The Leek Show

Sharon Thomas

Upstairs in my bedroom, I sit with my back against the woodchip paper licked with apple-white paint, listening to them. The dull thuds. Muffled screams. The slamming of doors and then silence. My mother sobs in her bedroom for a few hours while my father burns with rage downstairs. It’s a well-rehearsed routine by now and always before any kind of celebration.

Pushing back the door to my bedroom, my mother pulls out the latest purchase from her Saturday afternoons in town with Aunt Julia. ‘Come on, let’s get your new dress on.’

Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of my mirrored wardrobes, she dabs foundation over the hot red trails scoring her cheeks. I watch her run a black Kohl pencil across her eyelids, flicking it up and out at each side.

‘I hate him. Why do you stay?’

‘It’s the leek show. Everyone will be there. Don’t keep your dad waiting.’

Leaning into the mirror, she checks for any last traces of the argument before hurrying out of the room.

Downstairs in the hallway, they wait in silence.

‘Is the taxi on its way?’ my mother asks.

‘We’re walking,’ my father snaps.

Stepping into the wind and rain, we tuck our chins against our chests. My mother’s wedged sandals repeatedly forcing her thin ankles to collapse in on themselves as she tries to keep pace with my father, me running behind like a little dog.  Turning to check on me, I see my mother’s makeup running in rivulets, soaking into the new dress clinging to her tiny frame. Her freshly styled hair wraps around one side of her face like black fingers covering her eyes and mouth.

Outside, standing beneath the smashed plastic lettering of the club, my father turns and points his finger, ‘Not a word to anybody.’

I tuck my hands beneath my armpits, hoping to find some warmth. My father leans his weight against the massive glass door and paints on a smile wide enough to showcase the yellow and black teeth sitting halfway back at either side of his mouth. The teeth I’ve heard the dentist beg to remove again and again before eventually admitting defeat, only to fill them repeatedly.