Free Yardwork by Bruce Blake Page B

your mother,” his father grumbled behind the sports
section. “Eat your fucking dinner.”
    Tim fought to
keep from fidgeting right off his chair, occupying himself with
thoughts of what it would be like for the man to wake and find
himself bound. He played it over and over in his mind, a different
scenario each time as he struggled to finish the almost-inedible
meal. First, he pictured the man terrified, eyes wide and staring,
screams bulging the duct tape sticking his lips together. Then he
imagined him angry, thrashing against the ropes, banging his head
on the wall in an effort to get free. Finally, Tim pictured the man
delighted, happy the boy had played right into his trap.
    The thought
sent a thrill shivering down Tim’s spine.
    With the last
fragment of tough meat still torturing his teeth and tongue, Tim
slid off the chair, stacked his dishes beside the sink and headed
for the door.
    “Where the hell
do you think you’re going?” A piece of asparagus flew out of his
father’s mouth and landed on the dinner table as he spoke. Everyone
pretended they didn’t notice. Tim’s soles squeaked on the linoleum
as he skidded to a halt.
    “To finish the
yard work,” he said with a nervous smile.
    “You got to do
the dishes first.”
    “But I did the
raking, Dad. It’s Kyle’s turn for dishes.”
    His father
lowered his fork and fixed Tim with a ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ look.
“Do as I tell you.”
    Tim opened his
mouth to protest but the scrape of his father’s chair pushing away
from the table killed any objection before it emerged. He needed no
more threat than the sound of chair legs on floor: if his father
was willing to get up, things wouldn’t go well for Tim. He hung his
head and slouched to the sink, cleared dishes from the bottom and
wiped out the garbage collected in the drain: potato peelings,
coffee grounds, left over rice and chicken rinsed from someone’s
lunch plate. The Palmolive bottle wheezed a last gasp of liquid
soap into the running water as the rest of the family finished
their meals and piled their dishes on the counter beside him. Kyle
-- a year younger but two inches taller and ten pounds heavier;
built more like their father where Tim developed a slight and
dainty frame like their mother -- cleared their father’s plate for
him, provoking a grunt of thanks. He smirked, whispered ‘pussy’ in
Tim’s ear and prodded him in the ribs with his elbow as he set the
plate down. Tim frowned but kept his mouth shut.
    Forget the
bastard , he told himself. Get the dishes done. Then the fun
begins.
    Their mother
rose and excused herself, headed for the worn chair in the living
room which provided her haven. She’d sit there for the evening
pretending to read a book or knitting a sweater which she never
seemed to finish while their father watched reality t.v. and news
programs. Occasionally, he’d curse what he saw but neither of them
would speak other than when he commanded her to get him another
beer. She’d do it without protest. Kyle made a beeline for the
basement stairs, making for the Nintendo Wii meant for the boys to
share but which Tim rarely touched.
    “Go finish the
yard work.”
    The muscles in
Tim’s arms and legs froze, turning him into a statue, a half-washed
plate in one hand, the other hand dipped in the water, rinsing the
washcloth. Kyle stopped, teetering on the edge of the top
stair.
    “Me?”
    “Yes, you. Your
brother’s doing the woman’s work.”
    “But he--”
    “No buts, Kyle.
My rake can’t stay out there all night.”
    Panic jarred
loose Tim’s paralysis. He let the plate slide into the sink with a
clunk and faced the other two, his throat tight.
    “It’s okay,
Dad. I’ll do it.”
    “Like hell you
will. You’re a lazy little shit. You always forget.”
    “I won’t
forget. I started the job, I’ll finish it.”
    His father
glared at him over top of the paper. He pushed his chair away,
folded the newspaper and set it on the table, then stood.