To the Volcano by Elleke Boehmer

Author:Elleke Boehmer [Elleke Boehmer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781912408252
Publisher: Myriad Editions
Published: 2019-12-16T16:00:00+00:00

The top name on the big screen in the arena car park is not Donny’s. For a moment Kay’s not sure what disappoints her more—his name not being up there or the notice that it’s all over, she’s missed the prize-giving, she won’t see him compete at all.

But then, looking again, it does say Donny. She twigs what she’s reading. His name is up there anyway. He has won something, looks like another silver medal. Well I never, she tells herself, locking the car, there you go, not bad, son, not bad.

Reeking of sweat, Donny towers over her in the arena foyer. If he were to hug her without bending, his arms would meet around her crown. They could crush her skull like a nut, she thinks. And she, Kay, is not short, she is not tiny Aimée. She steps suddenly away.

They move into the arena club-room buffeted by large powerlifters and their families. Massive men pump Donny’s arm. Round tables are laid with white cloths, white crockery, pale orchid centrepieces. The food on the buffet is also mainly pale—pale and glutinous—white-fish mousse, cold chicken, potato salad, coleslaw.

Donny is ravenous. He piles a plate high. Kay also piles her plate, knowing he will eat most of it, too, ‘just a smidgen, Mum,’ creep his fork across and pick up titbits as he did as a child.

Cramming the white food into his mouth, Donny tells her three times over about his near-winning lift. And then, he says, and then, with each then hitting the table with his fist. She understands why he’s putting the emphasis. If you hadn’t quite made gold, you’d want to give your back a pat.

Still, he’s very loud. His blaring reminds her of that young boy earlier, in the backyard, what was his name? Aimée’s son? She can’t believe she doesn’t remember. Did she catch his name? It was Aitch who spoke to him.

Kay looks around the tables. Large groups surround the other powerlifters. She and Donny are just two to their table. Everyone around seems to be telling versions of his story. She’s hearing the same names, the same lines. Donny has been a star, though not the biggest star. The winner is someone with a Croatian name. She can’t bear to ask Donny who it is. The beating noise of his fist is stubbing out her concentration. And then I lifted it, then, he says again, hitting his fist. Their coffee cups rattle.

She feels for her bulletproof jacket but, no, it’s back in the car. She’d like to have it here with her now, have it on. Donny’s fist beating the table is making her feel irritated, queasy—either that or the seafood mousse. Donny keeps turning to her and half-winking, half-grimacing, as though he’s pointing to some secret they alone share.

She wants to step back, peel away this closeness he’s folding around her, this sticky mix of intimacy and boasting. This is no way to be with your mother, can’t he see? so sickly close and soft.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.