knew he would fly off the handle if he came home and the house stunk. His two brothers pretty much did what they wanted. They were both big enough to take on their father, and had on more than one occasion.
That had left Michael to replace his mother as his father's punching bag. He had learned quickly to keep things the way his father wanted. Housemaid at thirteen and still housemaid now he was seventeen. His brothers, already working when his mother had left, did as little as they had to, happy to let Michael do everything for them. At first they had persuaded him with the threat of a 'brotherly beating', then they had started giving him a few dollars each week for his trouble, lately they had let him have a few cones with them once their father was drunk enough not to care what was happening or was out of the house.
'Bring us another beer Mickey'. His brother shouted down the hallway. Micheal tossed his bag into his room and came back via the kitchen with a beer in hand. He took the bong his brother offered and lit it, holding the pungent smoke in his lungs for as long as he could before exhaling. He liked the feeling getting stoned gave him. It made everything seem so much better, so much funnier, and so much easier.
The first time he had tried it, his sixteenth birthday present from his brothers, he had thought he was going to die. The smoke had made him cough until he thought he was going to choke. His eyes watering and his mouth drying while his brothers and their mates watched and howled with laughter. When he had finally stopped coughing he had rushed to his bedroom, terrified that his father would bust him and beat the crap out of him. He had lain on his bed for what seemed like hours with his head spinning and his heart thumping as the walls of his room kept attacking him until he had passed out. Now he was used to it. Now he let it take him away from the shit that was his home life.
Micheal finished another cone and was already succumbing to the the fuzzy euphoria that came with it. He got up slowly and the room went spinning slowly around. He smiled a white, toothy grin at his brother and headed for the kitchen. From the cupboard under the sink he pulled out a bucket, a bottle of bleach and a pair of gloves. He washed the dishes left in the sink from the morning and then swept the floor. He filled the bucked with hot water and bleach and took the mop from behind the door and began cleaning the linoleum floor. Most of the dirt marks were old stains and wouldn't clean anyway. It didn't matter. It made him feel good and it would save him from a beating. His father always expected a clean kitchen when he got home.
He laughed at the sight of his hands in pink rubber gloves. The dickheads at school wouldn't believe he was the same boy if they could see him now. His mates would probably call him a faggot. Ha ha , he looked like one in his pink gloves swirling the mop around the kitchen floor. He wondered what that faggot Ben would say. He wondered why he thought about that.
Seven
The storm raged as the group sat sheltered from the driving rain under the cover of the verandah drinking their second round of coffee. The second cup had brought some needed clarity to Hope's whirling head. She wasn't sure if it was the effects of the pills and the copious amount of wine she had consumed or Ben's loving and reassuring gesture that had caused it.
It was so uncharacteristic of him. He had shown little emotion since the accident, seeming to retreat further into that private world which he had been in for the past few years. He had always been a loving boy and the two of them had been very close, sharing a bond that moved beyond the realms of mother and son and more towards best friends. As Ben had progressed through high school her role of nurturer had moved almost naturally to that of mentor.
Goodness knows that he hadn't got that from his father. At a time when he was changing and searching for direction and a role model in his life, his father had not really been there. It hadn't been a deliberate change on Peter's part, she was sure of that. His job had suddenly put enormous pressures of time and energy on him and he was away more often than he was home. This had been largely due to Peter's own success and determination.
'I've created a monster and now it won't let me go, at least not for a while'. Peter had assured her that over time he would be able to pull back and feel confident in delegating the tasks to others in the company. That had been over 4 years ago, since his firm had landed the Gateway Shopping Centre contract, and over the time his responsibilities had increased rather than diminish and his time at home had grown less and less.
Hope had jumped in to fill the gap in Ben's routine. Getting up early on the weekends to drive him to his soccer matches, picking him up late in the afternoon when he had training, even joining the other mum's in helping organize fund raisers and sausage sizzles. She had to admit that she was a little relieved when Ben had suddenly lost interest in the game. She didn't mind the duties but the fanaticism of the fathers, screaming encouragement to their sons, often yelling abuse at rival players, and trivial chit chat and gossip of the other mothers wasn't really her scene.
That had been shortly after he started high school. Hope had put it down to his age and to adolescent changes. She remembered her brother Tommy had gone through a stage like this at around Ben's age. She had assumed Ben would soon be picking up on another sport or hobby that was deemed to be cool by his peers. That hadn't happened and it had struck her as strange when he had always been such an active, social type of boy. Instead he had begun to spend way too much time alone. Either in his room or wandering by himself in the bush for hours at a time. At least that's where she assumed he had been.
She hadn't been as worried about this as she had when she had picked up on the very dramatic shift in his attitude towards his father. Six or so months ago Ben had inexplicably shut Peter out of his life.
Wham! Just like that. Peter had brushed it off when she had finally asked him if he and Ben had been arguing over anything. Just teenage angst most likely had been his only explanation. She thought that perhaps he was right. So she let Ben alone. There had been no scenes between the two, in fact the opposite. Ben just avoided contact with his father and conversation had become limited to polite requests over the dinner table. Ben reminded her so much of her brother Tommy at the same age.
She was wandering again. She needed to be in control.
'Stay for dinner won't you?' she asked the Thornes. 'I've got a freezer full of frozen dinners so it's no trouble.'
It was true. She had been inundated with kindness from half the neighbourhood after the accident. People had arrived with plastic Tupperware containers filled with casseroles and fried chicken and all sorts. Most of it being handed over to Mrs T as Hope had retreated behind the closed door of her house. Even is she had wanted company she had been in no state to hear the front door bell most of the time. Mrs T had brought it over, sometimes managing to pop in (to make sure Hope and Ben were okay) at other times leaving it at the back door with a loud 'cooee' and a knock.
She also needed the company and the chance to fill her mind with trivial, familiar things. She wasn't sure she could face Ben alone just yet. Wasn't sure that he could face her alone just yet. She knew that if he just retreated into his room again tonight that she wouldn't cope without help. Help would be another bottle of wine and Hope was determined that she was not going to go there again.
So she convinced them to stay. It had been a good idea. Ben teaching Mrs T' how to use the microwave, 'ooh I say, Mr T won't turn into the Incredible Hulk and start glowing after eating microwaves will he love?' and all of them laughing at that and at the wonderful neighbours and their predictable (but appreciated) meal donations, spaghetti bolognaise from the Liottis, curry from the Singhs, Apricot Chicken from Jean Pratt (her latest culinary discovery), Irish Stew from the O'Malleys.....
They had the Apricot Chicken. It wasn't bad Hope thought. Very bland and very Jean Pratt.
Later Ben and Mr T played games of Snap
