by Vishnu Sinha
One ring was more than enough to incite a cry or two
from inside the house to match the decibel level of the tune produced by the electronic
bell. Chris was aware in his head that knocking wouldn’t help but his limbs had
taken a life of their own, slamming and beating down the wooden door that
separated him from the musty and acrid living room. He had identified that
stench as home as long as he could remember.
He gave up after a few minutes and took out the plastic chair he had planted for such ‘occasions’ out from behind the bushes and dropped his bottom along with his bag on it. The weights of his arms were being moderately supported by the arms of the orange chair which were slowly bending under all the pressure.
And pressing matters were occupying his head.
This had happened before. Last Friday night, there was Uncle Matty’s 40th. Then there was Garry Lejeune’s house party on the 16th of last month and just 2 days back, they had gone out to get peas and cabbage for Ollie’s school carnival lunch and came back with a flat tire and a flatter argument that pervaded the atmosphere of their house the whole evening. Drinks and a suitable for adults movie had finally resulted in a calmer night.
All in all, it was one of the better family nights if you would consider Chris as a part of whatever it is that you consider a family. Chris knew that his family was dysfunctional and he was more than aware that that was a clearer understatement than Uncle Matty being a kleptomaniac. He had tolerated and accepted their behavior for 8 years now and he had adapted quite a lot. School and an odd bunch of friends were proving to be a great deal of help.
He was positively sure that he didn’t need any to begin with. He loved his family and they somewhat cared about his existence too.
A loud noise shook him from his musings as the neighbor’s steel rusted door opened with a hard push and blew a positively sweet smell of rice cakes in his direction. Mr. McCarthy hands were layered with dust and his kneecaps were covered with an odd mixture of rice and soil. He was about to pick up a potted plant from outside to keep it inside when he noticed the boy on the orange chair.
He gave up after a few minutes and took out the plastic chair he had planted for such ‘occasions’ out from behind the bushes and dropped his bottom along with his bag on it. The weights of his arms were being moderately supported by the arms of the orange chair which were slowly bending under all the pressure.
And pressing matters were occupying his head.
This had happened before. Last Friday night, there was Uncle Matty’s 40th. Then there was Garry Lejeune’s house party on the 16th of last month and just 2 days back, they had gone out to get peas and cabbage for Ollie’s school carnival lunch and came back with a flat tire and a flatter argument that pervaded the atmosphere of their house the whole evening. Drinks and a suitable for adults movie had finally resulted in a calmer night.
All in all, it was one of the better family nights if you would consider Chris as a part of whatever it is that you consider a family. Chris knew that his family was dysfunctional and he was more than aware that that was a clearer understatement than Uncle Matty being a kleptomaniac. He had tolerated and accepted their behavior for 8 years now and he had adapted quite a lot. School and an odd bunch of friends were proving to be a great deal of help.
He was positively sure that he didn’t need any to begin with. He loved his family and they somewhat cared about his existence too.
A loud noise shook him from his musings as the neighbor’s steel rusted door opened with a hard push and blew a positively sweet smell of rice cakes in his direction. Mr. McCarthy hands were layered with dust and his kneecaps were covered with an odd mixture of rice and soil. He was about to pick up a potted plant from outside to keep it inside when he noticed the boy on the orange chair.
‘Need any help, son?’
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