Kelly-Anne had been gone a month.
Dad rarely alluded to her,
went on about other things instead –
the state of the house,
traffic –
as though these were real reasons
to be awful.
I kept out of his way.
A hurricane was coming.
The air stank of a storm.
I used a little jug to fill the iron with more water;
steam sizzled through the holes in the hot plate.
It was a Sunday evening.
I was just sorting out my uniform.
Where’s my wallet? Dad grunted,
appearing out of nowhere,
breathing heavily.
I haven’t seen it, I said
without looking up.
I didn’t want to instigate anything.
Plus,
I’d started to hate him.
You’re sulking
like you did that time
about the fish, he said.
I kept my back straight – eyes on my school skirt.
How are storms defeated except by
hunkering down defensively?
I don’t know what you mean.
He rested his fists on the ironing board.
Look at me when we’re speaking.
Sorry, Dad, I said quickly,
remembering myself.
You heard from Kelly-Anne? he asked.
Well.
I heard from Kelly-Anne a lot,
knew she was living by the sea.
Happy.
No.
He closed one eye, peered at me with the other.
I’ve heard from Kelly-Anne myself.
I inched away.
The iron hissed.
She told me she’s spoken to you loads.
Full of secrets aren’t you?
So what else are you hiding?
What else is there?
His voice was calm,
serene before
the savage.
Your wallet, I said, spotting it and
snatching it from the empty fruit bowl behind him.
I turned to reveal his treasure,
but he didn’t care,
he had the iron
in his hand,
and
he was
swinging,
swinging,
swinging,
putting all his
weight behind him,
his face fire.