The Family Across the Street

by Trope, Nicole

  Someone is in the kitchen. Someone has opened the back door.

  She can see George rising a little from the sofa. He wants to run, to see who it is, but she knows they need to wait.

  She has no idea who it could be and she wonders if it’s actually someone breaking into the house. There have been some burglaries in the area but mostly those take place at night when the homeowners are out. The irony of it is that she would welcome a burglar right now.

  George opens his mouth a little and she gives her head a slight shake. ‘Wait,’ she mouths. She mouths it three times before he nods that he has understood.

  They need to wait.

  37

  Logan

  The kitchen is empty; a white marble countertop gleams in the afternoon sun. Shiny black cabinets sit below the counter and stark white ones above. A black-and-white checkerboard floor of tiles adds to what should be a magazine-perfect look but there are too many things out of place for a magazine. The sink is filled with dirty dishes. A trail of ants marches along the countertop that is covered in cracker boxes and half-eaten pieces of fruit, on which fruit flies converge and gorge themselves. Disinfectant wipes lie unopened next to the mess. He glances at the large fridge, which is covered in photos and children’s drawings held up by animal magnets.

  He takes a step forward, hears a crunch under his foot and silently curses as he looks down to see a spilled bag of crisps. He knows that this is not how this kitchen usually looks. He takes a deep breath and steps around the crisps, looking down, his feet careful as he listens for movement in the house.

  38

  Gladys

  Gladys waits, hating the heat and the sun and this day more with each passing minute. ‘Where are you?’ she mutters, peering down the street. ‘Where are you?’ She looks at her watch and sees that Logan has only been inside the house for a minute or so. The heat is oppressive and the cicadas are maddening whenever she tunes in to them. She looks at her phone again, waiting, hoping – for what, she’s not sure.

  39

  When I get to five, I slow my count, leaving the space of one breath in between the numbers, because a life can change in just one breath, because I’m going to take a breath and change their lives.

  I’m not sure I’m ready for this. I’ve fired a gun before. My father once took me to a shooting range. It was a present for my fourteenth birthday. He didn’t tell me where we were going. He wanted it to be a surprise. It was a rifle range and I found the gun unwieldy to hold. I wasn’t very good but my father was. He hit the target every time. ‘I’ve always had a good eye,’ he told me. I think it was one of the last good days he had. I wonder if you can miss if you shoot with a handgun in a small room. I wonder what the kickback will feel like, if there will be a smell in the air.

  There is no way back and nothing else to do. I feel that; my broken heart knows that. And when I’m done with her, with them, I’ll make sure that I don’t have to feel anything anymore or ever again. I believe that was the plan all along. I never meant to make it out of this alive. Maybe there was something else I was going to do today but not anymore. It is easier to leave pain behind, easier to not have to feel. I tried it one way, I really did, but I failed the same way my father failed. I am my father’s son, but I am going to do one thing differently to the way he did it. I am going to take those who hurt me with me.

  40

  Katherine

  Her thoughts are a chaotic whirl as she tries to figure out how she’s going to do this. She can feel the presence of another human being in the house. Her senses are heightened, fear making her hyper-aware of everything. Maybe Gladys is in the kitchen. Perhaps the older woman has sensed something, knows something. Perhaps it is someone even more dangerous than what she is dealing with here – but she doubts that. Nothing makes a man more dangerous than hate.

  She needs to tell George what to do and she needs to figure out her part. Think, Katherine, she silently admonishes herself. She would like to give in to the agony of her body, the exhaustion of her mind. She would like to curl up on this sofa and stay very still but mothers don’t get a choice like that.

  The children need to get away and they can only get away if he’s distracted. She needs to be the distraction. No matter what is going to happen to her now, she needs to be the distraction. She leans forward and puts her head on her knees in a gesture of defeat, praying that her daughter and son will react the way she thinks they will. She breathes in and out slowly, one breath in, one breath out – how many breaths until her last?

  Sophie moves right up to her and drapes herself over her mother, and George leans down and puts his face next to hers. ‘Don’t cry, Mum,’ he whispers.

  ‘How touching,’ he sneers.

  She lifts the arm with the broken wrist and pulls George to her, feeling his surprise at how tightly she is holding him, ignoring the searing stream of pain right up into her neck, and she whispers, barely moving her mouth and hoping that he will hear what she has to say. ‘When I say “now” you need to run to the kitchen.’ His body relaxes against her and she breathes out with relief. One more breath? Two more breaths? How far is he into his countdown?

  She sits up and looks at her son. ‘George loves Captain America, don’t you, George?’ she says. He loves the character, and has seen all the movies with his father. He has a dress-up with a shield and a mask that he puts on whenever he gets the chance and he stands up taller when he’s in the costume, believes he is capable of more. Captain America is brave and strong and she wants George to know that this is what he must be. She watches as his little back straightens and he plants his feet firmly on the carpet, his body tilted slightly forward. He is getting ready to run and this is what she wants.

  She can’t wait any longer.

  ‘I know what you’re doing,’ she says. ‘I can see you counting. You think that this is the solution to your broken heart, that this is how you make it stop hurting. But it’s not going to happen, because I’m not going to let it happen. I will not allow you to hurt these children.’

  ‘You made me lose count,’ he says slowly, ‘now I have to start again.’ There is a lilt to his voice, a note of gratitude almost. He is happy he’s lost count.

  ‘Maybe you don’t want to do this.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the only thing I want to do. It’s what I came here to do and you can’t stop it now. You simply can’t.’

  She stands up slowly.

  ‘Hey…’ He raises the gun.

  ‘Now, George!’ she shouts. ‘Now!’ And she launches herself at him – her whole body goes for him. She swings her arms and kicks her legs, a whirling dervish of fury, distracting him, forcing him to lift his hands. She attacks as her children run.

  41

  Logan

  He hears the sound of running feet. ‘Get back here!’ a harsh voice shouts, and then a woman screams and there is a gunshot. He knows it’s a gunshot. He’s heard gunshots before. People think it’s a single, contained sound but it has a slight tail of noise after the initial, shocking explosion.

  He looks at the kitchen door that leads to the rest of the house and watches as two children burst through the doorway. When they see him, they freeze, only their small chests moving up and down as they become frightened statues. The little girl is clutching a stuffed monkey, its torn head lolling backwards, some of the stuffing leaking out. They are holding hands so tightly that he can see their fingers are white with the effort of it. He watches the little boy take in his appearance; his face grows pale and he swallows once, twice. A tear slips down his cheek, and Logan feels his heart break for the child.

  He crouches down, wishing he was still wearing his long-sleeved shirt. The boy’s eyes dart all over his skin, taking in his tattoos, and there is not only fear written on his little face but defeat as well. He thought they were getting away. Now he thinks they are not.

  He can see the girl’s eyes darting from arm to arm as well and he knows the fanged snake is visible at his neck.


  Crouching down further, he makes himself smaller. He raises his finger to his lips. ‘Shhh,’ he says and the boy nods. He hates that they are scared of him. But he needs to get them out of here. How long until the man who shouted comes after them? Seconds slip away in the hot kitchen.

  ‘My name is Logan,’ he says, ‘and I’m here to help, okay?’ He tries to keep his voice soft and even.

  The children regard him warily and then the little girl glances at her brother, her face full of love and trust, and Logan knows who it is he has to convince.

  ‘Is your name George?’ he asks.

  The boy nods, his big green eyes filling up with tears that he can’t wipe away. He needs his hand to hold on to his sister. Logan can see that the other hand is bunched into a little fist. This kid means to protect his sister no matter what. He’s her brother and that’s what brothers do.

  ‘George, I’m here to help you and your mum. The police are coming. Gladys told me all about you. I want you and Sophie to go out of the kitchen door and run to Gladys. Do you think you can do that?’

  ‘We can do that, can’t we, George?’ stage-whispers the girl. She looks hopefully at her brother. He will be the one to make the decision. Logan wants to shout at them to run. How soon until the man with the gun comes? Time is a solid thing in the kitchen, his heartbeat racing the tick of the clock on the wall.

  Standing up, Logan takes a step to the side, clearing a path for them. The little boy stares at him, unsure, untrusting.

  Logan wonders what he could say to this kid to get him to move. He thinks about Mack’s son, Chris, who is seven, remembers walking up and down the aisles of Kmart with Debbie looking for a present for his birthday.

  ‘Anything to do with Captain America, Mack told me,’ Debbie said and then they found the costume, complete with shield. Chris loved it.

  He takes a chance that Captain America is someone this kid knows about. He has to get them to move or he will have to lift them both bodily and take them out of the kitchen, but that will take too much time.

  ‘I bet Captain America couldn’t run as fast as you,’ says Logan, attempting to keep the desperation out of his voice.

  George’s mouth opens, amazement on his face. Logan knows he’s said the right thing. He nods his head furiously and then the children glance at each other and they take off through the open back door, their receding footsteps the best thing he’s heard all day. Relief floods Logan’s body – if the kids are safe, that’s one good thing.

  ‘Keep going,’ shouts Logan, and he starts to run towards the room where the gunshot came from.

  It only takes him a few steps through the dining room to get to the room at the back where the sound has come from.

  And as he bursts in, he looks at what has happened, at who is there, and he knows that whatever you do in your life, you can never outrun karma. Karma never loses an address.

  42

  Gladys

  Gladys hears the crack of sound that fills the air. It’s come from inside the house but that’s not possible because it sounds like a gunshot, an actual gunshot. She holds her hand over her mouth and she turns to look at the front door. It was a gunshot, she’s sure of it. ‘Oh God,’ she moans, ‘oh God, oh God.’

  She should have called the police earlier. She feels like she might hyperventilate as she forces air in and out of her lungs. Someone is hurt and she could have prevented it.

  And then she hears footsteps, and she sees George running, pulling Sophie along behind him. They come from the side of the house and they keep running through the open gate and then George launches himself at her, tears staining his face. Gladys nearly falls over but she puts her arms around the two trembling children and says the only thing she can say: ‘It’s all right, it’s okay.’ They are both damp with sweat, their hair limp in the heat and their cheeks red. They are dressed in their school uniforms because they were meant to leave for school, that was what was meant to happen.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she repeats, hoping that’s the truth.

  They bury their faces in her stomach and they are both crying and trying to speak at the same time. She hears the words ‘he’ and ‘gun’, and Sophie says something about her stuffed monkey. Their small bodies shudder and Gladys feels a whole day of terror in the way they cling to her. She has no idea what’s happening inside the house. But she needs to get them away from here, they need to be somewhere safe.

  Where is Katherine? Was that a gunshot? Who was shot?

  ‘Shhh,’ says Gladys as she holds the children and begins moving backwards, towards her own house. ‘Shhh.’

  43

  ‘Mum, Mum…’ The words leave my lips without me even thinking about them. Words I haven’t said for years. She has been my mother, your mother, her and other words for a long time now. Ugly words from my father, from me.

  I look down at what I’ve done, at her body, at the way she has fallen, at the way she is looking at me, her brown eyes wide, incomprehension in her stare. Perhaps she didn’t think I would do it. But she came at me. She threw herself at me to save them. They were the ones she was worried about, the ones she cared about. ‘Mum,’ I whisper because I cannot stop the word.

  I have broken her the same way I broke the love of my life. The same way I broke Maddy. Maddy with her dark hair and blue eyes and the slight gap between her front teeth. Maddy who hummed songs in the morning while she brushed her teeth and liked to watch home renovation programmes. I have broken my mum the same way I broke Maddy. As I look at her, their faces merge and they become one, the same.

  The anger that I have been consumed by dissipates into the air, thins out and is gone. All that’s left is confusion.

  I stare down at the gun the way I stared down at my hands. They are still scratched from Maddy’s nails as she fought me, still bruised from connecting with her cheekbone. They hurt. My hands hurt but the physical pain was nothing compared to the real pain.

  How could I have done this? How could I have done that?

  I remember running from the apartment, leaving Maddy on the floor, trying to erase the image of her broken doll body, running and crying, knowing that I had done the worst thing possible. But she had loved me and then she didn’t. She just turned it off one day and that was wrong. It wasn’t supposed to happen to me. Not again.

  When I stopped running, I hid in a park, behind some trees, sweat drying on my skin in the cool breeze that blew up, and I tried to work out why I had hurt the woman I loved.

  I couldn’t stand the idea of her not loving me anymore and she wouldn’t listen to what I had to say. I promised to change, to become who she wanted me to be even though my father said I should never do that. But I would have done it for her.

  ‘You can’t change, Patrick,’ Maddy said. ‘This is who you are.’

  ‘You need to leave,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve tried my best, but this isn’t going to work.’

  But I was trying my best. I was trying to be who she wanted me to be but it was just too much, too hard.

  Maddy said, ‘Speak to your mother, she loves you.’

  Maddy said, ‘You should forgive your mother; she’s never stopped trying. I’ve read the emails.’

  Maddy said, ‘My brother doesn’t think we’re good for each other.’

  Maddy said, ‘You need to stop treating me like this.’

  Maddy said, ‘If you hit me again, my brother will be on the first plane from Sydney to break your hands.’

  Maddy said, ‘Why are you like this?’

  Maddy said, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’

  Maddy said, ‘Im leaving you – or at least you’re leaving my flat. Pack your stuff and get out.’

  Maddy said, ‘I don’t want to hear you’re sorry again. Just get out.’

  And in that moment, as her eyes darkened and a scowl took over her whole face, I understood that I had become my father, that I would end up drinking and taking pills to forget, and that I would one day give in to the des
pair of losing someone who was supposed to love me. I would be as pathetic as he was.

  I got angrier than I have ever been before and I lashed out and I kept going, even when her hands were up over her head and she was cowering on the floor.

  And then I washed my hands, her blood running in the bathroom sink, dribbling away, and I left, taking money and a credit card from her purse. The tears arrived as the anger disappeared.

  In the park, my heart slowed and the anger rose again. I started walking because I needed to walk, and I kept going for hours. She shouldn’t have pushed me, shouldn’t have hurt me. She got what she deserved. I wasn’t going to be the only one suffering like my father. I expected the guilt to come but it didn’t. The only thought that kept circulating was, At least I’m not pathetic like him.

  But it wasn’t enough because I knew that if I’d been a different man, Maddy would have still loved me. If not for the divorce and my mother’s callous disregard for my father, my whole life would have been something else.