About a broomstick

A tribute to my grandparents.

          As Benita wiped a droplet of Nescafe instant coffee off the usual mug with the side of her finger, she also reached for a last cigarette from the bottom drawer of the cupboard, a tired angle in her eyebrows. The last cigarette of her life, she vowed to herself. She licked the coffee drop off her finger and lit the cigarette with a match. She much preferred matches to lighters. Much more reliable. After a wailing drag she thought it best to do the dishes at once. A cluttered sink would get in the way later on, so she put the cigarette out carefully. Once the dishes were stocked to dry, she checked the refrigerator. And that was really the first time in the entire day when Benita locked a fist to her waist, the cigarette lit once more between her lips, musing on cheese and fish; she still had plenty of tomatoes. She would pick the herbs on the spot, once she got to the market. With a sigh, she dragged a stool underneath her. With a sip of Nescafe, she calculated: perhaps only five hundred grams of cheese, should the cheese be too salty again. She placed the Nescafe cup back on the table and realised that she had no idea whether the price of fish had gone up. Another drag of nicotine concluded that there was much to be settled on the spot, at the market.
          Benita drew a comb through her thin boyish hair and almost flew out of the apartment. No use in dwelling in front of the mirror, glaring at 63 years of carved lines, sadeening and frowning, deepening them. However, she paused a little in front of the door, after closing it behind her. She assured herself that it was early and she would not be too long. Everything was on time.
          Outside the block of flats, Benita sped up. The sun was lively, she thought, and so was the bickering of Mrs. Fenders approaching from the opposite direction in her revealing dress and her excessive rings, and her choking tone. 'All well, Mrs. Fenders', 'Just to the market, Mrs. Fenders', 'Oh yes, he's sleeping like a log, all the same', 'Catch you later, Mrs. Fenders', and Benita was on her way.
          The crowd in the market was exhausting. People never stopped to choose. Venders never stopped to allow one to choose. In the old days, she and her husband, a General in the army (he'd even driven tank battalions!) walked at their leisure amongst the stalls of fresh fruit, he proudly carried the heaviest bags for her and never minded. There were times she caught him smiling at her haggling triumphs. And oh, gentlemen and their ladies would throw cheerful hello's in their direction, all very genteel and respectful, for at the time he was her general. Luckily, she still knew a couple of loyal ladies from the old days who always gave her the best produce at the cheapest price. They let her choose her own parsley, handpick her onions, and negotiate special offers. She chatted a little to one of the ladies about the state of the market, the weather forecast, the adultery of a celebrity and the upcoming elections, then ran to the cheese stall. She tasted and tasted until she found the perfect consistency and least amount of salt. She decided it was worth buying an entire kilogram. She picked a fight with the fish monger who would not sell her the freshest fish in the pile. She decided to get a frozen carp. Beautiful market that day, horrible prices, horrible fish vendors.
          Back in front of her block of flats, Benita remembered the issue of bread. She had forgotten all about it. She hurried her tiny ortopedic sandals in the direction of the convenience store. There, she wished a good day to the shop assistant, she complained about the prices of the market, and asked for a loaf of white bread and for sunflower oil. She also made a comment on the weather and asked for two cigarettes. She was quitting, she told the shopkeeper, and those were the last two of her life. She swore to it. Her feet rippled on the searing asphalt back to the block of flats. Had she locked the door when she'd gone to the market? Her hair flashed an agitated Palette Medium Blonde in full sunlight. Will he be knocking the door down? She stopped for a breath at the top of the first flight of stairs. Damned be old-age, cursed! Their children had their own families. Their grandchildren had their perfumed teenage lives. Was she even lucky that, at her age, she had kept her wits about her? There was silence. Was he waiting for her in the doorway?
          He was not. Benita tiptoed inside the apartment. She quickly sliced a bit of cheese and a tomato. She placed the fish in water to defrost and everything else inside the refrigerator. She shut the apartment door with a little delay, to manage the screeching. She took a bite of cheese and a slice of tomato. She chewed and she peeled the potatoes. She took another bite of cheese, she peeled another potato. Very soon, the potatoes, peeled, washed, and sliced were rolling into a tray with a bit of water and tinge of oil and dash of salt, rosemary and mixed ground pepper. Benita was chewing the last pieces of cheese and tomato when the fish looked ready for surgery; a precise incision, quick and clean evisceration. The treatment included salt, pepper, a small chilli and lemon juice. A small cup of white wine rained over it and the fish popped inside the oven as if by itself. Work, work, work keeps the mind healthy.
          After an hour or so, the floor creaked slightly. He was up.
          'Benita!' he called from a dark and stale room, deep inside the apartment. She ignored it, with her hands in cold water, rinsing a plate. 'Benita!' came the second call. 'Kitchen,' she said lifelessly. 'Benita!' came the third, 'here!' she bellowed annoyed, and dried the bubbles off her hands. The head of a sleepy Arnold popped in the hallway, his eyes numb and crimpled and black. She settled her fists on her waste with elbows wide, for balance. Who was he today? A child, she thought, ill. She would take good care of him, as she had always. Look at his white dripping eyebrows, she thought with a smile. That moustache too needs grooming again. 'Good afternoon, you deaf old man! Have you slept well?' There was the slightest hint of a grin in her voice, but curiously, none in her face.
          Arnold's sleepy head turned red, his mouth stumbling over words, an old routine, always unrehearsed. Where had she been, where was his money, what had she done with his money, she could not be trusted, an old hag, a harlot, who had she been with and had that mysterious lover stolen all their money, and, especially, where was the damned money?
          'Where they always are!' said Benita, a little tired of the fear, a little bent by the tiredness. Benita indulged in a forged smile. 'I've been all around!' her hands flew into the air, spreading the little water left from doing the dishes a second time that day. She stifled the frustration with a dependable chore. 'I went to the market,' she said reaching for the broom. She started speaking into the decrepit wooden broomstick as she busied herself with the sweeping, 'Awful prices, I had a quarrel with that nasty fishmonger, he wanted to fool me into buying an old fish and would actually charge me for an extra kilogram! But I told him, mister, you don't fool an old lady like myself! Ha,' she concluded. 'I made us dinner. We have some left over soup and -' Arnold let out a choked roar of frustration, slightly shaking.
          She burst not to let herself to freeze. 'You must eat! What do you think buys you your food?' her voice cracked. 'Money! Let's compare how much you have with how much I have, General! The bills eat up all my pension,' she turned the chips over. 'The food I cook is mostly for you! I could live off air and - What are you doing with those keys? I already locked the door.' She watched him drag his bad leg towards the door, a withered silhouette in his dotted pyjamas, car keys in his hand. 'Where are you going, you can't drive, you old fool! Do you want to kill yourself?' Her mouth turned into a blonde wrinkle, her body grew small. Arnold frowned and poked the door with the keys. 'Arnold, give me those! Arnold... don't be daft!'
          She plunged to take the keys from his hand.
          'No!' he cried back, his numb stare locked to hers, his fingers sinking in her arm for stability, 'Snake!' he pulled at the broomstick in her hand, she struggled to keep hold of it and stopped. Benita locked her fists in her waist. All of a sudden, a downpour of tired giggles threw her head slightly back. 'There's your money, up the broomstick, eh?!'
          But it was too late for ducking when she noticed his hand shaking above her, the broomstick up in his fist, his black eyes blackening, his mouth hanging open and askew in a ravenous, instinctual rage, and her heart shrunk as it went once, twice, three times on her head. 'Arnold!' she cried. 'Arnold!' she cried again, although she knew he was a deaf old man when he went far back into his head, the might and fury of the general charging onwards. And Benita shrunk with her heart once, twice, three times, her shoulders cramping into her chest, her back leadened, her minute body in a bow. There, inside the bow, nerves twirled and twisted and pulled at each other until one bulky knot sank heavily into her stomach, pressed on her eyes to the verge of tears. From this new gut, Benita's anger rose, fed by the years and years of living this day over, and over, and over. It straightened her spine. Her short, plump arm snatched the broomstick
          'Arnold, you child! What are you playing at?' she yelled, shaking the broomstick and her petite body, and every hair of her blonde boyish head. She spat aloud on the carpet. 'Eat, now!' As Benita's eyes locked into Arnold's, they saw a numbness and a lost light rekindling, sinking the beast back into the cave of tiredness. He found her funny. He had been playing a game with an old playmate in the playground of their house. 'What?' she laughed, 'Do you want me to sweep you to the table?'
          His eyes borrowed her laughter.
          'There, there,' she swept the air at his feet in the direction of the table. Arnold showed a silent, toothless laughter, his mouth reclaimed. He dragged his white pyjamas towards the table and sat on the chair. Benita noticed he was too far from the table. He would spill everything, she thought and tried moving his chair. 'Up, you fool. There we are.'
          Benita sprang a clean kitchen towel on Arnold's chest and poured yesterday's soup in his bowl. She then turned to the carrier bag and extracted the two cigarettes. She placed one in the last drawer of the cupboard and lit the other.
          'Tasty enough, general?' she asked, and Arnold nodded. As he nodded, soup leaked from his mouth onto his chin. Benita leaned in and wiped it off with the side of her finger. The broom rested in its usual place, in the corner of the kitchen, right behind the door.