ANGEL BLUE [1]

LEAD 11: coming of rage

      “I’ll make it easy for you Dad,” I place a hand on his shoulder.

      Knowing the true coward that Dad is, he’d try and avoid the whole ultimatum option. He has one of two possible escape options, a) he can press the elevator button and get in to delay the conversation or b) not give an answer which consequently decrees for me and Helena to live together until I decide to move out. But as usual, I’ll have to act ten years older than what I am, and make the decision for Dad.

      I press the elevator button and wait for it to rise to the eighth floor. I remove my cap with my right hand and sigh, even though my back is to Dad, I can feel his stare on me. He tries to make a cohesive sentence but fails. Luckily, the elevator dings and the metal doors open.

      Sam forwards inside and holds the elevator, expecting me to bid farewell to my failed parent or something. But I don’t say anything; I just close my eyes for a few seconds and breathe in and out three times.

      “That’s right,” Helena laughs hysterically. “Runaway back to England like your whore of a mother!”

      That hurt a little more than my lack of substantial grade coffee.

      Sam halts his pressing of the elevator button and blocks the closing doors with his leg. His green eyes widen at Helena’s outburst, but his eyebrows will certainly rise at my response. I press my cap at Sam’s chest, moving his hand so it doesn’t fall from his shirt. Sam’s eyes follow my movements but I don’t think they compute.

      I slowly turn on my heel to face Helena whose still chuckling, much to her surprise, I smile sweetly and punch her in the face. She’s on the ground clutching her mouth and nose but I don’t stop there, I pry her manicured hands away from her face and go in with my left fist, making sure that the front of her capped teeth connects with my flesh.

      I don’t care that the implants tare at the skin on my knuckles, I’m just satisfied that she now looks like a wester-hillbilly with no front teeth. That’s worth the pain. I leave her screaming and crying on the eighth floor and forward into the elevator, pressing the button so the doors close.

      I adjust Sam’s tie and ignore the blood trickling from my clenched hand.  

    “You’ve got a little, uh,” Sam places my cap awkwardly back onto my head and lifts my left knuckle where Helena’s two front teeth are imbedded into the knuckle. He scrunches his face up in distaste and pulls the teeth free and staunches the blood with his own black tie. “Um I think you need stitches.”

      “I’ll be fine,” I say.

      “But you’re bleeding,” Sam says.

      “I don’t have time to worry about that,” I pull his tie tighter around my fist; “c’mon we need to speak with the Hemming family before we exhume the body.”

      • • •

      The Hemming household is at 1825 Paulding Avenue in the Bronx County. The streets are mainly filled with town houses with compact windows and awkward rectangular shaped foundations. From my lack of experience with American housing, these are the strangest I’ve seen by far.

      The Hemming house is surrounded by a small brick retaining wall with white pickets jutting out from it; green hedges are shaped into spheres to cover the lack of garden bed. The entire house is a dull cream colour except the roofing which is brown tiles. The frilled awning over the door and windows is a concern, but two cars are parked in the driveway, meaning that someone must be home.  

      Though the exhumation order was signed and we were legally allowed to see the burial sight of Dianne Hemming, out of respect and protocol, I wanted to speak with the family to see what they knew about their daughter’s relationship with Henry Nikita. Sam and I also have the pleasure to tell them that their daughter has died, again.