Handyman

Chapter 1

Hung wants to cup his hands over his ears. And cover his eyes. And not hear or see anything. But he has to look. And listen. Because his mother was shouting: "Listen to me. Woy! You don't look away. You listen to what I have to say."

She tries to stamp her feet. But she only manages with one foot, the one not beside her walking stick.

"You don't care about anything. You don't care about other people. About me."

Right now, he really doesn't care about his mother, when she is in this state. When she is standing outside his room, noisy, and balancing on her walking stick.

She has taken to it after a fall last week. She was in the kitchen, cooking, lunch or something, he can't recall, now, with her screaming clouding his senses. She tripped on something on the floor—she reminds him, every time she has a hard time hobbling about the house— it was some litter or rubbish he had dropped. She said he hadn't bothered to even throw the thing into the rubbish bin, when it was right there in the corner, for his convenience. And he never ever once offered to take the rubbish or the bin outside the gate, for the rubbish men to pick up. She had to hobble out to the gate herself, in her state, one hand on her stick, the other holding the rubbish bag. What would her neighbors think about him then? So irresponsible, such a bad son, letting an old lady do the heavy work. (He was thinking, it wasn't heavy, if she didn't fall over from its weight)

Today was much like that day. like what she is screaming at him about, now, a week later.

She brings her stick down on the parquet floor, hard. He marvels at how she had the strength to deliver such a blow. The sound isn't a tap, it is a loud crack. He thinks he sees splinters on the floor. If she is not careful, she'd trip over the damaged wood. Then, another fall. Then what will she be holding on to? A stick on each hand? He nearly laughs at his picture.

"What the hell are you laughing at now?" She manages to keep her balance while she brandishes the stick in the air. It doesn't reach him; he's still in his room, the door opened.

He hefts his sports bags, as if to indicate something to her, his need to quit the house. He says, calmly, after a lull in the screaming, "I need to go now, or I'll be late." No, he won't. The gym is not waiting for him. He just wants to go, now, to not have to stand around and listen to the harangue.

"Where are you off to now?" She doesn't wait for his answer, but continues, "Always going somewhere. Never at home for dinner even." She huffs, and nearly spits. "I won't be cooking your dinner. Never let me know if you're coming home. Always wasting food." She pauses, deciding over something that comes to her mind. She sneers. "Ok I won't ever cook your dinner any more. For now on, you can eat outside. See how much savings you will have left then. You think it's so cheap? Just you wait." Another pause. "Maybe now you have to pay me rent for the room you're sleeping in. And I say this again." She utters this steadily: "Sleeping in. That's all you do these days. I hope you still work at your." She hesitates, because he never tells her the jobs or work he used to be getting, repairing things at houses, plumbing, electricity, and stuff. "Whatever you do at these houses that call you."

He says, "Contract work. I work as a handyman." Then quietly, as if to himself: "When I used to get work." Then he looks up, sees the old lady in a harrumph. He quickly rallies. He strides out of his room, avoiding her, still standing but having stopped shouting now. Her eyes follow him as he opens the front door.

He hears her clear her throat. What now, he sighs. He turns to take more punishment, waiting, hunched.

"As I just mentioned. I won't be cooking tonight. Buy some hokkien mee back. Some fired rice, and maybe mee hoon."

He thinks she must look a little sheepish. Her face has relaxed. Even if there isn't a smile on it. He doesn't want to relent and drop his hurt demeanour. He knows she is now over her anger, she could be tired after her effort.

He says, "OK, mum. And more lard, like you like." He looked again, to see her reaction to this. She looks calm now, though no smile. He goes out to get his bike, closing the door behind him. He doesn't slam it this time.