The broom closet
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 20: Cities on the Edge
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by JT Glazebrook
THE TRAFFIC HAS THINNED and you stand in Trapper's shadow, looking out from the edge of the trailer park into the long desert night. The cold is coming on fast as he reaches down and lifts the hem of your skirt. Hidden by your trailer, which stands at the perimeter, you let him do it. His hands are warm and the breeze is cool and the goosebumps rise on your legs and sides. You run your tongue over an ulcer that sits just inside your bottom lip and savour the sweet sting of it. You hear his zip and then he's in and you lean back at him, wrapping your left foot around behind his leg. It's almost enough to make you forget.
But then there's a commotion inside and the baby starts up, yamming its high-frequency siren through the still night. Trapper pulls back and you step away from him and look at him with those eyes that say goodbye and he curses hard and walks off into the artificial glare of the trailer park quad. You bound the three stairs and slam the flyscreen half off its hinges as you lean forward back into the awful space. You think that's it.
In the kitchenette, Alexis in on the floor mopping up a swampy stain of beans and Karen-Anne is patting the baby's soft cloud of wispy hair, calming her. You grab Alexis up, realising how much heavier she is, and bring your hand back only to whack it on the side of the table on route to her backside. The pain shoots up your arm and you curse like mad.
‘I'm sorry Mamma,' says Alexis, squiggling free of your grasp and bending back one of your fingernails doing so.
You slap her hard right across the face and she whimpers out a little yell before falling to the floor and holding her cheek, looking up at you with tearful shining eyes. Jemimah starts to cry and the baby follows her, and Karen-Anne, leaving the baby crying, gets to the floor to start cleaning up the mess. You look at them with wild eyes and don't say a word.
In the background, the news is playing on the TV and that just makes you wilder, so you pick up the broom standing in the corner and you storm into the front room and start stabbing at the screen with the handle end. It does nothing. Just makes a thin glassy tink over and over again. You waver on the verge of tears before a steely husk of determination sets in. You turn the TV down to a low volume and then walk back to the kitchenette where you open the freezer and pull out a tray of vacuum-packed steakettes you were saving for Karen-Anne's birthday. You pop them in the microwave to defrost and then help Alexis and Karen-Anne clean up the rest of the beans. Afterwards, all three of you stand there silently, and you grab them in a big hug and tighten them up to your body.
‘Alexis, baby, you fetch some carrots and start shaving 'em, and Karen-Anne, you get me some potatoes and onions from the broom closet.'
‘Are you gonna make your honey carrots, Mamma?' asks Alexis, and you nod without looking at her.
The microwave pings. The kitchen fills with the sweaty stench of quickly defrosted meat. Peeling back the wrapping, you toss the squared, processed chunks into the sizzling pan. Alexis hands you the dish of carrots and you prepare them and place them on the top tray of the pre-heated oven. Your baby gurgles happily as Jemimah tries to teach her how to play Texas Hold-'em, which she learnt from Trapper.
YOU ALL SAY GRACE before the meal, and you lead the oft-neglected prayer, meaning each solemn word. After the girls are full and happy, you surprise them further by letting them each have a stick of Kit-Kat from your private stash. Alexis sucks away the chocolate and then crunches softly at the wafer. Karen-Anne peels the layer of chocolate away with her teeth. Jemimah wolfs the thing down, then looks at the other girls while they eat. You can't remember ever feeling so sad.
As you all sit around watching some show about New York police investigations – you can't tell whether it's documentary or drama – you look at the girls and think of yourself at their age and a swathe of nausea wears through you, the way a brutal sandstorm peels the skin back from a carcass.
The girls laugh and joke and don't feel sleepy, hyped up by their lovely tea and after-dinner treat. You go to the bathroom cabinet and then into the kitchenette to make them hot chocolate. They squeal with delight when you walk back through the draped beads with a tray of steaming mugs.
Soon they are motionless, and you look at them each and sigh – sort of. Somewhere off in the night an animal makes a noise. It's not a howl, but it still makes you shiver. You fetch the rope from the boot of the car and cut it into even lengths.