Ghosts and Agatha

XII: Ghosts and Agatha

X I I:   G H O S T S   A N D   A G A T H A

          It turned out Grandfather's plan went more awry than even I'd thought it would, and the hope I'd managed to scrape up was significantly minuscule. That measly expectance that everything would go according to plan resembled hands trying to ignite firewood with only the spark of a matchstick and wind incessantly snuffing it out like torrential rain. Or more like a tornado with how futile my attempt at barricading the battered sugar maple desk inconspicuously underneath the house was.

          "Sugar maple," Grandmother muttered disbelievingly, eyes arched onto the floor, gnarled hands tattooed with cracks fingering the edges of the desk, palms rubbing against the serrated edge of it as if it were a balm. "Imported all the way from Canada. . . ." She repeated herself again, resembling a wretched woman who'd just lost her child, saying continuously, "Sugar maple wood. . . . Such a fine wood, absolutely splintered into shards . . . Completely irreplaceable. . . ."

          Trepidation eased through me like a poison of melted ice. Her voice was surprisingly calm, which made it even more foreboding than the darkest of tones could.

          "Window . . . completely shattered; oh, what's Edgar's father going to say about this?" Her hands, mottled with old spots, burrowed half her chin. There was a haunting silence, and then she slowly lifted it from her palms.

          "D'you have any ideas how this happened to the desk, Agatha?" she asked.

          I hesitated. Twiddling my fingers, I placed myself down on one of the raptured pieces of furniture again and glanced at her uneasily. "Uh, yeah; well, the thing is, Grandmother. . . ." I started, giving her a nervous glance, replicating her doe eyes in the hopes of looking less guilty -  less like a thief pathetically apologising. "I was a bit upset when I saw Mother had come here - I don't know what came over me, I guess everything from the past few months surfaced when I saw her. I just felt an urge for something to . . . um, feel the same kind of way as I did, you see. I didn't mean to, but, it just sort of happened that I . . . uh, threw it through the window. I'm really sorry, Grandmother. . . ."

          The situation seemed so completely absurd now. What kind of person sees their mother and subsequently throws a piece of furniture out the window, as if  they were the Trunchball and had launched one of her students from the classroom? Certainly not someone who was sane.

          I almost felt the urge to laugh at myself. What a pathetic, completely avoidable predicament to have landed oneself in.

          Grandmother looked as if she was amusing an infant by the abrupt change of expression she almost seemed to sleeve onto her face. She stood up, dusted off her torso and sprung her head around so her salt-and-pepper coils of hair bounced around her eyes. "It's okay, Agatha, dear," she said reassuringly, smiling. "I completely understand; I would be batty if I were to find your reasoning, er, implausible, considering everything you've been through."

          She looked at me encouragingly. "Anyway, what did I come in here for in the first place? Ah, yes, that's right. . . ." she fished out a utensil from one of the stacked, sagged boxes and brandished a plastic spatula triumphantly in her fingers. "Okay, here it is, I can finally finish lunch now, good, okay, yes, let's go then, Agatha, m'dear. . . ."

          Grandmother waddled away. I sighed. That was one predicament dealt to. Only another few dozens to go and I'd finally be in the clear. Another exhale protruded through my lips. But instead having relieved undertones, it was splintered, like the desk, with absolute resign.

*

To put it politely, dinner was uncomfortable. To put it frankly, I was practically floundering in my seat. It was as if the cushion and intricately patterned mahogany were made of quick sand and I was thrashing about in the midst of it. Or, at least, felt the impulse to start thrashing, though three pairs of eyes ogling the back of my head like itchy lasers prevented me from doing so.