Happy People Live Here

by C. Sean McGee

9B

  The Father’s mind was adrift at the wheel, listing vicariously and dangerously close to toppling over. He came to an intersection and braked lightly, so far removed from the inches that distanced him from some kind of a tragedy as the cars before him, sped along the busy avenue through a broken traffic light and constantly spotted rain.

  The car rolled back and forth on the line.

  The little girl spoke on behalf of the toy princess in her hands.

  The engine revved and roared.

  And so did his heart.

  Still the traffic poured past him like a slurry of light. He edged over the line, inch by inch; hoping someone would slow enough for him to cross but there was nothing giving. There was no-one giving.

  He honked his horn.

  He flicked his lights.

  And he edged over the line.

  “Let me pass” he shouted.

  “Fuck you,” said one driver.

  “Selfish pig,” said another.

  The Father was blocking one lane. Half of his car had pushed over the line and still, he was teetering on the accelerator, rolling the car back and forth, testing the concern of the other drives; their concern for others, their concern for themselves.

  Everywhere he looked, he could see red. The traffic lights were all out but the blur of passing tail lights moored him to the white line and through the spotted rain in his window, their red lights blurred and stretched into what looked like poking tongues, mocking him as they drove by, like some petulant child, giving one last gutsy hoorah whilst being whisked off by the mother and father in the midst of their bravado. Their color smeared across his windscreen; stained red. And it was hard, at that moment, not to feel everything as more urgent and more conspiring than it actually was. It was hard not to think about things that were the color red and to think of words like ‘caution’ and to want to stop. Whatever the hell you were doing, to just stop and hit reset, and just put everything back to how it fucking was.

  The Father crept forwards, over the line, inch by minute inch.

  The cars zooming passed, swerving so as not to smash his bonnet. Their horns were honking and the backs of their cars which The Father followed cursing, they were red too. And Korine’s dress. And her favorite color. And the slab of concrete, below the children’s bedroom window. They were also red.

  Everything was red.

  “What the fuck is your problem buddy? Learn to drive.”

  The car had almost hit them. It skidded to a halt. The Father used the chance. He nudged his car further so that now it was blocking the lane completely. The woman in the other car punched her horn with her fists. Every time she hit, it honked. And every time it honked she screamed. And she stuck her head out so the rain was spitting in her eyes. And she couldn’t see very well but she was looking at The Father, at his silhouette, and she spat at it. And the wind and the rain, they were so strong that her words and her spit and her insult and her rage, they went no further than her trembling lips. They were picked up and taken in every direction except for the silhouette in the car, slowly creeping forward.

  “Look at that arsehole” shouted The Spitting Woman.

  Her boyfriend sat beside her. He was reading something. It didn’t look like he was too interested but he sure acted like it when he threw down the magazine acting like that was the last thing on earth that he wanted to do.

  “Are we in the middle of an intersection?” The Boyfriend asked, only realizing now that they were still. “What the fuck are you doing woman. Are you stupid?” he shouted.

  “It’s not me. It’s that arsehole in front. Look at him. How can he be so fucking…”

  “Pig faced?”

  “Brazen?” she said. “What the fuck is wrong with people?”

  She honked the horn again.

  And again.

  And again.

  “Just drive into him,” said The Boyfriend.

  “Get the fuck out of the way” shouted The Spitting Woman, clutching the wheel.

  She nudged her car forward so that her bumper just lightly touched the passenger door of the car so rudely and ignorantly blocking her way. It was only a light bump, but it made and crumbling and crackling sound. She cringed instantly thinking about her premium.

  “Just drive,” said The Boyfriend. “Fuck him. Fuck his car.”

  The Boyfriend had lit a smoke.

  She hated that.

  “We’re gonna be late now. We’re gonna miss the start.”

  “I know the time,” said The Spitting Woman. “And we’re not going to be late. Just relax, ok? And open your window.”

  “We may as well just go back. It’s pointless now. It’s fucking ruined.”

  “Ruined? We’re gonna be five minutes late. Stop being so fucking dramatic. God, you’re like a woman today.”

  “What is that a crack about my hemorrhoids? That’s fucked up. So I bleed when I shit, so what?”

  “I didn’t want to know that.”

  “We’re gonna be late. We’ll miss the start.”

  “We’re going to make it. If this arsehole would just move his fucking car” she said, word by word, honking the horn with every deep breath. “Open your window.”

  “No. It’s raining.”

  “Then put it out.”

  “No. Get us there on time and I’ll put it out.”

  “Fucking arsehole,” she said under her breath.

  “Whatever,” he said, under his.

  They sat silent for a second. The echo of honking horns billowed around them. The arsehole in front of them was still there, avoiding her angered stare and rolling back and forth completely ignorant to everyone else.

  The Boyfriend dragged on his cigarette.

  “Open the window please,” she said.

  “It’s cold and it’s raining outside. Don’t be such a bitch.”

  “Mum, can we open the window?”

  “Open the window,” The Spitting Woman said again.

  “No. I won’t. Fuck you and fuck your son. Nah. I told ya this would happen, didn’t I? I fuckin told ya. Now we’re gonna be late and we won’t be able to get any drinks or food. You never listen to me.”

  The Spitting Woman bit her lip.

  If only that arsehole would move.

  “I hope you fucking die,” she thought.

  “Mum, I wanna go home.”

  “Finally,” said The Boyfriend, “we agree on something.”

  “Shut up the both of you.”

  “Mum.”

  “Fuck it, just turn around. Take the next exit. This is shit. I told you we shouldn’t have…”

  “Shut up,” she said. “Shut up both of you. It’s my birthday. Every day we do what you wanna do. The both of you. It’s never about me. It’s always you, you, you. Well, not today. It’s my birthday. And I don’t give a flying fuck if we miss the whole fucking thing. We are not turning this car around. We’re gonna go out like a normal fucking family and we are going to be polite and we are going to enjoy ourselves and you’re going to sing happy birthday to me and you’re going to fucking mean it and nobody, I mean nobody, is gonna spoil my night. Especially not some rude cunt who can’t wait for his fucking turn at a red light. Move your fucking car” she screamed.

  Her son laughed.

  The Boyfriend dragged on his cigarette.

  And the car filled with smoke.

  And The Spitting Woman, she opened her window and she put her head out in the rain and the rain, it blew into the car and The Boyfriend, his cigarette fizzled and he shouted “What the fuck?” and her son laughed and The Boyfriend said “Shut up” and her son said “No you shut up” and they carried on like this, back and forth, the exchanging of insult. And The Spitting Woman, she knew it was all his fault, that arsehole in the car.

  And she spat.

  And the wind was different.

  It carried her spit.

  And it hit the silhouette on the window.

  “This can’t be happening,” said The F
ather.

  “Look dada, that’s my favorite color.”

  Everything was red.

  Everything.

  “Fuck it” mumbled The Father, his fingernails digging into the steering wheel.

  “Why are you so mad?” Korine asked.

  “I’m not mad,” he said, trying to quell the heavy tide in his stomach.

  “Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow when you was a baby, your name was dada and you had a balloon because it was your birthday and it was green too.”

  “I’m not mad,” he said, “I’m just sad is all.”

  “Why are you so mad and sad daddy?”

  “I have a sickness.”

  “Daddy, what is a sickness?”

  “It’s like a hurt.”

  “I have a hurt in my belly.”

  “I have a hurt in my mind. It makes daddy sad.”

  “My hurt is a different hurt. I have a happy hurt in my mind.”

  Staring out through the blur of red and into the misty rain, The Father could swear he saw Korine, standing in the pouring rain with her umbrella broken and twisted in her right hand and the rain, lasing against her head and her shoulders, making her fringe swish against her face like broken wipers. And he could swear that he tears she was crying were heavier than the drops of rain that were making her shiver as she was. And he could swear she was there, in the middle of the intersection, shivering and soaking wet, with hardly the strength and brevity to ask him to pick her up and to take her home. And he could swear he could see her lips moving as if she were mouthing the word ‘sorry’ and even though it was probably just her trembling from the cold, he could swear she was trying to speak.

  And he could see her, her face being washed away by the red that brushed across his windscreen. And he could see her, there in the middle of the road, barely flinching as cars zipped past her on all sides, oblivious to the fact that she was there. And he could see her, even though she was in the back seat, playing with her favorite princess toy.

  “Daddy look,” Korine said, pointing at the windscreen. “It’s your favorite color.”

  The Father accelerated hard and the car jerked forwards, its wheels spinning at first and making the bonnet move left and right before the car eventually lurched forwards and then sped down along the busy avenue. And then everything was quiet again, quiet, except for the sound of hissing in The Father’s thoughts, as if his brain were a punctured tire.

  He had no idea where he was going. He turned corners, just because he wanted something different to the straight road with a line of dim yellow lights spinning over his head as he zipped by. Every turn meant change. Change meant resetting his thoughts. Change meant looking, to his left and to his right. Change meant thinking. Change meant planning. Change meant concentration. Change meant focus. Change meant zoning out. Change meant not hearing his lover’s choking breath. Change meant not having to answer Korine. And change meant the possibility of something new.

  So he kept turning and he kept turning.

  And he drove as fast as he could and he slammed on the brakes at every corner and he gripped the wheel and Korine, she flung from side to side but she was having fun. She was never allowed in the front seat. Not on big roads anyways. Only when they came back from the store. And that was just around the corner.

  She was a bit scared, though. The car was going really fast and she didn’t much like being thrown around, but it was fun. And daddy wouldn’t let anything bad happen.

  “I love you, daddy,” Korine said.

  The Father’ thoughts sank into his stomach.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Because I hurt my brother but I promise I won’t again, ok?”

  A tear ran down The Father’s face. He hadn’t cried the whole time, not when he first heard the scream and found his daughter alone by the open window, and not when he raced down the nine flights of stairs and held his limp and bloodied son in his arms. He didn’t even cry at the funeral when his first thought was of how small the coffin actually was.

  And he didn’t cry when he drove Korine to the clinic. And he didn’t cry when he left her with the nurses and watched as she kicked and screamed and bawled her eyes out, screaming his name and begging for him to stop them from taking her away.

  But now, his arid and deserted skin crackled as a single tear escaped his eyes and ran down his cheek, polling at the corner of his mouth. And he could taste all of his sorrow as the tear ran onto his tongue. And all he wanted was to hold Korine in his arms with the same desperation to keep her alive and keep her near, as he had his bloodied and broken son.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “That’s ok daddy. Today is my birthday isn’t it?”

  “It is,” said The Father, tears flowing over his crackly smile. “I love you,” he said.

  “Ughh, I love you too daddy,” Korine said awkwardly. “I have an idea’ she said excitedly. “Maybe we can have a party and we can have a cake and lots of presents. And you can come daddy. And so can mummy too. And so can Callum because he’s my brother and it’s his birthday too tomorrow isn’t it?”

  “She has no idea,” The Father thought, looking in the rear mirror and seeing her smiling and giddy, hugging herself and rocking back and forth as she talked about all of the presents that she wanted to get.

  “You’re crying daddy. Are you still very sad?”

  “No,” he said. “I think I’m ok now.”

  “I think I’m ok too daddy. And it’s my birthday today and tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, it will be your birthday and we will have a cake and I will make you a card with a fish on it, that’s in the ocean. A green fish. Because green is your favorite color, isn’t it?”

  The Father smiled, like his tear, for the first time in so very long. He stared at Korine in the mirror and marveled at how beautiful his daughter was. He wished that he could marvel at her forever.

  “Look,” Korine said. “Red, that’s my favorite color.”