I love this short story so much.
“Rings” was inspired by two main events: my oldest son getting ringworm and the short story by John Cheever called “The Enormous Radio.” Postpartum was a difficult time period for me and one of the main ways I stayed calm was to read and write short fiction.
It should be no surprise that most of those stories were scary stories.
Motherhood is weird and rough. Kids do strange things and evoke strange ghosts. But also, kids are gross sometimes and get gross conditions like ringworm. It’s mostly harmless; a fungus that sort of takes over their bodies until their immune system is back up and going. It was a quick and easy doctor’s visit and an even faster healing time. No one judged me for it–the ringworm was just proof I really was taking him to the park a lot, since that was likely where he picked it up–but it bugged me. Irked me.
And so, why wouldn’t a ringworm rash also work as a radio transmitter? And you could hear all the judgements and gossip of the local neighbours?
That’s what happens to Beverly in “Rings.”
When the first issue of Bleed Error liked the story enough to publish it, I felt elated. And when my kid was all better, too, I got him a toy with the money from the sale. Only fair, right?
Rings
Beverly heard music the first time she noticed the rash on her son.
She lifted his tiny baby legs by the ankles to change his diaper, not even bothering to reflect more than three seconds on the round red rings that dotted his chubby torso. Babies got rashes, didn’t they? They also got pimples, too, at least Samson did for the first few weeks he’d been alive. At nearly nine months old, he was still a great baby, the kind that she thought was mythic when she was first on maternity leave with him. He never cried longer than three minutes, and only when he wanted food or rest.
Samson smiled at her as she hummed along to the soft beat from the pop song that popped into her head. She didn’t know the artist or the lyrics, but the beat was so persistent she figured she must have heard it earlier in the day, at Starbucks or the Mommy and Me classes. As soon as she put Samson in his onesie, the red rash on his stomach now covered, the song went away.
Beverly didn’t think about it again until that night. When Chris, her husband, came home he insisted he wanted to be the one to put Samson to bed. Beverly let go easily, knowing that her baby and her husband were both marvels. She kicked her feet up on the couch and dozed as the song’s beat returned.
“Samson’s got a rash,” Chris said moments later.
“He’s a baby.”
“It’s not diaper rash. It’s a ring. Look.” He held out the infant in only his diaper. He smiled at her with a gleeful expression, his dark eyes joyful. Beverly wanted to kiss his tummy—but she pulled back. There were rashes on his stomach. The same ones as before, now more plentiful.
“That’s nothing,” she said. The song played louder in her head. “You hear that?”
“What?” Chris didn’t wait for her to respond. “I’ll call the doctor. That’s gotta be ringworm.”
“Oh.” Beverly put a hand over her face. She knew that rash. She’d seen a half-dozen photos of horribly rash-riddled children on the pediatrician’s wall of infographics. She didn’t like to stare too long at those photos—who would?—but now she felt the sting of shame. “I’m a bad mother.”
“No.” Chris held the phone to his ear and Samson in his arms. “You’re just tired and here all day. Seeing the same thing over and over, and you don’t notice it until someone else does. Hello? Hi. This is Chris Mathers…”
“Or hear the same thing,” Beverly added softly. Chris didn’t notice. She rose from the couch, though her back smarted, and took Samson from his arms. He had no fever, no complaints. He smiled at her delightfully. At least whatever this was wasn’t hurting him.
“He has an appointment tomorrow at 2 p.m.,” Chris said. “Can you take him?”
“Yes,” Beverly said, and continued to hum as she danced with her baby in her arms.
*
Dr. Stevens, thankfully, was not judgmental. He noted the red rings with a practiced nod and immediately wrote her a prescription. He gave it to her without another word.
“Wait,” Beverly said. “How did he get this? Should I be worried?”
“Not at this stage. And he could have gotten it anywhere, honestly. Have you taken him to a park or something similar, with lots of other kids around?” When she nodded, he made an affirmative sound between his teeth. “Probably there, then. It’s basically just a fungus, like we’d get on our feet, and that he can’t quite fight off anymore now that he’s weaned and the antibodies from you have diminished.”
Beverly stared at the red rash, still visible from her son’s unzipped onesie. Those rings were fungus, like the faerie circles her grandmother pointed out to her in her youth? She shuddered. “Can I get this? From him?”
“Not really. We only get athlete’s foot.”
“I’m no athlete.”
“But you are a mother, and working very hard,” Dr. Stevens said with a kind smile. Beverly saw the words as transparent and perfunctory, but still appreciated the gesture and thanked him.
“If you want to schedule his nine-months vaccinations as you leave,” Stevens said, “please feel free to do so. We can check in with the ringworm again if it’s still a problem. Shouldn’t be, though.”
Beverly did just that on her way out. She made small talk with the receptionist as she took the appointment card. “By the way,” she added as a passing thought when she picked up Samson’s car seat, “I like the radio station you guys have playing here. What is it?”
The admin gave her an odd look. “There’s no radio here.”
“Oh.” Beverly blushed. She’d been hearing the same song over and over. “Must be my cell phone or something. Have a good day.”
Once in the car, she turned the real radio up. It blotted out some of the tune in her head, but not too much. Each time she looked at Samson from her rearview mirror, he waved his arms to the beat of the song.
*
Three days later, when she took Samson to the local park, the music changed to voices.
Beverly had been hesitant about taking him to the park again, given what the doctor had said about where the ringworm had most likely come from. But the cream she’d been rubbing into his belly and back—because they were now there too—had seemed to diminish some of the redness. She figured if something did happen, and he sprouted more faerie circles on his arms and legs, she at least had the tools to handle it.
He still had no fever. No discomfort. In fact, he seemed utterly delighted every time she rubbed the white cream on his rings. She went in clockwise motions first, then counterclockwise, repeating the lore her grandmother had told her about widdershins and deosil. Then she’d tickle him in a flurry of hand movements, and his high-pitched laugh would cut through her defenses.
The whole thing was sort of fun, really.
But then the voices happened.
She was pushing Samson on the swing in the park when she heard Morgan Sutherland, a mother from her Mommy and Me group, distinctly in her ear. She called out to her husband, also named Chris, and then the rest of the words were garbled. Beverly looked around at the park. She didn’t think Morgan lived around here. Beverly saw no one else, save for older people going round and round on the track to get their steps in for the day.
Beverly turned back to Samson. It was early morning in June, so the park was free of school-aged kids. She smiled at him as she pushed. It was only as he swung back to her, and she heard Morgan’s voice again, that she finally realized the noises were coming from Samson.
Or really, Samson’s ringworm rashes.
She picked him up out of the swing. He wore overalls and a short onesie underneath. She pressed her ear against his chest. Among the breathing and giggles, she heard Morgan. Then Chris.
“I can’t believe you think there’s something going on,” he said, his voice angry. “She’s our babysitter. She’s a child.”
“She’s twenty-three. That’s when you married me. I can’t see the difference.”
“You’re making this into a bigger deal than it needs to be.”
“I can’t stand this—”
“You can’t? What about me?”
“Always about you,” Morgan’s voice twisted into a vicious snarl. “Ugh. I think it may be best for you to leave.”
Beverly snapped her head back. Whatever she was listening to wasn’t meant for her to hear. But she dipped closer once again, and heard the final words of the argument.
“Okay, fine. I’ll stay at a hotel for a while. Maybe we just need some space apart.”
There was static after that. Then nothing as Samson giggled, grunted, and pooped. It was the kind of poop that really needed her attention, so she packed him up and took him home. A bath, feeding, and then Chris’s arrival home followed. Then bedtime routines, and nodding off in front of the couch. It wasn’t until midnight, when Beverly woke up from her slumber in front of Netflix, and decided to check her phone, that she saw Morgan’s new status on social media.
Chris and I are taking a break, she wrote. We need to sort out some things. Thanks for all your support so far. Xoxo
*
The next day, it wasn’t Morgan Sutherland or her cheating husband Beverly picked up through her son’s ringworm. It was Luanne, the cashier at the grocery store. Beverly didn’t even know her that well. She would stop to talk when getting groceries—because everyone wanted to stop and talk to you when you carried a baby as friendly as Samson around—but that was it.
Luanne’s former smoker’s voice and wonky grammar were distinct, though. There was no doubt it was her, and that her problems were many.
Beverly kept Samson in his diaper all day. She put his cream on in the morning—but stopped when she realized her clockwise motions had been the thing to, effectively, change the channel. Now that she had Luanne, she wanted to listen as long as she could. She heard about gambling debts, her secret cigarettes, and a gay son she didn’t want to talk to anymore.
“Not because I don’t love him or nothing. I just can’t talk to him. You know, that… stuff… is all I can think now. I can’t get over the fact that I used to change his diapers!”
“He’s a man, Lu,” said another, younger voice. A daughter, maybe?
“No, he’s my boy. Always will be. And I just can’t stand the thought—”
Beverly lost the transmission as Samson tried to crawl away. She darted after him, and flipped him over on his back, so she could keep listening in on his radio stomach. There were more rings here and, she’d decided, the best audio. Something must have been changed during the switch, however, because she was brought into another house. She didn’t recognize the people in any way, but their problems were similar. Cheating. Sex. Debts. Deaths. When Samson eventually needed to nap—crying louder and longer than she’d ever heard him before—she finally stopped her snooping.
But was it really snooping, she wondered, if the voices came to her? What had happened to the music, anyway? She had no answers, and neither did the all-seeing oracle of Google. She didn’t even want to type in any of her symptoms, for fear of the tracking and targeted ads that would come her way.
So she waited for Samson to get up again. She waited, and then, she listened.
*
“Mushrooms are good for you,” Chris said to his younger brother Dave. Chris, Beverly, and Samson had gone over to Chris’s family for dinner that night. Since his brother was a newly minted vegetarian, and his mother had planned burgers, Chris thought he’d save the day with Portobello mushroom burgers. Dave had only turned his nose up at the large fungus.
“I can’t eat that,” he said. “No matter how good it is for me. Isn’t it, like, alive? That’s what I heard from my friends.”
“Not anymore,” his father had said with a roll of his eyes. “Neither is the cow, either.”
Everyone ignored his father. Chris tried to validate some of Dave’s concerns, speaking in his science teacher voice. “It’s true that mushrooms are closer to the insect kingdom than they are to plants, but you’re going to have to draw the line somewhere. At least, ethically speaking, if you want to live a productive life. It’s been said that trees can feel pain, too, you know, and that they can release certain chemicals to warn other trees of an impending attack. Some of their root systems spread for miles and miles, allowing for an entire network of communication.”
“Really?” Beverly asked. Though she worked as a librarian, she’d never stumbled upon this information before.
“Yes, it’s quite impressive, really. We underestimate how much networking truly goes on between plants.” Chris’s grin reminded Beverly of the flirting they’d done when they first met one another at their summer jobs as camp counselors. He used to tell her the names for species of grass and other flora, while she’d tell him her grandmother’s stories for the same pieces. She was about to open her mouth to tell him about the mushroom’s lore—but Chris spoke again to Dave. “It’s the same with mushrooms too. All of these plants and fungi are connected. They speak to one another. So they’re alive, yeah. But you’re living too. And so you need to survive.”
“I should be able to coexist, though,” Dave said meekly.
“And sometimes coexistence means devouring something. It means accepting our place in the food chain—which I should say, is a food web. It’s not about domination. It’s about sharing space.” When Dave still didn’t seem convinced, Chris laughed lightly. “Wait. Am I overthinking this? Are you just veggie now because of your friends, and if your friends don’t eat Portobellos, you won’t either?”
Chris’s mother and father said yes. Dave protested. Beverly jumped in and stated, “Portobellos are really popular, you know. All the high-end restaurants serve them. I shelved a cookbook just before mat leave that said—”
“Just make what you’ll make,” his father cut in with a dismissive wave, getting ornery and no doubt hungry. “Then we’ll see who wants to survive.”
Chris ended up doing just that. Dave, eventually, came around as Beverly also ate a Portobello burger. No one asked her what she thought, but she wanted to try them for herself. Maybe the fungi inside of her burger would let her connect with Samson more. She spent all her time now listening in on the neighborhood gossip, making her own connections, matching voices and stories over the rings. She secretly hoped that being in a new town with Samson—though they’d all been to Chris’s parents’ place before—would yield ever more discoveries, even more webs of communication.
When Samson fussed halfway through dinner, Beverly jumped to her feet. Her mother-in-law Jean held up a hand. “You’re in the middle of a meal. And I rarely get to see my grandchild. Let me.”
Beverly hesitated, but sat down. She finished her burger by the time Jean returned. She still could not hear anything new.
“That boy is covered in a rash,” Jean said sternly. “Did you know?”
“Yes,” Chris said. He eyed Beverly. “It’s just ringworm. We’ve been giving him cream for it. Is it still not better?”
“Not from what I saw. It’s all over his back and torso. He seems to be burning up, too.”
Chris left the table without another word. Beverly felt a wave of nausea pass through her. She’d not been using the cream. She’d been listening, listening, and listening. When she rose to see her son in the guest room, Chris held him tightly to his chest. His eyes narrowed at her. “Did you not see this? Again?”
“I must have missed it.”
“He’s actually sick now.” Chris dug through the diaper bag, found the nearly full bottle of cream, and gave Beverly another strained expression. She looked down and away. Her face flamed.
When Chris found the thermometer, he took Samson’s temperature. It was elevated, but not in danger territory. Chris took over then; he found the baby Tylenol they also had, administered it, and then slathered him in cream. Beverly watched on mute. Now that she was in the room, she could hear snippets of conversation. As soon as Chris put on the cream, it was all gone.
“Are you all right?” Chris said, his voice barely above a whisper. Samson had fallen asleep against him, wrapped in a new onesie and the temperature lower. He rubbed Beverly’s back with his free hand. “Is this—”
“I don’t know what this is.” Beverly sat on the spare room bed, her face in her hands. Her mind was so quiet now. “I think I’m just bored. I hate being at home.”
“Oh.” Chris let out a breath. He almost laughed, then grew serious. “That’s easy to fix.”
“Is it?”
He laughed for real this time. “Go back to work. We’ll get a nanny or daycare or my mom or something else. That’s easy to fix.”
Beverly felt better for the first time in months. Ever since he was born. Had it really been that bad? No, not with Samson. He’d been a perfect child, it seemed. But she’d been bored. She’d been antsy. She’d been… on the outside of those Mommy and Me classes, never accepted into the group. She enjoyed being a mother while she sort of hated motherhood. Or maybe she just hated maternity leave. Or maybe this was all just hormones. She hated the thought of it, but it was the only explanation that made sense.
They hugged. Cried a bit. When Chris put Samson in his pack-and-play for the night, the argument was over. Beverly wondered if, in a different house somewhere in this neighborhood, another mother overheard.
*
When Beverly returned to work two weeks later, Chris made her lunch. “Portobello sandwiches,” he declared. “Figured it would be a nice, fancy welcome meal back.”
Beverly thanked him just as Jean arrived to watch Samson. He smiled at her eagerly, waving his arms, excited to spend the day with his grandmother.
At work, Beverly’s feet smarted until lunch. She would have thought that rocking a baby would have prepared her for library shelves and endless stacking, but she was wrong. In the break room, she made sure no one was around before she took off her shoes. She opened her sandwich. After two bites, she heard the music again.
Beverly smiled.
END
Eve Morton 