wanders into the kitchen where Steve is sitting at the table, hunched over a cup of coffee. Brenda stalks and parades beside the bench, rattling dishes and cutlery. Resolution must be nigh, Abby figures, although punishment and retribution are obviously still incomplete. Brenda has a point to make, and Steve’s contrition, however absolute, will be insufficient until she has had her fill of huffing and posturing.
Abby slides into a seat, smiles at her father, and winks. At this stage of recovery the only asset Steve requires is endurance. He must stomach Brenda’s moaning and accusations without retaliation, and soon all will be back to normal.
Brenda is a whirlwind of hurt and anger. She inflicts upon Steve the smart of humiliation she has had to bear due to his drunken performance: an eye for an eye. Steve is like a reprimanded child, and Abby would like to protect him, to stand up to her step-mother. She can think of many scathing things to say, insults that would put Brenda back in her box, such as: ‘you old bitch, you’re only in this for the farm’, or ‘did you know they crucified the last person who was as perfect as you?’ But she knows this would serve only to prolong Brenda’s attack. It’s best to observe in silence and let the storm pass.
After breakfast, while she is showering, Abby thinks perhaps she hears the sound of shouting, maybe Brenda’s shrill voice above the hiss of water. But it seems unlikely; her father is generally non-confrontational, and after a decent night’s sleep he seemed genuinely remorseful this morning. Abby rushes her rinse-off anyway, and as she dries herself she is certain she hears Brenda in full cry, like a scalded rooster calling in the dawn. Abby dresses in a flurry and tiptoes to the kitchen, pausing outside the door to listen.
‘That’s not an apology,’ Brenda is shouting. ‘But it’s exactly the sort of rubbish I’d expect from you, you pathetic man. What were you doing, singing to a dead woman! How am I supposed to live with that? Oh, I don’t want to hear your grubby explanations. Ten years that woman’s been dead and I still have to live with her. Then your daughter shows up to make sure you say sorry because you haven’t the strength to do it yourself. What did she offer you? A lollipop for good behaviour? I don’t know why I put up with this.’
Abby lingers in the hallway, afraid of butting in on Brenda’s outburst, and sure she’s not supposed to witness it. She hears the low defensive rumble of her father’s responses as he attempts to fend off Brenda’s wrath, but she can’t make out his words.
‘Don’t give me that utter garbage,’ Brenda yells. ‘And don’t cower away from me. Anyone would think I’d been guilty of beating you, which is so damned tempting when you flinch like that.’
There is a moment’s silence, during which Abby can only imagine the fury in Brenda’s small pale eyes and the anger feeding along the tight line of her lips. Then there is a thud, followed by a gasp, a clatter and a groan. Abby opens the door to see her father bent over with a hand pressed to his forehead and a spurt of red, like tomato sauce, spreading through his fingers. There is Brenda near the kitchen sink with her mouth rounded into a shocked O, her hand flying wildly to her face as if to shield herself from the scene. On the floor at Steve’s feet, a ceramic saucer that Brenda has thrown at him, broken into several pieces, rocks on the remnants of its curves before settling into guilty stillness. Steve looks up at Brenda, disbelief etched into his craggy features, fingers covering his forehead. He says nothing, but his expression says it all. Brenda has gone too far.
Abby steps centre-stage into a drama which has frozen mid-scene. Brenda seems paralysed, as if she can’t quite believe what she has done. Abby grasps a blue-checked tea towel from the back of a chair and goes to her father, loops an arm around him and guides him to a
Abby slides into a seat, smiles at her father, and winks. At this stage of recovery the only asset Steve requires is endurance. He must stomach Brenda’s moaning and accusations without retaliation, and soon all will be back to normal.
Brenda is a whirlwind of hurt and anger. She inflicts upon Steve the smart of humiliation she has had to bear due to his drunken performance: an eye for an eye. Steve is like a reprimanded child, and Abby would like to protect him, to stand up to her step-mother. She can think of many scathing things to say, insults that would put Brenda back in her box, such as: ‘you old bitch, you’re only in this for the farm’, or ‘did you know they crucified the last person who was as perfect as you?’ But she knows this would serve only to prolong Brenda’s attack. It’s best to observe in silence and let the storm pass.
After breakfast, while she is showering, Abby thinks perhaps she hears the sound of shouting, maybe Brenda’s shrill voice above the hiss of water. But it seems unlikely; her father is generally non-confrontational, and after a decent night’s sleep he seemed genuinely remorseful this morning. Abby rushes her rinse-off anyway, and as she dries herself she is certain she hears Brenda in full cry, like a scalded rooster calling in the dawn. Abby dresses in a flurry and tiptoes to the kitchen, pausing outside the door to listen.
‘That’s not an apology,’ Brenda is shouting. ‘But it’s exactly the sort of rubbish I’d expect from you, you pathetic man. What were you doing, singing to a dead woman! How am I supposed to live with that? Oh, I don’t want to hear your grubby explanations. Ten years that woman’s been dead and I still have to live with her. Then your daughter shows up to make sure you say sorry because you haven’t the strength to do it yourself. What did she offer you? A lollipop for good behaviour? I don’t know why I put up with this.’
Abby lingers in the hallway, afraid of butting in on Brenda’s outburst, and sure she’s not supposed to witness it. She hears the low defensive rumble of her father’s responses as he attempts to fend off Brenda’s wrath, but she can’t make out his words.
‘Don’t give me that utter garbage,’ Brenda yells. ‘And don’t cower away from me. Anyone would think I’d been guilty of beating you, which is so damned tempting when you flinch like that.’
There is a moment’s silence, during which Abby can only imagine the fury in Brenda’s small pale eyes and the anger feeding along the tight line of her lips. Then there is a thud, followed by a gasp, a clatter and a groan. Abby opens the door to see her father bent over with a hand pressed to his forehead and a spurt of red, like tomato sauce, spreading through his fingers. There is Brenda near the kitchen sink with her mouth rounded into a shocked O, her hand flying wildly to her face as if to shield herself from the scene. On the floor at Steve’s feet, a ceramic saucer that Brenda has thrown at him, broken into several pieces, rocks on the remnants of its curves before settling into guilty stillness. Steve looks up at Brenda, disbelief etched into his craggy features, fingers covering his forehead. He says nothing, but his expression says it all. Brenda has gone too far.
Abby steps centre-stage into a drama which has frozen mid-scene. Brenda seems paralysed, as if she can’t quite believe what she has done. Abby grasps a blue-checked tea towel from the back of a chair and goes to her father, loops an arm around him and guides him to a
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