The Famoux

Chapter 3

emilee

When I get home, Brandyce is in the kitchen, and Dalton in his room. Father's where he always is: Sitting at the lumpy old couch in front of the fireplace, staring at our blank television set. I assume he's just loaded it with batteries, as batteries are the only power sources not affected by Darkenings. That's usually all he does to prepare--crams around thirty of the little things into the television and lays around for the rest of the night until it's time to get the chip and watch the Famoux. I'm almost positive he left work early; he always leaves work early. He's not much use in the lumber factory--all he does is press a button and monitor the wood as it's chopped by a machine.

I'm sure Brandyce would've appreciated his help in making our meal, or perhaps Dalton could've used an extra pair of hands to haul in the firewood. But all he does is sit on the couch and stare at the dusting picture frame resting on the mantel--the picture of my mother, his wife.

It doesn't take long before Brandyce calls us all to the table. The meal is our usual pre-Darkening one: Turkey sandwiches. Mother initiated it when the first Darkening came a few years after I was born. We'd make enough sandwiches to last us a week, so we wouldn't have to break through the emergency stashes every time the sun decided to check out. Darkenings aren't emergencies, either.

Dinner should go off without a hitch, but my dad has a particular quirk nowadays, in which he believes we're dirt poor. We don't know what makes him think that--us in our lavish ranch house. He looks at it as if it's a shack, falling slowly apart, piece by piece around our feet. Dalton thinks it must be because he makes no income, never has. Mother always made the income. Now that she's gone, he assumes we have nothing anymore, just like the kids at school do.

I mean, I guess it's half true. He doesn't really have anything anymore now that he doesn't have our mom. The love for a child, it seems, doesn't seem to matter as much as the love for a spouse.

Either way, just the slightest things can set him into another episode. Tonight, it's the mustard Brandyce bought for the sandwiches.

He clenches his teeth. "Brandyce, did you buy this?"

Brandyce looks up from her meal. I can already see the annoyance flickering in her age-twenty olive-green eyes.

"Buy what, father?" she questions.

He gestures to the platter, but a bit too generally. She pretends she doesn't know what he's aiming at.

"The turkey?"

"No," he says, firmly. Too firmly.

I look at Dalton. He frowns. We both know what's going to happen.

"The cheese?" Brandyce continues.

Our dad shakes his head. He strikes the air furiously, still pointing at the whole plate, angry that Brandyce can't see exactly how he sees.

"Brandyce, stop," Dalton says. "You know what he's pointing at."

She shakes her head, unconvincingly. "Oh no, I do not." She turns back to dad. "Is it the water, father?"

Across from me, Dalton snaps his eyes shut. He's probably the most disturbed by our father's behavior out of all of us. I think it's because he's the only other male in the house. Although we both may not get along, when our father acts this way I can't help but pity him. I mean, Dalton used to pity me when Carstan's bullying first started. I'm sure I'll stop feeling sorry sometime like he stopped feeling sorry for me. I guess there comes a time in a person's suffering when you just have to shrug and tell them to suck it up.

Brandyce tries to keep her voice steady. I know she's just testing his patience. She always does this. It's like a game to her.

"Do you mean the bread?" she tries.