Outside the Music

The boy leans against the gum tree beside the driveway, watching his father load bags into the family car.  The bright airline bag containing clothes and towels.  The old blue bag, nearly falling apart, stuffed with board games and other such distractions.  Warm sunlight dapples on his face, its patterns moving in time with the gumleaves that rattle softly in the breeze.  The walkman is a comfortable shape in his hand.
	His mother emerges from the house with food bag and esky.  His father is now battling the brand new beach umbrella which, unlike its predecessor, steadfastly refuses to fit into the boot at any angle.
In a minute, his mother will reach the car and calmly point out that his father could simply lower the back seat and slide the umbrella through.  His father will insist that he knows what he's doing, at which she will smile sweetly and stand back to let him continue.  Then, at the height of his frustration, she will glance casually at her watch and note that they should really be on the road by now...
	The boy looks away, tilts his head to the sky and the sunlit leaves, and lets the music wash over him.

So here we go again.
Every day a new beginning,
Every day a chance for mending, 
Until it falls apart.

The cool window of the car vibrates against his cheek.  The seat beside him is obscured by the front end of the beach umbrella, its rainbow-striped folds filling his vision.  Nestled snugly in his ears, the earphones are a reassuring presence, but the walkman is switched off.  The car radio is quietly on and his father is singing, not very well:
We're all going on a
Summer holiday.
No more worries for me or you...
	His mother is silent, head turned away, looking out through her window.  He can imagine her face - tight and still, devoid of emotion.
	"Hey, kiddo, looking forward to the beach?"
	His father, grinning at him in the rear-view mirror.  He looks away, taps his fingers to an imaginary beat, pretends not to have heard.
	Now there is a beat - a soft tapping on the roof of the car, getting louder.  Through the window by his face, the outside world blurs.  Rain.
	"I told you we should have waited another week.  The forecast said it'll be like this for days."
	His mother speaks without moving her gaze from the window, irritation in her voice.  In the mirror, his father's face is a scowl.
	"If we went next week, we'd have to cancel Mark's swimming training, remember?"
	"It's only one week, he could make it up."
	"Funny, I'm sure that's what I said when we were planning this.  And weren't you the one who said it was vital for him to go to the first class of the season?"
	"I only said it'd be better for him, and weren't you the one who couldn't possibly take next week off work?"
	"I said it would be easier if I didn't, that's all."
	Their voices are not raised - his father's a low, sharp growl, overtones of clenched teeth; his mother's taut and brittle, ready to snap.
	"Well, we could still postpone the holiday a week, is that what you want?"
	"What?  Damn it, Lydia, I hate when you're sarcastic."
	"I'm not being sarcastic.  We could still turn around and head back.  Is that what you want to do?  You're the boss."
	"Is that what I want?  You're the one moaning about the weather, for God's sake!  It'll be drier on the peninsula, it always is."
	"And if it isn't?  You know how bored Mark gets when he has to sit around the beach house all day."
	The boy knows what is coming.  He finally switches on his walkman, turns it up loud, the beat reverberating through his eardrums.  Eyes closed, he focuses on the music, pretends he cannot hear his father ask him what he wants to do.  He does not want to choose a side, to state his allegiance.  The cone of sound surrounds him, neutral territory.  Safe.

Same old thunder,
Same old rain;
Same old anger,
Same old pain.

Inside his house of music, he lies on his back on an iron-framed bed.  The ceiling is an expanse of off-white, broken only by cracks and dirt-spots, and a single, bare lightbulb.  The rain drums a lively tempo on the roof while the slower pulse of the music surrounds him.
	Somewhere outside the music, someone is shouting - his father.  The voice is faint, an alien signal, barely covering the light-years between its world and his own.
	The door opens.  His father stands in the doorway, face flushed.  The boy watches his mouth move and listens to the words that pour into his head through the wires of the walkman.  The music rises to a climax.  His eyes slide away.
	There is a tiny spider on the ceiling - no more than a speck of dirt, it moves in short spurts across the plasterboard.  Each dash is in a different direction, as if it cannot decide where it is going.  Or perhaps it just doesn't know.
	His father is gone.  Far away, the front door slams, sending a shiver through the whole house.  The spider is shaken from the ceiling and drifts aimlessly downwards.  The music plays on.

(c) Copyright Hespa.
This work may be downloaded, but may not be printed, altered in any way or presented as thy own work.