always out, doing one of her two jobs. She works in a supermarket in the next suburb. It’s a better one than Crazi-Cheep. They’ve got two Muzak CDs and they can spell the name of the store properly. Positively upmarket. Anyway, she does strange shifts in the supermarket.
When she’s not there, she’s at her other place of employment—the casino on the Esplanade. She used to work in a pub but got tired of the relentless insults and sexual harassment. And that was just from the other employees. So now she deals cards for grim-faced tourists who, even when they win, look as happy as if she was performing a colonic irrigation on them. The hours are weird there too.
Look, all this is just background information. If I was wondering where the Fridge was on that Sunday afternoon, I probably assumed she was at one of those places. Actually, I wouldn’t have given it a moment’s thought. After all, I had arranged a date with Jason. I was basking in a mellow glow, almost certainly humming while skipping blithely through the garden, scattering rose petals. The Fridge was not high on my list of priorities.
There weren’t even alarm bells when Mr. Moyd from the casino called. For a moment I thought it might have been Jason calling back, just to hear my voice, and I got to the phone before it had rung twice. Mr. Moyd, an American with an accent you could sharpen a cutthroat razor on, asked me to pass a message to the Fridge. It went something like: “Tail yer mom that aim shoor sorry thet she’s failing seek too day. Ai hev gotten coveh for hair sheeft tonite, so she musn wurry. Send mah baist re-guards.”
Even without the benefit of subtitles, I got the gist. The Fridge was crook and had the evening off. Selfish and preoccupied as I was, I forgot about it in an instant….
FastF™
Monday afternoon and Jupiter must be in conjunction with Saturn or something, because when I get home from school, the Fridge is parked in the kitchen. Next to the fridge, actually. We pass a few pleasantries.
“How was school today, Calma?”
“Crap. How was work last night?”
“Ditto.”
“You in again tonight?”
“Leaving in five minutes. There’s a casserole in the oven.”
“I’ll take a shower first.”
FastF™
I’m standing in the shower, trying to cover myself completely in soapsuds, when a small, niggling thought at the back of my mind bursts through to consciousness. Mr. Moyd. The message. What’s going on?
FastF™
It’s late at night and I can’t concentrate on math. Actually, that’s a normal state of affairs for me, but this time I have a reason. The Fridge told me she was at work last night, but Mr. Moyd specifically said she hadn’t been in. If she chucked a sickie, then where did she go?
I call the casino. She isn’t in. Reception tells me she has called in sick again and won’t be in until Friday. I hang up and return to the math problem on my graphics calculator. It has something to do with box plots, statistical functions, and standard deviation distribution graphs. Don’t worry. It doesn’t make any sense to me either. Anyway, the only standard deviation I’m worried about is the one involving the Fridge.
FastF™
It’s late Wednesday afternoon and the Fridge is leaving the house just as I’m coming in from school. She is carrying car keys and a vexed expression. I get between her and the driver’s seat. I was tempted to leave a note but decided against it. If something funny is going on, I don’t want to give her the chance to polish a lie. I want to look her in the eye.
“Where do you think you’ve been, young lady?”
Actually, I don’t say that. I want to, mind. I want to stand there, hands on hips and a pissy look on my face, like I’m getting in serious preparation for parenthood.
“Mr. Moyd from the casino called on Sunday. He said you had called in sick. And you weren’t in Monday night either. What’s going on, Mum?”
The Fridge looks at me and I think
When she’s not there, she’s at her other place of employment—the casino on the Esplanade. She used to work in a pub but got tired of the relentless insults and sexual harassment. And that was just from the other employees. So now she deals cards for grim-faced tourists who, even when they win, look as happy as if she was performing a colonic irrigation on them. The hours are weird there too.
Look, all this is just background information. If I was wondering where the Fridge was on that Sunday afternoon, I probably assumed she was at one of those places. Actually, I wouldn’t have given it a moment’s thought. After all, I had arranged a date with Jason. I was basking in a mellow glow, almost certainly humming while skipping blithely through the garden, scattering rose petals. The Fridge was not high on my list of priorities.
There weren’t even alarm bells when Mr. Moyd from the casino called. For a moment I thought it might have been Jason calling back, just to hear my voice, and I got to the phone before it had rung twice. Mr. Moyd, an American with an accent you could sharpen a cutthroat razor on, asked me to pass a message to the Fridge. It went something like: “Tail yer mom that aim shoor sorry thet she’s failing seek too day. Ai hev gotten coveh for hair sheeft tonite, so she musn wurry. Send mah baist re-guards.”
Even without the benefit of subtitles, I got the gist. The Fridge was crook and had the evening off. Selfish and preoccupied as I was, I forgot about it in an instant….
FastF™
Monday afternoon and Jupiter must be in conjunction with Saturn or something, because when I get home from school, the Fridge is parked in the kitchen. Next to the fridge, actually. We pass a few pleasantries.
“How was school today, Calma?”
“Crap. How was work last night?”
“Ditto.”
“You in again tonight?”
“Leaving in five minutes. There’s a casserole in the oven.”
“I’ll take a shower first.”
FastF™
I’m standing in the shower, trying to cover myself completely in soapsuds, when a small, niggling thought at the back of my mind bursts through to consciousness. Mr. Moyd. The message. What’s going on?
FastF™
It’s late at night and I can’t concentrate on math. Actually, that’s a normal state of affairs for me, but this time I have a reason. The Fridge told me she was at work last night, but Mr. Moyd specifically said she hadn’t been in. If she chucked a sickie, then where did she go?
I call the casino. She isn’t in. Reception tells me she has called in sick again and won’t be in until Friday. I hang up and return to the math problem on my graphics calculator. It has something to do with box plots, statistical functions, and standard deviation distribution graphs. Don’t worry. It doesn’t make any sense to me either. Anyway, the only standard deviation I’m worried about is the one involving the Fridge.
FastF™
It’s late Wednesday afternoon and the Fridge is leaving the house just as I’m coming in from school. She is carrying car keys and a vexed expression. I get between her and the driver’s seat. I was tempted to leave a note but decided against it. If something funny is going on, I don’t want to give her the chance to polish a lie. I want to look her in the eye.
“Where do you think you’ve been, young lady?”
Actually, I don’t say that. I want to, mind. I want to stand there, hands on hips and a pissy look on my face, like I’m getting in serious preparation for parenthood.
“Mr. Moyd from the casino called on Sunday. He said you had called in sick. And you weren’t in Monday night either. What’s going on, Mum?”
The Fridge looks at me and I think
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