Sean Cullen - The Prince of Neither Here Nor There

“See you at home,” his father mouthed silently, winked and turned to the next customer in line. Brendan gave the thumbs-up sign and turned away.

He walked briskly down the street and turned at Crawford, covering the last few metres to his house. He turned up the walk just as his sister was arriving on her bike.

“Hey, Nerdio. How was nerd school today?”

Brendan shrugged. “Nerdy. How was jerk school? Jerky?”

With that bit of wit deployed, he launched himself up the steps to the front door.

Brendan’s house was the third in a row of identical Victorian townhouses, the nineteenth- century equivalent of condos for the working folk of the young city of Toronto. Each had a minuscule rectangle of front yard and black wrought iron fence to ward off intruders as long as the intruders were too small to leap the three-foot height of the fence and had no hands to lift the latch on the front gate. A pensioner in an electric scooter could probably ram the fence and knock it down, if so inclined. Brendan took the creaky wooden steps to the green front door two at a time closely followed by his sister, Delia.

He was just about to clear the top step when he felt Delia swat his ankle, causing his feet to tangle up. He fell with a crash, his books spilling everywhere. His glasses spun across the wooden porch.

“Enjoy your trip?” Delia sneered as she stepped over him. She flung the door open and went into the house.

Brendan painfully picked himself up off the floor. Delia was an expert at using his clumsiness against him. He was easily taller and stronger than she was, but she’d always managed to win every fight they’d ever had. She was sneaky and she cheated. Jamming his glasses back on his face, he gathered his books and followed her into the hall.

Dumping his books on the side table, he set off for the kitchen.

“Shoes!” his mother’s voice admonished from the kitchen doorway ahead. Brendan grumbled and turned back, kicking off his running shoes and reaching for his house slippers. His sister was already pulling on one of hers but had foolishly left the other on the mat. Brendan took the opportunity to throw Delia’s remaining slipper out onto the lawn.

“You are such a child,” she snorted, heading out to retrieve the slipper.

“I know,” Brendan said with a smile. As soon as she was out the door, he closed it and locked it from the inside. Satisfied with his petty revenge, he set off for the kitchen.

“What’s for dinner, Mum?” he called as he headed straight for the fridge.

His mother straightened up and ran a forearm across her sweaty face. She had been peering into the oven. Her pale, freckled face was flushed with the heat. She was still wearing her grey suit, the one she called her prison uniform, but over it she wore a red apron with the words YES, IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE BURNT LIKE THAT! emblazoned across the front.

“Mac and cheese. And don’t eat anything. It’ll be ready in half an hour.”

Brendan opened the fridge and pulled out a can of pop. “Okay. I’m just gonna drink this.”

Delia crashed through the back door and pointed at Brendan with her slipper. Her hair was full of dry leaves. “Mum! He locked me out! I had to run all the way around and climb the fence to get in.”

“You could have knocked on the door,” Brendan suggested sweetly.

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

“Brendan!” His mother shook her head. “Can’t you two just stay out of each other’s way for one hour? Honestly, it’s ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous?” Brendan’s father came in the front door, catching the last few words of the conversation. “And who locked the front door?”

“Dad,” Delia whined. “He’s the biggest jerk. He threw my slipper into the yard.”

“After she tripped me on the steps.”

Brendan’s father grabbed them both in a hug that was part affectionate and part wrestling hold. As they struggled in his grasp, he sighed. “Ahhh! There is no joy like a harmonious homestead. It’s familial bliss as brother and sister share a magical moment. Isn’t it wonderful, Ellie?”

Brendan’s mother laughed and joined the clinch, taking the opportunity to kiss both her children while they were relatively helpless. “It warms the heart, Charles, dear husband. It warms the heart!”

Delia squirmed free and wiped her cheek. She was fifteen and totally disgusted with the mere idea of living with other humans who called themselves her family let alone being kissed by them. “Mum. That is gross!” She fled into the hall and up the stairs, wiping her face and making retching sounds.

“Dinner in half an hour,” Mum shouted just as Delia’s bedroom door slammed shut. “You too, Brendan.”

“I’ll be down in the workshop,” Dad said, kissing his wife on the cheek. He headed for the cellar door.

“Can I come watch, Dad?”

“Sure, Brendan. Just don’t touch anything unless I tell you it’s all right.”

“Okay, Dad,” Brendan said, inwardly cringing at his father’s delicate reminder of his native clumsiness. “I won’t break anything, I promise.”

“Remember to wash up,” Mum said, turning her attention to the salad.

Brendan followed his dad down the creaky wooden steps that led to the basement of the house. The smell of damp and sawdust was pungent in his nostrils.

The basement was his father’s domain. The space was long and narrow so he’d made dividers out of wood and plasterboard to section off different areas for different purposes. At the bottom of the stairs there was the gas furnace and the water heater. When he was younger, Brendan used to like to pretend the white cylinder of the water heater was a killer robot in an evil space army. He had battled the water heater on many occasions and it still bore the scars from the wooden sword his father had made him years ago. With chagrin, he remembered the time he’d gotten his head stuck under the furnace while chasing a superbouncy ball. His parents had been forced to call the fire department. Delia had a field day with that one.

The next part of the basement was the workshop, a tiny cubicle with a workbench along one wall. Tools dangled overhead like metal fruit. Here, his father did mundane repairs, fixed furniture, and did woodworking. They headed into the next area: his father’s art workshop. Brendan’s father reached up and pulled a chain, turning on a bank of halogen lights overhead.

This is where Brendan’s father did his artistic work, “his real work,” as he called it. Easels held half-finished canvasses. On a low bench sat a block of wood surrounded with shavings. A winged gargoyle was half-carved, captured as though it were in the midst of crawling out of the wood block. In one corner, a glass booth, soundproofed as best as possible, formed a miniature recording studio where Brendan’s dad rehearsed his music and recorded songs. An elderly iMac slept on a table near the sound booth ready to record any tunes Brendan’s father might come up with, its screen dark.

Some might call Brendan’s father a jack of all trades, dabbling in many fields. He managed to sell enough of his paintings and carvings to bring in a steady if modest income. The workshop was Brendan’s favourite place in the house, next to his own room, and he thought his father was just about the coolest person in the world.

Brendan watched as his father picked up his chisel and mallet and started to tap ribbons of shavings from the block of wood. In moments, the leg of the gargoyle was roughed out. Brendan was quietly in awe of what his father could do with his hands. The concentration and precision were beyond him. His father had tried to teach him woodworking, too, but with typically poor results.