frenzy.
“Some watchdog.” Helen laughed. “He’ll most like lick a burglar to death.”
“Ma! Anabel!” Damon called. “We’re home.”
Only the regular tick-ticking of the wall clock in the hall answered them with the hum of the fridge, farther down the passage. It seemed to her somehow wrong to enter without permission. This was not home yet, with its polished golden oak floors and the dusty, oval-framed faces of illustrious ancestors glaring at them from rows on the walls.
“We may as well go up then,” Helen said, with a shrug. “It’s not as if the old lady’s gonna eat us for first dropping off our things in our rooms.”
As much as Helen still had to get used to her new home, she had to admit she liked her room.
“No sticking up posters of rock stars!” Anabel had admonished on that first day. “That putty stuff will damage the wallpaper.”
Helen had only smiled. She doubted her grandmother knew the true worth of the wallpaper in many of the rooms in this house. The previous owner must either have been loaded or had had exquisite taste–she suspected both–for she recognized the intricate floral patterns from her studies.
“William Morris,” she’d said, tracing the gilt highlights. This might only be a reproduction but part of her hoped the paper was still the original, with its sinuous curves of golden lilies entwined with leaves and stems.
She thought, ruefully, of all her art books lying in storage, packed far away in boxes. Her current predicament couldn’t be helped.
Her mother sat on the back veranda, a blanket drawn over her knees, as if she already were an old person. She glanced up at Helen with tired eyes, bruised-looking bags beneath them. The first gray in her hair seemed more pronounced.
“Hey, sugarplum.”
“Mom. How are you?”
“So tired.”
Her eyes remained unfocused and she gazed out across the backyard where, at the far corner, next to the field where two gray donkeys grazed, Anabel scattered corn for the chickens.
“School’s all right,” Helen said, hoping to start a conversation.
“I miss him,” her mother said. “Mom won’t have me talk about him when she can hear and I’ve had no one else to talk to all week. I miss him so much and he doesn’t phone me.”
Her mother startled her by grabbing at Helen’s wrist, clutching so fiercely her ragged fingernails bit deep into flesh.
Helen’s initial reaction was to pull away but the sudden clarity–the need–in her mother’s wide green eyes made her hold back. She licked her lips, hopeful her mother would let go.
“Father hasn’t called at all?”
“No!” The word came out as a wail.
“Well, he’s an asshole, Mom. I shouldn’t have to say it, and you know it!” Her chest constricted and she marveled at how a perfectly adequate Friday afternoon–all circumstances considered–could so rapidly turn pear-shaped. She’d purposefully avoided contacting her father since that last time when Mom’d been taken up in hospital. The man could go to hell. He was no father to her.
“Mom!” Damon’s greeting almost caused Helen to sag in relief.
As sudden as a cloud dissipating in front of the sun, their mother’s expression shifted. “Damon! How was school?”
Her mother could perk up long enough to ask Damon about school?
She suppressed the stab of jealousy before her expression betrayed her. Damon couldn’t help it that he looked like their father.
Like a bird, their mother nattered, animated in her son’s presence, but could not stick to the topic. Fortunately the conversation did not last.
“You’re back,” Anabel said.
Helen started. She had not seen the woman return to the house.
Placing Anabel’s age was difficult. A tall, spare woman, she wore her long gray hair in two braids on either side of her face. The same mint-green eyes as her mother’s were watchful–but with far more awareness–and, despite the years out in the Karoo sun, Anabel had looked after her
“Some watchdog.” Helen laughed. “He’ll most like lick a burglar to death.”
“Ma! Anabel!” Damon called. “We’re home.”
Only the regular tick-ticking of the wall clock in the hall answered them with the hum of the fridge, farther down the passage. It seemed to her somehow wrong to enter without permission. This was not home yet, with its polished golden oak floors and the dusty, oval-framed faces of illustrious ancestors glaring at them from rows on the walls.
“We may as well go up then,” Helen said, with a shrug. “It’s not as if the old lady’s gonna eat us for first dropping off our things in our rooms.”
As much as Helen still had to get used to her new home, she had to admit she liked her room.
“No sticking up posters of rock stars!” Anabel had admonished on that first day. “That putty stuff will damage the wallpaper.”
Helen had only smiled. She doubted her grandmother knew the true worth of the wallpaper in many of the rooms in this house. The previous owner must either have been loaded or had had exquisite taste–she suspected both–for she recognized the intricate floral patterns from her studies.
“William Morris,” she’d said, tracing the gilt highlights. This might only be a reproduction but part of her hoped the paper was still the original, with its sinuous curves of golden lilies entwined with leaves and stems.
She thought, ruefully, of all her art books lying in storage, packed far away in boxes. Her current predicament couldn’t be helped.
Her mother sat on the back veranda, a blanket drawn over her knees, as if she already were an old person. She glanced up at Helen with tired eyes, bruised-looking bags beneath them. The first gray in her hair seemed more pronounced.
“Hey, sugarplum.”
“Mom. How are you?”
“So tired.”
Her eyes remained unfocused and she gazed out across the backyard where, at the far corner, next to the field where two gray donkeys grazed, Anabel scattered corn for the chickens.
“School’s all right,” Helen said, hoping to start a conversation.
“I miss him,” her mother said. “Mom won’t have me talk about him when she can hear and I’ve had no one else to talk to all week. I miss him so much and he doesn’t phone me.”
Her mother startled her by grabbing at Helen’s wrist, clutching so fiercely her ragged fingernails bit deep into flesh.
Helen’s initial reaction was to pull away but the sudden clarity–the need–in her mother’s wide green eyes made her hold back. She licked her lips, hopeful her mother would let go.
“Father hasn’t called at all?”
“No!” The word came out as a wail.
“Well, he’s an asshole, Mom. I shouldn’t have to say it, and you know it!” Her chest constricted and she marveled at how a perfectly adequate Friday afternoon–all circumstances considered–could so rapidly turn pear-shaped. She’d purposefully avoided contacting her father since that last time when Mom’d been taken up in hospital. The man could go to hell. He was no father to her.
“Mom!” Damon’s greeting almost caused Helen to sag in relief.
As sudden as a cloud dissipating in front of the sun, their mother’s expression shifted. “Damon! How was school?”
Her mother could perk up long enough to ask Damon about school?
She suppressed the stab of jealousy before her expression betrayed her. Damon couldn’t help it that he looked like their father.
Like a bird, their mother nattered, animated in her son’s presence, but could not stick to the topic. Fortunately the conversation did not last.
“You’re back,” Anabel said.
Helen started. She had not seen the woman return to the house.
Placing Anabel’s age was difficult. A tall, spare woman, she wore her long gray hair in two braids on either side of her face. The same mint-green eyes as her mother’s were watchful–but with far more awareness–and, despite the years out in the Karoo sun, Anabel had looked after her
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