Boxing Day: A Fiction

Wednesday is about books and reading and writing. Sometimes I share some of my own creative writing. Here’s my first short story of the year. My first short story in quite a while…I hope you like it.

My husband’s family…I love them. But they’re hotheads! Mind you, my husband is a hothead. I know that. He knows that. I’m just telling you that I know exactly where it comes from. Jesus Christ. Christmas we were all sat there around the table, and this is the day after the big event. It’s fair to say that cracks are starting to show, but we’re still – for the most part – all getting along. But Brad is definitely over it. He’s started sneaking off in the car. He’s started going for bush walks. Alone. He’s filling his days by subtracting himself from the group. And that’s fine. That’s good. He just has a way of doing it. Let’s just say, it’s noted. He’s not a big talker, but there’s always a moment when he just stops talking. And people definitely notice that.

So, anyway, we’re all there at the table for dinner and our nephew pipes up about some artwork. It’s in the room he’s sleeping in. And he says something about cultural appropriation. Uses those exact words. And he’s 12. I mean, as soon as they get back to reading, writing and maths in the classroom, right? So, Marley says what he says out loud. He says, “I’m not sure about that painting in my room with the tiki”. And straight away, his grandfather asks what his problem is. And he says those two words again. ‘Cultural Appropriation’. Both his parents look so proud. And Brad fires up straight away. Says that it’s just a picture and don’t think too much about it eh. But Marley says it’s just not right. Well that gets the lady of the house incensed. My mother in law. Lydia. She says to her own grandson, “Oh yeah, and like you’ve never done anything wrong?” Which just sort of sits there as some weird thing on its own. It doesn’t hang for long, doesn’t tie any threads together like Lydia seems to think. But it doesn’t exactly offend anyone, nor promote any discussion at all. I take a sip of my chardonnay, and think for a misguided second that we might be in the clear.  Is this the penultimate supper?

Then Stephen catches up with it all and decides he has to back up his wife. So from the other end of the table he picks at this idea that their grandson – their grandson – can’t be entirely pure. He’s 12. Of course he is. Even if he’s had a talking to from his teacher and been put on a naughty list he’s still pure. Even if he’s thrown a rock at the neighbour one time (and I’m not saying he has, I wouldn’t actually know, I mostly just buy him a birthday and Christmas present and smile and nod a few times around him each year) he’s still pure. Know what I mean? He’s 12. For fucks sake!

That’s when Brad gets really riled and starts muttering this and that about things being “too precious”. And I’m starting to cringe pretty hard now. But Lydia decides to wind up another conversational bobbin, since no one obviously saw the underside threads she was stitching. She says to Marley, “You called your uncle a rude word the other day. I heard you”. And Marley’s kind of smiling but Lydia is dead serious.

The kid says, “eh? What?” And he’s laughing, thinking his grandmother is about to bust out some weird joke or non sequitur. At any rate we’ll all be able to move on soon. And I can see my kids – silent, always so well behaved – feeling for this moment too. And Marley’s parents too. I like my sister in law. And her husband. Brad’s brother. They’re alright. I mean, of course, they’re far more liberal than us. They probably voted green. Would. Not. Surprise. Me. But I like them. They’re not your usual left wing idiots though. They have far too many books, sure. But the fuckers seem to actually read them. I’ll give them that. Anyway, Lydia stares at Marley full beam and says, “you called your uncle a ranga!” Marley giggles a bit, then bites down on his full laugh when he sees his nana is absolutely not fucking around, not even for a second.

“I thought that was disgusting!” Lydia pretty much shouts.

I wish Brad had said nothing. I certainly wish fucking Gareth, Marley’s father, had not laughed out loud with an incredulity I too pretty much felt, but knew to stifle. I looked at my beautiful children and thought in that moment that they were probably going to be okay since they obviously had more of my genes. I mean, yeah, I know that’s not possible. But they also know their father is what he is: A hothead.

Brad said, “Being compared to an orangutang is the last accepted form of racism. It’s not actually a joke. And you woke fuckwits need to recognise that you are the biggest hypocrites in the world. You talk about Black Lives Matter and all this shit, but you let your own children use words like ranga and everyone laughs at the redheads. It’s the only type of racism that doesn’t count and I’ve battled it my whole life”.

Brad drives a car that’s worth nearly as much as his brother’s house. Brad has several houses.

I actually love that about Brad. Because I love Brad. I’m pretty sure I always will. But I did think in that moment that he takes after his mother a lot more than I’ve ever noticed. They’re not stupid. At all. But in the heat of the moment they have this weird ability to draw the longest of bows but to stand there like they’re the pro archer and it’s all been meticulously planned. They’re not forcing parallel arguments from incongruent thoughts. No way. They’re the last great analytical thinkers. Lydia, bless her, even shouted “That’s right Brad. But they wouldn’t get it. We’re the logisticians at the table”. I mean, that’s not the right word, not even in the same ballpark, but I didn’t have the heart. And Lydia can see two different ballparks at opposite ends of the same town and be convinced they’re both selling the same sport.

It was excruciating. But Gareth could see that Brad’s face was shaking. And I think he thought he’d just continue to laugh it all down, since it was all so absurd. My youngest, Olivia, even said at one point, “Can we talk about something else”. But her grandparents were both high and mighty at this point. I couldn’t tell you that Brad is their favourite. But they were certainly all upset at Marley – maybe for different reasons.

The whole “argument” – it sounds cruel to the stoics and, um, “logisticians”, hahaha, to even call it that – lasted just a few minutes. It went absolutely nowhere. But shit I thought Brad was going to punch Gareth. And Lydia and Stephen really went in on poor Marley. They were yelling at their grandson, spittle flying. Their other grandson, my gorgeous wee Henry, was sitting there demure-like, alongside his sister. But it felt a little cruel to see poor Marley ganged up on. I mean, shit, his parents aren’t going to ever teach him that hard work is the key. They’re always going to be letting him “explore his creativity” and other nonsense. But I really did feel sorry for him in this moment. So stupid. All of it.

I followed Brad from the table. He threw his knife and fork down hard on the plate and whirled back his chair and all but ran from the table, taking a glass and a salad bowl with him in the world’s worst cover-up; suggesting he was just actually clearing the table of some of its dishes.

In the kitchen, I said to him, “look, you’re in your 40s. Your nephew is 12. He was talking about a pretty tacky picture. You somehow equated the plight of being born ginger with slavery in the American south. Your family is fucking bonkers. But the important thing is that I love you”.

He grabbed the keys, pointed his finger at me and screamed, “YOU NEED TO SUPPORT ME MORE”. I mean, I thought I was doing exactly that.

There are more than 360 days until it’s Christmas again. But I wasn’t going to ask Kylie or Gareth if they understood why redheads had had it so tough. I didn’t really want to say that I was on the same page as them. Next thing they’d be emailing me suggestions of book clubs I could join near Devonport, for fucks sake.

My friend Shelley has always said that family is like fish. It goes off after three days.

No one won anything here. Not an argument, nor any respect. And we drove home the next day with Brad pulsing past cars that didn’t deserve to be passed. He was weaving in and out of improvised passing lanes, as Henry and Olivia held onto the handrails above their heads in the back seats. Their headset DVD players mostly keeping them from really caring about anything much at all, which was the one blessing.

I kept thinking about how Marley was trying to say that he had a redhead friend who called himself a ranga, and a bloodnut, and a gingerhead man, and a Fanta bottle, and…there was something else. I almost asked Brad if he remembered what the other name was. But I wasn’t going to make any other mistakes.