I sift through many things--what he's said lately and what he's done.
I think of the Sledge Game and the sheer patheticness of his car. And his preference for kissing the Doorman rather than forking out for the Christmas card game at his place.
Forty grand in the bank, but always pulling back when it comes to money.
Always, I think, and the question strikes me a few nights later as I watch an old movie.
What is it that Marv intends to do with forty thousand dollars?
Yes.
I have it.
The money.
What does Marv need to do with the money?
That's the message.
I remember what Daryl and Keith told me about Ritchie. They said I should know because he was one of my best friends. This nearly cajoles me into thinking I should also know what Marv needs with the money. Maybe it's right under my nose, I wonder, but nothing is immediately apparent, and I understand that with Marv, my knowledge of him is what I have to use to get the message out of him.
I might not know the message, but I know Marv and the options I can go through to figure this out.
On my front porch, I sit with the Doorman and the setting sun. I consider three tactics for Marv.
Tactic 1: argue with him.
This could be done quite easily by bringing up the subject of his car and why he refuses to buy a new one.
The danger here is that Marv could become so heated that he'll just storm out of the room and I won't learn anything. This would be nothing short of disastrous.
The advantage of this option is, first of all, that it could be fun, and it might actually make him buy a new car.
Tactic 2: get him so mind-numbingly drunk that he spills the message without even thinking.
Dangers: in coercing Marv into a drunken stupor, I might need to put myself in the same condition. This will leave me in no state to comprehend, let alone remember, what I have to do.
Advantages: no actual message extraction involved. I'd be hoping he just comes out with it. Highly unlikely, I realize, but perhaps worth a shot.
Tactic 3: come straight out and ask.
This is the most dangerous option because it can result in Marv becoming completely obstinate (as we know very well he can be), refusing to tell me anything. If Marv feels discomfort at my sudden extra concern for him (well, let's face it--I usually act like I couldn't care less about him), all other hopes and opportunities could be lost.
The advantages are that it's honest, up-front, and considerably low-maintenance. It either works or it doesn't, largely depending on timing.
Which tactic do I pursue first?
It's a difficult question, and only when I've turned it over several times do I find the right answer.
The unthinkable happens.
A fourth avenue stretches out and places itself in my hand.
Where?
The supermarket.
When?
Thursday night.
How?
Like this.
I walk in and buy a good fortnight's worth of groceries and come out struggling with my bags. They're already cutting into my hands as I walk out the doors, so I put them down for vital repositioning.
An old homeless man confronts me quietly with his beard, his missing teeth, and his poverty.
His expression bleeds.
He begs me timidly if I might have some change to spare. He speaks with humility on his lips.
As soon as he's said it, his eyes buckle to the ground with shame. He's broken me but doesn't know it until he finds me searching my jacket for my wallet.
At that exact moment, as my fingers feel for the money, the answer comes to me. It falls down at my feet, staring up.
Of course!
The inner voice rises up and reports the answer in an instant, perfect thought. I even speak it to believe it. To remember it.
"Ask him for money." I mouth the words barely loud enough for my own ears to pick them up and put them back inside me.
"Sorry?" the man asks, still in his quiet, humble voice.
"Ask him for money," I say again, but this time I speak it louder. I can't contain myself.
Out of habit, the old man says, "I'm sorry, sir." His expression sags. "I'm sorry to be asking you for change."
I've pulled a five-dollar note from my pocket, and I hand it to him.
He holds it like it's biblical. It must be rare for him to be given notes. "God bless you." He looks mesmerized with the money as I pick up my bags again.
"No," I answer. "God bless you." And I make my way home.
The bags slice through my hands, but I don't mind. No, I don't mind at all.
He works. He drinks. He plays cards. He waits for the Sledge Game all year.
This.
Is Marv's life.
Well, that and forty grand.
On Tuesday I go over to Milla's place to see how she's going. I never get sick of being Jimmy, although Wuthering Heights is getting on my nerves a bit now. The trouble is, Heathcliff's a completely bitter arsehole and Catherine frustrates the hell out of me. My purest hatred, however, is reserved for Joseph, the miserable, complete bastard of a servant. On top of all his preaching and carrying on, it's hard to understand a word he says.
The best thing about the whole story is Milla. For me, it's her in the pages. When I think of that book, I think of her. I think of her old moist eyes watching me read as she listens. I love closing the book and seeing the old lady resting in her chair. I think she's my favorite message.
But then there's Sophie, Father O'Reilly, and the Tatupu family. Even the Rose boys.
Okay, okay.
The Rose boys is pushing it.
I'm walking the Doorman a lot lately, and as I do it, I remember all the messages so far. In one way, I feel like I'm cheating. This kind of reminiscing is supposed to be done at the end, and I haven't finished yet. I've got two messages to go. Two of my best friends.
Maybe that's why I'm letting the previous messages return to me.
I'm afraid for Marv and for Audrey.
I'm afraid for me.
You can't let them down, I lecture myself as each minute shoves past.
Afraid. Afraid.
I didn't come this far only to fail the ones I've known longest and care for most.
I run through them again, from Edgar Street to Ritchie.
Afraid. Afraid.
The messages give me courage.
"Any luck with the job search?" I ask Ritchie as we all get together at my place on Sunday night.
He shakes his head. "No, not yet."
"You?" exclaims Marv. "Get a job?" He falls into fits of hysterics.
"What's wrong with that?" Audrey interjects. Ritchie stays quiet, and we can see he's a little hurt. Even Marv. He tries to suck the laughter back and hold on to it.
He clears his throat.
"Sorry, Ritch."
Ritchie tucks the pain a touch deeper inside and gives us his usual, easygoing self. "No problems," he says, and secretly I'm glad Marv's stirred him up a bit. If anything, he'll keep trying now just to shut Marv up and see the look on his face when he gets hired by someone. There's a certain satisfaction in shutting up Marv.
"I'll deal," says Audrey.
When the game packs up it's close to eleven. Ritchie's already gone when Marv offers Audrey a lift home out on the front porch. For obvious reasons, she declines.
"Why not?" Marv objects.
"It'll be quicker to walk, Marv." Audrey tries reasoning with him. "And really, Marv, there are less mosquitoes out here than there are in there." She points at the prize vehicle on the road.
"Thanks a lot." He begins to sulk.
"Marv, do you remember what happened last time you gave me a lift? A few weeks ago?"
Grudgingly, Marv recalls it.
Audrey reminds him anyway.
"We ended up pushing it all the way to your place." She comes up with an idea. "You need a bike in the back
seat."
"Why?"
This is getting interesting.
Almost entertaining.
"Oh, come on, Marv," she says. "I'll let you ponder that on your way home--especially if you break down."
She waves goodbye and walks onto the road.
"Bye, Audrey," I whisper. She's gone.
When Marv gets in his car, I hope for the inevitable, and it happens.
The engine fails seven or eight times, and I walk across the lawn, open the passenger door, and get in.
Marv looks at me.
"What are you doing, Ed?"
Quietly. Earnestly.
I speak.
I say, "I need your help, Marv."
He attempts to start the car again. No luck.
"With what?" he asks. He tries again. "You got something needs fixing?"
"No, Marv."
"You want me to clip the Doorman for you?"
"Clip?"
"Yeah, you know--whack him for you."
"What are you, Capone?"
Marv admires his own humor and still persists with the key, which irritates me no end.
"Marv," I say, "could you stop with the key and be serious for a minute or two? Would you do me that honor?"
He goes to try it again, but I reach over and grab the key from the ignition.
"Marv," I whisper. A whisper the size of a shout. "I need your help. I need money."
The moment slows, and I can hear us breathing.
A minute's silence passes.
This is the death of Marv's and my usual trivial relationship.
It truly feels like something has died.
It doesn't take much longer for Marv to get interested. The mention of money will do that to him. His eyebrows tense, and he looks over at me, trying to find a way in. He doesn't look too forthcoming.
He says, "How much, Ed?"
And I erupt.
I rip the car door open.
I slam it.
I lean back in and point my finger at the friend behind the wheel.
"Well, I should have known!" I get stuck into him. "You're the stingiest bastard, Marv...." I point at him as ruthlessly as I can. "I can't believe this!"
Silence.
Street and silence.
I turn and rest back against the car as Marv gets out and walks around to me.
"Ed?"
"I'm sorry." This is going well, I think. I shake my head.
"No, you're not," he says.
"Marv, I just thought--"
He cuts me off.
"Ed, I haven't..." His words trail off.
"I just thought you could--"
"Ed, I don't have the money."
This is somewhat of a shock.
"Why not, Marv?" I step forward and face him. "Why the hell not?"
"I spent it."
His voice is somewhere else. It doesn't come from his mouth. It seems to show up from somewhere next to him. Vacant.
"On what, Marv?"
I'm getting agitated now.
"Well, not on anything." His voice is coming back to him. It's his again. "I put it in a fund and can't withdraw it for at least a few years. I put in, I earn interest." He's very serious now. Pensive. "I can't take it out."
"At all?"
"No."
"Not even in an emergency?"
"I don't think so."
I become loud again. My aggression seems to strip the street naked. "Why in the hell did you do that, Marv?"
Marv cracks.
He cracks by walking hurriedly around the car and getting back in, behind the wheel. Holding on.
Quietly, Marv cries.
His hands appear to be dripping on the wheel. The tears grip his face. They hold on and slide reluctantly for his throat.
I go around.
"Marv?"
I wait.
"What's happening, Marv?"
He turns his head, and his disheveled eyes angle for mine.
"Get in," he says. "I'll show you something."
On the fourth attempt, the Ford starts and Marv drives me through town. Tears stream his face. Less reluctant now. They veer down. They look drunk.
We pull up at a small weatherboard shack, and Marv gets out. I follow.
"Remember this?" he asks.
I remember.
"Suzanne Boyd," I say.
The words stagger slowly from Marv's mouth. Half his face is trodden with darkness, covered, but I can still make out the outlines, the forms.
"When her family left town," he says, "there was a reason they just disappeared...."
"Oh God," I try to say, but the words are inhaled. They don't find their way out of me.
Marv speaks one last time.
When he moves, a streetlight stabs him, and the words flow out like blood.
He says, "The kid's about two and a half."
We get back in the car and sit in silence for a long time, and Marv begins to shiver uncontrollably. He has a tanned face, Marv, from working outside, but he's as white as paper as we sit in his car.
Now it all makes sense.
I see it.
Like words being typed across his face.
Punched in.
Black on white.
Yes, it all makes sense.
The pathetic car.
The obsessive watchfulness and abhorrent vigilance with money.
Even his argumentative disposition, to use an even more Wuthering Heights kind of phrase. Marv is suffering, completely alone, and he uses all of those things to sweep the guilt from his stomach every day.
"I want to give the kid something, you know? When it's older."
"You don't know if it's a he or a she?"
"No."
He pulls an old slice of notepad from his wallet. When he unfolds it, I can tell the address that's written there has been traced over several times to never fade.
17 Cabramatta Road, Auburn.
"Some of her friends," Marv speaks blankly. "When the family just disappeared, I went to her friends and begged them to tell me where she went. God, it was pitiful. I was crying on Sarah Bishop's front doorstep, for Christ's sake." The words seem to echo now, out of his mouth, which appears motionless. Almost numb. "Man, that girl Suzanne. That sweet Suzanne." He spits out a sarcastic laugh. "Cha--her old man was such a stern bastard--but she snuck out a few nights a week, an hour before dawn, and we'd go out to this old field where a man used to grow corn." He almost smiles now. "We had a blanket and we'd go there and have it a few nights a week.... She was so brilliant, Ed." He looks directly at me because if he's going to tell someone, he wants to do it right. "She tasted so good." The smile hangs on desperately. "Sometimes we'd push our luck and stay till the sun came up...."
"It sounds beautiful, Marv."
I've spoken those words to the windscreen--I can't believe Marv and I are talking like this. Usually we argue to show our friendship.
"The orange sky," Marv continues, "the wet grass--and I always remember the warmth of her. Inside her and on her skin...."
I imagine it well, but Marv murders it instantly with one savage breath.
"Then one day the house was emptied. I went to the field, but it was just me and the corn."
The girl got pregnant.
Not unusual in these parts, but obviously not condoned by the Boyds.
The family left town.
Nothing was ever said, and the Boyds were never really missed. People always come and go through here. If they make money, they move somewhere better. If they struggle, they move somewhere equally as shitty to try their luck somewhere else.
"I guess," Marv says later, "her old man was ashamed of having a sixteen-year-old girl of his getting stitched up, especially by someone like me. I guess he was right to be stern...."
At this point, I have no idea what to say.
"They left town," he tells me. "Barely a word was spoken." Now he looks over. I feel his eyes on my face. "And I've been living with it for three years."
/> Not anymore, I think, but I can't be sure.
It feels more like wayward hope or desperation.
He's calmer now, but he sits stiffly in his seat. An hour goes past. I wait. I ask.
"Have you been to that address?"
He stiffens further. "No. I've tried, but I can't." He resumes telling the story. "About a week after that day at the Bishop place, Sarah came to where I was working. She hands me the note and says, 'I promised not to tell anyone--especially you--but I just don't think it's right.' Then she says, 'But you be careful, Marv. Suzie's old man says he'll kill you if you so much as set foot near her again.' And she left." A blankness blankets his face. "It was raining that day, I remember. Small sheets of rain."
"Sarah," I ask, "that's that tall, brown, pretty one?"
"That's her," Marv confirms. "After what she said, I drove into the city a few times. Once I even had ten grand in my pocket--to help out. That's all I want, Ed."
"I believe you."
Solemnly, he rubs his face and says, "I know. Thanks."
"So you've never even seen the kid?"
"No. I never have the neck to even turn onto the street--I'm pathetic." He begins to chant. "Pathetic, pathetic," and gently, fiercely, he beats his fist on the wheel. I expect him to explode, but Marv can't find the strength for any outflow of emotion. He's past that. For three years, since that girl left, his front has been impeccable. Now it peels from his skin, leaving the truth of him at the wheel of his car.
"This"--he shakes--"this is what I look like at three a.m., Ed. Every morning. I see that girl--that dirt-poor, spectacular girl. Sometimes I walk to that field and sink to my knees. I hear my heart beating, but I don't want to. I hate my heartbeat. It's too loud in that field. It falls down. Right out of me. But then it just gets back up again."
I hear it.
I imagine it.
His legs yield.
His trousers scratch the dirt.
Kneeling there with earth-bruised knees and a collapsing heart.
It hits the ground next to him, hard, and it...
Beats. Beats.
Beats.
It refuses to die or run cold, always finding its way back into Marv's body. But one night, surely, it has to succumb.
"Fifty grand," Marv tells me. "I'm stopping at fifty. At first it was ten, then twenty, but I just couldn't stop."
"Paying off the guilt."
"That's right." He tries to start the car a few times, and eventually we head off. "But it isn't money that'll fix me." He stops in the middle of the road. The brakes burn, and Marv's face ignites. "I want to touch that kid...."