The Workbench
I BOUNCE into the house, afternoon sunshine trailing in after me. Without greeting my mother, I swing my backpack onto the floor and ask: “Where’s Dad?”
Her red lips immediately vanish into a thin line of irritation. “Hello to you too.”
She turns her cheek towards me. I dutifully brush my lips against her cool, dry skin. I’m enveloped in the floral fragrance which follows her like a shadow wherever she goes. It’s the only softness about her. “Hello, Mom.”
She sighs, nodding curtly towards the garage. “He’s in there, as usual.”
She takes another breath as if she wants to add something. I don’t give her the opportunity; I’m out of there like a shot.
As I approach the garage, the monotonous, high-pitched keening of the electric saw grows louder. I push the door open. Knocking won’t help – he won’t hear it above the noise. But even if the saw had been switched off and there had
