Page 53 of The Dysfunctional Family's Guide to Murder
“What are you two doing in here?”
“Making tea.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And talking about Rob.” I assume an expression that (I hope) suggests that the sudden near death of a man I knew significantly less well than our mailman has left me sad and confused, rather than suspicious and plotting.
“It was such a shock,” Dylan adds, possibly overegging it.
“We’re all still trying to process it,” Aunty Vinka says, her voice going as soft as one of the gauzy pink curtains she has everywhere in her house. (Between that and the amount of incense she goes through, her home is a total fire hazard.) “Tell me how you’re both feeling.”
“It seems surreal,” I say, and, for a change, I’m not even lying. “He was here this morning—without pants, which was weird but also not the point—and now he might die.”
Aunty Vinka has bought it, and I should feel more guilty than I do. (Maybe the tests were wrong and Iama psychopath. Although, would a psychopath spend this much time worrying about being a psychopath?)
“I have some great meditation exercises if you’re interested.”
“I was wondering,” Dylan says quickly, “do you think we could do something as a family to get out of the house tonight? Maybe go for a walk down to the dam or something?”
“The dam?” Aunty Vinka looks as surprised as she should. “What for?”
“I just want to clear my head,” Dylan says. “I thought maybe everyone could do with some fresh air?”
It’s not, frankly, the most believable excuse I’ve ever heard. A fifteen-year-old boy suggesting a post-dinner walk with his extended family does not come off quite as naturally as Dylan seems to believe. But Aunty Vinka loves to think the best of people, and it’s obvious that she wants to take him at face value and not ask some relevant questions likeWhat? The? Hell?
“That’s a great idea, Dylan. What do you think, Ruth?”
“Sounds good.” (There’s no way I’m going on that walk, obviously.)
Surprisingly, everyone goes for it—even Shippy, who seems more baffled than flattered when Dylan makes it clear he wants him to come too. They’re all changing into sensible walking shoes and searching for flashlights when I make my move, sidling up to Dad, who’s sitting on the bottom of the stairs with his feet resting on the base of the lamp to more easily lace up his sneakers. That task is proving more difficult than you’d think because he’s got Band-Aids on two of his fingers.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Oh. Knife slipped when I was chopping up fruit,” he says vaguely, but his eyes are on the dusty floorboards. “We really need to get out the vacuum. I think dirt works differently in the country: This floor was spotless the day we were supposed to leave, you know.”
I ignore Dad’s looming treatise on country dirt and get right to it.
“Dad, do you mind if I skip the walk and stay home?”
“Why?”
“I’ve got cramps.” I touch my stomach suggestively, confident that Dad has not been keeping notes on my menstrual cycle.
“Exercise is good for period cramps,” he says, and, damn it, why can’t I have a dad who starts hyperventilating when he hears the wordperiodlike our PE teacher at school who lets me sit out cross-country twice a month because he’s never bothered to keep track.
“I just want to take some Panadol and have a hot bath.”
“Okay,” he says, and I try to smile wanly. (Period pains: getting young women out of social commitments since, well, forever, I assume.) “I’ll stay with you.” Ah, crap.
“No, you go. Honestly, I’d like to have the house to myself for a bit.”
I once read an article about how to spot a liar that said you should never trust anyone who uses the wordhonestly.Dad, perhaps, never read that one. Or maybe he’s just foolish enough to trust the word of his beloved only child because all he says is: “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“We won’t be long.”
“Take your time,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m begging.
