didnât know each other that well, but because Megan and I were best friends, he wondered if he couldnât speak directly to her. He said heâd just seen the back steps and wondered if he couldnât help.
âI know someone who could come and look at the tree,â he said.
My mother met Mr Kingâs gaze. We all waited to see what she would say. Edwardâs giant Physics book slid off the sewing table taking the snack he had concealed behind with it. It seemed no sooner had she appeased one neighbour than another one took up the torch.
âClean that up,â she yelled to Edward, redirecting her irritation.
âIsnât that funny, you call me Mr King and weâve known each other sixteen years,â he reflected. âCall me Andrew.â
âI donât know if I can,â she said. âIâll try.â She took a breath. âI know it needs some attention. Andrew. Iâve got someone looking into it.â She was dithering.
âI donât know how to approach this and I think Iâm probably going to do it badly . . .â Mr King said almost to himself, pausing for a moment before he plunged into what he knew was going to be a quagmire of barely held but deeply ingrained religious beliefs. âI donât begrudge your religion,â he said, âand I try not to judge people by their God, but there seems to be a certain amount of superstition involved in your religion . . .â A smirk it looked as if he wasnât expecting visited the edge of his lips.
I had no idea what the Salvation Army believed in, I thought they were just a brass band, I didnât know they had their own God as well.
My mother cocked her head, she didnât seem to have any idea what Mr King was edging towards.
â. . . which I canât understand, but each to his own. Megan told me theyâd climbed the tree the other night and I was mad with her, but then she told me why.â He shook his head slowly. âAnd Iâm struggling with that. Itâs hard for one religion to accept anotherâs, especially when it involves your own childrenâs safety . . .â
At which point my mother pulled Mr King out of the house. They were standing on the front steps, a halo of moths diving into the porch light above their heads. I couldnât hear their conversation, but I guessed I was being betrayed again and now I wished Iâd never told anyone about the tree, not Megan, not my mother. Neither of them believed anyway or only when it was convenient for them. I hated them, but I didnât want to let them know how much I hated them, all I knew was that I would punish them through silence, that was the only response I knew to anything.
After Mr King descended the front stairs in his black work shoes taking some of them backwards as he was still facing my mother, who appeared to be working hard to convince him of something, she tip-toed around me. That wasnât like her either. I decided she must be guilty or too weak to let people know what she believed, or maybe she didnât know what she believed.
Later that night when the drain man arrived, taking the eight front steps in a single bound, I realized it wasnât that simple for her. She was unclear about what she felt because it wasnât always convenient for her to have her dead husband in the tree outside her window. It sometimes helped, but the trouble it caused at other times, when the drain man arrived, for example, made it confusing.
16
The first time I saw the drain man in our house, properly inside it, was that night, and he was too large to fit. He was as imposing as Gulliver surrounded by the puny Lilliputians. It didnât feel right having him encased inside walls, it felt like he would burst through the rotting seams of the house. Mother must have felt the same, I saw her cowering as he spoke. She led him out, through the floor-length window in her bedroom to the verandah,
âI know someone who could come and look at the tree,â he said.
My mother met Mr Kingâs gaze. We all waited to see what she would say. Edwardâs giant Physics book slid off the sewing table taking the snack he had concealed behind with it. It seemed no sooner had she appeased one neighbour than another one took up the torch.
âClean that up,â she yelled to Edward, redirecting her irritation.
âIsnât that funny, you call me Mr King and weâve known each other sixteen years,â he reflected. âCall me Andrew.â
âI donât know if I can,â she said. âIâll try.â She took a breath. âI know it needs some attention. Andrew. Iâve got someone looking into it.â She was dithering.
âI donât know how to approach this and I think Iâm probably going to do it badly . . .â Mr King said almost to himself, pausing for a moment before he plunged into what he knew was going to be a quagmire of barely held but deeply ingrained religious beliefs. âI donât begrudge your religion,â he said, âand I try not to judge people by their God, but there seems to be a certain amount of superstition involved in your religion . . .â A smirk it looked as if he wasnât expecting visited the edge of his lips.
I had no idea what the Salvation Army believed in, I thought they were just a brass band, I didnât know they had their own God as well.
My mother cocked her head, she didnât seem to have any idea what Mr King was edging towards.
â. . . which I canât understand, but each to his own. Megan told me theyâd climbed the tree the other night and I was mad with her, but then she told me why.â He shook his head slowly. âAnd Iâm struggling with that. Itâs hard for one religion to accept anotherâs, especially when it involves your own childrenâs safety . . .â
At which point my mother pulled Mr King out of the house. They were standing on the front steps, a halo of moths diving into the porch light above their heads. I couldnât hear their conversation, but I guessed I was being betrayed again and now I wished Iâd never told anyone about the tree, not Megan, not my mother. Neither of them believed anyway or only when it was convenient for them. I hated them, but I didnât want to let them know how much I hated them, all I knew was that I would punish them through silence, that was the only response I knew to anything.
After Mr King descended the front stairs in his black work shoes taking some of them backwards as he was still facing my mother, who appeared to be working hard to convince him of something, she tip-toed around me. That wasnât like her either. I decided she must be guilty or too weak to let people know what she believed, or maybe she didnât know what she believed.
Later that night when the drain man arrived, taking the eight front steps in a single bound, I realized it wasnât that simple for her. She was unclear about what she felt because it wasnât always convenient for her to have her dead husband in the tree outside her window. It sometimes helped, but the trouble it caused at other times, when the drain man arrived, for example, made it confusing.
16
The first time I saw the drain man in our house, properly inside it, was that night, and he was too large to fit. He was as imposing as Gulliver surrounded by the puny Lilliputians. It didnât feel right having him encased inside walls, it felt like he would burst through the rotting seams of the house. Mother must have felt the same, I saw her cowering as he spoke. She led him out, through the floor-length window in her bedroom to the verandah,
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