by Genia Sophie Krassnig
Two weeks before my eleventh birthday, something incredible happened. It was as if Independence Day, the decisive goal against the Netherlands, and Christmas Eve all coincided on the same day. For other children, this might not be entirely understandable. But when you have a father who only shakes your hand on your birthday, it becomes clear why this day felt like it would go down in history.
I sat at the kitchen table with my older sister Rita, playing checkers. Rita had already won the fifth round. It was a dark winter afternoon. Mother had preheated the oven for dinner, and warm light illuminated the small room. The kitchen window wasn’t entirely sealed, and I pulled my legs up onto the bench, warming them under my large, stretched-out sweater. Just as my sister placed her next white piece, ruining another set for me, a strange, distorted noise came from the next room. My sister and I stopped our movements and listened curiously.
“My goodness…” I recognized my mother’s voice. “Children, come and see!” she called out.
A quick glance at Rita, and we both jumped. Before running off, I made sure to bump the table particularly hard, causing all the checkers pieces to shift – along with Rita’s next victorious move.
The sight in the living room was peculiar. In the middle of the room, our father sat topless at the coffee table – bent forward, his shirt pulled over his head. I gasped in surprise at this large, white back that flashed towards me. I couldn’t recall my father ever showing so much skin before. Not even during our annual summer vacation, when Dad sat at the beach bar with a newspaper in one hand and his beer in the other, did he take off his shirt. Sometimes, in the intense midday heat, he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. And if he was in a particularly good mood, he might unbutton two buttons.
“Look!” my mother exclaimed, pointing excitedly at the bare spot. At that moment, my older brothers came running out of their room and pushed me aside.
“Is this necessary?” I heard my father mumble dully under his shirt, but no one paid him any attention. Four children’s heads approached slowly. Thomas and Rita, the two eldest, led the way. Then Peter followed. Finally, I slowly moved my head in the direction of the action, carefully maintaining a sufficient safety distance. I tried to catch a glimpse of the black spot between Rita’s wild curls and Peter’s fidgety arms. Meanwhile, Mother had supported herself with one leg on the coffee table and was pressing on Dad’s skin. She squeezed and pressed, but nothing happened.
“It won’t come out!” Thomas shouted.
“Let me try!” Rita called.
“Your fingers are too thick!” Thomas yelled, pushing Rita aside.
“Yours are too!” Rita retorted angrily. Dad grumbled in between.
“Wait, maybe I have something in the kitchen…” Mother started. My siblings were getting more restless, the atmosphere was charged. I had moved back and stood now at the other side of the room, pressed against the wall.
“Let the little one do it!” I suddenly heard Dad thunder. I flinched. Did he mean me? It was abruptly silent, all heads turning to me. Before I could gather another thought, let alone respond, I was grabbed by someone and pulled forward. I stumbled a few steps, past Peter’s shining eyes and the encouraging smile of my mother. Then I stood before Dad’s large, white, hairy back. Right in the middle, among moles, beauty marks, scars and ingrown hair, was the large blackhead. By now, the skin around the area was heavily reddened, as my family had kneaded it quite a bit, albeit unsuccessfully.
“Out. Everyone else out!” Dad decided. The voices of my siblings retreated, accompanied by grumbling, as Mother ushered them out of the room. Then I heard the door close. Dad and I were left alone. Silence. I cleared my throat. Then I moved forward hesitantly. My hand trembled as I touched my father’s bare back for the first time. The skin was wrinkled. Soft. Warm. It smelled of tobacco. My heart raced. My mind was blank. But my small, thin fingers began working quickly and carefully as if they knew exactly what to do, squeezing the large blackhead.
“And?” my siblings called through the closed door.
“Shh, don’t disturb him,” I heard Mother say.
I affectionately stroked the black spot. Then I concentrated. I repositioned my two index fingers and pressed firmly and deliberately, with all my strength. Then, the dark, long sebum cone slipped out and a satisfied groan escaped Dad.
The door burst open, and my siblings couldn’t hold back any longer, rushing in. The voices overlapped. Cheering. Someone hugged me from behind and pulled me into the middle of the room. Peter and Thomas jumped over the carpet. Rita clapped her hands in the air, and her skirt swirled. Mother stroked my head. Yes, and Dad? He slowly sat up, put on his shirt, directing his gaze directly at me. Then he smiled.
The next day was a Sunday. I had thoroughly informed myself. To prevent blackheads from proliferating, greasy and fried foods should be completely avoided. I persuaded Mother to leave the kitchen to me. Scrambled eggs for my mother and siblings. But for my father, I had come up with something special. When I pushed his plate towards him, he didn’t even look up from his morning newspaper. Absentmindedly, he took a big bite. I waited. Heard him chewing. Then he took another bite, and finally:
“This tastes good. Thanks!”
“You’re welcome, Dad.” I tried to stay calm.
“You should use the kitchen more often.”
“I will, Dad,” I replied and sat next to Rita on the kitchen bench. If Dad had looked up at that moment, he would have noticed my blissful grin. But he had disappeared behind the large plate of fried potato pancakes with bacon.
Bio:
Genia Krassnig is a filmmaker and producer based in Berlin. Her previous short stories, “She and Her” and “You,” have been published on international literary blogs and in anthologies.