"Bathtub Grading" by Jodie Liedke

2010 tornado touches down in La Crosse, WI

In the dark with myheadlamp on, I grade essaysin my bathtub, whilethe tornado gorgestwo blocks over.I call her Cleo,‘cause she’s sweetbut deceptive, unpredictable.While I cross out your title “Essay Two,”write in the margin (“you can be morecreative than this”), Cleo swipesthe entire back wall of a 24-unitapartment complex, leavingit to look like a doll’s house.Its insides exposed.While I read your thesis, “How toGet squirrels out of your house . . .”Cleo peels squirrels from branches,wraps them around telephone wires—impeccable precision.(She’s been practicing.)While I laugh at your quirky tone,Noting, “LOL,” “Ha! Ha!,” “This is great!”a first-year college student beneath her bed curlsinto a fetal position, thinking of her mother,who told her to live on the first floor.“Heat rises,” she had said.Cleo scalps the roof.The student doesn’t scream,falls silent. She can’t competewith Cleo’s whistling.While I write “awkward,” thencross it out and put “read aloud”Because what does “awkward”really mean anyway?Cleo scoops up the dog alongwith the dog’s house.While I look up in the APAmanual to see that you cited Roger,the exterminator correctly (youforgot to put in the day of the interview),Cleo gives the gift of flightto a three-year-old.His body rolls over, again and againlike he believes himself to be on fire.But, it’s much worse.Stop, drop, roll—intothe Mississippi River,the boy floats head down, so no onecan identify him right away.While I strike “In conclusion”in your last paragraph—I makeA quick note: “You should knowthis by now! It’s your lastparagraph, give your readersome credit; they will figure outthis is the end,” Cleo recoilsinto the sky, but notbefore she looks into theeyes of a 98-year-old woman whohas seen enough. 

Jodie Liedke, a true Wisconsinite, having labored four summers in a mozzarella factory, received her Masters in Fine Arts from Wichita State University. Liedke is an assistant professor at Lakeland University where she teaches composition and creative writing. Her work appears in Fourteen Hills, Metal Scratches, Fractions, and Stoneboat. When not writing creatively, Liedke is an avid fly-fisherwoman. Connect with Liedke on Twitter @JodieLiedke.

Photo by Brian Dalke