Sonja says my eyebrows are like two caterpillars that have fallen in love and spent the last three decades growing closer and closer, eventually having become completely inseparable. I’ve thought about plucking the hairs in between them, but I can’t bring myself to ruin their fun. And no-one seems to think less of me for having a ‘monobrow’ (which is what the kids call it). It’s half past six. I’ve just put on the fancy shirt I bought when we went to Oz last year for our thirtieth anniversary; I’ve brushed my teeth and I have to say, the bloke in the mirror is doing alright for fifty-eight. Still got all my hair, not too wrinkly; maybe a bit on the heavy side, but what does it matter? I enjoy a good steak, a pint or two, and when’s that ever done any harm? Anyway, it runs in the family. I comb my hair back, do up the cufflinks I only ever wear with this shirt, and wander out of the bathroom to see if Sonja’s ready.
“How do I look, hon’?” She does a playful little twirl and smiles, but looks at me searchingly. I do my old trick: the fake double-take, sink to my knees, arms held out, palms up, a rapt expression.
“My God…You’re exquisite…I’ve seen perfection! Now I can die a happy man-”
“Okay! Okay!” she laughs. “I get it! Get up, Norm, you big faker.“ I love it how she still blushes. She tugs at my arm until I stand up.
“I’m not faking – everyone at the restaurant’s gonna be thinking “look at that fat old joker out with his trophy wife”.
Actually, I am faking just a little. Sonja looks a bit tired, and if tonight wasn’t so important, I’d suggest we stayed home.
“Trophy wife! So that’s all I am to you!”
“That’s right – hanging around you makes me look better, and if I can manage to keep my trap shut, people might think I’m as smart as you are, Mrs. PhD”.
“Ha! If there’s one thing I don’t need a doctorate to figure out, Norman Harris, it’s that there’s nothing that can keep you quiet for long.”
“Well, I don’t mind telling all and sundry how proud I am of you. You’ve worked away at this for so many years, and now you’re finally there”.
Sonja has invited her supervisor, the head of the English department, another doctorate student she’s worked with and their partners. Funnily enough, I haven’t met any of them before – up until a few months ago, I was working fifty or more hours a week and loving it – I was born to be a bank manager.
“Well, you can tell them, if you like,” she smiles, “but we’d better get a move on. I told everyone we’d be there at seven”.
She parks the car on Colombo Street and we walk around the corner. The restaurant is Sonja’s favourite – we first came here before we were married. It’s had a couple of name changes and renovations since, but it’s still a restaurant and every time we come back, it still brings back those memories. The place is pretty popular, but it’s a weeknight and we don’t have to wait long before we’re seated. It looks like we’re the first ones here. Sonja puts on her rectangular reading glasses that I think make her look like a sexy librarian, and takes a look at the menu. She’s short and slender; her hair has gone grey early, but she doesn’t dye it. She doesn’t need to – she wears it short and sophisticated, and it frames her face in a silvery halo. She’s wearing the moon-shaped earrings I gave her on our tenth anniversary, which are a reminder of ‘our’ song:
It was the first time we came to this restaurant, in 1975. We’d been going steady for a few months by then. I was working as a pretty low-level clerk at the bank; I’d been saving my measly wage and this night I could afford to take Sonja out somewhere special. She’s always had much more refined tastes than me; she was keen on jazz, and knew the difference between various types of wine, that sort of thing. This restaurant had a dance floor back then, and it was one of the few places that played her sort of music. She’d been casually mentioning it for ages. I hadn’t told her where we were going that night – in fact, I’d convinced her to wear a blindfold until we got there. I can tell you, I got a few funny looks from people as I led her by the hand down Colombo Street and ’round the corner of Hereford Street, up to the entrance of the restaurant. I took off the blindfold with a flourish.
“Voila!”
“Norm! How did you know?”
“I can take a hint,” I laughed.
We sat, ate and drank, talked and laughed for ages. At one point, a new record started playing over the restaurant speakers – a few tinkly piano notes by way of introduction, and then a woman’s voice, low and smooth and powerful, singing the opening line:
Somewhere there’s music…
“Ooh, this is Ella Fitzgerald. I love her,” Sonja said. She shut her eyes and leaned back in her chair, listening intently.
Somewhere there’s music
How faint the tune
Somewhere there’s heaven
How high the moon
There is no moon above
When love is far away too
Till it comes true
That you love me as I love you
Somewhere there’s music
How near, how far
Somewhere there’s heaven
It’s where you are
The darkest night would shine
If you would come to me soon
Until you will, how still my heart
How high the moon
I reached over and touched her arm.
“Did you want to dance?”
She smiled.
“Sure, Norm, I’d love to.” So we did. Though I’m big, I’ve always been light on my feet, and I can dance passably. I thought the words to the song were a bit wussy really, but Sonja seemed to like them, and I certainly didn’t mind that she wanted to dance with me, with her head resting on my shoulder and a strange half-smile when she looked up at me. And in the years since, I suppose I’ve got over myself a bit, and my opinion of the song’s changed. It’s simple, but it does describe how we feel when we have to be apart.
As a matter of fact, since that first dance thirty years ago, we’ve hardly ever been apart longer than a few days. When we left the restaurant and walked to my car, Sonja looked up at me, all nervous, and said,
“You know, Norm…my flatmates are away all weekend…If you want, you could stay…”
Much later that night, she slept curled up against me, her head pillowed on my shoulder again. The curtains weren’t shut properly, and moonlight was flooding in. I lay awake for hours, hardly breathing, watching the light moving over the pale curves of her body; it was that memory, more than the song, that I was thinking about when I bought the earrings. It’s still one of my favourite memories of her – one I hope I’ll never forget.
“Are you there, Norm? People are just arriving”.
I blink, look around. I think I did drift off for a minute there. I look over towards the door – a tall, skinny man about my age, wearing one of those jackets with the leather elbow-patches, is looking around at the tables. He sees Sonja, nods and strides over to us.
“Norm, this is Stanley Petherton, the head of English,” Sonja says.
I shake his bony hand.
“Norm Harris. Pleased to meet you, Stan”.
“Yes, and I you,” he says. “Ah – but it’s Stanley, please. I do detest contractions”
“Sure, mate,” I say. “Have a seat.” He sits down, and the waitress comes to take drink orders. I ask for a Steinlager, Sonja gets a glass of gewürztraminer and Professor Petherton a whisky and ginger ale.
We make polite conversation for a few minutes, then the rest of the party arrive all at once. Sonja introduces me to her supervisor, a large and friendly young woman named Janet, and her husband Dave; last of all I meet the other doctorate student, a slightly bland lad called James, and his girlfriend Marie. Everyone takes their seats, and before long, they’re all chatting like old friends – talking about Sonja’s thesis on Sargeson, discussing the latest news about budget cuts and changes to the Arts faculty structure…Though it’s all foreign to me, I’d usually dive into the conversation regardless, but I’m starting to feel a bit crook. Sort of tired and irritable, and not my usual outgoing self. I think maybe it was a bad idea to go out tonight – why did we decide to go out, anyway? I’m getting dizzy.
All of a sudden, I’m not sure where I am, or even what year it is. Who are these people at our table?
“Norm?” I look in Sonja’s direction, and see her concerned expression. She’s wearing moon-shaped earrings, which remind me of something…I can hear a woman singing, low and smooth and powerful, and that voice calms me down and reminds me why I’m here – this is Sonja’s favourite restaurant. They’re playing our song.
Somewhere there’s music
How near, how far…
“Sonja, they’re playing our song! Ella Fitzgerald, you remember? Come on, let’s have a dance!” I stand up, reach over and tug her arm, knocking over someone’s wine glass.
“Darling, what are you talking about? I don’t hear anything. There’s no dance floor here anymore – Norm, what’s the matter?”
I suddenly realise that something is very wrong. I don’t hear the music anymore. I’m back in the present, but disoriented. Scared. Sonja is holding me up, keeping me from falling. I’m blubbering like a little kid, and I’m not even sure why. I lean heavily on Sonja. Her thin arms are wrapped around me, patting me on the back. I don’t want to look at her friends. I hear her address them:
“Everyone – look, I’m very sorry about all this. You’ve all been so supportive over the last few months since Norm’s diagnosis. I really wanted you to meet Norm – he’s been so encouraging to me – I don’t know if I would even have gone back to university without him pushing me to follow my ambition. I just didn’t expect it would turn out like this, but, well, I guess we’re still getting used to dealing with his lapses…”
“Hey, Sonja, don’t worry about it,” I hear someone say. Janet, I think. “It’s okay. Really. You guys go on home, have a rest – we can still celebrate your acheivement in your absence – right, everyone?
There are murmurs of agreement. I turn my head to look at the table. The tall, skinny man – Stanley – is fastidiously dabbing at his wine-soaked shirtsleeve with a napkin. I want to say something to them, explain that I’m not normally like this – I’m Norm Harris, everyone’s best mate, one of the top bank managers in Christchurch – but Sonja has my arm, is leading me toward the door.
As we head to the front desk, I’m starting to come to my senses. I scribble down my signature, and the waiter hands my credit card back to me. He looks like he wants to say something, but I glare at him and he thinks again. I turn to Sonja.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve embarassed you”.
“Norm! Yes, you have, but that doesn’t matter! Come on, we need to get you home”.
Sonja drives home in total silence, focusing completely on her driving. Her small hands are clamped around the steering wheel, knuckles white. Neither of us feels like talking. I’m sinking into depression, cursing myself for how I behaved, but freaking out because these outbursts are getting harder and harder to control, and soon I won’t be able to control myself at all. The doctor says, though not in these words, that I’ve probably got less than a decade before I’m a complete vegetable. I’ve just taken early retirement from the bank because I don’t want to waste a minute of the time I’ve got left – already I’m finding myself forgetting people’s names, having to be reminded where I put things…one night a couple of weeks ago I started cooking our dinner, then wandered off to do something else, completely forgot I’d left the stove on, and nearly burned down the kitchen.
We park the car and go inside, and she still hasn’t said anything. I head to the bedroom and hang my jacket up, and when I turn around, she’s standing in the doorway watching me, tears welling up in her green eyes. She takes a step toward me.
“I feel pretty bad about tonight,” I say. “How I acted – you know I didn’t mean it. That wasn’t me. But hey,” I lighten my tone a bit, “in a couple of days, maybe I’ll have forgotten all about it!”
That was the wrong thing to say.
Sonja didn’t cry when we got the diagnosis. That was five months ago. I bawled my guts out right there in the specialist’s office, but she just sat quietly and squeezed my hand. I guess she’s been holding it all back since then, trying to be strong for me, and now she’s letting it out. She drops her purse and falls face-first onto the bed, sobbing like I’ve never seen her do before, like she just can’t control it. I sit next to her, scoop my hand over her shoulder to turn her over, but she hits my arm away. So I sit there for a good five minutes and watch her shake and listen as her sobs give way to a low, hoarse groan. Slowly, she turns her head to look up at me.
“Norm-” Another wave of sobbing washes over her, and I lie down and carefully rub my big hand up and down her back until she’s able to speak again.
“Hey, It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m still here”.
“No…I’m…losing you, Norm – you’re being taken away from me, piece by piece, and – and soon, maybe a couple of years, maybe ten, you won’t know who I am! Norm, I can’t stand it!”
She’s calming down now, getting control of her breathing, wiping her nose. It’s not like me to be lost for words. But I can’t think of anything to say that’ll make Sonja feel better. I wish I had something, even a lie that would let her forget about this for a while…But it’s a death sentence I’ve got, and you can’t put a spin on that. I think she’d kill me right now if I made another joke about it.
“Sonja, it’s a hell of a thing to happen. It’s not fair. But look, I still think I’m a lucky bloke. I’m so lucky. ‘Cause out of all the guys that were after you, you picked me. And look at what we’ve had – more than thirty years together…”
I’m starting to get a bit teary myself. I brush Sonja’s hair back and look her in the eye.
“One of these days, I’m going to start to forget all of that. I’ll need you to remind me. I’m counting on you to keep reminding me – because I want to hold on to all our memories as long as I can. I don’t want you to lose me either…”
Now we’re both crying, and it seems the best thing to do is just stay here, clinging to each other like we could stop the passing of time through the fading strength of my arms; through Sonja’s fingers digging painfully into my back.
Posted: December 14th, 2010 | Author: admin | Filed under: Short Stories | No Comments »
Stop talking at me. Stop talking at me. You know I can’t change anything, and you’re not really interested in my opinions anyway.
He keeps talking at me as though I wasn’t rolling my eyes.
“I want to take the research job. Yeah, it would be such a good thing to have on my C.V. and I’d be good at it too. I could totally live on a fishing trawler for four months, I bet I wouldn’t even get seasick, after the first week. They say everyone gets sick the first week, but then you adjust. The thing is, Claudia, I’d have to leave you here. There’s no way you could go on a boat, and I don’t think I could do that, you know? We’ve got a good thing. I know you’re happy here. And I couldn’t leave you with just anyone, that wouldn’t be fair.”
Whatever. I know he’s going to take the job. Why won’t he just quit going over and over it, and take the damn job? He needs to get out of the house more.
He’s seriously getting to me. I think I’d have left already, if it was possible. I want to bite him.
It’s not that I’m not grateful – Kevin’s a good guy for taking me in. He doesn’t yell at me even when I screech at him. My cage is about the best cage I’ve seen, and he keeps the newspaper fresh. He’s very thoughtful. He’s nice enough. He’s just a colossal bore, and he keeps going on about himself. We both need to get out of the house more, before I flip out and do something I’ll regret.
I need to tell him this, but I’ve learned from experience that he doesn’t listen. He’s incapable of listening.
When he’s at work, or sleeping, though, it’s worse. I have nothing to do but watch daytime TV and listen through the thin ceiling to the upstairs neighbours scream at each other. Sometimes Kevin bangs on the ceiling with a broom and they stop for a while, but he only does that after midnight when he can’t sleep. He tells me he feels bad about banging on the ceiling because maybe they argue to let off steam that would otherwise lead to physical violence.
He can be thoughtful, for all that he’s boring.
He’s walking around again, waving his hands like the motivational speakers he watches sometimes on TV. He likes that Personal Power – Tony Robbins – The Secret – Take Charge of Your Potential stuff.
“Oh god, Claudia, why do I never meet women? At least if I take the job on the trawler, I’ll have an excuse for being alone. Well, no, some of the crew could be women. But I bet they’d avoid me, too. At least with you, I know where I stand. I mean it’s not the same, obviously – but (sniff) you’re my best friend! That’s why it would be so hard to leave you here.”
He’s never going to get a date if all he does is pace around the apartment, going on and on and on about what he might do. It probably doesn’t help that his best friend is a middle-aged parrot with her own issues.
It was Kevin who gave me my name. Before, I was just the bird, that parrot over there, shutupyastupidbloodything. Before that, I was on sale. I was hatched in a pet shop. Cockatoos are rare and expensive pets, and I ended up being some rich kid’s Christmas present. My memory’s a bit hazy that far back, but I think I probably bit someone, which led to my being bundled off to the SPCA. I was eventually donated to a hotel.
Suffice to say, I ended up wishing the SPCA had gassed me like they did the less exotic pets. The hotel gig was a parrot nightmare, a parrot Guantanamo Bay. After the fourth time I escaped my two-square-metre cage – the time I bit the receptionist, flew up to the light fixture and shat on a family of customers – the oily little manager (after catching me in an old butterfly net he found in the lost property) padlocked my door. I soon learned that I couldn’t get out of that, and I resigned myself to being a jailbird. I must have lived there for a decade, climbing around and around the wire walls, hissing at kids, attacking the occasional idiots who’d poke their fingers through. Is it any wonder I’ve got a few social problems? Polly doesn’t want a cracker, you git. Polly wants your blood. You just keep poking those fingers through my cage, you’ll learn.
Kevin leaves the TV on for me during the day; I watch Dr. Phil and Oprah. I imagine some of those people who used to harass me dragged on to the Dr. Phil show.
Phil: “Whut yew need ta’ re-uh-lise,” (jabs finger at them) “is that y’all are only hurtin’ yer selves when you torment this bird. Didn’t yer parents bring you up to be respectful t’animals? You oughta be ashamed.”
Live Studio Audience: (applauds)
Snot-nosed kid: “Hey, I just wanted to make it talk, and it bit my finger! Really hard!”
Live Studio Audience: “Booo!”
It was about six months ago that Kevin busted me out of there. He’d been working for a cleaning company that were contracted to the hotel, and he’d show up four nights a week to do the lobby, which included changing my newspaper, and he’d always talk to me but didn’t try and make me talk or anything. A couple of times, I heard him arguing with the manager in the distance.
One afternoon, I overheard the manager yelling at someone on the phone. Something about insubordination and pressing assault charges and if they didn’t fire that cleaner they could forget their contract. He slammed the receiver down and glared at me.
“Your friend’s not coming back, bird. I gave him his marching orders, oh yes. And your turn’s next – first thing tomorrow, we’re going for a little drive down to the river.”
He stalked off, and I waited to see what would happen. That night, Kevin didn’t show up at the usual time, and I figured he must have been fired. Much later, though, I heard a key turn in the back door lock and someone came in, but didn’t turn any lights on. I kept still on my perch. Footsteps approached the lobby, then a beam of torchlight slid around the desk and into the lobby and onto my cage. I pretended to be asleep. Through a half-open eye I saw Kevin walk over.
“Hi, bird,” he whispered. “So, I don’t know if you heard about it, but I got the sack. I told the manager it was a disgrace how he was keeping you, and told him he’d better get you a bigger cage and feed you better and get you looked at by a vet, and he told me to go to hell. So I got him by the collar and told him what I thought of him, and well, I guess my boss wanted to protect his own arse, because next thing I knew, I was fired. Good thing I’d already copied the key, huh?”
He jiggled the keyring in his chubby hand and grinned.
“I’ve come to get you out of here. This is no sort of life for you. I’m taking you back to my place – you’ll like it there. It’s a bit more peaceful and you’ll have more room.”
I stopped pretending to be asleep; I stood up on my perch and flapped my wings a bit. Kevin laughed.
“I can see you like my plan. Now, I guess that arrogant little bastard didn’t even give you a name, eh? Well, you’ve gotta have a name. How about – yeah, I’ll call you Claudia. Claudia the Second.”
I wondered briefly who Claudia the First had been, but then he was opening my cage door and stuffing me into a big bucket and fitting the lid on. There were some holes cut in the lid so I could breathe, and a towel in the bottom that kept me from getting knocked about too much, so I guessed he’d planned things pretty well. From the bucket, I heard him close the cage and walk back through the lobby and lock the back door again. I dozed off; I woke up a bit later and we were on a bus, I think, though I couldn’t see to be sure. Then Kevin was walking again, and going up some stairs and unlocking another door and he took the lid off the bucket in a tiny apartment that was about as crappy and run-down as the hotel, but there was a nice, spacious cage in the main room, with fresh newspaper and clean water and a decent perch and even a couple of dry branches in there.
So, that’s where I’ve been living for the last six months of my life, and like I said, it’s clean and peaceful and I watch TV all day and listen to Kevin talk about his plans and frustrations all evening. It’s a boring life, true, but infinitely better than what I had. And even if I did want to break out and try being a free agent, Kevin’s very conscientious about keeping me here. He always locks me in before he goes out, though when he’s home I can hop around the apartment and perch anywhere I want.
Tonight, Kevin’s going on about this research job out on the ocean. He doesn’t talk about the past much, always the future, but from what he’s told me, I gather he got a degree in marine biology or something, years ago, but never did much with it. Well, he works in a supermarket now. Lately he’s been talking more and more about wanting a change of scenery, but it always comes back to me somehow. How he can’t bear to leave me with the SPCA and doesn’t know anyone he can trust to take care of me. As if I couldn’t make it without him! Since I’ve been here, all my feathers have grown back and I’m the healthiest I’ve ever been. I could make a go of it in the wild, I think – and if I could get outside, there’s no way anyone would catch me.
“Sometimes, Claudia, it’s a real drag having a pet. No offense, you’re great and all – it’s just hard having all this responsibility. But I wouldn’t give it up. I wouldn’t give you up. No, I’ll look after you. Geez, would you listen to those neighbours! Fighting again!”
The sound of another screaming match comes filtering down from upstairs. They’re really going at it, those neighbours. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but it’s not anything pleasant. I can hear plates smashing. Kevin turns the TV up to drown out the din.
A few minutes later though, the yelling stops. A door slams somewhere. Then there are running footsteps, and then someone knocks on our door.
“Who do you think that is, Claudia? Maybe it’s one of the neighbours, but I don’t know what they’d want.”
He goes over and opens the door, which I can’t see from my cage.
“Can I help you?”
Woman at the door: “Hi. Hi, I’m Sharon. I – live upstairs. Um, you prob’ly heard us just now”
“Kevin Finney. Come in, come in. Are you okay? What’s the problem?
“Sorry, I – um – I just – could I use your phone? I need a taxi. We, I, had a fight with my partner – you prob’ly heard us, sorry, and my phone’s out of money and I need to get a taxi…”
“Yeah, of course. Your partner, he’s not, like, coming after you or anything? Do I need to pretend you’re not here, not answer the door if he comes?”
“Nah, he won’t come looking for me. Not tonight. He’s off his face. He’s probably coma-ed out by now.”
“Right. Well, here’s the phone. Can I get you a cup of tea or something while you wait for the taxi?”
“Sure, that’d be good. Cheers.”
“How do you have it?”
“Milk and one. Thanks.”
Now that they’ve walked into the lounge, I can see who Kevin’s talking to. Sharon’s a bit shorter than Kevin, kind of tough-looking; I’m not the best at guessing humans’ ages, but I’d say she’s a few years older than him, maybe in her mid-thirties. She has darker skin and short, bleached hair. She has a large carry-bag which she puts down on the floor near the table with the phone on it. Kevin goes over to the kitchen to put the jug on, and Sharon looks up a taxi company in the phone book and calls herself a taxi. Shortly, Kevin comes back with two mugs of tea and hands one to Sharon.
“Ta. My taxi won’t be far away.” She takes a sip and, looking around, sees me perched on top of my cage.
“Hey, you’ve got a parrot,” she says.
“Yeah, that’s Claudia. She’s a sulphur-crested cockatoo. I found her in a hotel lobby – she’d been there for years in this tiny little cage, and they didn’t even really want here there – she was just like a piece of the furniture to them. They treated her like crap. She’d lost half her feathers from stress, and she’ll always be a bit funny ’round people.”
“She looks like a battler.”
“Yep, she’s been through a lot. But you’re safe now, aren’t you, Claudia?”
I bob my head up and down and raise my crest to keep him happy.
“Hey, she knows her name.”
“They’re smart, parrots. I bet she understands more than we think.”
Sharon finishes her tea.
“You know, you look really familiar, man, but I’m sure I’ve never met you. How long have you been living here?”
“Oh, about a year or so. I guess you’ve seen me around, though I don’t get out much. So - if it’s not too personal, where are you headed?”
“I don’t know, not really. My partner needs some time to cool his head. He’ll fix up his ideas once it sinks in that I might be gone for good. He always does. I’ll go stay with my sister, if she’ll have me.”
I hear the taxi driver toot his horn to announce his arrival.
“That’s me,” says Sharon. “I better go. Thanks for the tea, and letting me use your phone.” She picks up her bag and turns to go out the door.
“It’s so weird, I could have sworn I recognised you from somewhere”, she says.
“Hey, listen, Sharon,” says Kevin, “I’ve got a spare room. You could always stay with me.”
“No…no, it’s fine. I need a change of scenery.” She puts the strap of the bag over her shoulder. Kevin moves between her and the door. He looks her in the eye, all serious.
“Does he hit you, Sharon?”
The question hangs there uncomfortably. Sharon fidgets with the bag and tries to step around Kevin, but he keeps blocking her exit.
“Hey, look, man, you wanna know? He does try and knock me around, all right? And I give as good as I get. He’s never got the better of me yet. I can look after myself.”
“But there’s no excuse for him hitting you,” says Kevin. “That’s not right. You need someone who can keep you safe.”
Sharon suddenly gets this look as though a memory’s been triggered. She backs away from Kevin, holding her hands up in front of her.
“Oh my God! Oh shit! I know who you are! You – it was on the news for weeks! That girl that killed herself, and her family were saying it was because of her boyfriend, who was like, controlling her life and wouldn’t let her do anything without his permission and used to lock her in the house when he went out! You’re him! Oh, I know you got name suppression and all that, but the tabloids got some photos and it got out…there was no conviction, nothing they could pin on you, but it was pretty bloody obvious how you’d twisted her, played with her head, just because you had some sick need to be in control – Just my luck, eh? I seem to attract psychos!”
“Psychos! Listen, Sharon, it’s not like that! You’re right, I am that guy, but it was NOT like that. Her parents had it in for me. Her friends too, they didn’t understand…”
Below, the taxi driver sounds the horn again impatiently.
“Whatever. I’m not hanging ’round to find out.” Sharon walks around him to get to the door and He grabs her arm, but she swings around and catches him a good smack on the jaw, and he crumples.
“I’m getting out of here, you freak! You’re worse than that bloody drunk upstairs. I’ll get the cops on your arse if you try anything else!” She stomps out the door and down the steps.
Kevin stays down for a few seconds, then gets heavily to his feet. I’ve never seen him so angry. He doesn’t look at me; for once, he doesn’t say anything, just walks over to the window, rubbing the side of his face. He opens the window and sticks his head out, but Sharon is long gone.
It’s a couple of hours later that we get another knock at the door. All this time, Kevin has been sitting at the table, fuming. I’ve kept quiet and out of sight on top of my cage. The knocking on the door is heavy and insistent – whoever’s there isn’t going away. Kevin slowly gets up, red-faced, fists clenching and unclenching; slowly walks over and opens the door.
“Can I help you?” he says.
The voice that replies is male; deep, a bit slurred.
“Maybe ya can. My girlfriend walked out on me before an’ din’t say where she was goin’. But I heard her yellin’ at someone, an’ you’re the only one on this floor ‘cos the other unit’s empty across the hall. And I’m – I was a bit pissed, all right, an’ I went to sleep, but then I woke up and I thought hey, wasn’t Sharon yellin’ at someone before, so I come down to check she hasn’t caused you any trouble, mate, and see if you knew where she went.”
“Trouble,” says Kevin. “Ha, ha. Trouble. She bloody well smacked me in the jaw because I told her she should leave you, you drunk piece of shit. Oh, I know you hit her. Pathetic. And she didn’t want my help. Called me a psycho. Far as I’m concerned, the two of you deserve each other. Get the hell out of my doorway.”
“Hey, hey, hey! Eeeeasy, mate! Don’t gotta go sayin’ shit about me when you don’t know – “
He stumbles in the doorway and I see him there, a big guy with tattooed arms and filthy jeans and, weirdly, sunglasses on top of his shaved head. Kevin follows him in.
“Oi! Where do you think you’re going, you dumb bastard! The door’s this way!”
I can’t stop watching this scene unfold; it’s unreal. I’ve never seen this side of Kevin before.
“Listen buddy, I don’t like what you said about me an’ my lady,” the neighbour says.”‘f I wasn’t so pissed, maybe I’d smash you.”
“I’d like to see you try,” says Kevin. Somehow, something’s got into him and he won’t let up. He can’t stop goading the guy.
“Come on, you think you can push me ’round like you push your girlfriend ’round? Big man?” He pushes the neighbour, who goes red and swings his fist. He’s a big guy, bigger even than Kevin, but he’s not in any state to fight. His swing goes wide and he loses his balance and crashes over onto the kitchen chair that Kevin was sitting on before. The chair smashes under him, and he struggles to get himself out of the wreckage while Kevin stands above him, laughing.
“Ooh, yeah, that really showed me!” He kicks him in the stomach. “Get up! Come on!
While he’s going on like this, I decide I’d better get ready to make my exit. I climb down onto the floor and hop over to the couch, which gives me easy access to the open window. Don’t think I didn’t notice that Kevin left the window open earlier. For the last two hours, that square of starry black has been calling to me. Up ’til now, I’d been undecided about whether to make a break for it, but – well, I’d be a fool not to take off now.
The only thing is, I’ve never flown properly before. Sure, I’ve flapped around the room a bit, but I’m hardly in shape. If I jump out the window, who’s to say I won’t end up a sorry, feathered heap two stories down?
Anyway, I kind of want to see how this whole thing unfolds.
How it unfolds is that while Kevin stands there guffawing and kicking him, the neighbour has been biding his time. The effects of the alcohol seem to have worn off a bit as he suddenly sits up and grabs both of Kevin’s legs behind the knees, bringing Kevin crashing down on his back. They roll about for a bit, grappling and trading punches and then somehow they’re on their feet again and Kevin has a bit of broken chair leg in his hand, and as the neighbour gets ready to punch him again, Kevin hefts the piece of wood and brings it down, crack against the side of the man’s head. And the neighbour drops, just like on the telly.
I can’t tell if the guy is alive or dead.
Kevin’s standing over the neighbour’s motionless body, with the chair leg in his hand, breathing heavily. He looks up at me, looking suddenly aware of where he is. He puts the piece of wood down carefully on the table.
“Well, that’s done it, Claudia. I can’t stay here now. I’ll have to run. And there’s no way I can take you with me….But I can’t leave you here on your own to starve, that wouldn’t be right. And I don’t know anyone I could leave you with. Even if I did, they’d want to know where I was going, and why, and that’s no good. And, of course, you might talk. though that’d be a first. I’m sorry, Claudia, but there’s only one thing for it.”
He picks up the chair leg again. He holds his left arm out to me and hides the weapon behind his back. He steps carefully around the small pool of blood forming slowly on the floor around the man’s head, and slowly, slowly walks towards my window.
“Claudia…hey, shh, don’t be scared. It’s just me. It’s just Kevin. This is for your own good…you’d thank me, if you could understand…”
As he lifts up the chair leg I jump, fanning my wings out, letting my instincts take over, and I’m falling, falling and then I catch an updraft and I’m flying. I flap, feeling my wings bend the air around them, moving up and through it until the apartment shrinks away far below and my watching life is over.
I don’t want to remember tonight, or the apartment, or that look of concern on Kevin’s face, any more than I want to remember the years in the hotel. I’ve had enough of being talked to, I think. I’m done with cages and newspaper. I set my sights on the patch of darkness where the city lights die out. I’m not Claudia any more, I’m not that bird over there, I’m not anyone.
Posted: December 14th, 2010 | Author: admin | Filed under: Short Stories | No Comments »
I.
The river was called the Wairoa – this meant ‘big water’, which was probably a lie or a joke of some sort, as there were only a few spots where the water was over your head. Mostly, the river ran shallow over round grey rocks and sparkled in the sun, which was why someone had named the town Brightwater. The best place for swimming was down the end of Bryant Road, where the tar seal ended and the road changed to gravel and turned to follow the river.
By the end of the long summer the river had shrunk from its banks, leaving the round grey rocks plastered with weed that dried to fibrous grey mats in the sun. Blair scrambled up the bank and waited, scuffing his feet, for the other two to catch up. After a few moments, Jason came pounding round the corner, scaling the crumbling slope with more difficulty. Last was Godzilla, who clambered up awkwardly, little paws skidding, wheezing excitedly – the river was his favourite place in the world, pungent with the promise of rabbits.
Jason brushed some of the dust off his pants. “Blai-air! Mum said stay off this part of the road! I don’t wanna make her mad with me! I saw her crying a bit in the laundry, before.” He looked imploringly at his older brother, but Blair wasn’t backing down.
“I don’t care – you wanna see where they do the burnouts, right? Anyway, who’s gonna tell her?” He started walking. Godzilla followed, and, after a moment, so did Jason. They kept going for a few hundred metres, until they caught a whiff of burning brake-pads on the humid air, and could hear a car engine revving high and frantic. The boys were full of fearful bravado at the thought of those battered machines screeching ’round corners, narrowly avoiding disaster at every turn. Godzilla, true to his Jack Russell nature, ran from tree to grass clump to tree as fast as his arthritic paws could carry him, hoping to flush out something he could chase.
Blair kicked at an empty beer can. then looked up.
“Hey, I think there’s a car!”
Jason looked where Blair was pointing and saw a cloud of dust rising up a little way in front of them, curving swiftly to the left, away from the river.
“Yeah! Quick, let’s go see!” he cried, all thought of Mum’s wrath forgotten, and the three of them ran further down the road to the small parking area where the picnic tables were, planted in a patch of grass that was now torn up where the car had been doing doughnuts. They could hear its engine far down the river.
“It’s going away from us”, said Jason.
“Yeah, but they have to come back” replied Blair. “I went all the way up there on my bike one time, up where the river meets the other river, and the road bends round and goes along the other river, and it comes out onto the main road near the bridge.”
Jason sat down at the nearest picnic table and idly scratched at the wood with a bottle cap. “Man, when I’m bigger I’ll come down here all the time. I’ll have a real fast car and do burnouts and I won’t have to listen to Mum – hey, she won’t know we came down here eh?”
“Not if you don’t tell her! And my car’s gonna be faster. I’ll be the fastest driver in the world and go to Australia and win Bathurst.”
“Well, I’m gonna be the fastest driver in the UNIVERSE!”
“Shut up! Will not.”
“You shut up!”
“You. I’m older.”
Godzilla barked.
“Hey!” said Jason, “He’s after a rabbit!” The little dog had never actually managed to catch a rabbit, but he loved to chase them all the same. This one, more than a match for him, was zigzagging excitedly back down the road in the direction the boys had walked, with Godzilla in pursuit. Blair and Jason ran after him, yelling encouragement. Godzilla was closing on his prey, but the rabbit, sensing it was pushing its luck, darted off in earnest and disappeared. Its pursuers came to a panting halt. They didn’t hear the car coming around the corner until it was almost too late. Jason shouted and Blair scooped up Godzilla and they dove into the prickly roadside scrub as a dirty black Commodore screeched ’round the bend in a spray of stones. The big car ground to a halt fifty metres up the road, and the driver opened his door. There was a blast of hardcore house music. The teenage driver stuck his head out and peered through the clearing dust, saw no-one on the road, yelled something to a passenger, pulled his head back in and slammed the door as the Holden took off again.
“Shit,” groaned Blair from his gorse bush, “Mum’s gonna kill us if she finds out.”
II.
Helen was standing at the kitchen table folding the laundry, and trying not to think about Russell, but it wasn’t working. How long had it been – a month? No, three weeks – since that day when she’d looked at the pile of bills on the table, looked at him, and lost it. He’d said nothing while she tore into him, just sat there looking at his shoes. She’d grabbed a handful of paper and thrust it in his face -
“How the hell are we going to pay this, Russell? Answer me! Where’s the money going to come from? Not from the TAB! Not from the fucking pokies!” And still he’d said nothing – had sat there like he was deaf until she threw the bills back on the table and stormed off to their bedroom. She’d stuffed all of his clothes that would fit into a black nylon sports bag and lugged it back into the lounge. She’d dropped the bag at his feet. He’d looked at her blankly.
“Babe, don’t do this…”
“Russ, you have to go. I need you to go.”
“Where-”
“I don’t know! I don’t care! Just – just go! Don’t come back until you can care more about your family than you do about winning the next bet!” And she’d pushed him out the door. He’d got obediently into his car, sat in it for a while, staring into space, then finally turned the key and driven…somewhere. Helen had sunk into a chair, all her anger spent, and listened to the tyres churning down the gravel driveway, grinding her hopes into the dry summer dirt…
Mum, can I have a ice block?
Mum?
“MUM, can I have a ice block?”
Helen blinked, and realised Jonelle was tugging the hem of her t-shirt. “Oh, honey, we just had lunch. Wait for a bit, okay?”
“Aww! Daddy woulda let me! I miss Daddy, when’s he coming back, Mum?”
Helen sighed. How did you explain this sort of thing to a five-year-old? They were never happy with simple answers.
“It’s like I told you the other day… Daddy had to go away for a while, and I don’t know when he can come back, so we just have to be real patient and wait for-”
“But why’d Daddy have to go? Is it ’cause you were cross with him all the time?”
“No! No, that’s not why.”
“Is it ’cause I was bad and I drawed on the wall at school and Mrs Oates made me sit in the corridor for five minutes? Is it ’cause ‘Zilla pooed in the house and Dad got real mad and he kicked him and-”
“Look, how about that ice block, eh?” Helen walked over to the freezer. “Did you want raspberry or lemonade?”
“Um, um, I waaaant… raspberry!” Helen handed the iceblock to Jonelle, who skipped off to the back yard, all questions put on hold for the moment. Did avoiding the issue like that make her a bad mother? Her own mother would probably say it did. But hell, she didn’t want to be the bad guy all the time. Russell, though – he’d let the kids get away with murder. The big, soft-hearted…hopeless, bloody stupid… God, she was crying again. Where the hell was he?
Two grazed, dusty boys and a elderly terrier crept through the gate, ’round the back of the house, and through the laundry door. The coast was clear; Mum must be down the other end of the house. Godzilla headed for his waterbowl, and Jason and Blair started down the hallway to their room.
“Shh – take your shoes off, Jason! Mum’ll hear you!”
Then Godzilla trotted past them and into the kitchen, and Mum stuck her head into the hallway.
“Hi boys, what’cha up to?” She did a double-take. “Where’ve you been? Look at you! You’re absolutely covered in dirt – don’t leave those shoes there – Jason, is that blood? Where’d you get all scratched up like that?”
“Nowhere…”
“Just down the river.”
“Boys, you better not have been down that road where those idiots race their cars. Look at me.”
Blair looked at the floor. Jason looked at his shoes.
“Bloody hell, you were down there, weren’t you?! Blair! What did I tell you?”
“Don’t go there without an adult…”
“And why not?”
“’Cause it’s dangerous – but we’re okay, Mum!”
“Yeah, we’re okay. The car didn’t get us” added Jason – then he realised what he’d said and shut up quickly.
“What? What car? You mean you nearly got run over? Right, that is the absolute last straw! You two are grounded. You’re not to leave the section, understand? Not for a minute, until I’ve figured out what your punishment’s going to be. You got that?”
“Yeah.”
“Mum, you’re treating me like a baby!”
“Blair! I’m this close to shipping you off to live with Grandma. Don’t push your luck!” It was an empty threat, but he got the point. Grandma made you eat Brussels sprouts, and go to bed at seven o’clock, and told you off if you made too much noise.
“Yes, Mum.” Blair slumped off to the lounge, where Jason was making a Lego spaceship and Jonelle was teaching her Barbie doll how to say the alphabet. He picked up a comic book, flipped a few pages and was soon engrossed in the adventures of Spider-man.
“Godzilla!” Helen whistled. “’Zilla! Tea time!” There was no reply. “You boys did remember to shut the gate, didn’t you?”
Blair considered this question. “Um… I dunno.” He walked around the side of the house and had a look. The gate was wide open. “No! Sorry Mum!”
“Blair, go and find that dog of yours. I’ve got too many things I have to do here”.
“But Mum, you said I have to stay here!”
She sighed heavily. “Look, just go and find him – he won’t have got far. But you be careful on that road. And you’re still grounded when you get back, understand? No Jason, you stay here.”
Blair took off out the front door, heading in the direction of the river. Helen watched him through the window. He really was just like her. Willful. Like how she’d married Russ, when her mother and her friends were all saying how hopeless he was, how he’d never be able to hold down a job… but she’d wanted to, and that had been that. She turned to go and do the ironing.
There was a familiar sound of tyres on the driveway.
“Dad!” yelled Jason. “Hey, Jonelle, Dad’s here! Dad’s come back!”
And he ran outside. Helen stood there, staring through the kitchen window as Russell’s beaten-up Toyota ute pulled up to the house.
III.
Blair was pretty sure he knew where Godzilla had run off to. He followed Bryant road down to the river, to where the seal ended, where it turned to the left. He looked down the road and, sure enough, the dog was there – far off, and padding back towards the picnic area.
“Hey! ‘Zilla!” Blair called, and whistled, but Godzilla either didn’t hear, or was ignoring him. He started jogging down the road.
“So,” said Russell from the doorway, “How you been, Hels?” He was hesitant about stepping inside; Helen had stayed where she was while the two younger children had run outside to hug their Dad. Right now, Jason was pulling on his arm, trying to get him to come into the house. The other arm was holding Jonelle, and her arms were wrapped tightly around his neck.
“How’ve I been? Where have you been? Look, come in – Jason, leave your Dad be.” Russell stepped in and sat in a kitchen chair.
“Kids, can you go play outside? Your Mum and me need to talk.” Jason and Jonelle bounced out the front door.
“I went and stayed with my mate Stu from work for a couple of days; then I took a week off from work and went and stayed with Mum and Dad down in Rangiora. And now I’m in that motel down the road. I’ve been there all week, tryin’ to figure out what to say to you.”
“And what’ve you got to say, Russ?”
He looked her in the eye. “Jeez, Helen, I’ve been a bloody idiot. I knew I was spending all our money, but I kept thinking – gotta keep on playing, y’know, and maybe I’d win it back… Anyway, I want to get help. And I need you, babe – can I come back?”
Blair was close enough for Godzilla to hear him. “Oi! Come here, you bad dog! Godzilla!” The guilty party stopped in his tracks and looked back over a hairy shoulder at the approaching boy. But just as Blair caught up, a rabbit darted out of the bushes behind them and bounded down the road. Godzilla couldn’t help himself, and tore off after it. The three of them ran right through the picnic area, towards the point where the two rivers met and the road turned again. As the dog approached the bend, the dirty black Holden Commodore from earlier in the day flew around the corner and ran right over the top of him. Blair, well back from the corner, watched it happen in slow motion. Then the car roared past him and the driver, oblivious to what had happened, yelled “Get outta the road!” through his window. Blair sprinted to where his dog lay. Godzilla’s eyes were wide open and he was breathing fast and shallow. He looked alright, except for the thin trickle of blood starting from his mouth and nostrils.
“Godzilla! No, no, Godzilla…” Blair stroked his wiry little head. The dog whined feebly. Then, his eyes glazed over and that was that.
Helen had anticipated Russell’s plea. In the last three weeks, she’d anticipated every possible scenario. This was one of the better ones. Still, she didn’t want to get her hopes up.
“Russ, you know how much you hurt me… I always just wished you’d talk about the things you were worried about, but you wouldn’t… and then, all the money you borrowed from people; it’s going to be years before we pay that back, even though I can work more now that Jonelle’s at school… but I’m glad you want to get help, Russ. I’ll just have to think about this for a day or two.”
The gate creaked, and Russell looked out the window.
“Hey, here’s Blair. What’s that he’s carrying?
Under a thin layer of topsoil, the ground was heavy clay. It was dark by the time Russell had finished digging, but he finally had a hole about two feet deep. Helen laid Godzilla’s favourite old, gnawed sheepskin rug in the bottom, and Russell carefully lowered the blanket-wrapped body on top of it.
“I reckon someone should say a few words”, said Russell. He looked at the kids.
Blair blinked back tears, and sniffed. “He was a good dog. He liked to chase things, and he was always happy, and he was my friend.”
Jason nodded, and mumbled “Yeah.”
Helen just said, “I’ll miss ya, mate”, and hugged the two boys.
“Daddy, when can ‘Zilla come back?” sobbed Jonelle.
“Aw, hon – he can’t come back now. He’s in doggy heaven.”
“But you went away, and you came back!”
“Shh. It’s okay. ‘Zilla can’t come back, but I’m staying”. He looked at Helen, just to be sure. She met his gaze, held it; mouthed “We’ll see.”
“Hey, do you remember how he got his name?” said Blair.
“Sure, mate,” said Russell. “When we got him from the SPCA he didn’t have a name. But that first day when we got him home, he saw a cat and raced after it, and he ran right through your lego city. Smashed it up. And I said, we’ll have to call him Godzilla!”
“And me and Jason didn’t know what Godzilla was, so we got the video out,” said Blair. “It was cool!”
Jonelle, Jason and Blair had fallen asleep on the couch, and Russell had gone back to his motel for the night, with the understanding he could come home the next day – maybe – after she’d thought about it a bit more, anyway. Helen didn’t have the heart to wake the kids, so she sat in the armchair across the room and watched them. Blair was in the middle, a protective arm wrapped around the other two. God, he was growing up fast. She sighed, and drifted off into an exhausted sleep.
Posted: December 14th, 2010 | Author: admin | Filed under: Short Stories | No Comments »