|Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 2, 2010 at 10:56 AM|
The Steps In The Hall
Murky, cold October evening, the northwesterly throws rain, hard as pebbles,
at the window, the old house groans in agony under this autumnal offensive.
Mother is reading, my sister too has her nose in a romantic magazine, I sit by
the table doing homework. We have no TV, but after two years of waiting
a phone has been installed, a shiny black monster in the side table. I had taken
an instant dislike to this intrusive ogre, but mother thought it the height of
refined middle class living; needless to say my sister thought it wonderful.
We all heard the steps in the hall and waited for the kitchen door to open,
it didn’t mother went to investigate; hesitantly she opened the door, no one
there. I wrote something on a scrap of paper, or rather the pen did,
The phone began ringing it rang and rang for a long time, none of us got up
to answer it. It rang again, mother had to answer it. She stood there saying
nothing as lost in thoughts, and I could hear the steady hum of a line that
waited to be dialed. Finally she put the phone down and said; “Your Brother
is dead”. She sat down and began reading again but her eyes was stuck on
the same page in the book. My sister’s eyes were unfocused she was still
struggling to understand. I looked at my scrap of paper on it was written:
“Your brother is dead”.