CAT OR CUT? and OTHER SHORT STORIES

WAKE UP, FATHER!

Despite the roosters losing track of their traditional crowing time, Madeline can tell it is about nine o'clock in the morning. Well, she can figure out that much by looking at the long reflections of the bright yellow sun rays. They are effortlessly seeping through the cracks of their wooden kitchen which she sometimes likes to think the carpenter did a crappy job of repairing.

Sitting behind a breadboard stool, she rolls a handful of dough. Sequentially, flipping the cooking one on the pan set on a three-stone traditional fireplace. The hot, yellow embers of the dry eucalyptus firewood are unforgivably burning on her sleek shins. Although she does not complain. The family has got to have breakfast.

It's when she removes the ready bread from the pan that a heavy shadow enters the kitchen. Without a doubt, she knows and feels that it's her father. Quickly, she places the rolled dough on the pan and looks up at him. Of course, he's in his old blue striped shirt. Men rarely have a full closet of clothes, but he is worse. He barely has a change of closet. He eyes the cooked bread in the small pink basin at the foot of the rolling chair.

A minute later, he walks to a small wooden stand, grabs the kettle, and a metallic cup from the utensil basin and pours himself some hot milky tea. When full, he grabs the pink basin and scrutinizes the bread. A full minute collapses before he lets out a dissatisfied breath that arouses curiosity in Madeline.

"None of these is well cooked," he comments through gritted teeth.

Of course, they are not well cooked. She too knows it. That's because she is using cooking fat, precisely the white variety and not oil.

"It is the choice of cooking fat. We both know cooking fat barely cooks the bread to our satisfaction. We need cooking oil. I believe that will be good enough to make perfect bread," she retorts, making an emphasis. "However, we've got to do with what we have. Beggars can't be choosers anyway."

She means that literally to attack him. Cooking oil is expensive today. You'll need a small bunch of fifty notes to afford it. Which, the man doesn't have. He hasn't had any money with him for what now? Seven months? Absolutely. If he has some on him, it's from a debt acquired from the many crediting corners he's well familiar with these days.

He barely earns his as all he does is idle and lazy around. He doesn't even provide for them anymore. Which makes her wonder if he has the right to complain. It is because of these constant complaints that disconcerting anger and frustration towards him are growing within her. After all, it is due to his shortcomings they cannot afford a litre of cooking oil. To her, he should even be grateful there is bread.

"You could at least try," he says, placing the basin back on the ground before walking out.

"I'm trying," Madeline, trying to rein her resurfacing anger, mumbles to herself as she returns her focus to the task at hand.

It would do them some good if the man was responsible. Her mother never talks. She just diligently does her work and assumes his absence. She is the literal pillar of the family. Always making sure they are provided for well. Counting in this man whose existence feels like an ever-walking dark shadow in the family.

Less than a quarter hour later, he calls out for her, demanding another cup of tea. The tone doesn't settle well with Madeline. Just like the complaints, she hates it. She fails to understand where his ability to shamelessly lord over others despite his irresponsibility comes from. Leaving the task at hand, with growing anger and the need to lash out, she picks up the kettle and walks out of the kitchen.

"Hurry up! I'm in a hurry," he demands, further pushing Madeline to her breaking point.

"Where to, Father?" she asks with a deceivingly calm tone.

"To the monthly social group," he responds with much of a grunt. One meant to shut her up.

"To get another loan?" The question slips out of Madeline's mouth as she pours him tea.

Surprisingly, she doesn't feel bad or guilty or regrets or fear for asking it. In fact, she is grateful her tongue slipped. The question might as well be the beginning of a long-anticipated talk.

"Nothing concerns you regarding my attendance at the social group," he snaps.

He's getting angry. Madeline thinks that it's because she hit the nail on the head. Which couldn't be more than the truth. Just as she suspected. Why else would he be in a hurry to attend the social group that seven months ago, he was being forced to attend? Back then, he even forgot the dates.

"It sure does concern me, Father," she retorts.

Her leash breaking with every second that passes. She can feel that, in a few minutes, maybe even seconds, she will be lashing out.

"Get back to your cooking task!" He orders.

Madeline fails to follow his order. Instead, she chooses to stand there, the kettle dangling in her hand as she pins her raging eyes on him.

"You're good at giving orders, demanding, giving opinions and commentaries to anyone around you. Yet you don't like it when we do that. You keep us from talking when all we want to do is talk!" She blurts out.

Stunned, her father stares at her for a long while before he finally speaks.

"Talk about what, Madeline?" he demands, anger waves covering the tense atmosphere.

"About you and your shortcomings," she spits, her leash finally breaking.

For too long, she has been waiting for this moment. The words she has always longed to say to him have been weighing mercilessly on her tongue. Finally, she can let them out. Consequences be damned.

"What shortcomings?" he asks, shamelessly challenging her.

Madeline, at the moment, was he not her father, perhaps she would have slit his throat for his arrogance and ignorance.

"You don't see anything or are you pretending not to?" she bravely asks, further surprising him.

"Mind your loose tongue, Madeline," he commands.

"No! I won't! Can't you see the murky waters you're dragging us into?" she asks.

The shameless man laughs mockingly. Sweet mercies help her. Otherwise, the whole village might end up conducting fundraising to cater for some hospital bills.

"I can't see. Perhaps you can make me," he drawls.

For a second, she feels as if he's acting childish. Which makes her feel a dire need to laugh. However, she doesn't. Instead, she speaks up.

"You're so useless!" she insults, making him stand up in fury.

"What did you say?" he furiously asks. Feeling a little intimidated, her words fade away, leaving her speechless. "You won't talk now? I thought you wanted to talk, stupid girl!"

Perhaps that was the taunt she needed to let out a string of words she will probably regret later.

"If I were stupid, I wouldn't have seen just how useless you're to our family lately. You have been providing nothing for more than half a year now. You've left every responsibility to your wife. She toils and moils every day to make sure that we don't lack anything that you are failing to provide. Then what do you do? Drown in unhelpful debts you don't even know where you'll get the money to pay them back. Idle and lazy arou--Pa!" a heavy slap from a rough hand mercilessly lands on her soft cheek, causing her to lose her balance and drop the kettle.

The tea pours on the ground, only to have the dry loam soil drain it away.

"Do not question my actions!" he pointedly orders.

"If I don't, then who will? Mother forgot that you even exist. Because to her, you're a saprophyte to her hard work. It's a high time you realized that you need to wake up, father! Get it in your head that you are the man of this family and you need to start acting like it by being responsible!"

Now, it will not be soon when they seat at the back of the main house, burn goatskin and talk of her dad's notorious behaviour when he was a ten-year-old kid, with no shoes, a large belly he jokes was because he rarely dewormed and pellet looking hair from the lack of a comb. Regardless, better days will come one day. Then, they will resume. Because, why not? She loves it when they do that, and of course, she does love him too.