Grandpa Timothy, my mother’s father, smells like old newspapers, wears a tweed jacket no matter the weather. At family gatherings, I join the line of cousins waiting to dance with our grandfather, life of the party. Famous for slipping money into our young palms so our mothers don’t take it from us under the guise of safekeeping. We all know how rigid The Bank of Mum can be.
When my turn is up, I stumble out of my grandfather’s soft, brown hands. Dizzy. Grinning. I’m a note richer than the last time.
I bump into my mother who often reminds me she lost her childlike spirit the day she birthed me.
I used to be fun, she says when I scoff at her dancing.
But it’s hard to look past the lipstick on her teeth.
Wine loosens her up in ways I do not like.
Her shrill laugh hurts my eardrums.
2.
Timothy, who goes by Timo, doesn’t want me to go home. Grips me tight, gently kneading my waist as the clock behind him ticks ticks ticks. Reminding me I have to leave. It’s getting late. It’s dark out.
He’s so thick with desire, he’s drooling into my neck.
7pm is an unreasonable curfew for a 17-year-old, he complains.
Tell that to my mother, I say, fixing my denim skirt.
Timo lets me out the back door of his father’s shop and I sprint home, swinging the bag of groceries I came for.
In the kitchen, my mother glares at me suspiciously.
She points to my hand.
You forgot to pay.
The money she gave me is still in my palm, crumpled and damp with sweat.
Next time we run out of cooking oil, she walks to the supermarket herself.
3.
Timmy is in trouble again.
Sent a tooth flying out of another boy’s mouth with his left hook.
Says the tooth was loose, anyway. Blinks at me with his big, beautiful eyes.
The same eyes as Timothy, who still goes by Timo, but now lives in Perth and holidays in places I have to google.
Solomon Islands, Cook Islands.
The images on Timo’s feed are bright and blue. He wears nothing but swim trunks. Is always in the company of girls in bikinis. Wires $100 once in a while, for our son.
Last time I went to Timo’s father’s shop to complain, the old man turned to a girl with a pimply face stacking the shelves.
This is what happens to girls who don’t listen, he warned her.
How I wished I could slink through that back door.
That night, while slicing onions in my mother’s kitchen, I heard Timmy bragging to his friends.
My father will send for me soon.
4.
In another life, Mr. Tim could be my father.
He’d tell me how to raise a son. He’d have a stern word with my Timmy, help put him back in line now and again. But Mr. Tim sits me down instead.
Tells me no one works harder than me.
No one stays past their shift, to help at peak-time when the queue of vehicles snakes out onto the road. No one pumps fuel faster than me. Works a dipstick and tops up engine oil faster than me.
But he’s giving the role of supervisor to Lloyd. Only because he needs it more, what with five mouths to feed.
I’ve been with Mr. Tim since day one. His right-hand woman.
Saw him cry when the bank approved his loan to expand his business. Kept an eye on things when he travelled overseas to bury his father.
5.
In this life, my mother, still young, still fun, danced inMoon City Nite Club.
Intoxicated by the throbbing disco lights, by the hazy fog, she stumbled into the arms of a man whose name she’s certain started with the letter T.
A man will never hold me.
Theresa Sylvester is a Zambian writer based in Western Australia. She is the winner of the 2024 Fractured Lit Micro Prize. She is also a Tin House Scholar, an alumna of Faber Writing Academy, and Stuyvesant Writing Workshop where she studied under Nicole Dennis-Benn. Her stories appear in Shenandoah, Quarterly West, Black Warrior Review, Chestnut Review, and elsewhere.
