“That’s for your dad. If you oversleep, you starve.”
It’s the law of the jungle around here.
Still, when Lionel grabs his rucksack off the counter I see Mum slip him a sandwich and a banana, because she’s not quite as hard as she wants us to think she is.
A few minutes after Lionel’s exit, my dad comes through the perpetually revolving door. For as long as I can remember, Dad’s worked the graveyard shift at the power plant.
Like Homer Simpson.
He sinks down into his chair at the table, kissing my mother’s cheek when she slides his warmed plate and tea in front of him.
“Thank you, love.” He chews on a bite of ham and gazes around at us, his balding head gleaming beneath the white glow of the kitchen ceiling light. “How are my angels today?”
Between the two of them, Dad’s the softie. The pushover. Growing up, if one of us deserved the belt—and with eight of us around, someone always deserved the belt—he’d take us back behind the shed and give us one, single smack. But he’d look so stricken afterward, the guilt alone kept us well-behaved for days.
Though I still can’t tell if he calls us his angels sincerely or not. I mean, Satan was an angel once too.
There’s a knock on the back door and a moment later Logan St. James steps through it, wearing his own dapper dark suit.
My sisters greet him warmly and my dad says, “Logan, how are you, son?”
When God was passing out families Logan was dealt a rotten hand, so my parents have tried to fill that space for him.
“I’m well, Mr. Sullivan,” Logan says and smiles—something he does a lot more of these days.
“Do you want a bite to eat, Lo?” my mum asks. “There’s some porridge left.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Are you coming to supper on Sunday?” she asks. “I’m making my roast.”
In the summer, Mum likes to do Sunday dinners up big—friends, family and half the block are invited.
“I’ll have to check with Ellie.”
“Smart man,” Winnie says with a grin.
“On top of Finn teething, she’s been feeling poorly lately,” Logan explains. “I’ll let Tommy know if we can make it.”
Finnegan is Logan and Ellie’s nine-month-old son. He’s the spitting image of his father, with his mother’s energetic zest for life.
I slip my suit jacket on. “We’ve got to get on the road.”
“Well, good luck today, boys.” My father stands and pats our backs. “Make us proud.”
Logan goes out the front door to the car, but before I can follow him, Fiona comes sneaking down the stairs with a huge bouquet of roses in her arms.
“Tommy.” She glances towards the kitchen to make sure the coast is clear. “I need you to get rid of these for me.”
I pluck the card out from between the stems.
“Who the hell is Martin MacTavish and why the fuck is he sending you flowers?”
Flowers are an instrument of seduction—a tool wicked boys use to charm good girls into debauchery. I should know; I’ve sent lots of flowers to lots of girls. And debauchery is fun.
But knowing my baby sister is getting flowers and having to contemplate that she may be doing God knows what with fuck knows who? That’s not fun.
“Shhh! Keep your voice down,” she whisper-yells. “If I wanted to answer those sorts of questions, I’d deal with Mum.”
“Then go on and deal with Mum.” I call her bluff. “Let me know how that works out for you.”
Her face collapses into a mask of pathetic pleading, and her big, sad doe eyes stab me straight through the heart. “Pleeeasse, Tommy. You know how she can be. I need your help. Please, please?”
As the youngest of many, Fiona’s superpower is finding a person’s soft spot and exploiting it. It’s near impossible to tell her no.
“All right, all right,” I relent with a sigh. “Give them here.”
“You’re the best big brother ever!” She kisses my cheek, passes me the flowers and bounces away.
Outside on the stoop, I hand the roses to Logan.
“Give these to Ellie, would you?”
“Okay.” He stares at the bouquet curiously. “Why are you giving my wife flowers?”
I shake my head. “Because God is punishing me. And I need to get a place of my own, that’s why.”
We make it halfway to the car before an excited, high-pitched voice calls from over the bushes on the side of the property.
“Hello there, Tommy—hi! Hey, Logan.”
Melanie Thistle has lived next door my entire life. When we were twelve I kissed her at the top of the Ferris wheel during the Autumn Pass festival, and she’s been keen on me ever since.
“Hi, Mellie,” I return.
Lo lifts his chin. “Melanie.”
She waves vigorously and smiles so broadly, I can almost see her back molars.
“How’s school treating you?” I ask, even though I shouldn’t.
But it’s automatic at this point—chatting women up is what I do.