The Dark Child

1.1

1.1

With the disdainful eyes of a teenager, Kezia surveyed the backyard.  Several boy cousins and pseudo-cousins were playing in the back toward the fence, kicking a ball in a crude approximation of soccer.  To the right her uncle Mike and his friend Roger were discussing or debating something at the grill, mostly likely the ideal way to cook a particular meat.  Mike's wife Carol sat in the middle of the yard in quiet dominion over the scene, as it was her yard, her grill, her meat, her event, etc., etc., ad infinitum.  Next to her, enthroned on a matching folding chair was Grandma Jensen, great and crotchety matriarch of the proudly yet distantly Norwegian clan consisting of her two sons, their families, and a sister nobody talked about very much.

Without a great deal of conversation, Kezia what been dropped off along with her sister and brother, to attend the traditional family Sunday barbecue.  She was not thrilled nor was she pleased.  She was not enthusiastic.  She was, at least, polite.  Her father and mother had taught her that much before largely abdicating their parental roles, each in their own way.  Now, having stalled as long as she could 'freshening up' in the house, Kezia had to join the celebration proper or face the passive aggressive scolding of her aunt and morose disapproval of her father upon her return home.

"Oh, excuse me, sweetheart," came a treacle sweet voice from behind her, "Could I squeeze by?"  Roger's wife Helena was making her way out the sliding glass door, in front of which Kezia had paused to consider her options in the yard of boredom and doom.

"Sorry, ma'am," Kezia said dutifully as she stepped to one side.

Helena shifted the platter of cheese and fruit she was carrying and looked down from her relatively towering five foot ten vantage point with an expression of pitying concern that Kezia had grown to know so well, "How are you doing?  How's your father?"

This was the question.  Every week.  This was the question.  They all knew the answer.  They all asked the question.  It's not like he'd really changed at any point in the past three years.  After dropping them off he had returned home to work.  To not be social.  To wallow.

Kezia suppressed her sigh and smiled politely, "He's doing alright, busy with work."

"Tell him we all said hi, okay, sweetheart."

With some difficulty, Kezia kept from rolling her eyes.  It's not that Helena was a bad person, or even that Kezia didn't like her.  In fact, she was a very likable lady, an artistic sort, always painting this or photographing that.  She even had the same dark, thick, slightly curly hair that Kezia wrestled with on a daily basis.  It was just the question.  The tone.  The expression.

"I will."

Helena nodded, gave another concerned look of compassion and understanding, then proceeded with the tray of food to the table between the house and the grill.  From there she checked in with Roger, gave him a small kiss on the cheek, and said hello to Mike.  They all less than covertly snuck glances as Kezia who did her best to pretend not to notice.  It was the least she could do.

About the time she was settling into the dread of sitting with her grandmother and aunt, the half size soccer ball went whizzing off to her left into the side yard, followed by a shouted, "Hey Kezia, can you grab that?" From one of the boys by the fence.

Without too much thought she gave an upwards nod of her head and proceeded around the side of the house.  On the one hand, it wasn't her job to get the ball, and normally she would resent helping the boys with anything.  On the other hand, it was better than sitting with her stone faced aunt and cranky grandmother, either in silence or for another around of the dreaded question.  They didn't ask it as much.  Her father was their brother and son, respectively.  They knew the answer.  They knew the man.  They knew the situation.  Roger and Helena did not.  They'd never met Kezia's father, only heard the stories, the edited ones, and seen the children trotted out for family gatherings.