Liz
Toby tugs his school backpack up off the floor of the car, and balancing it on the tops of his knees, digs through it. His indestructible Optimus Prime lunchbox, plastic cutlery, and empty strawberry yoghurt containers spill out, bounce off the gear stick and ricochet over into the driver’s side where they get tangled up under my legs.
‘Jesus, Toby! Get those out from under there!’
Toby unbuckles his seatbelt, awkwardly reaches over - stabbing his bony elbow into my thigh - and fossicks them up. He stuffs them back into the lunch box and tosses it onto the back seat where it hits one of Andy’s boxes. He snorts and mutters something I can’t catch. I try to brush a splash of yoghurt off my jeans. I’m only rubbing it in. Did I give him yoghurt in his school lunch this morning? I don’t remember adding yoghurt. Nessa must have finished putting the kid’s lunches together. He starts with the bag again; what in God’s name is he looking for?
‘Toby love, do you have to do that right now?’
I spy a pair of washed-out blue underpants; clean ones, I think, in the churning mess inside the bag. Why does he need to take undies to school? His physed uniform turns over to the top, so I guess that makes sense.
‘Who’s home with him?’ Toby asks.
‘Nessa and Andy. He’s not alone, Toby, you know we never do that,’ I say.
Andy and Nessa’s being home this time of day will get him thinking. There are words, but they’d be a lie.
The cellphone buzzes again and slides down the dash. I catch it before it slides onto the steering wheel. When I don’t answer it, Toby glares at me.
‘Well? Are you going to answer it?’ he asks.
It goes off again: bzzzzzzzz, bzzzzzzzz… I drop it into the side pocket of the driver’s door. It stops vibrating, thank God.
‘D’you want me to answer it?’ he says.
‘I know who’s calling,’ I say.
‘Well why don’t you answer it?’ he says.
‘I’ll call back’ I say, avoiding using the word, him, as in I’ll call ‘him’ back.
‘I can answer,’ he says, trying to reach across me.
‘Toby! I’m bloody driving, and no, I don’t need you to answer, thanks. Hey, I thought we might swing by the dairy and buy an ice cream,’ I say, cringing at the bright u-turn in my voice.
‘I don’t want an ice cream,’ he says, burying himself in his bag again.
‘Toby, can whatever you’re looking for wait until we get home?’ I say.
‘No, it bloody can’t. Can’t you shut up and drive?’ he says.
‘Don’t bloody talk to me like that, I don’t deserve it,’ I say.
I gun the roundabout, ignoring Toby’s protests as he mushes into the passenger door, and race past the dodgy motel where Mark and I once spent an afternoon. His fantasy, Mark said. Cause you only live once and most people don’t live, do they, Lizzie? The selfish ginger bastard lay on the musty bed in his red Jockey Y-Fronts and watched me dress up in a sexy nurse’s uniform that I bought in a second hand clothing store. Even though we parked a block over and walked there separately, people must have noticed us. At least he checked in. I’ve never spent a steamy afternoon in a hotel with my husband Chris. How can you be married to someone for as many years as we have and not have spent a steamy afternoon in a motel room? Did Mum ever spend a raunchy afternoon with Dad? Did she ever sneak away and steal an afternoon with a boyfriend on the side? They’re coming, the tears. I fight them back. Not around Toby, not now. What are you getting an ice cream for, Liz girl? He doesn’t even want one.
‘Mum? What’s wrong? It’s Dad, isn’t it?’ Toby says, piling everything back into his bag and zipping it up.
How can the most boring looking dairy in the world make the best ice creams this side of the city? I pull over and swing round in front.
‘He looked dead this morning,’ Toby says.
‘Don’t say that,’ I say, but it’s hard to deny.
‘He did,’ Toby says, his bottom lip threatens to let go, but he buttons it up. He won’t cry in front of me.
‘Okay, okay, enough of that. Let’s get an ice cream, Toby, please?’ I say.
‘I wanted to keep playing basketball with Mr B,’ he says.
‘Who’s this Mr B?’ I ask.
Wait, he must have been the staring, skinny guy fiddling with his basketball at the other end of the hall.
‘Mr Begg, Mum. He teaches physed, I have special time with him on Fridays, only if I’m good though,’ he says.
Special time? Only if he’s good? Does that mean what I think it means… they’re giving the monkey a treat for good behaviour? Where does it end for us Caruthers?
‘So you’re not locked out?’ Toby asks, fidgeting in his seat in that way I dislike; his legs slide forward and back; left-right, left-right as if they’ve a mind of their own.
‘No, we’re not. Doctor Harrup and Nurse Gladys paid their usual respects,’ I say.
He waves at a kid on the other side of the road, ‘Who’s that?’ I ask.
‘It’s Darren, he’s in the class next to mine,’ he says, mincing in his seat.
‘Toby,’ I warn, but he’s scrambling for the door handle. I struggle over the seat divide and grab his wrist, but the little bugger shakes it off. By the time I get out of the car, Toby has shot across the road and caught up with his mate.
‘Toby! Get back inside this bloody car! Toby! Your father’s asking for you. Toby!’
‘I’m walking home with Darren,’ Toby shouts across the road.
I’ve never met this Darren, a thuggish-looking little bruiser. The little bastard doesn’t even seem concerned about being seen wagging school. Probably grabbed his school bag and walked straight out the front gates. See yez later.
‘We don’t have to get an ice cream. We’ll just go home, okay?’ I shout.
‘I’ll be home later,’ he shouts.
They cut in behind the trees in front of the clubhouses. They’ll sprint over the sports fields and disappear in the dunes, clever little buggers. Why today of all bloody days.
My cellphone starts up again. Stuffed into the side pocket of the driver’s door, its vibrating against the plastic only makes it sound louder.
I drive up the cul-de-sac to the last clubroom and park at the bottom of the dunes. I can’t see Toby anywhere. How am I going to explain this? Are you aware that things are this awful, Chris? Why else would you ask to see him? And Nessa with her pot smoking and her quiet sex in the bedroom with her latest boyfriend that climbs in her bedroom window at night to avoid being seen by the photographers and weirdos that park out front. I can’t even remember her boyfriend’s name? Tam? Cam? Toby fast heading towards… well, nobody wants to deal with that, and what can I do about Andy with his cardboard boxes? It’s not normal for an eight-year-old, is it? No, Liz girl, it’s not normal for an eight-year-old to carry around a cardboard box he believes transports him to other worlds. Maybe I can see Toby from up on the dunes. Catch him smoking with his mate. Shit, does tussock grass, or whatever you call it, burn easily?
I can’t see him. The grass cuts my shins. If I step carefully, I brush past it. The surf sounds like it’s trying to break the beach one thumping wave at a time as if it’s putting all that sand in its place. You can’t escape the sound of the surf can you, living out here? We’ve lived near it our entire lives. The beaches we walk and swim, and your late start at surfing before you put your back out at the supermarket, you bloody duffer. Even the saltwater pool you love so much is a part of it, you and your great love of water. And out at the Point. The pine forest and the grass clearings, and the water never far away, even if we didn’t swim in it after they tested it and found it had high levels of sewage. We used to go out to the Point every weekend until Mark and his family hustled onto the scene.
‘Disrespectful wankers!’ I shout.
Shouting gets me in the mood: ‘Toby! Toby!’
At least you’re home, Chris, where you want to be. I
didn’t let them talk us into it. The American’s with their money, or Doctor Hashimoto, the expert we went to see in Osaka although on what I still don’t know. Charming determined little bugger. ‘Most amazing oppoltunity, Mrs Caluthels,’ he said again and again. Opportunity for what? For who? We gave up on their promises, didn’t we, when we figured it out: they can’t help you.
‘Toby! Toby!’
The beach is deserted. I couldn’t see him hiding in the grass even if he were five-metres away.
‘Toby! Toby! Fucking hell, Toby Caruthers, bloody show yourself!’
I walk the track, towards the esplanade and the pool, calling Toby’s name. Fucking little shit. I realise I’m muttering it as I struggle along. The sand is softer here. I stop, slip off my shoe and pour out a steady stream of sand before slipping it back on. Little shit. Little shit. Fucking little shit.
‘Toby! Tooobbbyyyyyyy!’
If he is within ten metres of me, he should be able to hear me. Little prick. Why couldn’t he stay in the car? Why did I have to piss around? An ice cream. How old is Toby?
‘Toooobbbbyy! Bloody hell, Toby! Come home? Please? Tooobby! Tooobbbbbyyy!!’
I stumble off the track and shelter behind a dune. The sand darkens in running lines where my piss trickles between my feet. Great, now my knickers have sand in them.
I climb back onto the track. No signs of Toby. Someone else is on the track though. For a second, I tense, thinking it might be Toby before reality hits. Heart skipping big, the man is bigger than any man I’ve ever seen, a giant. Mark is tall enough, but gangly, with his skinny, bony arms. This guy might be an All Black. Get your shit together, girl, you’re a right bloody mess. I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my teeshirt and wait for him to reach me. The surf booms on the beach. A good day for surfers and body boarders now there’s an offshore breeze. Offshore breeze, things are looking good, you used to say, looking good out there.
I give the man a silly little wave. It only makes him appear more concerned than he already does.
‘Hi,’ I say.
With deep crows feet at the corners of his eyes, his face looks older than his body, but that easy smile. I bet he’s blown a few women away with that while they were waiting for their wine coolers at the bar.
‘Everything okay?’ he says, glancing up and down the track. Jesus, what’s he doing that for?
‘Lost your dog?’ he asks.
‘No, my son actually,’ I say, trying to laugh and failing. Liz girl, stop bloody crying, will you.
‘Shit. Your son? Bad day, eh?’ he says.
‘Bloody shocker,’ I say, dabbing at my eyes again.
I’m calming: it’s easy. I’m standing in front of the calm centre of the universe. When you’re this large, I suppose no one is stupid enough to mess with you, or run away.
‘Have you really lost your son? Jesus, he wasn’t out swimming was he?’ he asks, glancing out at the beach and then squinting at me. He thinks I’m crazy.
‘No, God no. He’s eleven years old. Kind of small and scruffy? Longish brown hair, down to his shoulders, looks like he hasn’t washed it in a week. And he’s wearing his school uniform, Tainui. He’s with a mate, they’re both wearing their school uniforms,’ I say.
‘Miss, I’m sorry, eh? Haven’t seen anyone else on the track,’ he says. He seems genuinely disappointed.
‘Thanks. He could be anywhere,’ I say.
I don’t know what I’ll do now. My knees might give again. Don’t collapse, not in front of a stranger, Lizzie.
‘Do you want me to help you find him? It’ll take ages to find him,’ he says, as if he has just realised the size of the task.
I shake my head. No, he’s not hurt.
‘Nuh, I reckon he’ll turn up when the little bugger gets hungry enough,’ the man says. He gives me the reassuring version of his sexy smile.
That’s it. Do I look like a parent that runs round after her kids? How can he say that? He doesn’t know us, or me. Take a deep breath, Liz girl.
‘I’m Elizabeth Caruthers,’ I say.
‘Eh? Caruthers? Caruthers. Have I? Haven’t I seen you on telly?’ he says.
‘Yeah, my husband, Chris. He’s the floating man. Look, you might not want to hear this, but I’ll tell you anyway. So Chris, he’s bloody well dying, okay? My son ran off and I was supposed to pick him up and take him home so he can spend time with his father. That’s the only bloody thing my husband has asked for and I didn’t even do that,’ I say.
He might cry; you could stand matchsticks up in his crow’s feet, he’s that miserable.
‘Sorry, you didn’t deserve that,’ I say.
‘Nuh, it’s all good. I’m Tui, my name’s Tui,’ he says, his voice breaking.
He hugs me. Not a polite keep the crotch a foot away hug, he crushes me against him with his fried food pong sweating out of his teeshirt, and a recently eaten orange, or two. I place my hands up on the tops of his arms. I’ve nowhere to go. No one has hugged me like this since I first met Chris, but never by arms this big, or a chest this powerful. I’m not small, but he could easily lift me. I stop myself from squealing. Jesus Christ, he’s getting excited down there. Things are warming up for me, too. How can this be happening? What’s wrong with me? I try to push off his arms. It’s like trying to move a fridge. For a second he doesn’t let me budge… for a second.
‘I have to go now,’ I say.
He lets me step back. The bastard, I guess I’m thankful he didn’t throw me down and have his way with me. Or disappointed. Shit, Liz, snap out of it.
‘What’s his name?’ he says, pulling his cell out of his pocket.
Oh. I guess it was a cell in his pocket.
‘Your son?’ he says.
‘Toby, Toby Caruthers,’ I say.
‘If I see him I’ll give you a call, eh? I’ll be walking along here. I try to get out most days. What’s your cell number?’ he says, working his cellphone. I wonder how many ladies’ numbers he has listed in it?
‘Thanks, that’s great, but I’ve got to go, sorry,’ I say, backing away.
‘Nuh, it’ll only take a sec,’ he says, waving his phone at me.
Is he going to follow me to the car?
‘No, it’s okay, really. You’re right, he’ll show sooner or later, eh?’ I say.
‘What’ll I do if I see him?’ he says, lowering the cell. I guess this doesn’t happen to him often, a hot-blooded, glowing woman rejecting him.
‘Can you tell him he needs to go home?’ I say.
He shrugs and stuffs his cell in his pocket.
‘Thanks for the hug,’ I say.
‘Yeah, good luck,’ he says, turning to face the sea.
Back in the car, I check my cellphone. Great, that’s bloody great. Thanks Mark. Seventeen missed calls. I switch it off, and heading along Beach Drive turn right towards home. But I’m not going home. I turn into the little streets I’ve lived with for too long and then I’m driving straight down Lemond Street. I don’t see Toby. That’s what I’m doing; I’m looking for Toby. So what am I now doing parked outside Mark’s house in plain daylight for every gawker to see? It doesn’t matter, anyway, everyone on this street must know. Mark’s nosy neighbours must have noticed the regularity and the unmistakable lack of coincidence that minutes after Kathy Wainwright leaves the house to go on her afternoon rounds, her husband Mark arrives home. And minutes later - ta-da! - I turn up at his house, park out front and trot inside. Thirty minutes later, a hot rumpled Mrs Caruthers emerges, trots back to her car and roars off as if horned demons are chasing her.
Not exactly the sharpest, Liz girl.
You could’ve worked for Mark, once-upon-a-time, when things were shaky at the supermarket, after your back went out. Mark told me, ‘Just say the word, Lizzie, and Chris is in good as old gold.’ Christopher Caruthers, apprentice plumber at Mark Wainwright Plumbers. We weren’t even seeing each other back them, Mark and me. Shagging each other, I should say. Why else has the ging
er bastard always been so bloody helpful? Did he think Chris bloody useless? Or weak? Kathy hangs that much frothy curtain netting in the front windows it’s hard to tell if Mark is watching out for me. I don’t bother checking, I’m running to the back gate at the top of the driveway.
He’s done it. The bastard’s done it. Yes, it’s like he said it would be. Green and drooping down, the green stuff… it’s netting, and bloody great poles. I lift the gate-latch. My heart always gives a little leap now, a leap of what I’ve never understood. Guilt, I suppose, or excitement and anticipation. I always think I’m old enough to be over all that by now, but I never am. The little heart-skip and then, like a balm that always calms me, the sight and smell of Kathy’s fussy rose garden.
Now it’s gone. They’re gone every one every single rose bush… gone. He’s done it. Now there’s a big patch of… what do you call it? Astroturf? Fake grass and this bloody enormous net. Golf. There’s a funny little white thingie poking up in the middle of the grass. To put the ball on, I suppose. I guess he comes out here first thing in the morning and last thing at night after he finishes drinking or re-watching whatever dvd he chose for the evening and hits golf balls into this… this ugly bloody thing? He’ll have a fancy term for the whole construction and it won’t be hitting the ball; he’ll have a term for that too. Driving the ball, is that right?
Why did Kathy let him do it? Shit, was it before or after we started up our afternoons together? Kathy wouldn’t want him to do this… this is all Mark. He ground away at her and won the battle. I probably knew about his plans months before Kathy did. I can imagine what he said. It can’t come as a surprise, Kathy, I’ve been planning it for a bloody year! Do you know how much it’s cost? Can’t ask for a refund now!
He’s waiting for me at the back door. He ushers me in and takes a second to squint hard at the neighbour’s house. Somebody’s keeping quiet about our afternoon rendezvous; I keep waiting to get caught out by a photographer, or a news crew, and wait for it to explode on the news. It hasn’t happened yet.
‘Is there something wrong with your cellphone?’ he says, closing the door and crowding me out of sight of the windows. He doesn’t even mention the backyard, and I won’t bring it up.
‘I was out trying to find Toby, he’s bloody well run off,’ I say.
‘There must be something wrong with your index finger,’ he mutters. Walking off through the kitchen, he leaves me standing there. He’s wearing his overalls; I can’t remember the last time I saw him out of them.
‘Yeah, I’m having a lovely day, thanks, it’s so good to see you, Liz, thanks so much for popping around,’ I say.
‘What’d you say?’ he shouts.
He must be in the lounge. I prefer doing it in the kitchen, I don’t know why. Actually, I do. Kathy always takes the front door into the house, so that gives me a better chance of escaping out the back. I’ve never thought it through, how Mark would explain my car parked out front and its mysterious disappearance. If it really happened we’d straighten up and pretend to be having coffee in the kitchen. I even used to have one as I soon as I got in the door. God, I’m dying for a coffee, do you mind? I’ll make it, I’d say. But Mark, thinking himself a coffee expert, would make it himself. I couldn’t stand it, having to watch him make a big deal over tipping hot water on top of his special instant coffee blend. After the first two, I stopped drinking them and they’d sit steaming on Kathy’s spotless stainless-steel kitchen bench.
‘What’s going on?’ he shouts.
Walking into the lounge, I see he’s ready and primed for action. He points at his big comfy black Lazy Boy.
‘Sorry Liz, I’m in a bit of a hurry, got a job on,’ he says, trying to smile.
‘I hope you’re not talking about me,’ I say.
By the time I realise that I can clearly see us having sex in all our middling, jiggling, rough glory in the reflection of Mark’s brand new big screen tv mounted on the wall it’s over. He groans, spasms into rigor mortis, and follows through with his bulging hot squirt. I didn’t even have time to indulge a fantasy about the charming giant at the beach.
‘Jesus that was quick,’ I say, watching him on the screen. He withdraws and stands there panting, red and splotchy-faced, cock in hand, and looking down at me. I didn’t think it lasted long enough for him to get splotchy. He hasn’t even taken his overalls off; he zipped them down and tied the arms together around his waist. But then, I only removed the necessities.
‘Shit, off the Lazy Boy. Now! It’ll stain,’ he says and grabbing me by the wrist, hauls me off the chair.
‘Hey, Mark, bloody hell! I’ll get off myself, thank you. Some tissues would help, Christ,’ I say, semi-crouching with my hand cupping the offending area. I glance at the tv reflection and don’t like what I see. A chunk of his come leaks sticky and wet into my hand.
‘How the hell am I going to explain a come-shot on the Lazy Boy,’ he says, crouching down to check the black leather.
‘Maybe we should start using condoms again. Can’t have stains on the furniture,’ I say.
‘You’re on the pill?’ he says, standing and squinting down at me, and I realise why he’s red-faced and worked up; he’s angry. He’s never been angry about being quick before.
‘Shit, I’ll go to the bathroom,’ I say. Snatching up my jeans and knickers with my free hand, I rush out of the lounge. He shouts something about not using the upstairs bathroom.
‘Jesus, Mark,’ I shout back.
Grabbing a wad of toilet paper in Kathy’s pokey pastel bathroom, I plug over any stray leaks and rinse off my hand. The toilet paper sticks in place and I lean against the apricot sink for a moment. I can’t look at myself in the mirror. It’s over isn’t it? That was disgusting, making me stand there like that in the lounge while he inspected his bloody Lazyboy. I wash but mostly use the hand towel, scrunching it into a ball and sprucing myself up. I fold it as carefully as I found it and put it back on the towel rail. But imagine one or other of their boys coming in here to wash and dry their hands before eating one of Kathy’s perfect casseroles? I whip it off and toss it in the fabric-lined wicker laundry basket.
‘He’s never doing that again,’ I say, when I burst out of the bathroom.
‘Mark!’
I don’t care if Kathy’s home. Never again.
‘Mark?’
What is that noise? A scratching, scouring sound that reminds me of my childhood: Saturday mornings doing chores with Mum when I was a kid that included scrubbing the bathtub to a white shiny polish. Is he scrubbing the upstairs bath? He must be. Is this why he was in such a bloody hurry to rush off? I don’t look at the cheesy family portraits on the way up the stairs. Mark stands grinning in every single one; Kathy sits under him on a chair with her hands muffled in her prim lap.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, standing in the open upstairs bathroom door.
It’s obvious what he’s doing, it’s the why that floors me. Why now? Friday afternoon? And he’s not just scrubbing it, he’s going at it possessed: Jif spattered everywhere; the bath, up the walls, over his now zipped-up overalls, and yellow rubber gloves, and he’s using an old-fashioned wooden handled scrubbing brush with bristles so worn and squashed it looks like it was passed down from his great-grandmother.
‘Jesus! You frightened me,’ he says, dropping the scrubbing brush into the tub.
He peels off the rubber gloves and drops them to the floor. The action reminds me of that Saturday morning Mum did the same thing; peeled of her yellow rubber gloves and dropped them on the kitchen lino. Stuff this, Lizzie, let’s get out of here, she said. ‘Getting out’ meant driving to the brightest newest café in all of Applethorne: it even served espressos. Not that many years later, bringing Len his hot cup of tea, Mum dropped to the hallway floor like her rubber gloves did that morning; clammy and worn, inside-out and all used up. The tea splashed over the wallpaper leaving a brown artistic stain. Dad never changed that wallpaper, not in all the y
ears he stayed in that house. I thought he was honouring her until I realised he was lazy and couldn’t be bothered changing the wallpaper.
‘We need to talk,’ I say.
Why won’t Mark get up? Is he waiting for me to leave so he can keep scrubbing the bath?
‘Is Chris worse today? He is, isn’t he?’ he says, as if I’ve got my period, or my husband’s mysterious terminal condition makes me a tad irrational.
‘Okay. Let’s talk. How about a cuppa,’ he says, finally standing.
‘I see you’ve finished your amazing project,’ I say.
‘Take a gander out the back, did ya? What d’you reckon? My own personal driving range’ he says, beaming.
‘I hate it, Mark, I fucking hate it, I want to burn it to the ground,’ I say, looking him square in the eye.
‘Jesus, that’s a bit rough, Liz,’ he says.
‘You destroyed Kathy’s roses so you can have your own personal… driving range, you selfish wanker.’
‘Hey, Lizzie, what’s going on? I was calling to say this arvo’s no good,’ he says, waving his hand at the jiffed bath.
‘Because you have to scrub the… I feel bloody terrible. I can’t keep doing this,’ I say.
I think I’m going to vomit. He said to me - without… anything - said that he didn’t want to see me today because he has a bath to scrub. I am going to vomit; a sob cracks out instead. I squash it down. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
‘Lizzie? Okay, I’ll make that cuppa. Hey, don’t worry, Toby’ll turn up,’ he says, smoothing the air with his big hot hands and his sausage fingers, wafting them towards the open door as if I’m a bloody floating genie, or my husband let out of his straps.
‘You can’t treat me like that, Mark. Like you did just before, you just can’t,’ I say.
‘All right, all right, I’ve got a lot going on at the moment as well, eh? I’m a bit stressed out, mate,’ he says, angling past.
‘Really? Stressed? I can’t believe you said that,’ I say, but he’s off down the bloody passage.
On my way down the stairs, I turn every family photo upside down.
‘Enjoy your coffee, I’ve got to go, got a bit going on at home, mate,’ I shout towards the kitchen when I get to the bottom of the stairs.
I hear him shouting after me, and I want to think it’s, Liz, no, don’t go, or, please, Liz, stay and have a cuppa, or, I’m sorry, Liz, let me make it up, but honestly, it won’t be. I catch the words: front door. I think he’s paying me out for not leaving the back way.
It won’t work, it hasn’t worked, it isn’t working. We’ll mooch for a few days and then he’ll find an excuse and come around with that stupid hangdog look on his face and explain it away: the stupid driving range, his stress, and my frustration and anger. His ridiculous hot hands will find their way onto my hips and what will happen if Chris has passed away? Mark the big ginga will be in a suit, and he’ll look chipper in a suit instead of his bloody overalls. His hands will grope me, won’t they? No matter that I’m bawling with a snotty face, it won’t matter to him. Everyone else will huddle in the lounge with their grief and hot cups of weak tea. No, this won’t do, Liz girl, this won’t do. You’re running out of time.
Nessa hasn’t called so I know Toby isn’t home. Where will he go from the beach? Along to the esplanade, that’s where, to the small skate park and the young mincers hanging out smoking cigarettes on the sly, or badly rolled thin joints. I park on a side street and try not to stomp up to the park with a wounded mother on the rampage vibe. He’s not there. The usual vaguely intimidating sullen crowd of teenagers make a bloody racket with their boards on the concrete bowls. Clumping back to the car I notice the classy café/restaurant on the esplanade corner, and my heart gives one of its little leaps: Kathy might be inside taking one of her fortifying afternoon lattes before she continues with her errands. I saunter past trying not to stare in, but she’s not inside. God, what’s with you today, Lizzie? Do you really want to join Kathy for her afternoon coffee and share chit-chat about the kids?
Running hard down the side street I’ve parked the car on, I see it. Through the open door of a clammy little bar that no one I know likes, I see Kathy’s gold Gucci handbag draped over the back of a chair. Hands on hips, I bend over, waiting to get my breath back, and out of the gloom, she materialises. With her back to me, Kathy sits at a table against the wall. Perching on the edge of her seat, she holds someone’s hands over the tabletop.
Jesus, it’s a man, she’s holding another man’s hands.
I skip back and approach on an angle until the two come into view again. This hands-holding rudder-thin man in a dark suit, brown thinning hair greying down the sides, suddenly explodes into a car salesman’s grin. Kathy throws her hands up in the air, like, for joy or something. What’s going on? The man gets out of his chair and crouches down beside her and they briefly kiss, but then they do something much much worse: they press their foreheads together so hard, like its an animal ritual, like they each want to merge into the other person’s head. Jesus Christ, it’s love, Kathy’s head over heels in love with another man.
I make it into the car and check the cellphone for Nessa’s call. No call. Toby’s still on the loose, Chris is at home, strapped to his bed, and Mark’s scrubbing the upstairs bath while his wife - Jesus - while his wife maybe just accepted a marriage proposal. Oh my God, how long have those two… lovers been carrying on like this? Months? It’s so bloody… something, so something I want to vomit again and this time I do. I throw open the car door, lean out as far as I can, and heave up the lukewarm quiche I had for lunch.
I’m grabbed by a nervous fear of them walking past and noticing me- how would they explain it, eh? I wonder what Kathy’s escape plan is? - and I can’t face that. Acid in my mouth, I boost past the horrible little scene as fast as I can. Gunning it along the esplanade, I take the first right and head along Beach Front Drive. Toby must be making his way home by now. He knows Chris wants to see him, he can’t be that much of a little shit, and the Drive is the fastest way to get anywhere along the beach. There’s no Toby, and I even stop and check the dairy and the fish and chip shop, but no, not there. I take a left into the streets and driving slow blocks, peer up driveways and stare into front windows not covered with gauzy net curtains. Where would this Darren live?
I drive another block, muttering to myself, please, please, Toby. I visualise him bouncing down the driveway of the last house I’d expect; a nice tidy house with a lateish model spotless car parked in a spotless garage with its doors open so every passer by and the neighbours can see what a clean well ordered house their child lives in. Willing it won’t make it happen. He isn’t home yet I know it, there’s still no call from Nessa. Toby’s hiding somewhere in this neighbourhood, and I remember what he said about Chris earlier, that he looked dead this morning, and the little shit’s selfishness forces me to pull over and park until I can get my breathing under control. I can’t stay out here any longer I have to get back.
Whose house is this? Is this a nice house with its skirts up for all the clumps to see the tidy shelving and the shadow board of tools up on the garage wall? Once it was. Once a man lived here who left nothing out of place, and everything from pins to fridges had its thoughtful place in the world. Now it looks like a meth house and the man who lives here can barely lift a spoon, and no one can tell you why, and strangers might wonder why there’s often a loud news van parked outside. Is Toby home? No, he can’t be. For starters, the house is too bloody quiet. Nessa and Toby, fighting again. Shit, what if Mark bowls in and creates a huge shit storm? Calm down, Lizzie, no need for nerves. Park and make a break for the house.
‘I’m home,’ I say, when I slink in the front door and along the hallway that has no cheesy family portraits on its walls, only yellowing wallpaper that’s peeling in places. Jesus, what’s that smell? Is that what I think it is?
‘Mum? In here!’ Nessa calls out from the lounge that has no sleek black
Lazy Boys for loose woman to fuck on and afterwards get harassed for dripping on the upholstery. A drip or a stain on the furniture of this lounge would go unnoticed… forever.
‘Are you smoking pot in the house again, Vanessa Caruthers?’ I say.
They don’t smoke pot at the Wainwright’s. No sir, Mark might spend half an evening chugging tall bourbon and cokes, or working through a half-dozen, before he heads outside to his personal driving range. But no pot. Before this afternoon my guilty heart bled for Kathy who I always thought spent every evening cleaning up after making tea; the dishes, the laundry, more cleaning, and dealing with her boys, and tomorrow, tomorrow, always preparing for tomorrow, and now? She’s been preparing all right, hasn’t she been busy.
‘Dad was,’ Nessa says, emerging pale and red eyed in the hallway.
‘Andy’s bloody breathing this,’ I say, lowering my voice.
‘It won’t make much difference to him,’ she says.
‘Nessa!’
‘It was Dad, honestly,’ she says.
‘Oh please.’
‘Andy’s in his box. He’s been under there for ages,’ she says.
‘Shit, he can breathe under there, can’t he?’ I say.
‘Yeah, I cut air holes in the sides. He said his craft is under attack from Morfians, mid-space warp,’ she says, giggling.
Bloody giggling? Let up, you’d smoke pot if you could handle it; you’d smoke, eat, and drink it in a heartbeat, and afterwards stand out on the middle of the street and laugh and laugh until everything around you melted away.
‘Was Chris really smoking?’ I say.
‘Uh-huh, he reckons it helps,’ she says, giggles dying.
Where does she get the money for weed? That’s a question you should ask yourself, Lizzie. You’ve seen her part-time Countdown pay stubs scattered across her dresser. Maybe she grows it? Where though? Under the house? Now you haven’t thought of that. The reporters would have sniffed that out by now.
‘I need to have words about this recreational drug abuse with your father,’ I say.
‘He’s asleep, he shouldn’t be disturbed,’ she says.
‘Since when did you become Nurse Gladys?’ I say.
‘Dad said Doctor Harrup wasn’t a happy chappy this arvo,’ she says.
‘Is he ever?’ I say.
‘Mum, we’re doing the right thing, eh? Keeping him at home? He’s, he’s having problems talking, he’s so quiet,’ she says, voice dropping to a whisper.
Doubts doubts doubts, always doubts.
‘It’s what Chris wants that’s important, not a bloody doctor,’ I say.
‘But is he…? It’s hard to understand what he’s saying now,’ she says.
Now that’s a question for you. Is he… right in the head? All there? Was your Dad before the end? Saying strange things and coming out with God knows what was our old Len. And Chris’ parents… were they in a position to understand what was best for them? Face facts, Chris is home because nobody can put a finger on what’s wrong with him, except the osteoporosis, and can’t an osteoporosis sufferer suffer at home?
‘He made this decision right at the start remember? He wanted this, Nessa, us being a family together. Is Toby home yet?’ I say.
‘Didn’t you pick him up?’ she says.
‘He got away from me, he ran off with a mate,’ I say.
‘Shit Mum, Dad really wanted…’
‘I know, I know. Look Ness, can you get Andy out from under that box? I need some time with your Dad,’ I say.
‘I’ll try,’ she says, heading back into the lounge.
Don’t we all want a bloody big transporting box? Flying through space at warp speed and leaving Planet Earth far, far behind. I have to check, don’t I? Just in case? What am I going to do if he’s outside? He won’t be, will he? What if he is? I’ll snick a peek from the lounge windows.
‘What’re you doing, Mum?’ Nessa says, crouching beside Andy’s box that now appears to be vibrating.
‘Pulling the curtains, that all right with you, your majesty?’ I say.
‘Why?’ she asks.
‘I thought you might appreciate less light in here,’ I say.
There’s enough to do in here without worrying about what’s out there.
Crap, there he goes. Look at him park that van. It’s not possible. A van is a van it can’t be self-righteous; Mark’s parking self-righteously. Don’t look at him just don’t look at him. He’s not getting out, he’s sitting there. Staring isn’t illegal, Lizzie. Shit, he’s waving at me, no, pointing: he’s pointing towards the back of the house. Fuck, he wants to meet in the old laundry. Pull the curtains completely shut just shut him out. You’ve more than enough on your plate this afternoon, haven’t you? Pull them shut. Yes, goodbye Mark. Mark the plumber. Pull them shut, Lizzie. But they’re only curtains.
‘I want to see your father,’ I say, shrinking at the ruthless lie, but the kids don’t even notice.
Even though I know Chris can’t hear me, I tiptoe past his bedroom door. Smoking pot, Jesus, I’m surprised he has the energy. He’s smoked more since he got… sick then he ever did before it happened. The kitchen is a disaster, even worse than usual. That’s it, done. I’ll invite Mark into the kitchen for one of his cuppas. He’ll walk in here and try to smile away the overflowing sink and cluttered benches even though it will make his fingers twitch. I’d give him a minute before he breaks, makes an excuse, and leaves. Gotta get back to the bath, Liz. God only knows what he thinks about the old laundry out the back. I think he finds it interesting. It looks like it was lifted out of a different century and barely attached to the back of this house. Concrete floors and deep concrete sinks and an ancient washing machine - hand use only - and a corrugated iron roof; the whole thing would topple over if you gave it a decent shove. Mark didn’t seem to mind those first few times before we moved our afternoon activities to his house. The gloomy dustiness was probably making his skin crawl. He sideways through the useless half-open back gate, scans the house, and trots over. I don’t know why, but I want it to rain: hard rain drumming on the iron roof would make this perfect.
He gathers me in a hug, and every other time he does this I’ve always been so grateful I could sob, but this afternoon it seems empty, empty and pitiful compared to the hug I received from the charming giant at the beach. I don’t hug him back.
‘Mark, what’…
‘I know, I know, I wanted to say sorry, but you’d already left. Toby make it home?’ he says, stepping away and checking the yard.
‘We’re okay, everyone’s busy inside,’ I say, thinking about Chris strapped to his bed. When was the last time anyone checked in on him? What if Nessa’s pot was too much?
‘Look, I’ve got to get back, we can do this another time,’ I say, angling past.
‘No we bloody can’t, I want to do it now,’ he says, and snatches the top of my arm that’s already aching.
‘Shit, I can’t do anything right at the moment,’ he says, and dropping his hand, miserably stares at the back wall.
I move back in front of him, and I know its time, you have to seize the moment, right? And even though I know it’s time to say it, I say nothing. Instead, I look up at him without really seeing him. I see Kathy and her weird forehead ritual with her lover and her throwing her arms up in the air and I realise neither of us will make each other that kind of happy.
‘What is it Liz?’ he asks, and his voice sounds strange, trembling.
Silence will do it, silence will cut through the hot air and bullshit and strip this horrible little thing down to the essentials: I’ve been his afternoon shag long enough.
‘Oh shit, you know. About Kathy. How’d you find out?’ he moans, running his hand back through his hair.
‘Did they start before or after us?’ I ask.
His shoulders slump; his entire upper body deflates, and it starts, as if someone is reaching down into his chest and tugging each one up through his throat.
‘After, I’m pretty sure it was after. She’s bloody leaving me, Liz. Some wanker, I don’t know, one of the plumbing lads told me what he does for a living, Government position,’ he sobs.
‘Where is this going, Mark? Honestly? You once said you wanted to be with me, for real. Do you remember? Was that bullshit?’ I ask, and I can’t stand it; his pain is so real it’s making a throbbing sound. I rub his chest with my hand and wipe his wet cheek.
‘I’m taking on another two guys next month. It’s doable, I mean, us, being together, we’re doable,’ he says, and the bastard sounds reluctant about saying it.
‘Yeah, we’ll wait for Chris to die, and then we’ll tell the kids,’ I say, peeling my hand away as if it’s stuck to something sticky and unsavoury.
‘What’re you going to do for money? You told me Karen said that super-temp is muscling in on your job?’ he says.
‘Well I haven’t been fired yet, have I?’ I say, but I know, I know. Karen hasn’t called or visited me in ages. The temp with the fantastic legs probably took over her job as well.
‘Hey, Liz, wait, it’s not like that,’ he says.
‘Don’t you think I’ve been your afternoon shag long enough? I’m just an afternoon shag,’ I say. That’s it, I’m needed elsewhere.
‘You’re not my afternoon shag!’ he says, grabbing my upper arm and digging in with his big fingers.
‘You need to leave now, Mark, right fucking now,’ I say.
‘Okay okay, Jesus, I’m sorry,’ he says, holding his hands up and stepping back.
‘Do you know what makes me sad, Mark? I thought you respected me,’ I say.
‘Jesus, of course I respect you,’ he says, and he sounds so fake I almost laugh in his face.
‘I don’t want to be with you anymore, Mark. Okay? I’m sorry about what’s happened to your marriage, and I’ll never forgive myself for being a part of that, but I don’t want to be with you,’ I say.
‘You weren’t complaining when I was doing stuff round here, when I was coming round with Kathy’s casseroles,’ he says, steaming with self-righteousness.
‘Well why don’t you go finish scrubbing Kathy’s precious bath before she gets back? If she’s even coming back today,’ I add, and I know I shouldn’t, but I roll around in the satisfaction of watching his face drain bloodless and pale.
‘What a huge bloody mess,’ he mumbles. He doesn’t know what to do with his big mitts, where to put them. But he’s not leaving, he’s standing there crowding and breathing, mitt-heavy.
‘You’re not my afternoon shag,’ he says, reaching out for me, but I step back and fold my arms over my chest.
‘I hope you sort things out with Kathy,’ I say.
I sideways past him and run for the back door, leaving him standing there snuffling with his head hanging down.