stomach, and then sank her arm into the bubbles to clean his legs and privates. He wondered how many times she’d bathed him. Did she start after their parents died, or was she always helping out like Peter was now? Peter barely remembered his grandparents now; they both died before he turned five. The strongest memory was the color of the orange juice in their house: a murky brown. That was right before they moved into a nursing home.

      His mother handed Peter a dry washcloth. “Can you get Uncle Herb’s back, honey?”

      Peter sank the cloth into the bubbles. “What time is Dad coming home tomorrow?”

      His mother sat back on her heels and stretched her back. “No idea.”

      CJ appeared in the doorway. Right before dinner she’d jumped off the couch, tripped and hit her head against the wall, causing no harm to her but leaving a hotdog-shaped dent in the side of her Wonder Woman tiara. “He’s never home,” she said, as she tried to push out the dent with her palm.

      “CJ, please. I’m tired,” Abby said.

      CJ turned and headed back to the living room. She casually said, “You’re always tired.”

      Abby sank to her elbows, and her hands enveloped her face. She stared at the empty doorway, rubbing her forehead. “I swear, you guys are putting me over the edge.”

      Peter squeezed the lukewarm water from the washcloth. A hot bath these days would be considered a form of torture.

      “I got your back, Uncle Herb,” Peter said.