Wisp by Charlotte Zang

               LuxFactory CC



Wisp

The man sat at his usual place at the kitchen table on a dismal Sunday morning. Paul Harvey’s baritone voice blared through the static on the radio right next to him. The harsh fluorescent ceiling light glared, reflecting off the glossy mint-green walls, giving the room a sickly glow. The man, who needed a shave, wore olive-colored work clothes, pants and matching shirt, purchased from the Sears catalog. The thin, dirty fabric hung loose and rumpled on his six-foot frame. The clothes may have looked presentable at one time, but now they were dull from countless hours in the truck. They carried a perpetual odor of cigarette smoke and diesel fuel that no amount of laundry detergent could totally remove.

On the table in front of him was an empty beige cup stained from years of use. The spoon lay near it in a puddle. Toast crumbs littered the table in all directions. Newspapers were scattered around the chair, dropped after he read each section, landing near his bare feet which were caked with mud. He had obviously walked in the damp, freshly plowed field without shoes early this morning, just for this purpose. He methodically scraped his feet together, causing the dried mud to fall to the floor. This seemed to please him. He did this often, always leaving the debris for his wife to clean up. That was her job, after all.

Her oldest brother sat across from the man. He was a boy and therefore worth talking to, unlike her mother and sisters who were of no use except for cleaning and cooking and whatever else he needed. Everybody knew, even her brothers, that girls were not smart. They needed to be told what to do at all times, and most of all, they should keep quiet.

A skinny little girl with wisps of fly-away blonde hair, she tiptoed into the far end of the kitchen, desperately pretending to be invisible. She had tried to wait until the kitchen was empty but her stomach rumbled so loudly that she couldn’t stay in the bedroom a minute longer. She always fixed her own breakfast but Sundays were the hardest. Reaching into the bottom cabinet, she found a box of cereal and tucked it under her arm, planning to scurry away without being noticed. And then Bang! The cupboard door slammed. She cringed and held her breath.

The man, her father, saw that she dared to intrude into the room while he was talking. He would not tolerate the interruption from a child and definitely not from a girl. He barked something at her and she froze, her brown eyes wide and searching, even though she knew no one would help. She didn’t understand the question he had yelled, possibly because he sometimes used made-up words that made sense only to him, and probably because she was so frightened. She stood there, paralyzed in her hand-me-down flannel nightgown that bunched at her toes, wishing she could disappear. She looked down at the peeling linoleum and could not speak. She was silent. She defied him by not answering his question. That was a mistake.
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“Christ, she’s worthless. Get her out of here!” he demanded, scowling as if he had just tasted something foul. Her brother said nothing. She withered and shrunk away, fully aware of her place in this dreadful family. She was four years old.

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Still finding her voice, striving for elusive authenticity, the only thing Charlotte has ever known for sure is that she is a writer. She writes the things she should for business and the things she wants at all other times.

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