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This is the original fic I wrote that was shortlisted in the Uni short story writing comp. Thanks muchly to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cupidsbow for helping to talk myself into posting it!
Committing Family Treason
By Maharet
You moved in on November fifteenth. You didn’t use a moving van, which ticked Dad right off from the start. You and both your brothers each drove a Ute back and forth from number 28 to wherever you’d been before. This enabled Dad to sit in the front room and monitor all your worldly belongings. It was one of the few times Dad could view his enemy up close, and he sat by the window all Saturday.
“Look at it, Megan, it’s all junk.”
“Mm,” I replied. It didn’t matter what you said to Dad while he was ranting, just as long as it looked like you were paying attention. Then the sound of a woman laughing floated through the glass, one of those rich belly laughs that made me smile in instinctive empathy. Suddenly I was paying attention. I stood behind Dad, watching over his shoulder. You and your brothers were shuffling a bright purple fridge off the back of a Ute. It was one of the coolest things I’d ever seen. So were you.
“The house is junk, why would you want to live in a house like that? You should just take the wrecking ball to it and start again.”
You had gorgeous curly hair that glinted golden-red in the sunlight and you were grinning, flashing slightly crocked teeth. The three of you had the fridge at the edge of the tray. You all stared at it, silently debating on Dad’s bay window movie screen. After much teetering, straining and what looked like swearing, the fridge was dropped safely onto the trolley. You raised your hands into the air, your cheer faintly penetrating the cocoon of our house. You were the first woman I’d ever seen who didn’t shave under her arms.
“Look at that! Look at it. Women these days just don’t care what they look like. They don’t care about the image they present…”
“Mm,” I patted Dad consolingly on the shoulder and went out into the hallway. With the front door open your voices floated over from across the street.
“Oi, Tom, bring the couch around!” You had a slight accent, English, maybe, or Irish. I sat against the wall, just inside the door, and watched as you parked the Ute by the curb and waved a second one into the drive, this one carrying a battered sofa. The three of you heaved it off and tried to maneuver it through the front door. From my angle, I could see that all you had to do was tilt it to the left a little more, but with Dad watching and ‘spouting’ as us kids called it, I didn’t dare try to make contact.
Eventually, it was through and the three of you roared off for another round of furniture. The street was very still, the only sounds were birdcalls and cars on other roads. I didn’t know how long you’d be, but I stayed sitting on the floor, tapping my fingers against my arm. Mum, Rebecca and Jason were out shopping; there was nothing to disturb our vigils – Dad’s in the front room, mine in the hall.
Despite that, I felt weirdly jumpy sitting there. It took me a while to put my finger on it. Both Dad and I wanted you back as fast as possible, but he wanted to gripe about you and I was aching for that grin again. I half expected him to leap out and accuse me of family treason. Either way, Mum pulled into the driveway before you came back and I disappeared quietly off to my room before they could see me sitting there.
I wasn’t sure why Dad had jumped on you. He didn’t let a reason get in the way of hating someone, mind you, but at least I had a vague idea of his motives most of the time. Last year there was old Mrs. Harridan’s dog that barked; then there were the bikies at the end of the street whom Dad was sure were drug dealers within four seconds of laying eyes on them. Then there was the proposal to have a halfway house in the neighbourhood for intellectually disabled teenagers and Dad had hated that so much he’d written a letter to council. The announcement that the proposal had been scrapped was Dad’s first ever “positive” rant. He hadn’t understood why I’d gotten so upset.
The declaration of the next Enemy Number One followed a set ritual in our house. Usually it would begin with Dad glowering at the TV or the newspaper, muttering about a politician. If the person in question hadn’t “cleaned up their act” to Dad’s satisfaction within a certain time (the more outrageous the supposed crime, the shorter the benefit of the doubt), a long diatribe would be launched into over dinner. The “numskull” would have his or her faults outlined in detail, then the particular irk was developed in the special rant time between mum clearing away the plates and returning with the dessert dishes.
In this case, he’d had all day to dissect you at close range, and the rant was a long one.
“And the clothes she wore! What sort of woman wears a singlet in public? I bet she even pisses standing up."
“Michael!” Mum cried, while Jason and Rebecca giggled.
“You gotta tell it the way you see it, Helen,” said Dad. “And I see that woman just isn’t right.”
“What’s her name?” It sounded like my voice but it couldn’t have been; none of us kids ever interrupted him at the table. Even Mum kept objections to a minimum.
They were all staring at me.
“What?” Dad looked puzzled.
“What’s her name?” I repeated, eyes on the remains of my roast.
“Deirdre.” said Mum, just as softly. Deirdre – you were Irish.
I risked a glance at Dad. He was frowning in confused sort of way, and I realised then that he’d never bothered to find out who you were. There was silence for a few seconds while Dad recovered from the interruption, then he was up and running again.
“I don’t get how anyone would want to live in a house like that. You just can’t get an air-conditioner to work properly in a weatherboard house. It’s an eyesore for the street, too. Developers should have got their hands on that property years ago and done something good with it.”
We’d all learned to tune out Dad’s raving long ago, but there was something about him having a go at your house that I couldn’t stand.
“They couldn’t knock it down, Dad, Mrs. Harridan lived there.” Mum shot me a worried look. “Besides,” I barreled on. “The house looks really good. It’s the only place around here that isn’t brick.”
Jason and Rebecca, loyal siblings when Dad was out of earshot, looked like they wanted to change their names and remove all traces of relation.
“Megan,” Dad actually faltered. He appeared to consider for once. “Having that house across the street means our property value goes down. Having a damn hippie living across the street means it goes down even more. It’s like when they wanted to build that centre for handicapped people a while back – no one wants to live near spastics.”
I clenched my jaw.
“When are we planning to sell?” I asked.
Dad scowled. “That’s not the point. Now shut up and eat your tea.”
A hot blush crept out from under my T-shirt and up my neck. I felt like bursting into tears or hitting something. I stared down at my plate, picking at my roast and excused myself before dessert.
I heard Dad start up again as I closed my bedroom door, but he seemed to lack vigor.
I got up early the next morning; the dewy grass making my shoes wet. You’d hung wind chimes from the edge of the verandah, and they tinkled in the light breeze. I knocked, panicking for a moment in case I’d got you out of bed, but you opened the door smiling that crocked grin.
“Hi…” for a terrible moment my throat locked up. “I’m Megan, I live across the street. I just wanted to say welcome to the neighbourhood.”
cupidsbow for helping to talk myself into posting it!Committing Family Treason
By Maharet
You moved in on November fifteenth. You didn’t use a moving van, which ticked Dad right off from the start. You and both your brothers each drove a Ute back and forth from number 28 to wherever you’d been before. This enabled Dad to sit in the front room and monitor all your worldly belongings. It was one of the few times Dad could view his enemy up close, and he sat by the window all Saturday.
“Look at it, Megan, it’s all junk.”
“Mm,” I replied. It didn’t matter what you said to Dad while he was ranting, just as long as it looked like you were paying attention. Then the sound of a woman laughing floated through the glass, one of those rich belly laughs that made me smile in instinctive empathy. Suddenly I was paying attention. I stood behind Dad, watching over his shoulder. You and your brothers were shuffling a bright purple fridge off the back of a Ute. It was one of the coolest things I’d ever seen. So were you.
“The house is junk, why would you want to live in a house like that? You should just take the wrecking ball to it and start again.”
You had gorgeous curly hair that glinted golden-red in the sunlight and you were grinning, flashing slightly crocked teeth. The three of you had the fridge at the edge of the tray. You all stared at it, silently debating on Dad’s bay window movie screen. After much teetering, straining and what looked like swearing, the fridge was dropped safely onto the trolley. You raised your hands into the air, your cheer faintly penetrating the cocoon of our house. You were the first woman I’d ever seen who didn’t shave under her arms.
“Look at that! Look at it. Women these days just don’t care what they look like. They don’t care about the image they present…”
“Mm,” I patted Dad consolingly on the shoulder and went out into the hallway. With the front door open your voices floated over from across the street.
“Oi, Tom, bring the couch around!” You had a slight accent, English, maybe, or Irish. I sat against the wall, just inside the door, and watched as you parked the Ute by the curb and waved a second one into the drive, this one carrying a battered sofa. The three of you heaved it off and tried to maneuver it through the front door. From my angle, I could see that all you had to do was tilt it to the left a little more, but with Dad watching and ‘spouting’ as us kids called it, I didn’t dare try to make contact.
Eventually, it was through and the three of you roared off for another round of furniture. The street was very still, the only sounds were birdcalls and cars on other roads. I didn’t know how long you’d be, but I stayed sitting on the floor, tapping my fingers against my arm. Mum, Rebecca and Jason were out shopping; there was nothing to disturb our vigils – Dad’s in the front room, mine in the hall.
Despite that, I felt weirdly jumpy sitting there. It took me a while to put my finger on it. Both Dad and I wanted you back as fast as possible, but he wanted to gripe about you and I was aching for that grin again. I half expected him to leap out and accuse me of family treason. Either way, Mum pulled into the driveway before you came back and I disappeared quietly off to my room before they could see me sitting there.
I wasn’t sure why Dad had jumped on you. He didn’t let a reason get in the way of hating someone, mind you, but at least I had a vague idea of his motives most of the time. Last year there was old Mrs. Harridan’s dog that barked; then there were the bikies at the end of the street whom Dad was sure were drug dealers within four seconds of laying eyes on them. Then there was the proposal to have a halfway house in the neighbourhood for intellectually disabled teenagers and Dad had hated that so much he’d written a letter to council. The announcement that the proposal had been scrapped was Dad’s first ever “positive” rant. He hadn’t understood why I’d gotten so upset.
The declaration of the next Enemy Number One followed a set ritual in our house. Usually it would begin with Dad glowering at the TV or the newspaper, muttering about a politician. If the person in question hadn’t “cleaned up their act” to Dad’s satisfaction within a certain time (the more outrageous the supposed crime, the shorter the benefit of the doubt), a long diatribe would be launched into over dinner. The “numskull” would have his or her faults outlined in detail, then the particular irk was developed in the special rant time between mum clearing away the plates and returning with the dessert dishes.
In this case, he’d had all day to dissect you at close range, and the rant was a long one.
“And the clothes she wore! What sort of woman wears a singlet in public? I bet she even pisses standing up."
“Michael!” Mum cried, while Jason and Rebecca giggled.
“You gotta tell it the way you see it, Helen,” said Dad. “And I see that woman just isn’t right.”
“What’s her name?” It sounded like my voice but it couldn’t have been; none of us kids ever interrupted him at the table. Even Mum kept objections to a minimum.
They were all staring at me.
“What?” Dad looked puzzled.
“What’s her name?” I repeated, eyes on the remains of my roast.
“Deirdre.” said Mum, just as softly. Deirdre – you were Irish.
I risked a glance at Dad. He was frowning in confused sort of way, and I realised then that he’d never bothered to find out who you were. There was silence for a few seconds while Dad recovered from the interruption, then he was up and running again.
“I don’t get how anyone would want to live in a house like that. You just can’t get an air-conditioner to work properly in a weatherboard house. It’s an eyesore for the street, too. Developers should have got their hands on that property years ago and done something good with it.”
We’d all learned to tune out Dad’s raving long ago, but there was something about him having a go at your house that I couldn’t stand.
“They couldn’t knock it down, Dad, Mrs. Harridan lived there.” Mum shot me a worried look. “Besides,” I barreled on. “The house looks really good. It’s the only place around here that isn’t brick.”
Jason and Rebecca, loyal siblings when Dad was out of earshot, looked like they wanted to change their names and remove all traces of relation.
“Megan,” Dad actually faltered. He appeared to consider for once. “Having that house across the street means our property value goes down. Having a damn hippie living across the street means it goes down even more. It’s like when they wanted to build that centre for handicapped people a while back – no one wants to live near spastics.”
I clenched my jaw.
“When are we planning to sell?” I asked.
Dad scowled. “That’s not the point. Now shut up and eat your tea.”
A hot blush crept out from under my T-shirt and up my neck. I felt like bursting into tears or hitting something. I stared down at my plate, picking at my roast and excused myself before dessert.
I heard Dad start up again as I closed my bedroom door, but he seemed to lack vigor.
I got up early the next morning; the dewy grass making my shoes wet. You’d hung wind chimes from the edge of the verandah, and they tinkled in the light breeze. I knocked, panicking for a moment in case I’d got you out of bed, but you opened the door smiling that crocked grin.
“Hi…” for a terrible moment my throat locked up. “I’m Megan, I live across the street. I just wanted to say welcome to the neighbourhood.”
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From:
no subject
From:
no subject
Happy new year to you (and everyone). And I hope things go smoother for you in 2005!
From:
no subject
I love the purple fridge. I read this as a very erotic story, not 100% sure if that was what was intended or not - I think yes? Your descriptions of Deirdre are great.
Possible typo: crocked or crooked?
From:
no subject
The father figure in the story is an amalgamation (sp?)of my grandfather and my dad on a bad day -- both of whom have views and who rant when in bad moods, but I actually deliberately reversed things: my dad loves weatherboard houses (we live in one for that very reason), and the halfway-house for disabled teens came up while he was on the local council and he lobbied hard for its establishment (but lost).
So, only sort of autobiographical (Deirdre is just my lustful imaginings, and the father figure is not my dad), but after it was shortlisted for the comp, I bounced home and thrust it into Mum's hands, but only mentioned it in passing to dad. Autobiographical enough, I suppose!
And you were right about the typo -- congrats on being the first to pick it (I sure didn't!)
Erotic? The Deirdre bits, oh yes.
From:
no subject
I think you asked me a question, long, long ago, which I didn't get a chance to answer. Do you still need an answer?
<3
From:
*Racks brain*
I get back from Margaret River this Friday or so. Would love to do coffee whenever you are back from farm/have the time etc?
From:
no subject
I really liked this. I has a wonderful feel to the family dynamics and I totally belived them. The yearning for the next door neighbour is tangible (although not necessarily sexual, as I though it could also be read as hero worship and wanting to escape Dad's house). I'm really glad you posted this.