Downstairs a door slammed. I heard Nicky’s familiar stomp. Sylvia’s voice rose sharply: “Where have you been?”
I picked at the crust of glue on the red rubber bottle top.
Sylvia spoke again, her voice quavering: “You can’t just do what you want to. You have rules.”
Something metal crashed and Sylvia pleaded: “Nicky, why can’t you be nice? Why don’t you say something? Answer me. Please answer me.”
I picked up the scissors and nipped at the skin around my fingernails. Lately I hadn’t heard much more than a guttural command from my mother.
Sylvia’s pleas continued, picking up momentum, slicing through the thick, smoky evening air and pressing my fingers to move faster, the glue clotting on my skin.
“You’re such a good-looking boy. You could make yourself look so good. I bet girls really like you. You have my dark hair and skin. You’re going to be a beautiful man someday.”
I imagined Sylvia drawing Nicky to her, twining her fingers through his hair, the way she did when she used to comb mine in the mornings. Nicky’s hair was smooth with no knots to catch her fingers. My hair was frizzy and light brown, my skin pale. How strange to have a brother more beautiful than you. I strained to hear Nicky’s voice, but Sylvia’s loud singsong blotted everything out. Nicky must be standing still, leaning into her, lulled. She would pull his hair enough to make his scalp feel good. Nicky could never see what was really going on.
Then Nicky exploded.
“Fucking bitch!” he screeched, his voice higher than a girl’s.
His feet thudded through the living room and down the hall. He ran up the stairs two at a time, hurling swear words behind him.
Goddamnbitchbastrdfuckincuntl He screamed it like a single word, like the words he and I made up and said as fast as we could so no one would know we were swearing. I bent the glue cap back and wedged the scissor tip inside the slit. I pushed it around making the hole bigger and bigger until the cap gaped open.
Nicky slammed past my room, kicking my door a few times before stomping into his own room. Once there he was quiet, but downstairs Sylvia’s voice was still going, the same up-and-down pleading and insisting and demanding and probing. She wasn’t loud anymore; I could no longer understand any words. It was eerie. She continued as if she wasn’t alone, as if Nicky’s outburst had never happened and he stood, head bowed, in front of her as she combed his hair.
Soon the ranting ceased and Sylvia called us for dinner. Her voice was sweet, inviting.
“Hurry up,” she added. “We’re having barbecue. Your father is finishing up the hot dogs.”
I put my paper, scissors, glue and wood back into the box and opened my door. Nicky stood outside, his cheeks flushed and his eyebrows forked over his nose. I couldn’t condone his kicking my door and wasn’t ready to be friends yet, so I shrugged and pushed past him into the bathroom.
He was close behind. He brushed my arm as he stretched his grime-streaked hands under the running water. Usually when we touched it was by accident and it was a contest to see who would be the first to recoil and brush away the germs. This contact was no accident. I didn’t move away. Nicky squeezed closer and we stayed that way for a long time, leaning over the sink, hands under the hot tap that always ran lukewarm. We used our thumbs to rub away glue and dirt, but when we were done we kept our hands under the water, to feel its warmth on our skin, to listen to it rumble up through the pipes and splash out of the tap over our hands and down the drain. Right then, standing arm to arm and washing hands was the best thing in the world.
Soon, the hot water kicked in; I yelped and jumped back. Nicky’s forehead was smooth and brown and he looked small. I reached past him to turn off the tap then sat on the side of the bathtub to wait. I didn’t want to look at him anymore so I inspected my fingers, rubbing and peeling off the remaining glue.
“I’m not even hungry,” Nicky said, his hand on the doorknob. He wanted me to laugh.
I met his eyes. “Why did you have to call her a bitch?” It was words like bitch that made my mom act strange. It scared me that my mom did whatever she could to make people say the words she hated so much. If she could make even Nicky say those words — Nicky who never got mad, Nicky who let me do anything I wanted to him — then maybe she was strange all on her own. But Nicky had yelled at her and I too had yelled at her three days ago. Nicky and I must just be bad. But Nicky was worse. He swore.
Nicky put his hands on his stomach and seemed to pull himself inward. He bit his bottom lip and his ears reddened.
“That just shows what you know,” he said. “You’re the one I should call the bitch!”
He looked ready to spit. He opened the door, pushed his fist hard against my shoulder and clomped down the stairs. It wasn’t even a punch, and it certainly didn’t hurt, but the meaning was there. I stood limp, aware of the throbbing shoulder but unwilling to feel anything. I listened for the commotion I was sure Nicky would arouse downstairs but it didn’t come. The longer I heard nothing, the weirder it seemed.
The only light on in the kitchen was the one above the stove. Nicky sat at the table, his lips pinched white, a dirty triangle of burnt meat on a plate in front of him. The table was bare, without tablecloth, place mats, serviettes. There were no hot dogs, no barbecue. Our father was nowhere to be seen.
Sylvia stood at the stove, a cigarette dangling from her lips. She wore lipstick spread in thick uneven streaks. It was a ghastly colour, like brown bruised plums.
“I thought you said we were having hot dogs,” I said.
Sylvia didn’t answer. She clutched a variety of kitchen tools: a spatula, a straining spoon, a ladle, some wooden spoons and a bread knife. She banged them on the stove, against the frying pan that held three more blackened chops amid globs of white grease, on the stove overhang, on her own wrists.
Her eyes were like pennies — lighter, coppery, but flat and turned inside, not out.
“Sit down, Mercy,” Nicky hissed. His hands clutched the edge of his seat, his eyes never leaving Sylvia.
“Yes, dear. Sit down. Let’s have a nice family dinner.”
Sylvia let the utensils fall as though she’d forgotten them and lifted a chop from the frying pan using the fingertips of both hands. She dropped the meat on the table in front of my seat. She waited there, posed, foot, ankle, knee, thigh, hip all turned out perfectly, like a housewife in a magazine ad for Crisco or Betty Crocker. Her hair was still oily but she had teased it back into place. It resembled the empty carapace of a beetle, wings slightly outstretched, poised for potential motion. Her eyes clouded over, giving her away. Around them hung shadowy sacs of skin, making her face look both bloated and drained.
“I won’t sit. Nicky was right. No. Maybe he wasn’t right. He said you were a bitch. I say—”
I couldn’t finish the sentence. I’d said bitchl And not by accident. I was as bad as Nicky. Worse! I knew better. Those words made my mom act funny and here I was saying them. But I couldn’t take them back. What little was left of my mom, the part that wanted a nice family dinner, was receding from those sunken eyes. What could I do to bring her back? Getting angry wouldn’t help. I ducked my head and slid into my seat, trying not to gag as I picked up my fork and knife and sawed at the chop.
“I’m not finished with you, young lady,” Sylvia said, her words congealed with tears. Still, I detected the steel underneath.
“I’m sorry.”
“This