What Mother Won't Tell Me by Ivar Leon Menger

Author:Ivar Leon Menger [Menger, Ivar Leon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

18

Grabbing my arm, he drags me into the kitchen, throws me onto a chair, and slams the door shut. Father plants himself in front of me, as massive as an angry gorilla, and pounds his fist on the table. I wince.

“Juno’s sick,” I hear Boy’s timid voice behind Father.

“You stay out of this!”

“Please don’t be so harsh on her.”

“Where were you, Juno?” Father sways as he bends down to me, propping his arms on the table. His breath stinks of alcohol. I peer at the kitchen clock above the fridge. It’s ten to eleven. In the morning.

Puzzled, his eyes follow mine, then he seems to read my mind. “It helps with the pain,” he whispers, before slumping awkwardly on a chair beside me. His forearm goes crashing into the table. “Give me your right hand, Juno.”

“No,” I reply. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not going to ask you again.”

My arm shakes as I put it on the cold table. Leaning forward, Father stares at me. Burst blood vessels streak the whites of his eyes. Thin red worms in milk, I think.

“Where were you?”

My index finger wiggles in his hand.

“She was in the shed,” Boy says, moving beside Father.

“Juno can speak for herself.”

“In the shed, Father.”

“She was just checking our fishing gear.”

Father’s hand flails backward, hitting Boy on the temple. Boy staggers and falls to the floor, the back of his head hitting the work surface and table leg. Two thuds, then he lies there motionless by Father’s feet. I leap up from my chair, bend over him, and stroke his pale cheek. It’s ice cold. My brother, his eyes wide open, looks at me and whispers, “I’m sorry, Juno.”

“Don’t move,” I say. “Are you in pain?”

“Head.” Boy’s voice is the mere breath of a word, then he slumps unconscious.

Mother appears in the doorway. “What’s going on here?”

“The boy stumbled,” Father says, struggling up out of his chair. He peers down at us. “I warned him.”

“Have you been drinking?” Mother asks cuttingly.

“No.”

Kneeling beside Boy, she lays a hand on his brow and shakes her head in anger. “Haven’t you learned anything? We need to think clearly and logically, now.”

“Didn’t mean to do it.”

“He needs a doctor,” I say. “Quickly!”

Shoving me to one side, Mother puts an arm around Boy’s shoulder and gently lifts him up. She fans him with her left hand; her movements look ever more fretful.

“Can you hear me?” she says, her voice wobbling.

Boy opens his eyes and blinks. He lifts his head and his lips open only slightly. “What happened?”

“You passed out.”

“You see, he’s back on his feet,” Father says, staggering to the kitchen door. He grabs onto the doorframe. “It was nothing.”

“Boy needs to go to bed!” Mother screams at him. “He might have a concussion! Help me carry him upstairs!” Father turns to us, his eyes staring into space, then he nods silently.

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