I walk back. "I'm doing fine, Tommy. It's been a crazy year but I'm doing fine. You?"
We sit on the front steps, which are half in shadow, half in the sun. As it happens, I sit in the darkness and Tommy sits in the light. Quite symbolic, really.
It's the first time I've felt comfortable all day as my brother and I talk and answer each other's brief questions.
"University okay?"
"Yeah, the marks have been good. Better than I hoped."
"And Ingrid?"
There's a silence before we can't contain it anymore. It breaks between us and we both laugh. It feels very boyish but I'm congratulating him, and Tommy's congratulating himself.
"She's not bad," he says, and genuinely I tell my brother that I'm proud of him--and not for Ingrid. Ingrid means nothing in comparison to what I'm talking about.
I say, "Good for you, Tommy," plant my hand on his back, and stand up. "Good luck."
As I walk down the steps, he says, "I'll call you sometime. We'll get together."
But again, I can't go along with it. I turn and speak with a quietness that surprises even me. I say, "I doubt you will, Tommy," and it feels good. It feels nice to emerge from the lies.
Tommy agrees.
He says, "You're right, Ed."
We're still brothers, and who knows? Maybe one day. One day, I feel certain, we'll get together and remember and tell and speak many things. Things bigger than university and Ingrid.
Just not soon.
For now, I walk across the lawn and say, "Bye, Tommy, thanks for coming out," and I'm satisfied with just one thing.
I'd wanted to stay on that porch with him until the sun shone bright on both of us, but I didn't. I stood up and walked down the steps. I'd rather chase the sun than wait for it.
As Tommy goes in and I leave again, Ma comes out.
"Ed!" she calls.
I face her.
She walks closer and says, "Merry Christmas, all right?"
"Same to you." Then I add, "It's the person, Ma, not the place. If you left here, you'd have been the same anywhere else." It's truth enough, but I can't stop now. "If I ever leave this place"--I swallow--"I'll make sure I'm better here first."
"Okay, Ed." She's stunned, and I feel sorry for the woman standing on the front porch of a poor street in an ordinary town. "That sounds fair."
"See you later, Ma."
I'm gone.
That had to be done.
I drop in at home for a quick drink and go to Milla's. When I get there, she's waiting eagerly, wearing a light blue summer dress and holding a present. She also holds an excitement across her face.
"For you, Jimmy," she says, handing me the big, flat box.
I feel bad because I don't have a gift for her. "I'm sorry," I begin to say, but she shuts me up quickly with a wave of her hand.
"It's enough that you came back for me," she says. "Are you going to open it?"
"No, I'll wait," and I offer the old lady my arm. She takes it and we leave her house, heading over to my place. I ask if we should get a cab, but she's happy to walk, and halfway there, I'm not sure if she's going to make it. She coughs hard and struggles for air. I imagine myself having to carry her. She makes it, though, and I give her some wine when we get there.
"Thank you, Jimmy," she says, but she sinks into the armchair and falls asleep almost straightaway.
As she remains there, I come back a few times to check she's still alive, but I can always hear her breathing.
In the end, I sit in the lounge room with her as the day dies outside the window.
When she wakes up, we eat turkey from last night and some bean salad.
"Marvelous, Jimmy." The old lady beams. "Just marvelous." Her smile crackles.
In normal circumstances, I'd prefer to shoot someone who uses the word marvelous, but it suits Milla down to the ground. She wipes her mouth and mutters "Marvelous" several times, and I feel like Christmas is complete.
"Now." She slaps the arms of the chair. She seems much more alive now that she's slept a little. "Will you open your present, Jimmy?"
I give in.
"Of course."
I go over to the gift-wrapped box and lift the lid. Inside is a casual black suit and an ocean blue shirt. It's probably the first and last suit anyone will ever buy me.
"You like?" she asks.
"It's great." I fall in love with it instantly, despite knowing I'll rarely, if ever, get a chance to wear it.
"Put it on, Jimmy."
"I'm going," I say. "I'm going." And once I've disappeared to the bedroom to put it on, I find an old pair of black shoes to match. The suit doesn't have big shoulders, which is a relief. I'm excited to get back out there to show her, but when I come out, Milla's asleep again.
So I sit.
In the suit.
When she wakes up, the old lady says, "Oh, that's a nice suit, Jimmy." She even touches it to feel the fabric. "Where'd you get it from?"
I stand a moment, confused, before realizing that she's completely forgotten. I give the old lady a kiss on the cheek.
"A beautiful woman gave it to me," I say.
The old lady's marvelous.
"That's lovely," she says.
"It is," I agree.
She's right.
After we've had coffee, I call a cab and go home with her. The driver's actually Simon, the boyfriend, earning some double time on Christmas Day.
Before I take Milla inside, I ask him to wait. It's laziness, I know, but I've got the money today and can afford the trip home.
"Well, thanks again, Jimmy," Milla says, and she walks shakily to the kitchen. She's so frail, yet so beautiful. "It's been a great day," she tells me, and I can't help but agree. It has. It hits me that all along I thought I was doing this old lady a favor by spending Christmas Day with her.
Walking out again in my casual black suit, I realize it's the opposite.
I'm the privileged one, and the old lady will always be marvelous.
"Back home?" the boyfriend asks me when I return to the cab.
"Yes please."
I sit in the front seat, and the boyfriend initiates conversation. He seems intent on discussing Audrey, though I wish he wouldn't.
He says, "So you and Audrey been friends for years, huh?"
I look at the dash. "Probably more than years."
He comes at me. "Do you love her?"
I'm taken aback by the frankness of his question, especially so early in the dialogue. I come to the conclusion that he knows it's only a short drive. He wants to maximize outcomes quickly, which is fair enough. He asks again. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Now, don't start on me, Kennedy. Do you love her or not?"
"Well, what do you think?"
He rubs his chin and says nothing, so I continue.
I say, "Whether I love her isn't the question at all. Whether she loves you is what you want to know." My voice trounces him. I'm all over the poor guy. "Isn't it?"
"Well..." He trips about as he drives, and I see he deserves at least some form of an answer.
"She doesn't want to love you," I tell him. "She doesn't want to love anyone. She's had a rough life, Audrey. The only people she ever loved she hated." I get some flashbacks of when we were growing up. She was hurt a lot, and she vowed it wouldn't continue that way. She wouldn't let it.
The boyfriend says nothing. He's handsome, I decide. More handsome than me. He has soft eyes and a solid jaw. The whiskers on his face give him that male-model look.
We're silent till we pull up back at my place, and the boyfriend speaks again. He says, "She loves you, Ed...."
I look at him. "But she wants you."
And that's the problem.
"Here."
I pass him the money but he waves it away.
"On the house," he says, but I try again, and this time he takes it.
"Don't put it in the till," I suggest. "I think you've earned it for your own pocket today." We
share a moment before I get out.
"Nice talking to you," I say, and we shake hands. "Merry Christmas to you, Simon."
I guess he's Simon now, not the boyfriend.
Once inside, I sleep on the couch in my casual black suit and the ocean blue shirt.
Merry Christmas, Ed.
I work on Boxing Day and visit Bernie at the Bell Street Cinema the next day.
"Ed Kennedy!" he cries out when I get there. "Back for more, ay?"
"No," I tell him. "I need your help, Bernie."
Immediately he comes closer and asks, "What can I do for you?"
"Well, you know your movies, right?"
"Of course. You can watch anything you--"
"Shh--just tell me, Bernie. Tell me everything you know about these titles." I pull out the Ace of Hearts although I could easily recite them without it. "The Suitcase, Cat Ballou, and Roman Holiday."
Bernie clicks into business straightaway. "Roman Holiday I have, but the other two I don't." He inundates me with facts. "Roman Holiday is widely considered one of the best movies starring Gregory Peck, made in 1953 and directed by William Wyler, of Ben-Hur fame. It was filmed with breathtaking beauty in Rome and was famous for the glorious performance of Audrey Hepburn, who Peck insisted have equal billing. He claimed that if she didn't, he would be a laughingstock--such was the strength of her performance. This was backed up when she pocketed an Oscar for her troubles...."
He talks on at a very fast pace, but I rewind to one word that Bernie has spoken.
Audrey, I think.
"Audrey," I say.
"Yes." He looks at me, disoriented by my ignorance. "Yes, Audrey Hepburn. And she was absolutely marv--"
No, don't say marvelous, I beg. That word belongs to Milla.
"Audrey Hepburn!" I almost shout. "What can you tell me about the other two?"
"Well, I've got a catalog," Bernie explains. "It's even bigger than the one I showed you last time. It contains just about every movie ever released. Actors, directors, cinematographers, sound tracks, musical scores, the lot."
He brings back the thick book and offers it to me. First up, Cat Ballou. I read aloud as soon as I find the page.
"'Starring Lee Marvin in one of his most famous roles....'" I stop because I've found it. I go back and read the name again. "'Lee Marvin.'"
Now I move on to The Suitcase.
As soon as I find it, I read the cast list and the director. The director of The Suitcase is someone called Pablo Sanchez. He and Ritchie share the same last name.
And I have my three addresses.
Ritchie. Marv. Audrey.
There's an express exhilaration that is quickly replaced by anxiety.
I hope the messages are good, I think, but something tells me this won't be easy. There must be good reason these three were left till last. As well as being my friends, they'll also be the most challenging messages I have to deliver. I can feel it.
I hold the card and drop the catalog book to the counter.
Bernie's concerned. "What is it, Ed?"
I look at him and say, "Wish me luck, Bernie. Wish me the heart to get through this."
He does.
Still holding the card, I walk out onto the street. Outside, I meet the darkness and uncertainty of what will come next.
I feel the fear, but I walk fast toward it.
The smell of street struggles to get its hands on me, but I shrug it off and walk on. Each time a shudder makes its way to my arms and legs, I walk harder, deciding if Audrey needs me, and Ritchie and Marv, I have to hurry.
Fear is the street.
Fear is every step.
The darkness grows heavier on the road and I begin.
To run.
My first instinct tells me to go straight to Audrey's.
I want to make it there as fast as possible to ease whatever problem she has. I don't even dare to contemplate the fact that I might need to perform something unpleasant.
Just get there, I tell myself, but then it's another instinct that takes control.
I walk on but pull the card up and hold it in front of my eyes.
I check the order.
Ritchie. Marv. Audrey.
A strong feeling reaches out in front of me and drags with it a knowledge that I have to go in order. Audrey's last for a reason, and I know it. First up's Ritchie.
"Yes," I agree with my thoughts, and I keep walking hard. I make my way to Ritchie's place, on Bridge Street. I work out the quickest way there, and my feet move further and faster.
Am I hurrying so I can make it quicker to Audrey? I ask, but I give no answer.
I focus on Ritchie.
A vision of his face comes to me as I pass under the branches of a tree. I brush through the leaves and wipe him from my sight, hearing his voice and the constant remarks during cards. I remember his Christmas joy at Marv's kiss with the Doorman.
Ritchie, I wonder. What message do I deliver to Ritchie?
I'm nearly there now.
The corner of Bridge Street is up ahead.
My pulse goes into spasm and gains momentum.
As I round the bend I see Ritchie's place immediately. A question of shock stands beside me and breathes at my face.
I see the lights in Ritchie's kitchen and in the lounge room, but my path is distracted by one thought. It refuses to leave.
What do I do now? it asks me.
Every other place was relatively easy because I didn't really know the people (excluding Ma--and when I was sitting in that Italian restaurant, I had no idea I was waiting for her), so there wasn't much choice. I just waited for the opportunity to arise. But with Ritchie, Marv, and Audrey, I know them all far too well to loiter around their houses. It's the last thing I would ever do.
Still, I weigh it up for close to a minute and eventually decide to cross the road and sit against an old oak tree to wait.
I'm there nearly an hour, and to be perfectly honest, not a whole lot's happening. I notice that Ritchie's folks are home from their holiday. (I saw his ma doing the dishes.) It's getting late, and soon it's only the kitchen that's lit up. House lights across the whole street are being cut down at the knees, and all that's left are the streetlights.
In the Sanchez house, a lone figure has walked in and sits at the kitchen table.
I know, without question, that it's Ritchie.
For a moment, I consider going in, but before I get a chance to rise to my feet, I hear some people moving in my direction from down the street.
Soon there are two men standing above me.
They're eating pies.
One of them looks down and speaks at me. He looks at me with a kind of familiar, indifferent disdain and says, "We were told we might find you here, Ed." He shakes his head and throws down a pie, obviously bought from a local service station. As it drops to the ground, he says, "You're a dead-set shocker, aren't you?"
I look up, completely lost for words.
"Well, Ed?" It's the other one talking now, and as ludicrous as it sounds, it's actually quite hard to recognize them without their balaclavas.
"Daryl?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Keith?"
"Correct."
Daryl sits down now and gives me the pie. "For old times' sake," he explains.
"Right," I reply, still in shock. "Thanks." Memories of their last visit start to hurry me. Crowded thoughts of blood, words, and the dirty kitchen floor. I have to ask it. "You're not going to..." It's still a little hard to speak.
"What?" says Keith this time, sitting at my other side. "Lean on you a little?"
"Well," I say, "yes."
As an act of good faith, Daryl opens the plastic wrapper of my pie and hands it back to me. "Oh no, Ed. No touch-ups today. Nothing of the sort." He allows a nostalgic laugh to exit his lips. He makes it sound like we're old war buddies or something. "Mind you, if you get smart on us..." He gets comfortable on the ground. He has pale skin and a face infested with fight scars, but he s
omehow still manages to be handsome. Keith, on the other hand, has a face bulleted with old acne, a pointy nose, and a crooked chin.
I look over at him and say, "Jesus, mate, I think I liked you better with the mask on." Daryl lets out a shot of laughter. Keith, by comparison, is not impressed, or at least not to begin with. Soon he calms down, and the feeling among us is good. I guess it really is because we've been through something together, even if from totally different sides.
For a minute or so, we sit and eat.
"Any sauce?" I ask.
"I told you!" Keith accuses Daryl.
"What?"
"Well, I said we should get you some sauce, Ed," Keith explains, "but tight arse over there wouldn't hear of it."
Daryl throws back his head before answering.
"Look," he begins, "sauce is too dangerous." He points a finger at my shirt. "Look what Ed's wearing there, Keith, huh? Tell me. What color is it?"
"I know what color it is, Daryl. There's no need to get all condescending again."
"Again? When the hell am I ever condescending?"
They're almost shouting across me now as I take another bite of the half-cold pie.
"Right now," continues Keith. He attempts to bring me into it, asking, "What about you, Ed? What would you say?" His eyes are pointed right at me. "Is Daryl being condescending?"
I decide to answer Daryl's original question.
"I'm wearing a white shirt," I say.
"Exactly," Daryl responds.
"Exactly what?"
"Exactly, Keith, it is simply far too dangerous for Ed to even contemplate eating that pie with sauce." His tone is definitely condescending now. "It'll drip off, land on that lovely white shirt, and the poor bastard'll end up having to wash the bloody thing. And we don't want that now, do we?"
"It's not going to kill him to wash it!" Keith's particularly vehement on this point. "He can put a load on while he's washing that shitheap dog of his--that'll take at least a few hours or so."
"Now, there's no need to bring the Doorman into it," I protest. "He hasn't done anything."
"Exactly," Daryl agrees. "That was uncalled for, Keith."
Keith cools down a moment and admits it. His head drops. "I know." He even apologizes, "Sorry, Ed." And I can tell that this time they've been ordered to be on their best behavior toward me. That's probably why they're having double the arguments with each other.
They go on awhile longer, until they've both apologized, and for a while, we talk among the night that has dripped upon us with silence.
We're all quite happy, with Daryl telling jokes about men walking into bars, women with shotguns, and then wives, sisters, and brothers who would all sleep with the milkman for a million dollars.