Do you think people watch you? When you're on your own, in family gatherings, in the crowds, or even when you're all alone in your bedroom. Yes, the air-conditioner is humming along as usual, and there's always the occasional rattling of metal pipes. It's not completely silent. But remember, you're still alone.
Ashley Oakley dusted her flour-covered hands off her stark white apron. Father's favorite, with the embroidered frills and pearls. She clasped her hands together, praying fervently. "Father may not be here with us now, but he is here in spirit." The knuckles of her bony hands had gotten unusually pale since Father had left. Four days is a long time. Beside her, the boiling water in the pot had overflowed and was whistling sharply. Ashley Oakley turned towards the open window and gazed at the front lawn. Unmowed.
Rustle, rustle. Creak.
The first incident happened shortly after Ashley Oakley and her children stopped by the Cunningham General Store to buy more sachets of Quik-Miks Mac N Cheese. The children had started to get tired of it, but avoided speaking of it to prevent another meltdown. Fortunately, the Oakley family only makes trips to the store every five months. Unfortunately, when they do, they become the subject of the town's abundant (and mean spirited) tittle-tattle. Much to Father's disgust, the villagers had seemed to sense something worth gossiping about in the behaviour of the Oakleys. Consequently, nobody seemed to think of visiting the Oakley house for a Sunday tête-à-tête or to come round for lunch anytime.
Ashley Oakley knows how to block out gossip fairly well. Albeit a fragile little thing, poor dear, she somehow learnt how to deafen herself. The same cannot be said for her children. Poor Ingrid trembled to and fro under the glare of baby boomers brandishing cigarettes. The twins, Iona and Inge, clutched the silk ribbons of each others frocks as the lady cashier with crimson lipstick shook her head disapprovingly at the mountain of Quik-Miks packets in their trolley. But could you blame the youngsters for being meek and staying silent? Speaking up was Father's role, and Father's gone.
After the nightmare of a shopping trip, the incomplete Oakley quintet carried the groceries by hand inside. With a wavering grip, Ashley fumbled to unlock the gigantic industrial padlock on their front gate. Ingrid glanced up at her. She had started to look more ghostlike than ever, the muscles in her jaw taut. A chill shot down Ingrid's back.
"What in the world-"
Ashley drew back, her eyes wide, bulging awfully. Iona and Inge drew each other into a tight sort of embrace. Twin telepathy, they say. Ingrid, the eternally sensible child, instinctively reached for the shiny padlock with an equally pale, childish hand. No need, it was already unlocked.
Ashley gasped sharply again. But she soon had settled down, she cracked a forced grin.
"No need to worry, children! Father... he must've come home. He's home. Smile! That's the only explanation."
It wasn't the only explanation, obviously. But the children said nothing. She could not see how their fingers fidgeted in doubt behind their backs.
Ashley gripped the steely doorknob with forced enthusiasm. A pause. She hesitated. Only fools would not see her doubt. Then, with exaggerated force, she swung the door open with a loud "Aha!" and stopped short of herself.
Glancing at the hardwood floor, nothing. Glancing at the blue velvet armchair, nothing. Glancing at the calmly rotating ceiling fan, nothing. Glancing at the minimalistic black round dining table, nothing. But those calendars? Were those there before? I mean, all twelve of them?
The date, crossed out with a crimson X: 12th of August.
That day, the streets were rife with gossip. Only fools would not see the huge pile of calendars in the bin outside. Conspiracies flew about like the spring breeze. Most of them were foolish, but no doubt, the date on those calendars were far from random.
