Sunday Afternoon
Paul Maka
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway takes my mind out
of the world of Robertson Davies. A blue pen and a green highlighter
rest on my knee. The car door slams shut. I close the book
and listen. No voices. Dad must be home. My Sunday afternoon
study period ends.
I hear his boots thud up the front porch steps, then the kicking
off of salt and slush. The screen door creaks open. Keys rattle. He
always tries at least seven before finding the right one. The dead bolt
slams back, the door swings open. The alarm box in the hall sounds
its computerized warning beeps.
“Hello? Hello? Is anyone home?” Dad takes a few steps into the
hall. “What are you doing in there?” He stands at the doorway.
I sit in the living room, the quietest and most comfortable room
in the house. “I have to finish this book for class tomorrow.”
He grunts and walks away.
I pick Fifth Business back up. The main character was killed by
the usual cabal: himself, first of all; by the woman he knew; by the
woman he did not know; by the man who granted his innermost
wish; and by the inevitable fifth, the denouement.
Who were the two women? I flip back a few pages and start to
reread a selection.
“Oh, Paul, don’t rest your feet on there! What are you doing?”
Dad stands in the doorway again. My feet rest on the solid oak
coffee table. I feel comfortable.
“Can you leave me alone? I’m trying to get some work done!”
He walks away and mutters, “Work? That’s work?” His sarcastic
laughter trails from the room.
I grab my books, pen and highlighter and storm down the
basement stairs. The only English class Dad took was designed for
engineers. He laughs when he tells the story. “We never even read
the book. We all just copied off the smart guys. Ha. They just sat
there in the cafeteria with their notebooks spread open on the table
and we stood around writing everything down. You didn’t have to
do any work and you still passed.”
I am in the English Specialist program at UTM. I have to read at
least four books a week just to keep up.
I turn on my computer. The fan whirs and the tower vibrates. I
wedge a book up against it to stop the noise. Upstairs, Mom arrives
home. I hear Dad yell at her. He complains about my little brother
Michael.
“All he ever does is watch TV.”
I know this song. I can’t hear Mom’s tired response. It doesn’t
matter. It’s the same fight every day. Michael maintains a B average
in school.
I flip open my notebook and find my assignment: Write a detailed
account of family life. I type a few points.
“...and what about Paul? I never see him doing any work. All he
does all day is play computer games. What kind of courses does he
take? I wish I had classes like that when I was in university.”
Dad comes down to check up on me as I type my essay. The
screensaver comes on when I stop to think. He thinks screensavers
are computer games. My heart pounds. My hands tremble. I want to
yell something at him. Instead, I write.