Ishmael Toffee
“Down here in a part of the garden he’s never been to before—almost like he’s in the bush—far from the house. He found a curved blade on a long handle in the tool shed, and he swings it in easy arcs, slicing at the weeds. Lets the heat and the movement take him far away, where nothing can hassle him no more.Finds himself singing a song he learned he doesn’t know where. Old slave song. You just sing the months of the year, starting with January, get to December and start all over again. Stupid so...ng. But it gets him through a big clump of weeds in no time—a smell like bitter tobacco filling the air as he chops off their green and yellow heads.January, February, March . . .Swinging the blade.April, May, June, July . . .Ishmael stops to wipe sweat from his face on the arm of his shirt, pulls at a stubble of weeds stuck to his jeans and walks deeper into the undergrowth, grass high as his knees, carrying the blade on his shoulder like it’s a gun. Comes to a wall of thick, green bush, pushes his way in and by the time he hears the child crying it’s too bloody late to turn back.She lies there, blonde and pink against the green, curled up like a silkworm.MoreLess
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