by Don Zelma
Chapter Ten
Ned heard a sudden rise of noise in the room and opened his eyes. He was lying back in the couch, blinked and saw a game of cricket was on the television. His legs were stretched out towards the set and a stubby of beer, loose in his hand, had emptied onto his stomach. He glanced at his watch and saw it was three in the afternoon.
He got up, feeling a little heavy. His T-shirt no longer seemed to fit and he now acknowledged he had put on weight. The fridge was nearby and he opened the door and stared at the grills of food. The door slowly closed and his large frame wandered up to the window. His fat fingers pulled aside the thick curtains and he peered out at the lawn.
‘I should cut the grass,’ he thought to himself. ‘This house is a mess.’
He turned and stared at the kitchen. It was a hot summer’s day and a blowfly buzzed around the table. In a moment of clarity he recognised that this was a pretty good example of a normal day – what things had become. But, he remembered, it had not always been like this – not even a year ago. He always had a project, a goal to keep him going, and he now remembered the long line of these things that had once given him direction. He suddenly felt positive and wanted to revisit them. The kitchen screen door squeaked open and he wandered downstairs onto the lawn, listening to the long grass play across his quick-walking boots. The rusty shed door creaked and he walked in and pulled up. On the workbench he saw the old, polished engine part. Before planning to open a motorbike workshop he had even dabbled in a pyramid scheme and a series of get-rich-quick real estate seminars. They were all good ambitions, appearing as epiphanies. But, for one reason or another, they all burned out over time. Since giving up owning his own workshop he knew he had felt a little lost. He sauntered towards the bench, dragged the stool along the dirt floor and sat down. His brown boots rested on the worktop. He leaned back and acknowledged he was restless, needing something more. His fingers quietly began rapping on the bench as he stared at the corrugated tin wall. Amongst the old paint cans he saw a thin narrow book covered in dust and his rapping fingers stopped, reached out, and took it. He read the title; it was called A Hero of Our Time by an author whose name he could not pronounce and it was Edith’s. He sat up and rested his elbows on the bench and began to read in the light of the window.
Huh, he thought after a few minutes – he knew this man: the remorseless character the author was describing. To know those thoughts, those inner, honest, subconscious nuances, you had to be him. You had to be a man like Ned. As he continued to read, this character seemed to almost shout out at him; Ned wasn’t alone. He had always thought novels were for the educated, for people with too much time on their hands. But now, as he sat here in his shed, he began to look at this novel differently.
‘Well, how about that? Maybe,’ he thought, ‘using my own experiences, a man like me could successfully write. You didn’t need to be a genius, it seemed, you merely needed to have lived.’
He slowly placed the book down and leaned back. His fingers came to his chin and started pulling gently at his beard. He had once believed he had a creative mind and he knew he was pragmatic. His stool came forward and he slowly stood. His hands went into his pockets and he looked down and gently kicked at the dirt. He recognised that it wasn’t going to be that easy, but all too often that notion had not stopped him.
He wandered out the door and heard a tremendous noise coming from under the house. The humidity had spiked and there was no breeze in the yard. He came in through the garage door, in under the house, and peered through the posts. Edith was dancing to music, scrubbing at the tub with a tape player on the window sill. She was singing loudly like an idiot and had not sensed him. It was November and the humidity was greater than he could ever remember. The air was thick and sticky, and sweat was pouring off his face in thick heavy lines. He held still, watching her, his spirits sinking. This was his reality. She turned and saw him.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said. ‘What have you been doing?’
He shrugged. ‘In the shed, working on a project.’
She exhaled all too loudly and put her hands back into the tub.
His optimism began plummeting from its lofty height. ‘What?’ he said, defensively.
‘Nothing,’ she said quickly, unable to disguise her scepticism.
He felt the old apathy and bitterness of his life finally return. His mind was back in its historic place. The writing thing really wouldn’t work – he knew that. But Chr—t – he didn’t need her to tell him.
‘I dare you to do that again,’ he said.
‘Do what?’
‘Do that,’ he said, ‘that sighing thing.’
He felt the heat of his anger boil into his face and he wiped the sweat off his forehead with his palm. Edith rested her hands in the soapy water. She looked up at the window. ‘Ned?’ she said.
He didn’t answer.
‘I can hear a strange tone in your voice,’ she said.
He waited in the dark. Her hands, lit by the light of the window, were shiny with tub water.
She was prodding me, he thought – like a kid prods a dog with a stick. She’s a real piece of work.
He tasted the sweaty salt on his lips and felt something powerful stirring inside him. For the first time he thought he might just act out his violent fantasies. Now, this hour, Edith was finally going to get it. He placed his hands in his pockets and slowly strolled towards her. He entered the light of the window and drew in beside. She stank and he studied her ugly unkempt hair. She began scrubbing and he edged in and touched her with his paunch. Her hands slowed then gradually went still. The suds were popping quietly and she stared down at the water. Tommy raced by the window on his bicycle and disappeared into the yard. Edith slowly turned and stared at him and there was a loud roar from the television. He scrutinised the dirty wrinkles of her forehead. She hadn’t washed for at least a day and he doubted that she had ever been beautiful. Finally, she sensed something was very different this time and slowly stepped backwards, reversing from the light. She stopped in the corner, expressionless, with soapy water dripping from her hands.
Ned followed her, staring, and pulled up. ‘What did you say?’ he said. He felt the heat coming to his face. He had known since he was a child that nothing could arrest this. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and wanted to reach out and squeeze her face.
She stared at the dark wall. ‘Do you want anything from the shops?’ she said quietly.
He leaned in and rested his nose on her cheek. ‘Shut up,’ he whispered. He could smell the sick odour of her unwashed skin.
She looked down. ‘OK,’ she whispered. ‘Whatever you say.’
Ned gritted his teeth. ‘Don’t f—kin’ start,’ he said. ‘Don’t get smart and start things.’
‘I’m not starting things, Ned,’ she said; she was worried. It was god-damn hot and she shouldn’t have answered.
F—k it, he thought. Then, the impulse appeared before he had time to control it; he flung his head forward, head-butting her face. Her legs gave way and he witnessed her fall to the dust with astonishment.
‘You pathetic, ugly bitch,’ he said, breathing heavily. She was lying still and quietly sobbing. Her dress, damp with sweat, was covered in dirt. Her hair had snagged a stick and a bloody mess ran from her nose. She reached up for the post, trying to stand but slipped back to the ground. Her mouth began moving like she was trying to speak. It was only then that Tommy’s screams penetrated Ned’s consciousness. He saw him looking in, his head pressed against the slats. Tommy bolted into the yard and began spinning around, stamping his foot as if he had been stung by a bee.
‘Shut the f—k up, Tommy!’ Ned bawled. ‘Or you’ll get a dose of it as well!’
Tommy sprinted towards the drive, howling and pulling at his hair. Blood boiled in Ned’s head; he could take on an army. He paced along the slats like a caged tiger and kicked out at a paling.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ he shouted. ‘Why couldn’t you just shut t
he f—k up!’
He walked out of the door, into the yard, anger splitting his head. He wanted to run and just keep running, and eventually arrived at the shed. Inside, he paced around the dark, pulling at his beard. Finally, his hand reached for the yellow-labelled bottle under the sill and poured a nip of rum into a dirty glass.