excerpt
drumming on wood, metal, plastic. House lights begin to flare up
and down the street.
At the top of the stairwell my father shoulders the door; it doesn’t
budge. My mother learned the value of a solid defence the night
brother Burt was on acid and believed he was being eaten alive by
scorpions. I remember wishing he had been.
– This is my house! my father declares. Given the territory each
controls, others might disagree.
– I’m calling the cops! my mother snarls.
– Whatcha gonna charge me with, huh? Breaking curfew?
My father staggers to the back of the basement; I can hear him
rooting around in the toolbox. He reappears at my bedroom door.
– This otta do the job, eh? He holds up a hatchet.
My father returns to the top of the stairs and begins hacking.
Wood chips ricochet off the walls. With each swing of the blade,
splinters of light from the kitchen spill into the dark stairwell. But
every time my father tries squeezing through the opening, my
mother wallops him with a broom.
A few more chops, the breach widens. He resumes the advance.
She falls back, pelting him with dishes. Plates and coffee mugs
explode. Dad retreats.
– You still got that football helmet? he asks me.
He is emboldened by its fibreglass shell, the webbed faceguard.
On his next foray my father pokes his fortified skull through the hole
in the door, but he comes under heavy fire once more. This time he’s
pinned down by a fusillade of footwear.
Eventually my mother exhausts her ammo. A hush falls over the
battlefield. The lights in the homes of our somnolent neighbours are
extinguished. Sleep at last.
Blood dripping from the ceiling. Brain matter splattered across the
walls. That’s what I expect to find upon waking that Mother’s Day,
the sun peeking above the asphalt rooftops, our house silent.
Vapours hover over the sodden lawn in a primordial smoulder.
In the living room I discover my mother on the sofa; she’s curled
up in a sleeping bag. Dad has taken the bedroom; I can smell him. It
would probably take a stick of dynamite to pry loose the helmet. I
knew someone keen to light the fuse.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 