Slights by Kaaron Warren Page B

Mum and Dad always seemed happy to see each other after a short holiday.
      We liked Grampa Searle, hated Grandpa Walker until he died when I was five, and Peter and I could never love the Grannies very much. They were too old. Their skin was loose and scary. They wore ugly clothes. They smiled with false teeth. I didn't mind the things they gave us, but I didn't care for them much. There must have been a time when they were younger, not so ugly, but we could not imagine it.
      Peter did cruel mimicries of them, which Dad found hilarious but Mum didn't like.
      "If it wasn't for them you wouldn't be here," Mum said.
      "Yeah, we'd probably be rich," Peter said. He used to be naughty. Then he wasn't. I don't know what happened. One day I'll ask him.
    As if.
      I'd sit on Granny Searle's old knees, hearing her sing, but watching Dad, because there'd come a moment when he'd scratch his index finger on his knee. I'd leap off Granny, run across the room, throw myself at his chest. He'd hold me like a rope, all wound up, and I'd breathe in the smell of his throat.
      "The usual path to destruction," he always said, because I always knocked over the high table, or stood on the cat, or something. That was the word he used; to. I remember it clearly. I wonder now. Why didn't he say path of destruction? Why path to? Oh, God, didn't I have a choice in anything?
      Our two Grannies had been friends before our parents ever met; they got Mum and Dad together. There was no jealousy between them; no competition. And when Dad died, and Granny Searle grieved, Granny Walker was such a comfort the two could comfort Mum. To them we must have seemed shocked but unaware of the real implications of our father not being around.
      They took over a lot of parenting roles. They even went to parent/teacher night so Mum wouldn't have to face it. Before, Dad did me and Mum did Peter. Dad never told me what the teachers said. He winked at me, "Good girl," and piggy-backed me around the house. Mum hated her children being assessed by strangers.
      "How do they know what sort of boy Peter is?" she said one time to Dad. "They see him as a student and nothing more. They don't see him the way we do."
      "What did they say?" Dad said. He stroked her hair to calm and comfort. He loved to touch her, stroke her. She was so very lucky. I didn't have hair like hers or else he would have stroked me too.
      "She said he lacked courage," Mum said. She pulled Peter to her, squeezed him. "We know that's not true, don't we, Peter?" He nodded, but wasn't sure.
      "He's weak," I said. "I can beat him up any time."
      "Of course you can. You're the toughie of the family. You'll have to keep an eye out for Peter, protect him sometimes," Dad said. He was teasing me. I loved it. I threw my chest out, stamped around the room. "Who goes there?" I shouted. "Who goes there?" I didn't know the meaning of the question; I had heard it shouted somewhere and liked the sound of it. I kicked an imaginary opponent.
      "Stay away from my weak brother," I shouted. Dad laughed and clapped. Mum laughed too, but she said, "Mustn't tease your brother."
      The year Dad died, the Grannies were proud to head off to the school to talk about us. We stayed home with Mum and ate chocolate mousse for dinner. "This is the life," Mum said. Some people use clichés, nothing statements, when they want to be reassured, when they know something is wrong but they won't admit it. "It's nice, just us three," she said.
      "I love it, just us three," Peter said. He sat with her on the couch. I can still summon the anger I felt, and the shock. They had forgotten.
      "I wish Dad was here and you were both dead," I said. "I wish you were buried and dead."
      "Stephanie!" Mum said. She was white. She always thought she was the favourite.
      I had made a tactical error; I didn't need to be a grown up to see that. I had aligned myself with a dead parent. It seemed hysteria and guilt