All In Good Fun

by Bastet Zyla

Dinah’s mother had only passed but two days ago, and here she was going through her attic all alone, to decide how to best proceed with a livelihood left behind.

Dinah’s younger brother had been gone since her adolescence– leukemia. While her oldest brother was stationed somewhere in the Middle East and couldn’t make it to the funeral (that is, if he had even gotten news of her death). She couldn’t tell you exactly where he was located, as he never wrote to anyone but his wife all the way down in Georgia. So with no other remaining siblings alive or present, Dinah was left to manage her late mother’s affairs singlehandedly.

She’d taken one measly week off of work. It wasn’t nearly enough, but she had always managed to make things work in the past. That was what life was really made of, she believed. Making things work that one thinks cannot.

Dinah had left her sentimentality at the hatch to the long undisturbed attic. First was to get rid of the collection of love letters and cards between her mother and father, who had met his demise a couple years prior, a heart attack. It had occurred to her then that she was an orphan. She had long thought of just children being associated with that term, but there she was– parentless.

After she’d arranged valuables upon valuables (at least, what once was) into a singular throw away pile– yearbooks, photo albums, records, Christmas decorations, everything– she crossed the floor to the other end of the attic, even mustier than the front. Dinah coughed as she brushed some dust off the lid of a plastic tub so she could read the label scrawled on in sharpie, “Toys.” She knew logically that there was no point in looking through it. If they had been hers, they could be older than thirty, give or take a few years if they belonged to one of her brothers. Either way, none of them would be in any shape to donate. So really Dinah had no reason to open the box, let alone take one of the items out.

And yet she still did. Race cars passed down for so long they probably were made with lead paint. Barbies with uneven bobs she’d attempted to trim herself as a little girl. A stuffed elephant with cotton seeping out of the seams. What caught Dinah’s eye however was in stark contrast to the rest of the toys. It wasn’t nearly as decrepit or faded; and with one swipe of her fingertips through a layer of dust, she revealed the bright primary colors of a jack-in-the-box. Her jack-in-the-box. A slight burst of air came out of her nose, which was how she showed many emotions those days– amusement, humor, surprise. She rarely even feigned laughter anymore, instead replacing it with that quiet expulsion. Hff. I find that interesting. Hff. That’s funny. Hff. I wasn’t expecting that.

She lifted it out of the box and onto the floor. It was closed. She shrugged and began to turn the crank. It had been a while since she’d thought why not? instead of just why?

Looking back, Dinah found the children’s game almost morbid in a way. It’s a child’s first experience of the fear of the unknown. And every time after, they know what’s coming yet they’re scared of the inevitable anyway. Some opted to crank the handle as fast as they could, get it over with, rip off the bandaid. Then others moved it so slow that the tinkly notes can hardly be recognized as a song. No matter how one goes about it, no matter how many times they witness it, everyone always jumps when the jack pops out of the box.

Her muscles tensed as she approached the last few notes. She drew back the slightest bit. But nothing happened when she reached pop! nor the end of the song. It’ll probably need another few cranks before it works again, Dinah thought. Has to get rewound since it hasn’t been used in so long.

That time around she recalled the rhyme in her head. All a bunch of nonsense, as most children’s nursery rhymes are. Which she never understood, wouldn’t it be more beneficial to teach children stories that were coherent? Perhaps that’s why toddlers start off so incomprehensible. They were raised on mice that ran up clocks, girls that ate unheard of food (what are curds and whey?). Silver bells that grew in a contrarian’s garden instead of flowers, a very small spider that never seemed to learn its lesson about precarious spouts.

All around the mulberry bush, 
The monkey chased the weasel…

Her mouth twisted and her hand wavered as she wracked her brain to remember the third line. Something about the monkey again. What were a monkey and weasel doing together, anyway? How had they crossed paths? She patted the beat on her thigh. Ten syllables. It was on the tip of her tongue.

The monkey thought it was all in good fun…

She nodded, satisfied that she was able to relieve that mild but persistent itch in her brain. The kind one always gets when they forget something of little importance that gains great pertinence simply because it’s missing. Dinah’s jaw clenched. The suspense was even higher now that she knew the jack-in-the-box was somewhat unpredictable. It would open at the same point in the song, sure, but how many times would it take? She questioned why she cared. It was because she had another itch. And it needed closure, closure to something as simple as a toy.

Pop! goes the weasel.

Dinah exhaled. Still nothing. She tried a couple more times to no avail, each round with more and more bated breath until she was pink in the face. It was stupid. Silly. She was aware of its presence. She was aware it would eventually pop out. She was aware that it would only startle her for a second before her heart quickly regained its footing. She was aware of every minute step in the process, including the conclusion. She just wasn’t aware of why she felt the need to see this thing through in particular. Again.

All around the mulberry bush,
The monkey chased the weasel.
The monkey thought it was all in good fun. 
Pop! goes the weasel.

Still nothing of note at the pop! except for her noting internally that the nursery rhyme technically didn’t rhyme at all. “Bush” and “fun” weren’t even similar. And a word cannot rhyme with itself. Granted, there are few rhymes with weasel, but two came to mind that would’ve been sufficient: treacle and measles. Treacle was already used in the English version, but measles wasn’t out of the question if there was already a schoolyard ritual about the plague.

With each round she cranked, Dinah shrunk further and further into herself. The longer she was aware of not just the jack-in-the-box itself, but the fact that it could pop out at any time, the harder she dug her teeth into her lower lip. It didn’t feel like a game anymore like it had at the start. Did she want it to just burst open already so the suspense was over? Or did she want it to stay shut for as long as possible? She wasn’t sure which would be worse.

All around the mulberry bush,
The monkey chased the weasel.
The monkey thought it was all in good fun.
Pop! goes the weasel.

Silence. Silence so terrible she felt an urge to cover her ears. She could hardly stand it. It was then she vowed that if she ever had children– though time was running out at her ripening age of 34– she’d never expose them to such an unsettling, masochistic, dreadful game. Not even the nursery rhyme alone. Her womb would ache to protect them from drowning in the rain, bumping their head and never waking up, bridges falling down beneath their feet, being starved within a shoe, turning into ashes, and most of all, running and running and running and running and running and running and running around a bush until they’re jolted to a standstill. Dinah clamped the crank in her damp palm and began to turn it, right on beat.

All around the mulberry bush,
The monkey chased the weasel.
The monkey thought it was all in good fun. 
Pop!

The box at last sprung open. She jumped with a brief gasp.

goes the weasel.

She caught her breath before letting out a short, relieved laugh. It was over. Finally over. Dinah opened her eyes and looked back to the open box, her brows furrowed. There was no Jack. Instead, all that had popped up was the spring. She peered further, but nothing accompanied the twisted metal but dust.

She stared at the emptiness for a moment, shrugged, closed the box, put it back in its tub, then left.

And she never thought about the whole ordeal ever again.

 

Bastet Zyla is a sophomore in college from West Virginia currently attending Oberlin College for creative writing. Other than several short stories, she has also written two novels, three plays, and countless poems. She has received many awards throughout her school career, such as the first place playwriting award two years in a row at the West Virginia State Thespian Festival, as well as being ranked multiple times in Wood Whispers, a yearly West Virginia writing collection.