View From a Kite by Maureen Hull Page A

tell your story. We are prepared to offer you a considerable sum of money, to help with your future education costs, and so on. Perhaps,” he looks around at the faded wallpaper (teapots and kettles full of daisies) and the chipped green woodwork, “you might like to finance a few renovations for your aunt? Or take her on a trip to Florida next winter? My own dear mother minds the cold dreadfully; she loves to get away to play a little golf in February.”
    I smile at the image of Edith whacking a ball on a green in Florida.
    He smiles back, a vast expanse of capped teeth.
    I want to kill him.
    â€œMy story…” My lips are dry and I stop to lick them. “As in, Tragic Tubercular Teenager Locked Up In Sanatorium After Father Blows Hole In Mother’s Brain? Something like that?”
    â€œI can assure you we will tell your story with the utmost delicacy and sensitivity.” He’s so eager the badly trimmed hairs in his nose are quivering. “We think you should have some recompense for your pain, and a chance to talk—to share your burden.”
    â€œHow much money?” I ask. I am calm. Composed. My mother’s manners are a smooth surface over black rage.
    He doesn’t blink. “I should think in the neighbourhood of twenty thousand dollars.”
    â€œThat’s all?” I ask, sloshing tea on my knuckles. Calm and composed is beginning to crack.
    â€œWell, that’s just an opening offer, of course. We may be able to go a bit higher, but we’ll need pictures of you and your parents.”
    â€œBastard,” I mutter.
    â€œExcuse me?” he says.
    I fling the cup and the rest of the tea in his face.
    â€œBastard!” I yell it, so he can’t mistake me. I throw the pot at him, the potholder, the trivet, and the wet dish towels hanging from the line above the stove.
    I scream, “Bastard! Bastard!” I can’t think of another word, but this one seems to sum up everything I have to say. I want more things to throw at him.
    He’s on his hands and knees in the porch, scrabbling at the door handle. I dump the coal scuttle and the coal on his head as he dives down the back steps. He’s bleeding a bit, which rouses me to further effort.
    â€œBastard, bastard, bastard!” I howl, and throw wood from the woodbox and an armload of boots and shoes. He’s running for his car and finally manages to get inside and lock the door. Not before I get him with a nice chunk of birch. I pitch the two pots of pink geraniums on the bottom step at him and take out a headlamp before he gets the car into gear.
    Then there’s nothing big left to throw, so I heave fistfuls of gravel from the drive, trying to scratch and chip the paint on his car as he fishtails down the lane and out onto the highway.
    I have a brief screaming fit. Maybe it’s brief, I don’t remember. At some point I stop, burnt out and exhausted. I hate losing control like this. My throat hurts, my lungs hurt, my head hurts, but it’s better than crying. Anything’s better than useless, stupid crying. I wipe my nose on my bathrobe sleeve, retie my belt, and stumble back to the house. When I get to the kitchen I lift the stove lid and drop his hat into the firebox. I clean up and make a fresh pot of tea in the freshly chipped teapot, then I curl up on the porch swing and tuck myself back into Edith’s afghan. I sip tea and pretend I am vacationing in Majorca before heading off on my next book tour.

CHAPTER 11
    Sunday morning, I’m lying in bed, happily drowning in the scent of lilacs. One of the cottagers, down by the lake, is mowing his bit of lawn. How silly, I think, to have a lawn to look after at your cottage. But some people can’t vacation, they have to think of things to do or the stillness drives them batty. George, now, he would have a hard time if he ever took a vacation. He’d have to be driving to the store for ice cream twice a