At dinner –
chicken schnitzel, potatoes, beans and gravy –
Mum says to Mick,
‘I’m very disappointed
that you’d do such a thing.’
Dad says,
‘You’ll work every afternoon
for an extra hour on the farm
to pay for his new cricket bat.’
Mick quietly and slowly eats his dinner.
Mum says,
‘We expect better of you, Mick.’
Dad says,
‘What on earth were you thinking?’
I can’t take it any longer.
I say, ‘Tell them about the butterflies, Mick.’
Mum says,
‘Now is not the time, Jacob.’
Dad says,
‘This is very serious, Jacob.
Your brother has . . .’
‘Tell them, Mick, tell them,’ I say
interrupting Dad, which I never do.
Dad looks angry and his face goes red
but I don’t think it’s sunburn
and he says,
‘Jacob!’
I can’t stop now,
so I say, in my loudest voice,
‘He killed the butterflies!’
Everyone goes quiet
and I don’t know where to look
so I stare at my dinner
for the longest time
until Dad says,
‘Who killed what butterflies?’
‘Charlie,’ I say,
‘with his cricket bat,
smashing hundreds of them.’
Mum and Dad look at each other
and now Mum’s face is going red too
and then she gets up from her chair
and walks around the table to Mick
and she leans down close
and all of a sudden
Mick reaches out to hug her
and he buries his face
in her chest and sniffles
and Mum hugs him tightly
and Dad reaches across
and pats my hand,
‘Thanks, Jacob.
We’ll sort it out tomorrow.’
He coughs, nervously,
‘We’ll fix it, no worries.’