19

jesse

‘Dinner,’ Mum calls down the hallway.

Trevor and I have been having a one-sided debate about whether Hunter’s idea of threatening thousands of people in order to save the whales made sense. We agreed it didn’t, but neither of us volunteered to point this out to Hunter. Trevor preached that every life is sacred, human or animal. I didn’t want to mention the loaves and fishes. Maybe it should have been the loaves and lentils?

I follow Beth into the kitchen. In the centre of the dining table is one candle, casting a feeble light. Dad closes all the curtains as Mum serves the food.

Beth sits down and looks at the small serving of boiled rice on her plate. ‘What’s this?’ she asks.

‘Rice, sis,’ I say.

‘I know that, fool.’

‘Beth, don’t call Jesse a fool,’ says Mum. ‘It’s your dinner.’

‘Is that all?’ says Beth.

‘No, of course not,’ says Mum.

Beth relaxes.

Mum walks to the kitchen bench and picks up a small saucepan, tips the contents into a bowl and brings it to the table. She puts it next to the candle, so we can see what’s in the bowl. It looks like four potatoes.

‘Potatoes,’ says Beth, predictably enough.

‘Actually, no,’ says Mum. ‘They’re yams, a staple food in Africa.’

Everyone looks at me.

‘In honour of our donation,’ says Dad, ‘we thought we’d have a typical African meal.’

‘Just like …’ Mum looks at me.

‘Kelifa,’ I say.

‘This is probably what he’s sitting down to right now,’ says Mum, cupping her hand over the candle. ‘They’re huddled around one flickering candle, just like us.’

Beth makes a noise.

‘Don’t growl at the dinner table, Beth,’ says Mum. ‘Be grateful for the food.’

A puff of wind blows out the candlelight.

‘At least now I don’t have to look at what I’m eating,’ mumbles Beth.

Dad scrapes back his chair and feels his way to the kitchen. ‘Honey, do you know where the matches— OW!’

It sounds like Dad’s head is arguing with the cupboard. Mum gets up and turns on the kitchen light. Dad is sitting on the cork floor, rubbing his head. ‘I wonder if Kelifa’s dad walks into cupboards,’ he says.

Mum helps him to his feet and brings a box of matches to the table. She lights the candle again.

‘Some people think candlelight is very,’ Mum looks lovingly toward Dad, ‘romantic.’

Beth growls again.

‘Jesse,’ Mum says, ‘your father and I thought we’d have this special meal tonight because we looked at our budget and …’ Mum casts a worried look toward Dad.

‘Ha!’ says Beth.

‘Aren’t we going to send Kelifa something?’ I plead, fearing the worst.

‘He can have my yam,’ suggests Beth.

‘Remember what we said last night about instalments,’ interrupts Dad, still feeling for a lump on his head.

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘but we’re still going to send Kelifa some money?’

‘Apart from the fifty dollars already,’ says Beth, who is obviously taking her hunger out on me and Kelifa.

‘Your mother,’ Dad looks toward Mum.

‘My hours got reduced at the cafe today, Jesse,’ Mum says. ‘Now, it’s only three days a week, starting Wednesday.’

I look worryingly at Dad. ‘What about your job? You haven’t been sacked have you?’ Dad is the complaints officer at the local council. Maybe someone complained about him!

He attempts a laugh. ‘No such luck, Jesse.’ He reaches across the table and touches my hand. ‘But, I’m afraid it will have to be only fifty dollars this month for your African friend. And maybe another fifty next month, if things start looking up.’ He looks at me. ‘But, it can’t be long term.’

I feel bad making Mum and Dad worry about Kelifa and me. It’s not their fault. It’s mine. I’m the one who started all this.

‘We don’t have to send any more money.’ I bite my lip, hoping Kelifa and Trevor will forgive me.

‘Great,’ interrupts Beth. ‘I need a new dress for the weekend. Ryan’s—’

‘No, Jesse,’ says Mum. ‘We all need to think of others.’ She looks at Beth.

‘I am thinking of others, Mum. Imagine Ryan having to see me in the same clothes day after day. I was hoping to surprise him,’ says Beth.

‘The sewing machine is in your father’s workshop, Beth. I’d be happy to buy you some dress material,’ answers Mum.

Beth rolls her eyes. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘I’m sure Kelifa doesn’t get new clothes,’ says Mum.

‘He’s a boy in Africa! He’s not going to see The Scrambles on the weekend!’

‘Who, or what are The Scrambles?’ asks Mum.

‘They sound like a death-metal band,’ says Dad.

‘Death what?’ asks Mum.

‘I saw it on a documentary,’ explains Dad. ‘They wear black clothes, play distorted guitars and growl.’

‘That explains a lot,’ says Mum, glancing at Beth.

‘The Scrambles sing folk songs, Mum.’ Beth looks my way, daring me to contradict her. ‘They write about animals and peace and hope and …’ her voice peters out.

‘Yeah, they’re actually a harmony death-metal band,’ I add. No point in Beth suffering any more torment. Not after the strains of tonight’s dinner. The yam on my plate looks sad and lonely and not very nourishing. Poor Kelifa, having to eat that every day. I scoop some plain rice onto my fork and take a big mouthful. I hope fifty dollars allows his dad to buy sauce to flavour his rice. A piece of long-grain gets stuck in my teeth. I reach for a glass of water.

‘So The Scrambles are a Beth-metal band?’ Dad grins.

‘Anyway,’ says Mum, not really in the mood for jokes, ‘we thought we’d have this dinner to better understand the plight of children elsewhere in the world.’ She looks at me. ‘And Jesse, we’ll see about next month’s donation. Maybe we can have this dinner once a week. That’ll save us some money.’

‘Great,’ I say, scooping another forkful of rice into my mouth.

‘I’m eating at Ryan’s next week,’ says Beth.

I wonder if Kelifa has friends in the village where he lives: friends he can visit for dinner when he’s bored of a scoop of rice and a yam, rich friends who keep chickens and have eggs, friends who can afford electric lights and maybe even a radio. Or a television.

Beth sprinkles extra salt and pepper on her yam before mushing it up with her fork and mixing it with the rice. ‘Baby food,’ she mumbles.

The candle flickers again, but doesn’t go out.