“They’re my friends.”
“Then you deserve better friends.”
She jumps up. “You don’t understand.”
“Tell me.” I hate seeing my kid sister like this.
“You won’t understand.” She pushes out her bottom lip. “You don’t know what it’s like.”
“Try me.”
Regarding me from under her lashes, she weighs my words. Finally, she concedes with a theatrical sigh. “Lynette is having a party for her birthday.”
“So?”
“So.” She rolls her eyes, as if I should get the connection.
“Are you not invited?”
“Of course, I am.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
She slams a hand against her forehead. “Duh.”
“Sam,” I say sternly, “you’re going to have to help me out here.”
“I’ve got nothing to wear,” she exclaims, “and even if I did, I’d just look fat.”
Ah ha. For a minute I was working myself up, thinking it was something they’d done to her, because, let’s face it, those girls may be young, but they’re bitches in the making. I’ve seen how jealous they are of each other, how they gossip and tease with the intent to hurt and belittle.
The controlling part of me wants to forbid her to mingle with them. The protective part of me wants to refuse her permission to go to the party, but it’ll only be a medicine to disguise a pain. It won’t be a cure that heals the ailment. She needs to know how to stand up for herself. This will be a good learning curve for the future, because bullies are not limited to classrooms. My thoughts drift unwillingly to Monkey.
“You’re not saying anything,” she complains. “That means you agree. I’m going to look like the fat little pig.”
“First of all, you’re not fat.” She has an extra bit of flab, which is my fault. I cooked too much pasta, but that’s a thing of the past. “You’re healthy and beautiful. Secondly, I didn’t raise you to have such a low self-image. You’re a bright, talented, and strong girl. You should act it, rather than brood over an image some bitchy girl from class put into your head.”
She opens her mouth, but I hold up a hand.
“Lastly, since when do you care what others think? Whose opinion is the only one that matters?”
“Mine,” she admits begrudgingly.
“Now that all that’s out of the way, let’s start over. You have a party to go to, right?”
“Right.”
“I don’t remember you asking permission.”
“Briaaaaan.”
“Sam.”
The next sigh she utters signifies the world rests on her little shoulders. “May I please go to Lynette’s birthday party?”
“When? Where? What kind of party?”
“Saturday before school ends. It’s from six to ten.”
“Whoa. At night?”
“It’s at her parents’ house, so don’t sweat it. There will be supervision. We’re going to have pizzas and play board games.”
“Who’s all going to be there?”
“Just about the whole class.”
“Boys and girls?”
“Yeah,” she says again, as if I should’ve known.
“I want her mother’s number.”
She narrows her eyes in suspicion. “What for?”
“To check if they’ll be around all the time.”
“Brian! You’ll embarrass me.”
“Plus,” I hold up a finger, “in case of an emergency, I’d like to know she can get hold of me. That’s the condition.”
Her mouth falls open, and her arms drop to her sides. “Seriously?”
“Yes, Sam.”
She throws up her hands, but nods with another eye-roll. “Fine.”
I cup my ear. “I don’t hear you.”
“Thank you,” she mumbles.
“That’s better. Now that permission for the party’s out of the way, we can move to the next problem.”
“What to wear?”
Sam doesn’t have much. She doesn’t own pretty shoes or make-up and all the stuff girls like. It didn’t matter as much when was she was younger, but she’s growing up.
“We’ll sort it, okay?”
“Really?” Her face lifts. “You mean I can get a new dress?”
“I think you deserve a new dress. Shoes and all.”
She squeals and starts bouncing. “Really? Really?”
“If you stop hopping like a kangaroo.”
She stills immediately. “I’ll set the table every night, I swear. I’ll even take out the garbage.”
I get to my feet. “You don’t have to do any of that for a dress. It’s not an exchange. But–”
“I knew there was a but.”
“It doesn’t mean you don’t have to do your chores.”
“Thank you, Brian.” She throws her arms around me, almost knocking me off my feet.
“You’re welcome. By the way, did Tron check in on you?”
“He’s been in and out a couple of times. Mom made him a cup of tea.”
It’s time to start dinner. My shower will have to wait. “Go have your shower. Dinner will be ready in half an hour.”
She skips to the door. “Anything you say.”
Before going to the kitchen, I look in on my mom. She’s passed out on her bed. I cover her with a light blanket before turning my attention to our dinner menu. As I’m going through the fridge, Clive walks in.
“Beer?” I ask.
“No thanks.”
I pull my head out of the refrigerator to look at him. Clive refusing a beer is like a snowstorm on the Magaliesberg Mountains in the middle of summer. I study him. His shoulders are tense and his arms rigid at his sides. He reminds me of a tightly wound top ready to spin.
“What’s going on?” I ask carefully.
“You tell me.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What’s Jane to you?”
Her name on his tongue doesn’t sit right with me. It bothers me without any explicable reason. “I think you know.”
“You’re dipping your dick, aren’t you?”
Tension pulls my shoulder blades tight, my posture mirroring his. “Watch your mouth.”
“It’s serious?” he asks with disbelief.
Clive knows me well enough. I wouldn’t mind his foul mouth if it weren’t serious.
He nods several times, his look condescending. “You went there, behind our backs.”
“I don’t need permission or approval from you for where I go.”
“Some friend you are.” He sneers. “You made me sleep here, taking care of your sister and mother so you could bang some uptown sugar mommy.”
My vision starts to get fuzzy around the edges. I back away from the fridge, the tension a coiled-up spring driving me forward. My feet are moving, but I’m not aware of executing the action. It’s like being in a dream where you float.
“You will watch your fucking mouth, or you’ll leave here with no teeth.”
He blinks, retracing his steps to the door. “Why did you lie, Brian?”
“I didn’t lie.”
“Are we not good enough for your uppity-ass girlfriend?”
In a flash, I see an ugly shade of crimson. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m in Clive’s face, my fist punching the wall next to his head. Bits of flaking plaster fall on the floor. Pain explodes in my knuckles. It travels up my arm, all the way to my shoulder, but I push the sensory impulses aside. I can handle pain. I’ll deal. It also brings me back to earth, preventing me from taking his head clean off.
“What the fuck’s your issue?” I hiss.
“You’ll choose her over us?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Our neighborhoods, they don’t mix. Tell me it’s just a fuck and–”
My fist collides with his jaw before he can form the next word. It’s not a hard punch, but enough to make him stumble two steps sideways.
His eyes are cutting as he grabs his jaw, moving it from side to side.
“I warned you.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess you warned me from a while back. I just didn’t want to listen.”
“What’s your problem with Jane?”
“My problem? You’re asking what’s my problem? Dude, I hate to break it to you, but the problem’s all yours.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I saw you today, the way you look at her. You’re into her, as in deep.”
“I don’t see how that’s a problem, least of all why you feel you should stir.”
He laughs. “If you don’t see the problem, you’re as blind as a mole. She’s twice your age. It can never work. Not as in long-term. Look where she comes from, bro. Women like her don’t do boys from Harryville, not for serious. They do us to scratch an itch. It’s the pool or garden boy, because they’re bored. When they grow tired of the game, they chuck them out like old dishwashing water, because they can. That’s the first of your problems. Then there’s Monkey. Now that’s a problem I don’t wish on my enemy.”
My finger is in his face, my anger radiating from me like toxic vapor. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll put a cork in it.”
“Question is do you know what’s good for you?”
Lacing my fingers over my head, I tilt my face to the ceiling and move away from him. I want to smash his face in, but I can’t do it for the truth. He’s right about one thing. Monkey is a problem that’s not going away. The desperation of the situation only makes me feel fiercer about what I want.
Jane.
I’m sick without her, and I don’t mean physically. I mean in my head. In my chest. In my mind. It’s something that’s been chewing on me for a while. I want her wholly and completely. These bits and scraps aren’t enough any longer. My mind and heart don’t care that Monkey stands between us. My feelings don’t give a shit about what he’s capable of, because she takes up everything I have, everything I feel. We can make this work. I told myself I wasn’t going to become that needy guy who demands more, but I can’t help myself. With her, I can’t get enough. I want it all. Everything.
Clive’s tone softens. “Forget about the chic. Do what Monkey wants. You can do a lot worse than Lindy. Most guys will kiss her old shoes for the business that comes with her. Do you know how much Monkey’s worth?”
I breathe in calm and breathe out my pent-up frustration. “I’m not most guys, and Jane’s not most women.”
He laughs softly again, shaking his head. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Maybe, but Jane is mine. The rest of the world, that includes you, better stay away from her.”
“Are you thinking about your mother? About Sam?”
On cue, my sister’s voice speaks from the door. “What’s that about me?”
“Hey, Sam,” he says, but his eyes are on me.
“Want to have dinner with us?” Sam asks.
“I was just leaving.” He backs up to the door. “I’ll see you around, dude.”
He disappears through the frame. The sound of his steps falls hard on the porch and down the stairs. A moment later, an engine starts up. The sputter tells me he’s borrowed his old man’s car.
“What was that all about?” Sam asks.
“Nothing.” I rub the back of my neck. That’s not true. I never lie to my sister if I can help it. “Just grown-up stuff.”
Spaghetti is my specialty, but I’m learning to broaden my cooking skills. Pulling up the recipe for ratatouille on my phone, I slice the aubergines and salt them to sweat. Then I tackle the sweet peppers and baby marrows. It’s not as easy as you’d think. The onions burn while I’m still halving the cherry tomatoes. The peppers are overcooked, and the aubergine slices tear into unrecognizable pieces that look suspiciously like slimy snail. I didn’t manage to rinse off all the salt before frying them, and with the Kalamata olives the dish is too salty. There’s also that lingering bitter of the burn. I top it with a bit of mozzarella to make it easier to go down.
Sam pulls up her nose, but she eats what I serve her, probably because she doesn’t want to evoke my irk before the party. After serving my mother a bowl in bed, I clean the kitchen and watch a movie with Sam. When she’s in bed, I call up the app on my phone to test the security system at Jane’s cottage.
The cameras work fine. They’re motion triggered, meaning when set they’ll take a snapshot if the lasers detect movement in the room. Within a second, I’ll receive not only an alarm signal, but also a photo of whoever breaches her security. Since I have full control, the technology allows me to get feeds when the alarm is not activated. All I have to do is tap a command. I can make sure she’s fine to set myself at ease and still my longing.
I flick through the rooms until I find her. She’s in her bedroom, getting undressed. The image is high resolution. It’s like watching a television screen. I move to the edge of the sofa bed, my breathing speeding up and my cock hardening. First, she pulls off a T-shirt. Then she wiggles out of her shorts. Her toned body looks good in pink underwear. It makes her tan stand out. My mouth goes dry as she unhooks her bra. My hand goes to my zipper. God, I’m a prick. I can’t help it. When she slips her panties over her hips, my cock is already in my hand.
Jane
Nothing is said about the coffee shop or Abby’s birthday party when I pick Abby up on Sunday. From the haughty smile on Debbie’s face, she looks as if she’s scored a point. Several points, actually.
At our new home, things are not any better between Abby and me. She stops in the middle of her room, looking around. I’ve put daisies in a vase on her dresser and left the window open for the room to cool. A breeze moves the curtains, carrying the scent of jasmine inside.
“I hope you like it.”
She walks to the dresser and runs her fingers over the flower petals. “Thanks for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I miss my own bathroom.”
“You’ll still have it when your father and Debbie move into the house.”
“Only every second weekend. For most of the time, I’ll have to make do with this.” She waves her arm around.
“We were fortunate in Groenkloof. This is what I can afford,” I remind her.
She turns to me slowly. “I know. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“Country living is not my thing.”
“This isn’t exactly country living.”
She moves to the French doors that open onto the deck and peers toward the dam. “Whatever.”
“If we both make an effort–”
“Mom.” She rests her chin on her shoulder, looking in my direction but not quite at me. “I’ll try, okay?”
“Okay.” When only silence follows, I ask, “Are you hungry? I made melkkos with cinnamon.”
“I suppose I can eat.” She offers me a watered-down smile.
At least she’s making the effort I demanded. “You can freshen up if you like. I’ll set the table. After dinner, I can help you with your revision for tomorrow’s exam. We can do a test.”
“Dad already did, but thanks.”
She squeezes past me and goes down the hallway to the bathroom. When she comes back, I’m done setting the table. It’s a beautiful evening. I open the French doors to enjoy the view and fresh air.
“Tell me about your weekend,” I say in a bright tone as we take our places by the table.
“I’m tired. Can we talk later?”
“Of course.”
Our dinner goes down in silence. I wish I knew what to say to her or how to draw a reaction from her, but I respect that she’s not in the mood for conversation. That’s what I taught her. That it’s all right to be quiet. It’s all right to sometimes be sad. In all the years after Evan died, I’ve been more sad than not, but I haven’t practiced what I preached. I never showed it. Not to Abby as she grew. Not to Francois. Only to Dorothy, once a year. Now that sadness I t
hought would never lift is slowly dissipating, leaving room for happiness and peace. Leaving room for Brian, or maybe he’s the reason the suffocating pain is fading into nostalgic memories.
It’s as if my recollection of the moments I spent with Evan is going through a filter. The hurtful ones are caught in the sieve while only the beautiful ones are distilled in my mind. A bit of hurt always slips through, but it makes the beauty bitter-sweet instead of unbearable. Even greater than the pretty of remembering is the thankfulness. The relief. God knows, I breathe better for it.
Abby is pushing the food around in her bowl. I frown, more concern settling over me. I’m about to ask what’s the matter when Hilda knocks on the open doors and enters.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t want to interrupt your dinner. I just wanted to say welcome.”
“No worries.” I glance at Abby’s half-eaten food, now cold. “We’re just about done. Would you like to join us for dessert?”
“May I please be excused, Mom?”
“This is my daughter, Abigail,” I say to Hilda. “Abby, this is our landlady, Ms. Hilda Feldsmann.”
Hilda extends a hand. “Nice to meet you, Abigail. Please, call me Hilda.”
Abby stands and shakes the other woman’s hand. “Hi, Hilda.” She turns to me. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather turn in. Tomorrow’s a big day with the exam and all.”
“There’s sago pudding.” Abby’s favorite.
“Keep some for me for tomorrow. Good night, Hilda. Night, Mom.”
She climbs the three steps and disappears down the hallway.
Gathering the bowls, I ask, “Sago pudding?”
“No thanks. We’ve eaten.” Hilda follows me to the kitchen. “I’m sorry we weren’t here when you moved in, but we just got back from Namibia.”
“I didn’t expect a personal welcome,” I smile, “but thanks.”
“If you need anything, we’re only a short distance away.”
“That’s kind. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Will it be just you and Abby staying here?”
“Abby’s father and I are divorced.”
“I assumed your boyfriend was moving in, too.”
“Brian’s not…” For some reason, I can’t say it. I can’t say Brian is nothing to me except for good sex. “What gave you that idea?”
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