The Unspoken

by Don Zelma

Chapter Twenty

  Joe arrived home from work after dark, but did not enter the house. He locked the car door and waited in the drive then sauntered towards the backyard. He looked up and saw the stars were bright and heard the sound of the crickets in the garden. His feet approached the backstairs and he slowly sat on a step and looked out at the yard and stared. Lola had really put the hook into him. But he couldn’t tell her; she was his boss.

  He pondered for three or four minutes, but then could not sit still. He stood and began walking along the drive, thinking and debating. He meandered across the front lawn under the streetlight and went up the side of the house. He entered the moonlight at the back fence, recalling her quiet voice of genuine distress.

  A twig snapped and he held still. A large lion-like head rose up from behind the palings. It was the neighbour’s dog and Joe was grateful to see him.

  ‘Hey there, Pilchard,’ he said quietly. He reached out and patted the big skull. Pilchard started panting and Joe felt his heavy leather collar and moved the tag into the light. ‘What are you doing spying on me?’ he said. Pilchard yawned and Joe smelt his bad breath, then his heavy tongue began slapping his wrist.

  Joe turned and slowly continued his wanderings. He walked across the yard and down the drive, listening to his steps. He had never experienced such a yearning – it was right from the gut. He saw Pilchard watching through the palings, sighed and looked up at the night.

  ‘This is insane,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ His eyes closed and he felt his head flop forward. He looked at his feet and slowly shook his head. ‘I know I won’t be able to sleep, tonight,’ he said to himself. He had sensed, after meeting Lola that day, he would never properly rest – not until some type of conclusion was reached. He started walking and began again to circle the house.

  That night, he remained awake. The lights were off in the house and the afternoon in Lola’s lounge was in his brain. He turned restlessly in his bed, faced the window and gazed at the night sky. His eyes closed, but a minute later he was still awake.

  Yes, he thought, reassuring himself, this torment is unusual but nothing can be done right now. Accept it as temporary and just ride on through it.

  The alarm sounded the next morning, but he was already awake. The room was bright with light and he reached back and stretched. His work uniform was on the floor; he got up, slowly changed and shuffled into the kitchen. Every sound was clear and loud. He began making coffee and there was nothing but the high-pitched tingle of the teaspoon as he stirred. He took his coffee into the lounge, out to the veranda and onto the old sun-split table in the shade. He sat too quickly and suddenly saw stars then leant back and looked at the rusty underbelly of the awning.

  The back door squeaked open. ‘Hey, ya!’ a male voice called. The screen door slapped closed.

  ‘Hey,’ Joe said quietly, as if to himself. It was Ken, and Joe looked across town in the direction of the workshop.

  ‘Where are ya?’ he shouted from the kitchen.

  ‘On the veranda!’ Joe called. The shout hurt his ears. He turned and saw Ken’s athletic figure coming down the corridor.

  ‘You got coffee?’ Ken asked, his voice clear in the lounge. He had shaved and was very awake.

  ‘On the bench.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’

  Ken turned, hesitated, then looked back.

  ‘You alright?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ Joe said.

  ‘You look different.’

  He waited. ‘I’m just tired – I didn’t sleep. Go get your coffee.’

  Ken pouted and walked into the hall and Joe heard his boots squeak on the kitchen linoleum. ‘Where is it?’ he said in the kitchen. ‘Oh, I see...’

  Joe glanced at his watch and saw it was almost time. He exhaled deliberately and slowly.

  ‘We have to go in a few minutes,’ Ken called. ‘You ready?’ Joe’s heart started to beat and his wrist started throbbing like a kicked big toe. He started to feel butterflies. ‘Hey, our loco goes into the pit, tomorrow,’ Ken said from the hall.

  ‘Oh, for Chr—t sake,’ Joe thought. ‘Stop talking about the shop.’ He looked up at the awning and ran his fingers through his hair. Ken stepped out onto the veranda. ‘Do you always have to be so f—king chirpy in the morning?’ he said.

  Ken shrugged and pulled a chair out. ‘I’m a morning person.’

  ‘Well, knock it off, will ya. It’s early.’

  Ken chuckled and sat at the table, holding his coffee. He opened a newspaper and flattened it out on the table with little finger smacks. Joe just stared at him – the cinematic clarity was returning again and the colours grew bright and clear. Ken sipped his coffee and Joe watched his nasal jet rippling the surface. He glanced at his wristwatch and saw there were just two or three minute to go before they left for the shop. ‘F—k,’ he said to himself, butterflies really starting to tickle his stomach. ‘If you can’t defend, he thought, then attack.’

  ‘Let’s get to it,’ he said, standing. ‘Let’s go to work.’

  Ken glanced at his watch and nodded, then gulped his coffee and stood. ‘Great,’ he said. He emptied the residue coffee over the railing and followed him into the lounge.

  I’ve never desired anyone like this before, Joe thought.

  He picked up his car keys from the kitchen table and started heading towards the door.

  Perhaps I could ask Ken, he thought. I could ask if this feeling is normal. But then Ken had been married many years and may not remember the first days. Chr—t, perhaps it’s just me – maybe it had never happened to him at all.

  Joe waited with his men out front of the workshop. He heard the towing tractor inside approaching the doors and felt the vibration of the locomotive under his feet. The machines hit daylight and he shielded his eyes as the locomotive – house-sized and house-heavy – rolled out into the street.

  Lola Bonita’s laugh broke out over the rumble. She was close by and, alarmingly, his heart began to race. He closed his eyes, growing weaker and weaker from this persistent reaction. He opened them and glanced at the shop door. Lola walked out, her eyes following the progress of the locomotive. Her hair was black and silky like a stallion’s tail and she seemed so, so beautiful, time, without exaggeration, seemed to stop. He stared at her and in that moment did not care that others might see him. She disappeared behind the locomotive and his chest began to rest and gently ache.

  ‘Settle down,’ he said to himself. ‘She’s your boss, so think about other things.’

  The locomotive passed, quaking the concrete like a passing battle tank, and slowed further down the street in front of the test shed. The tremors ceased, the tractor cut its engine and he sensed an air of satisfaction amongst the men. They murmured to each other and began strolling back towards the shop. But he remained – he just wasn’t ready to move. Lola was behind the locomotive, separated from him by a big unmovable force.

  ‘Chr—t,’ he thought, ‘it will take some time to shake this Lola thing.’

  He meandered across the tracks, looked around the loco and saw her, the cause of his sleepless nights, standing on the road. She was talking to the foreman, oblivious to the thrashing Joe had been taking.

  She looked up and the two locked eyes. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  John spoke up. ‘We need a man for the dogwatch,’ he said. ‘All this week. You interested?’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure,’ he said and cleared his throat. ‘I don’t mind working the nightshift.’

  I’m awake all night anyhow, he thought.

  Lola smiled and his heart started to melt. She guided a lock of hair over her ear. ‘I’ll be staying back too,’ she said.

  A black Statesman pulled up at the curb and she and John turned around. The back door opened and a man in a pinstriped suit slowly got out. He adjusted his tie then extended his hand and Lola shook it. It was the city mayor and the two began talking like old friends. Everyone revered Lola. Just like t
he girl at the showground, she was growing out of reach and Joe’s heart started to sink.

  The mayor glanced at the locomotive, impressed by its scale and complexity.

  ‘Ok, gentlemen,’ she said to John and Joe. ‘Let’s speak later.’ She turned around with the mayor and the two began walking towards Administration. Joe glanced down at his chafed, steel-capped boots, and listened to their voices fade away.

  ‘Yeap,’ he thought, ‘you have to be real about this Lola thing. Don’t dream dreams.’

  He arrived home in his utility and raised the bonnet under the house. He worked on the engine until ten at night and did pretty well keeping Lola off his mind. The alarm beeped on his wristwatch and he glanced and contemplated the nightshift. He would soon see Lola and the usual reaction came – his heart began racing off, pounding like an old water pump in his chest. The reaction was something you wouldn’t believe unless you experienced it yourself. He touched his left pectoral and could feel the thumping and he felt weak and nauseous. He slowly bent forward and waited for it to pass.

  Chr—st, he thought. This just ain’t right.

  He rested his elbows on the mudguard and stared at the engine. Yearning for someone that doesn’t realise you exist, he thought – what a killer.

  He went upstairs into the kitchen, poured a measure of Bundaberg rum into a glass and walked into the lounge room. He switched on the television, sat on the sofa, took a good mouthful and poured two more fingers.

  ‘Slow… Slow down,’ he thought.

  He swirled the rum around and watched it gently settle then looked at the window in the direction of her house. Ten minutes passed and he took a final mouthful. He had a six-hour shift ahead with Lola nearby. He had yearned for her so much he felt constantly sick in the pit of his stomach. The rum and antacid tablets weren’t working. Nothing was working.

  ‘God damn it!’ he shouted, his voice echoing in the house. He brought his hands to his head and stared down at his boots.

  ‘I’m losing my mind,’ he thought.

  He waited, drum-rolling his fingers against his temple.