Apologize, Apologize! - By Elizabeth Kelly Page 0,8

on irresistible display.

In Pop’s view, clothes absolutely made the man—the sight of a baseball cap and a sport jacket made him apoplectic. “The windbreaker crowd,” he’d mutter, erecting a bridge of contempt between himself and anyone in a sweatshirt. If Pop had been born a woman, he would have walked around the house fully accessorized, struggling down the laneway to pick up the mail in nylons and high heels.

He shot me a merry conspiratorial glance, inviting me to join in on the joke. I smiled nervously—if Ma was a seismic rumble with occasional release of acidic gases, then Pop was a full-scale volcanic eruption. Everything was funny to Pop until he lost his temper for reasons apparent only to him, and that’s when the sky opened up and the wind blew round him in brilliant shades of magenta, the world erupted and lava flowed in the streets, and everyone started running for their lives.

“Tell me again why we hate Granddad?” I asked.

“It’s a sin to hate. We don’t hate anyone in this family,” Pop said, taking a serious tone.

“Oh, yes, we do!” Ma said, practically producing sparks as she pulled on her blue jeans beneath her nightgown. “We despise your grandfather because he represents all that’s wrong with this world. He cares for nothing and no one. He despises the poor and denigrates the helpless. He thinks that poverty is a character defect—all that matters to him is accumulating wealth and power and setting himself up as some sort of pasha to be worshipped and obeyed.”

I could feel the pulverizing effects of my mother’s personal radioactivity as she stared me down. I averted my gaze and pulled the blankets up around my chest.

“You can’t hide from me, Collie. I know that you like him.”

“No, I don’t,” I said defensively while Pop looked mildly embarrassed, as if some unpleasant family secret were about to be revealed.

“You can’t fool me,” Ma said, triumphant expression on her face, her voice crackling with bitterness. “You think he’s so wonderful, then why don’t you go live with him? I’ll pack your bags and put you out the door myself. I’m sick of your betrayals.”

It was a familiar threat. I glanced over at the corner of my parents’ room, days of clothing heaped high as a small mountain range, two little dogs curled up on its summit, Ma agonizing over the laundry—how to do it, when to do it, why do it at all—the way international think tanks dwell on questions of war and peace.

“It’s nice there, at Granddad’s house, I mean,” I said, finally daring to look at her. “It’s quiet. I like the way the sheets smell.”

“That figures,” Ma sneered. “You’re so typical, Collie. I can hardly believe you’re my son. You want everything tied together in a nice, neat little potpourri package. Well, the world is a filthy, stinking place. I’m so sorry if I don’t conform to your narrow idea of what a mother should be, cooking and cleaning and pressing your sheets and starching your shirt collars. Life is not a goddamn dance recital!”

“Well, it’s not a bunch of dirty socks, either,” I said as Ma’s face contorted into a fixed expression of silent rage. She stared at me. Ma was always giving me the stare, aiming her eyes at me like loaded weapons.

“Charlie,” she said finally, “are you going to allow him to speak to me that way?”

“Don’t talk back to your mother,” Pop said, not paying attention, his eyes drooping, fingers tapping out some tune on his bare chest that only he could hear.

“Get your suitcase, Collie, you’re going to your grandfather’s. Make it fast,” Ma ordered, bouncing from the bedroom without a backward glance and banging down the stairs, big dogs and little dogs, their nails clicking against the hardwood, bounding forward to greet her.

Ma was a total hypocrite when it came to her old man, offering me up to him on a regular basis in the same way that primitive tribes would try to ensure good times by feeding virgins into the village volcano to appease the local gods. I used to spend most school holidays at Cassowary and went there at least one or two weekends a month, and Ma was right, I did like it there. My dark secret—I guarded my love for Cassowary as if it were a cache of dirty magazines under my mattress.

My grandfather was a tall man and a long road, formal and austere, but when you’re surrounded on all sides