Short Stories 1st Place: Protest in the Kitchen by Jane Ricot

My sister Billie-Jo is at it again.

She’s holding that placard right above her head with the word PEACE in big red capital letters.

‘You’re goin’ no place with that, my girl,’ Momma says as she bends to pick up a carrot that’s shot itself to the floor. Right onto the lino stuff Pa finally agreed to, and looks a lot like my brother’s chessboard. But Pa said a great big no to the sort of fancy Frigidaire Mrs Do-dah shows off about next door.

Billie-Jo’s not long turned sixteen. Despite her bein’ two years younger than me, she’s done things I ain’t. Like messin’ with boys and nickin’ beer from Bevan’s store. But now she says she’s off to DC with some Christians from the university at the weekend. Says she’s gonna to tell them politicians to stop the war, she is. Four hours it’s gonna take them. Charlottesville to DC. On some rickety old coach and Billie-Jo says they’ll be honkin’ that hooter the whole way there.

My sister’s afraid of nothin’, even our momma’s tongue or her chafed red hands which slap us when we step out of line.

‘I’ll go where I like,’ Billie-Jo shouts as Momma chops the carrots faster and faster. ‘You really gonna tell little Davy you did didley-squat to stop his big brother havin’ to take his turn in ’Nam.’

Momma’s hand reaches for the taters, but not before she takes a look at Davy, who’s sittin’ at her feet with his chipped-wooden fire engine. He smiles when he catches her doin’ so.

Momma don’t say another word ’bout the matter, so Billie-Jo says some for her.

‘You’ll go all of a sobbin’ won’t you, when a handsome soldier comes knockin’ at the door, takes his cap off and says, “We’re so sorry Mrs Hepperman, but your Thomas, he didn’t quite make it.’”

‘What Thomas not make?’ Davy asks as he drives the engine into the skirtin’, then crawls along the floor towards Momma’s sandaled feet. ‘What Thomas not make?’ little Davy asks again.

Momma glares at Billie-Jo. ‘If you don’t keep that mouth of yours shut, I’ll jerk a knot in your tail, girl.’

I can see Billie-Jo’s ’bout to answer back, never minding the threat of knots and tails. But Momma gets in there first.

‘Thomas’ll take his turn like anyone else.’

I don’t think my momma believes that. She wants peace as much as Billie-Jo; me too, if anyone would ask. I know that, as every day when the postman comes, Momma’s out there first. Checkin’. Lookin’. To see if them papers have come. Then, when they haven’t, she taps her chest like she’s tellin’ it to breathe again.

I think about my best friend, Suzie. ’Bout her big brother. I’m pretty sure he’s one of them boys Billie-Jo knows better than she should.

I don’t know why, but I tell my sister then ’bout his ’copter comin’ down.

‘Beats bein’ caught and put in a cage,’ Billie-Jo says.

‘Girls, what yer all doin’ talkin’ ’bout things like that in front of little Davy,’ Momma shouts.

I get what Billie-Jo’s sayin’ though.

‘He had no business bein’ there, did he?’ Billie-Jo waves the placard at me, then at Momma, then at Davy. ‘That’s why I’m off to DC.’

Suzie’s told me that her parents don’t speak no more. Don’t do a thing actually. Just sit and stare. So, I reckon, Billie-Jo’s right. It’s time for peace. Them politicians who give the orders, maybe they could go and do the interferin’ themselves instead. Go an’ creep through jungles and fall into traps.

Billie-Jo starts marchin’ round and round the kitchen with her placard, shoutin’ peace, peace, peace.

Momma’s shakin’.

‘She’ll be ok,’ I tell her. I don’t bother addin’ that no one will stop Billie-Jo goin’ wherever she wants.

‘Peace, peace, peace,’ little Davy squeaks, rappin’ his engine into anything in his path.

I follow Momma’s gaze as she stares out the window. It’s Pa. He’s walkin’ up the path like a military man, except he’s not one. He works for the insurance. They like the war, those men in his office. Think the loss of a son here and there is better than the commies takin’ charge.

Oftentimes, things change when Pa comes home.

‘Pa’s here, so keep your mouths shut, else you’ll be off to Hell in a hand basket,’ Momma says. Mainly, I think, to warn Billie-Jo. ‘Tell you what, BJ, make yourself useful and go find Davy.’

Our little brother’s off somewhere in the house shoutin’ peace.

*

‘Whoever’s done this, is gonna get a lickin’ from me.’ Pa’s arrived in the kitchen, clutchin’ the placard that Billie-Jo’s left around when she went to find Davy. ‘Come on, tell me, who’s done it?’

What kinda question is that, I think? It won’t be me, will it? Bein’ somethin’ of a Little Miss Goody Two Shoes. Davy don’t write yet. And Thomas, well he’s off somewhere else. Thinkin’ more ’bout baseball than Vietnam. So that leaves Momma or Billie-Jo. No choice there then.

Pa stares around for Billie-Jo. He knows.

‘Whose is it?’ Pa shouts again. When Momma looks as if she’s ’bout to take the placard from him, he pulls it closer to his chest. His face reddens, then he loosens his tie with his spare hand as if his throat’s swellin’. ‘Whiskey,’ he says and hands me a key.

I unlock the cupboard where Pa keeps his liquor. No one, not even Momma opens it without Pa’s permission. I take the lid from the bottle and smell the sweet amber. My stomach’s off on a roly-poly now, ’cos our own war’s rumblin’.

‘Give it back,’ Billie-Jo screams at Pa as she plonks little Davy by Momma’s feet.

At the same time as I’m pourin’ the liquid into a crystal glass, I hear Pa’s foot behind me as it stamps on the floor, again and again and again. The thumpin’ and tearin’ makes my hand all jerky, and the whiskey drizzles onto the side.

‘Stop it!’ Billie-Jo shrieks at Pa.

When I turn with the damp glass, she’s pullin’ at Pa’s sleeve. And I see Davy toddlin’ towards the thick of the warring group.

‘Peace,’ he says, plonkin’ himself onto his fat diapered bottom.

Somehow Davy’s words work.

The shoutin’ stops.

All eyes are on my little brother. The kitchen’s silent except for the bubblin’ stew, which sure smells good.

‘Peace,’ he says again. Little Davy’s red cheeks are all puffed out, it seems he likes what he has to say.

Pa’s still standin’ as he snatches the glass from me and downs the whiskey all in one.

‘Another,’ he says, stretchin’ his arm towards me.

I make to turn and see Momma take a deep breath.

The placard’s in shreds all over the kitchen floor.

Billie-Jo pushes past me.

‘I’m gonna kill him,’ she says. But luckily for Pa she surprises us all and heads straight back out the room.

When I hand Pa his second drink, he’s sittin’ like an emperor spoutin’ a war speech. ’Bout how he’s ashamed of us. Even little Davy. ’Bout how it’s time Thomas got his call-up papers. It’s just as well Billie-Jo’s gone upstairs, ’cos she’d have reminded him ’bout how he’d never fought in a war, had he. A dicky chest was his excuse.

Momma’s gone quite pale. Come to think of it, I didn’t see her checkin’ the post today. I think she’s remembered that too, ’cos she sort of starts, then puts those rough hands to her chest.

‘Newspaper,’ Pa demands, ‘and clear up this mess.’ He points at the shredded card. As Momma passes the newspaper to him, I get on my hands and knees and pick up them scraps.

I’d like to tell him to speak nice to our Momma, but I’m that scared. Not like Billie-Jo. I’ve no idea what goes on in Momma’s head, but she’s always there, doin’ his biddin’, even if Pa don’t think so.

But if he has any more whiskey, it’s Momma who’ll cop it. Sometimes, if it’s late and I’m feelin’ a bit brave and the fightin’ ain’t too bad, I knock on their door and say I’ve had one of them dreams again.

If Pa has a favourite, I guess it’s me, so sometimes he tells Momma she can go. And then she comes to my room and strokes my head. Sometimes, she stays all night or at least till the snoring starts.

*

A few moments later, there’s a clatter by the back door and my brother Thomas staggers in. I smell the cigarettes and I can tell he’s been on the liquor too.

We all look at Pa. Although the newspaper’s in front of his face, I’m pretty sure he ain’t readin’ it.

Thomas heads for the locked cupboard which isn’t locked no more. That’s when I see it stickin’ from the back pocket of his jeans.

Momma rushes to him. ‘My boy,’ she screams. I think she’s seen it too.

‘Stay out of there, son,’ Pa shouts, but Thomas ain’t takin’ no notice.

There’s a stillness in the room, but not a good one. Tense. Edgy. Twitchy. Pa scrunches up his paper and makes to stand. I’m supposin’, it’s ’cos Thomas is ignorin’ him.

‘Peace,’ little Davy says. Even though he’s small, I think he’s sensin’ trouble again. It works. Pa falls back onto his chair and Thomas shuts the cupboard takin’ nothin’. He draws the letter from his pocket and hands it to our momma.

‘Order to report for induction,’ she reads out loud, her voice all posh. ‘Tomorrow, Thomas, it’s tomorrow.’

Her hand’s all wobbly as she returns the letter to my brother, like it’s right boilin’ hot.

Even Pa seems a little shaked.

‘Someone fetch Billie-Jo for her supper will they,’ Momma says lookin’ at me.

It’s like, because supper’s ready, the words in that letter have kinda disappeared, like in smoke. Somethin’ never to be spoken about again. But I think they should.

‘Sure,’ I say, ‘and I’ll tell her ’bout Thomas.’

‘Billie-Jo already knows.’  She must’ve been standin’ at the door for a while. And now Billie-Jo’s headin’ towards Pa with a new placard. I think she’s gonna hit him with it, but she stops short and holds it in front of him instead. So close, that the only way he could stand up is by pushin’ at her, and I’m thinkin’ he ain’t had enough whiskey to do that.

‘Y’all get to the table,’ Momma says.

Thomas stumbles across to his chair. I follow. Billie-Jo don’t move at first and I stop breathin’. But then thankfully, very slowly she turns and takes her place.

Momma pulls out the plates from the warmin’ oven and ladles out the stew, then picks up little Davy and puts him in his high chair. Pa’s at his place at the head of the table — glowerin’.

The darkness outside is pushin’ its way through the kitchen window. No words are bein’ spoken. We’re waitin’ for Pa to pray.

‘God is great, God is good. Let us thank Him for our food…’ Pa says in his own time.

We sit, seemin’ like bent-headed statues, waitin’.

‘… and for Billie-Jo. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ we chorus. We don’t dare to look at each other after what Pa’s just said. I’m not sure I quite understand.

The clinkin’ of cutlery is all that’s soundin’ in the kitchen. I think we’re all in a bit of a mix-up here. What with the draft and Pa prayin’ about Billie-Jo, but not a peep about Thomas. Maybes he’s decided to pin all his hopes on Billie-Jo to sort it all out when she’s up in DC. So he’s askin’ God to help out a bit so Thomas won’t need to go fight. Then, perhaps God can go and mop up all the mess this war’s made.

What I seem to be findin’ though, is that it’s kinda hard to swallow my stew. There’s been too much shoutin’ and too much fightin’ and I expect all our heads are a hurtin’ somewhat.

Then, all of a sudden, a little voice perks up through the quiet.

‘Peace,’ little Davy says.

There’s a lot of starin’ at that moment and not a lot of eatin’.

‘Peace,’ he says again.