hated anyone who was good at anything. She would buy them both a house by the sea like Nonna and Poppa always talked about buying, somewhere he could be happy.
And his tears had dried as she’d woven her magic promises and spun a golden future for them both that hewould dream about every night in bed, just waiting for the day, because his mother worked so hard and he knew she would shift heaven and earth to make it happen.
The shopping centre fell behind, his car seemed to be on autopilot, unravelling the years as it wended its way through the suburb until he was there, crawling along the narrow street to number twenty-four, more afraid now of what he would remember than what he would find. He turned up the airconditioning, his palms sweaty against the wheel as he passed the tiny playground where his poppa had watched him play when his mother was working, his poppa busy carving a piece of wood he’d pull from his pocket. He remembered watching the shavings curl as he worked the tool through the wood, creating another tiny masterpiece. And he remembered running back to the house at dinner time, and the smell of rich tomato dishes that met him, and Nonna in the kitchen wearing a white apron and letting him stand on a chair and taste the minestrone from what seemed then like a massive wooden spoon.
And then he did a double take when he got to number twenty-four, or what was left of it, little more than a burned-out shell, the tiled roof caved in and with police tape still stuck between poles. He got out of the car and stood there on the side of the road, the air still tainted with the smell of ash and burning.
Gone. All gone now. His grandparents and the fragrant kitchen. His mother and her promises and dreams. Even the very house where he’d nursed her in her final weeks before the tumour that stopped her in her tracks had claimed her for its own.
All gone.
‘You from the insurance company?’ A grizzled old man wearing a white singlet and shorts stood wateringa stringy row of tomato plants next door with a bucket, clearly more interested in the stranger with the flash car.
Dominic shook his head. ‘What happened, do you know?’ And the old man frowned as he looked at what was left of the house. ‘Bad business. Some feud between some local school kids, barely out of primary school, not that they didn’t know what they were doing. A gang of them came around and threw home-made Molotov cocktails through the windows. The wife and I heard the crash. By the time we came out to see what was happening, the place was going like a bonfire. Too quick for the firies.’
God.
‘What about the people who lived here? Are they okay?’
‘Yeah. How they made it out in time, I don’t know. Single mum with a couple of kids. Another one on the way. A miracle they all made it out alive, we reckon.’
‘She was pregnant.’ He wasn’t really asking. He was thinking, his eyes on the burned-out shell of the house where he’d grown up.
‘Yeah. It’s a miracle, all right.’
A miracle? It sounded more like hell on earth to him. What if this had happened three streets away? What if they’d got the wrong house? What if another woman wasn’t fast enough to get out?
He imagined the fear the woman must have felt. Imagined the panic at the crash of windows and the heat from the flames and the desperation to get herself and her children out before they might succumb to the fire and the smoke. What kind of experience was that for anyone to go through, let alone a pregnant woman? Let alone her unborn child?
How could he now drive away and leave her here, exposed to who only knew what danger?
How could he calmly head home and leave his baby behind?
It wasn’t going to happen.
Something else would have to be organised. An apartment. A six month lease. It would work. Now he just had to make them see that.
Angie was still at the kitchen table clutching the letter when the knock came, loud and purposeful. She jumped and swiped a
And his tears had dried as she’d woven her magic promises and spun a golden future for them both that hewould dream about every night in bed, just waiting for the day, because his mother worked so hard and he knew she would shift heaven and earth to make it happen.
The shopping centre fell behind, his car seemed to be on autopilot, unravelling the years as it wended its way through the suburb until he was there, crawling along the narrow street to number twenty-four, more afraid now of what he would remember than what he would find. He turned up the airconditioning, his palms sweaty against the wheel as he passed the tiny playground where his poppa had watched him play when his mother was working, his poppa busy carving a piece of wood he’d pull from his pocket. He remembered watching the shavings curl as he worked the tool through the wood, creating another tiny masterpiece. And he remembered running back to the house at dinner time, and the smell of rich tomato dishes that met him, and Nonna in the kitchen wearing a white apron and letting him stand on a chair and taste the minestrone from what seemed then like a massive wooden spoon.
And then he did a double take when he got to number twenty-four, or what was left of it, little more than a burned-out shell, the tiled roof caved in and with police tape still stuck between poles. He got out of the car and stood there on the side of the road, the air still tainted with the smell of ash and burning.
Gone. All gone now. His grandparents and the fragrant kitchen. His mother and her promises and dreams. Even the very house where he’d nursed her in her final weeks before the tumour that stopped her in her tracks had claimed her for its own.
All gone.
‘You from the insurance company?’ A grizzled old man wearing a white singlet and shorts stood wateringa stringy row of tomato plants next door with a bucket, clearly more interested in the stranger with the flash car.
Dominic shook his head. ‘What happened, do you know?’ And the old man frowned as he looked at what was left of the house. ‘Bad business. Some feud between some local school kids, barely out of primary school, not that they didn’t know what they were doing. A gang of them came around and threw home-made Molotov cocktails through the windows. The wife and I heard the crash. By the time we came out to see what was happening, the place was going like a bonfire. Too quick for the firies.’
God.
‘What about the people who lived here? Are they okay?’
‘Yeah. How they made it out in time, I don’t know. Single mum with a couple of kids. Another one on the way. A miracle they all made it out alive, we reckon.’
‘She was pregnant.’ He wasn’t really asking. He was thinking, his eyes on the burned-out shell of the house where he’d grown up.
‘Yeah. It’s a miracle, all right.’
A miracle? It sounded more like hell on earth to him. What if this had happened three streets away? What if they’d got the wrong house? What if another woman wasn’t fast enough to get out?
He imagined the fear the woman must have felt. Imagined the panic at the crash of windows and the heat from the flames and the desperation to get herself and her children out before they might succumb to the fire and the smoke. What kind of experience was that for anyone to go through, let alone a pregnant woman? Let alone her unborn child?
How could he now drive away and leave her here, exposed to who only knew what danger?
How could he calmly head home and leave his baby behind?
It wasn’t going to happen.
Something else would have to be organised. An apartment. A six month lease. It would work. Now he just had to make them see that.
Angie was still at the kitchen table clutching the letter when the knock came, loud and purposeful. She jumped and swiped a
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