Mr. Tobin holds a degree in mathematics from LaSalle University and is retired from L-3 Communications. His work appears in Kind of a Hurricane Press, Grey Wolfe Press, In Parentheses, River Poets Journal, Static Movement, Cruentus Libri Press, The Speculative Edge, Rainstorm Press, Twisted Dreams, The Rusty Nail, Whortleberry Press and various websites and ezines including Yellow Mama. Follow him on Twitter @TimTobin43.
Daddy, Daddy, Candy Eater
A woman she never knew named her Candy. A father she loathed tasted the candy, often.
She wrote Candace on her job application but her real name stuck. She was Candy to the office, especially to the men, And those men sampled the candy too, often.
McMillan, Murphy and Collins, attorneys at law, enjoyed candy. Candy endured, not enjoyed, the attention, the gifts, the flowers, the sex. Every man who penetrated her smelled like her father, tasted like his cigarettes and beer, reeked of his sweat.
Candy murmured lies and pocketed the cash. Each month she examined her brokerage statement and thought to herself, “I’m a slut but a rich one. Thanks Daddy.”
Mr. Gregory Solomon, Vice President of Finance, took her to dinner, a show and then to bed. On her way out he patted her on the rump and put an envelope into her hand. She kissed his bald head, fondled him a last time and started for home.
Candy never spent the night with the candy eaters. Her father, now a decrepit old man, needed her help bathing, shitting, and eating. He still loved candy, now the chocolate kind.
Candy stopped in a convenience store and bought a box of chocolate cherries, her father’s favorite. The clerk commented on how much of it she bought. Candy smiled her sweet smile at him while she paid.
The dark house surprised her when she pulled into the driveway. “Maybe the old man’s asleep,” she thought. She listened in the dark to the quiet of the house. “Eerie,” she said aloud. “I should hear him snoring.”
Candy thought perhaps the old man died. “Oh no,” she cried. “Not yet!” She raced to his room and flung open the door into an empty room with a made bed.
“He never goes out. Where could he be?”
Candy sat on her father’s bed and let the memories chew at her soul. She sat until the hatred flared and devoured her reason. She made her way to the kitchen and rummaged under the sink for a surgical mask. She tucked the chocolate cherries under her arm and descended into the blackness.
Candy fumbled with the light switch at the bottom of the basement stairs. She reminded herself to empty the trash can loaded with empty candy boxes. With the surgical mask fit snugly over her nose and mouth, she unbolted the door to the spare room.
Even with the mask, the odor of urine, feces, vomit and decay overwhelmed her. A harsh moan drifted into her ears. She held her breath but forced her closed eyes to open when she switched on the dim bulb.
A festering mass of flesh greeted her. Her father lay in own waste chained to the wall. Dozens of boxes of chocolate cherries littered the floor. “Look Dad, I brought you dinner,” she said.
The old man ripped open the box and stuffed a handful of the candies into a toothless mouth.
The stench from his mouth made her gag.
“Dad, Dad! We really have to get you to a dentist. Your teeth are awful. You eat far too much candy.”
“And while we’re at it, we’ll get a dermatologist to check the acne on your face and those puss balls on your skin.”
“Now I‘ll bet you‘d like to listen to a kid’s song, OK? I know just the one.”
Daddy, Daddy, Candy eater, had a daughter and couldn’t ……..”