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Authors: Sandra Birdsell
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their secrets.
The smell of cigarette smoke spirals up from the living room where Margaret sits in the dark, smoking and waiting for the storm. “Stop fighting,” Margaret had said earlier in the day, “or you’re going to make it storm.” When their moods changed suddenly and they became irritable, or their play turned into punches and slaps, Margaret didn’t think to attribute it to a coming change in the weather; rather, it was their behaviour itself which would bring on the storm.
In the bed below Amy, Jill’s quiet and steady breathing says that she’s already sleeping. Across the hall in Mel’s room a beam of light swings against the wall as he plays with his flashlight. Mel has $120 in his savings account. Amy saw the figures melting away, streams of blue ink trailing across the water in the toilet where she’d dropped his passbook. She admitted this finally and apologized because she wants to go with them to the Lutheran Sunday School picnic tomorrow. She wants to find out why Mel has packed a mickey of whisky in his school bag.
Margaret stiffens at another crackle of static in the radio. The wind rises and begins to sweep down into the streets of Carona. The red brick face of the school flickers with the first round of lightning. Amy hears her mother’s swift stride up the stairs. She turns away from it and faces the wall. She can hear the shade tree swaying, its branches scraping against the side of the house. The television antenna begins to hum and then emits a high-pitched whine. Amy hears the squeak of Mel’s bed springs as he gets up andwaits for Margaret outside his doorway. His flashlight casts a circular pool of yellow light against the wall. Once Amy awakened to see Mel standing in the doorway of their bedroom with the flashlight stuck down the front of his pyjama bottoms. “Chicken,” Jill said and so Mel dropped them, shone the light onto his rubbery-looking penis, and then turned around, bent over, and showed her his brown anus and wrinkled testicles. “You have hair there,” Jill whispered. “That’s disgusting.” Amy couldn’t see any hair at all.
Margaret enters the hallway now and pushes past Mel and on into their room. Amy keeps her breathing flat and even. The bed shakes as Margaret jostles Jill awake. “Your pillow. Bring your pillow,” Jill moans in protest. Amy feels Margaret’s hands against her ribs. “Wake up.” The antenna continues to whine, steady and high, and the roof begins to vibrate with the sound. Thunder cracks and Margaret gasps. “Amy, wake up.” Her touch is more insistent. “It’s only thunder,” Jill mutters, but she pulls on a tee shirt and clutches her pillow against her chest and joins Mel out in the hallway. The sky opens suddenly and rain falls in a great gush against the roof.
Amy curls up tightly, facing the wall. She opens her eyes. The wall leaps with white light and she sees once again the air splitting open in a zig-zag pattern in front of her face. No beginning to it, no end, it is that fast. Branches tear free and tumble across the slope of the roof. Amy uncurls suddenly, her legs shooting straight out then swinging up and over the side of the bed to dangle in front of Margaret’s astonished face. “I’m not going downstairs.”
“It’s going to be a bad one.” Margaret’s face leaps forward in a flash of lightning, flat, white, eyes wide with fear.
“I’m staying up here,” Amy says. But after the next crack of thunder and another long sheet of light that follows, illuminating the room, the crayon drawings on the walls, Jill’s doll collection on the shelf, Amy sees that Margaret has already fled, leaving her there. She flops back onto the bed, surprised but satisfied thatMargaret has given up so easily. She listens to the whisper of their feet scurrying down the hallway, against the stairs, drowned out then by a clap of thunder and the rising wind. “Be good or you’ll make it storm,” Margaret has pleaded often.
The smell of cigarette smoke spirals up from the living room where Margaret sits in the dark, smoking and waiting for the storm. “Stop fighting,” Margaret had said earlier in the day, “or you’re going to make it storm.” When their moods changed suddenly and they became irritable, or their play turned into punches and slaps, Margaret didn’t think to attribute it to a coming change in the weather; rather, it was their behaviour itself which would bring on the storm.
In the bed below Amy, Jill’s quiet and steady breathing says that she’s already sleeping. Across the hall in Mel’s room a beam of light swings against the wall as he plays with his flashlight. Mel has $120 in his savings account. Amy saw the figures melting away, streams of blue ink trailing across the water in the toilet where she’d dropped his passbook. She admitted this finally and apologized because she wants to go with them to the Lutheran Sunday School picnic tomorrow. She wants to find out why Mel has packed a mickey of whisky in his school bag.
Margaret stiffens at another crackle of static in the radio. The wind rises and begins to sweep down into the streets of Carona. The red brick face of the school flickers with the first round of lightning. Amy hears her mother’s swift stride up the stairs. She turns away from it and faces the wall. She can hear the shade tree swaying, its branches scraping against the side of the house. The television antenna begins to hum and then emits a high-pitched whine. Amy hears the squeak of Mel’s bed springs as he gets up andwaits for Margaret outside his doorway. His flashlight casts a circular pool of yellow light against the wall. Once Amy awakened to see Mel standing in the doorway of their bedroom with the flashlight stuck down the front of his pyjama bottoms. “Chicken,” Jill said and so Mel dropped them, shone the light onto his rubbery-looking penis, and then turned around, bent over, and showed her his brown anus and wrinkled testicles. “You have hair there,” Jill whispered. “That’s disgusting.” Amy couldn’t see any hair at all.
Margaret enters the hallway now and pushes past Mel and on into their room. Amy keeps her breathing flat and even. The bed shakes as Margaret jostles Jill awake. “Your pillow. Bring your pillow,” Jill moans in protest. Amy feels Margaret’s hands against her ribs. “Wake up.” The antenna continues to whine, steady and high, and the roof begins to vibrate with the sound. Thunder cracks and Margaret gasps. “Amy, wake up.” Her touch is more insistent. “It’s only thunder,” Jill mutters, but she pulls on a tee shirt and clutches her pillow against her chest and joins Mel out in the hallway. The sky opens suddenly and rain falls in a great gush against the roof.
Amy curls up tightly, facing the wall. She opens her eyes. The wall leaps with white light and she sees once again the air splitting open in a zig-zag pattern in front of her face. No beginning to it, no end, it is that fast. Branches tear free and tumble across the slope of the roof. Amy uncurls suddenly, her legs shooting straight out then swinging up and over the side of the bed to dangle in front of Margaret’s astonished face. “I’m not going downstairs.”
“It’s going to be a bad one.” Margaret’s face leaps forward in a flash of lightning, flat, white, eyes wide with fear.
“I’m staying up here,” Amy says. But after the next crack of thunder and another long sheet of light that follows, illuminating the room, the crayon drawings on the walls, Jill’s doll collection on the shelf, Amy sees that Margaret has already fled, leaving her there. She flops back onto the bed, surprised but satisfied thatMargaret has given up so easily. She listens to the whisper of their feet scurrying down the hallway, against the stairs, drowned out then by a clap of thunder and the rising wind. “Be good or you’ll make it storm,” Margaret has pleaded often.
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