52 Fragments Make a Whole
July 18, 2017A woman lies dozing on a sofa, facing an empty room. Her back is against the cushions and her head is on an old pillow with her arm shoved underneath it to lift it to the appropriate height. It must be about 1 o’clock. The gas heater turns itself off with a click and a sigh. It is still cold in the house but she cannot justify turning it back on. So she pulls the cotton throw up closer to her chin and bunches up her legs to cradle her smooth round belly. The sofa creaks. Her thoughts begin to wander. She closes her eyes again. Something about the chill air in the house reminds her. She can smell the cool dry dampness of her father’s workroom. The soles of her bare feet cross over from warm cracked concrete to cool hard-packed earth. Her eyes are not yet used to the dimness but she can hear him moving around; lifting down a hammer or chisel or a set of drills, taking them back to his bench that he made for himself out of great rough lumps of six by two. They are bolted together with enormous coach bolts. It takes three of her chubby fingers to cover one bolt when she stands on a milk crate beside him.
“Hello sweetheart. What are you up to?” He turns towards her. The light outside flashes on his glasses.
“I come to see you,” she answers.“Have you been helping Mummy?”
“No.”She can see his outline now. He comes closer and squats down in front of her, his bony knees nearly up to his chin. His bearded face peers at her. “What you got?”
“I made a pie.” She opens her small dirty hand to reveal a lump of sand with some crushed leaves on top. “It’s for you.”“Oh thank you sweetie.” Her father holds out his large square palm and accepts the gift. He lifts it up to his face and pretends to eat. Then he empties his hand and dusts it on his King Gees. “All gone see.” He shows her his hand. “It was delicious.”
He stands up and goes back to his bench. She follows him into the space that has been dug from under the house for his work room. He spends most of his weekends there. Behind him the earth rises steeply up to the foundations of the house. Between the piers she sees deepening darkness. But in the farthest distance there is a green glimmer of light. This marks the front garden and the street. She has never been that far. The floor comes down too low, even for her small body and it would require that she get extremely dirty. Her father wouldn’t mind but Mum is a different story. It’s best not to push the boundaries with her.
A noise behind signifies the arrival of another small child. It is her brother; chubby, blonde, two years younger than her. His feet are bare too and he pauses on the threshold, as she did, trying to see in the dimness. In both hands he is clutching a short-handled mallet, and she sees that the effort of holding it is causing him to sway on his feet. Her father hasn’t noticed his arrival so she runs to her brother and quickly takes hold of the mallet. “Be careful Alex. You can’t hold that. You might drop it on your foot.” She is full of importance. “Give it to me.”
Reluctantly he releases his hold on the mallet but she has not grasped it properly. Surprised by its weight, she holds it for a moment. The smooth wooden handle slides through her fingers and the mallet lands on the toes of her right foot.
Immediately she lets out a howl, and her brother begins to howl too. She feels her father scoop her up as she tumbles to the ground. His arms go under her knees and she falls back against his chest. She continues to scream as he carries her into the blinding sunlight, across the cracked concrete, and up the steep trembling wooden stairs into the house. She sees the blood on her second last toe and hears her brother crying as he scampers after them. He crawls desperately up the wooden stairs at their father’s heels, terrified that he might be left behind, and looking for someone to comfort him too.
Posted by Esther Stewart.
