The Laugh
Aisha Ashraf
Word Count 975
It was the laugh that did it.
Overly loud, with a hollowness behind it like a concealed room, it was always a sign things were about to get bad. It wasn’t viral like real hilarity; it had a duplicitousness that left you cold. I heard it so often growing up that eventually, the first few jarring notes were enough to trigger a Pavlovian unease, a deep-seated dread. Even before the bipolar diagnosis that rendered every aspect of my father’s behavior a sign to be interpreted—an augur in real time, it made the hairs prickle on the back of my neck.
It’s lunchtime and I’ve kicked off my boots at the back door, the cold of the outdoors rosy on my cheeks, the scent of the farmhouse kitchen so rich after the wind-thin smells of field and paddock. The stove, nestled in its alcove, circulates the aroma of a cooked meal like a binding promise, gently warming the bottoms of the two huge steel kettles that live on the hotplate. I eye the oven door suspiciously, the memory of my mother’s recent explosive attempt at rice pudding—that shocking mid-meal bang, the gore-streaked scene within when she gingerly opened the door—still vivid. This meal will be marked by an outburst of a different nature.
Dragging my chair out, I hook a knee on the seat and haul myself up, grasping the table to pull myself in. Next to me, my father leafs through a Farmer’s Weekly, his overalled bulk exuding a fresh, earthy smell that makes me impatient for lunch to be over so I can run back out and play. I slide my fingers over the pine tabletop, braille-reading the scarred yellow surface, swinging my legs to speed up time.
At last, my mother lays our plates before us and sits down. A momentary quiet descends as we blunt our hunger. Condensation fogs the inside of the window-pane behind her and I’m only half listening when my parents begin trading comments about the price of sugar beet and the Irish economy, too busy recalling the time the ponies came up to the glass and breathed blue fog all over it while my mother shrieked, “Shoo! Go away! I just cleaned those!” and shook a tea towel at them. Daddy said she couldn’t see the funny side.
I’m thinking of exploring the high mound up by the paddock, mapping the path I’ll take to scale it, when loud laughter yanks me back to the table. Prickling with attentiveness, I glance from one parent to the other. Daddy is wearing his trying-to-catch-you-out smile and speaking in a voice like the one I use with my toys. He says Mummy should tell the truth about poisoning his food. Her face switches rapidly from amusement, to astonishment, then concern. She lays her cutlery down and makes a dismissive gesture, a vague fluttering of her hands, as she finishes chewing and swallows. When she opens her mouth to speak he cuts her off.
“Just admit it,” he wheedles in a voice high-pitched and mirthless—like wellies with a dress, his smile doesn’t go with what he’s saying.
He speaks loudly, but it’s the spaces between the words, quiet like a fight, that seem to speak louder. He stares at Mummy, his face unreadable. Is he waiting for her to see the funny side? Time slows to a crawl and I wonder if he’s forgotten the punch line. Evidently, so does she.
“If this is your idea of a joke, I don’t thi…”
“Listen,” he says with a collusive head-tilt, “don’t be coddin’ me now,” the cheerfulness doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “I know ye’ve put something in it. I can taste it. Just tell me what it is.”
Everything about him feels artificial; a syrupy sweetness masking something sinister, like the yellow, banana-flavoured medicine with the nasty aftertaste Mummy gave me when I got chickenpox.
I realize I’m holding my breath and let it out as quietly as possible.
A red flush is creeping up his neck and, although he’s seated, something in his stance makes me want to run; some lurking dangerousness I couldn’t explain if you asked me. He leans forward like a hound seeking a scent, eyes boring into hers from beneath his juggernaut brow.
“What the divil didja put in it?”
His voice booms off the walls like thunderclaps and Mummy and I flinch.
Two things dawn on me: there isn’t going to be a punch line, and I’m sitting next to a man I don’t know. I don’t need to look at him to know that a stranger has moved into my father’s body. I keep still, keep my gaze blank and fixed on my dinner plate. An animal instinct tells me it’s best to be invisible.
My mother fingers the fabric of her napkin, looking small and tense, as if someone had knitted her and drawn the threads too tight. With some effort she keeps her tone light, a bright curtain stretched taut across a dark doorway, insisting she has no idea what he’s talking about. Still, the air is heavy the way it is when a thunderstorm approaches. I force the last few mouthfuls of food down a dry throat, desperate to get away from this suddenly stifling room.
“Can I get down please?”
Mummy nods assent and I slide off my chair, pull on my boots and run back outside before anyone can change their mind.
I run until my heart is all I can hear of myself, thudding the way it does when you’ve had a narrow escape, when you know you’ve been too close to something you weren’t supposed to see, that laugh still echoing in my head.
While I can’t make head nor tail of what just happened I’m certain of one thing: I would rather have had the exploding rice-pudding.
Aisha’s writing, published in The Rumpus, The Maine Review, River Teeth and elsewhere, reflects her attempts to root herself through place and perspective. As an Irish immigrant and late-diagnosed autistic female in a cross-cultural marriage, her work explores the legacy of trauma, the nature of being an outsider and the narrow confines of belonging.
She currently lives in Canada.