by Don Zelma
Chapter Forty-seven
A lawnmower purred in the background and the smell of cut grass came in through the window. Joe listened to the distant hum as he drifted in and out of sleep. He could hear the far off shouts of children playing next door. He rose very slowly from his sleep, like a patient coming out of anaesthetic, and opened his eyes. He heard someone gently breathing beside him. His head slowly turned and he saw a woman’s face right in front of him. He waited… waited… then remembered.
He slowly sat up and rubbed his eyes. The electric fan was running in the corner and the sheets had fallen to the floor. He stood, mussed his hair and slowly walked up to the window. Across the fence he saw the children playing in their swimming pool and the water sparkling like the sea. He looked over his shoulder and stared at his guest, noting a pale bikini line across her tanned back. He recalled they had laughed all night.
She rolled towards him in her sleep and he saw her caesarean scar and was reminded of their age. He walked back to the bed and slowly laid back down. He listened to her breathing as he stared at the ceiling. She quietly cleared her throat and he looked at her. She blinked and her pupils scanned the features of the room. She too, it seemed, began recalling how she got there and eventually she smiled.
‘What?’ he said.
‘How do you feel?’ she said quietly.
‘Alright,’ he said.
She giggled and looked up at the ceiling. ‘It was a great night,’ she said. She reached up and sleepily rubbed her face.
He joined her looking at the ceiling.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘would you like to see each other again?’
She seemed to ponder and looked down at the sheet. ‘Sure,’ she said.
‘Chr—st,’ he thought, ‘I just feel numb.’
He pondered then glanced at his wristwatch. ‘I’ll take your number,’ he said, ‘but after that I need to go. I have a big day ahead.’
‘Oh, OK,’ she said.
It was a lie; it was his rostered day off.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No... no problem,’ she said. They were wiser now and both knew how it worked, although deep down you sometimes hoped this one might be different. But, on this occasion, he sensed he wouldn’t ring her. He smiled and gently kissed her, they made love again and it felt funny in the light of the sun.
They talked for a long time then he dressed in his work clothes and put on his fleece. He watched her dressing and realised this intimate moment meant nothing to either of them. He needed this journey to end.
An hour later, Joe was wandering the streets. He could see the workshop in the distance and recalled Lola’s laugh. He glanced through the passing trees at the benches outside and remembered her winning his heart at lunch. The cold wind lifted his hair and he drew up the zipper, put his hands into his pockets, and walked with his head down. He remembered Ned screaming in the cane.
Please, he thought, somebody help me.
He reached Café Elite on the river, suddenly conscious that he had been walking for hours. He knew why he had stopped here – he remembered that night they had drunk and first made love.
He slowly sat on a bench on the boardwalk and rested his elbows on the back of the seat. He stretched his legs out and glanced back at the mangroves on the opposite bank.
A boxer trotted out of the restaurant and his eyes calmly followed him. It stopped, not far away, and looked around. It looked right at Joe, sniffed the air, then scurried across the boards towards him.
You’re f—king kidding, he thought.
He glanced up at a figure following behind the animal.
Holy s—t!
And just like that – there was Lola Bonita, looking wonderful and in his life again. She had short, bobbed hair and a fresh happy smile. His skin went icy cold.
‘She knew I was sitting here,’ he thought. ‘She was inside the restaurant and saw me through the glass.’
Lola stopped near his outstretched legs. He tried to say ‘hi’ but only mouthed it. Involuntarily, he looked away and reached out for Buddy’s soft head.
‘Hello, Joe,’ she said quietly.
He glanced up, but only to her hands. ‘Hey, Lola,’ he said, but with genuine enthusiasm. ‘How are you?’ He glanced up at her elbows and noted her practical brown sweater.
‘Wonderful, thank you, Joe,’ she said.
He looked down and continued patting Buddy. ‘Hello, little fella,’ he said, rubbing his ears.
‘Are you sitting alone?’ she asked.
He glanced at his bench and chuckled. ‘What are you doing here, Lola?’ he asked, expressing real interest. ‘I thought you’d left town.’
‘I did, sweetie,’ she said. ‘But my mother wanted to see Browning. She’s here from Spain.’
Buddy looked up at him, his black jowls sagging. His tongue darted in and out and Joe grew hypnotised by it.
Lola noted Buddy’s joy and laughed. ‘He always liked you,’ she said.
Oh, the music of her voice – it cut right through his brain. He felt the gut sensation welling up again and then realised his feelings for her had not vanished; they had merely been suppressed. He began feeling a little teary.
‘My husband’s here too,’ she said.
He licked his upper lip, glanced at her face then looked away.
‘You did know I got married?’ she asked, sensing his surprise.
Joe shrugged. ‘Oh, I heard rumours,’ he said. Buddy began licking his hand. Joe glanced at her stomach and she seemed quite thin. He looked at the boardwalk – at least the men had been wrong about her pregnancy.
‘Guess what?’ she said. ‘I had a little baby.’
He swallowed and gently gripped Buddy’s neck.
‘Chr—t, Lola,’ he thought, ‘it’s only been eighteen months.’
‘Really?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A little girl. You’ll see her in a second. My husband’s bringing her out.’
Oh, please don’t…
A duck started splashing about under his feet. He felt his fingers starting to shake and he sunk them into Buddy’s neck. ‘How’s his hip?’ he asked. ‘The arthritis?’
She reached down and patted his head. Their hands were close and he saw the ring. ‘He’ll be OK,’ she said softly. ‘He just needs lots of love.’
There was a softness in her voice and he knew it was directed at him. He started to experience again the feelings of the tearoom. For a second, it did not matter that she was with another man; he just wanted to see her happy. He knew now, for certain, he still loved her.
He looked up and their eyes locked. Hers were big, brown and a little wet and her gaze penetrated into him, reading his guilt and his confusion. He looked away at the water, a pressure building in his eyes. He needed to stand and just walk away. Then he heard little wheels squeaking and saw the stroller coming out the restaurant door. He did not scrutinise his successor – his dream of a child with Lola was tugging at his heart. He watched the stroller approach, his heart thumping. It slowed and he – very slowly – peered in.
Good God…There she was – a little person, swathed in a white blanket. She was asleep, wearing a little woollen cap. His stomach sank right down into his hips. The child possessed none of his features like he had once dreamed.
Lola reached down and stroked the child’s springy cheek. ‘Look at her,’ she said. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’
Yes, she was, he thought, beyond all description.
He glanced at Lola’s eyes and saw they were sparkling with the joy of new motherhood. He looked away. He remembered how her father had once made her feel, and when together he had done the same. She still didn’t know why they had separated, and there was no way of telling her, no way of saying sorry. There was no sweet ending to this story.
He waited and daydreamed about what he would say if he could: There is so much you didn’t know, Lola, so much I couldn’t tell. And I now carry it around like a stone in my belly and a beam on my back. You were
my beautiful, beautiful friend and I am so sorry for what I did.
‘OK, Joe,’ she said quietly, glancing at the road. ‘We’re leaving town in an hour. Please, take care of yourself.’
They stared at each other, then he glanced down and nodded. ‘You too, Lola,’ he said. The conversation was over.
Buddy’s ears sprung up to an inaudible sound and he started galloping towards the road. Lola smiled and seemed the happiest he had ever seen. The family slowly turned and started moving away and his eyes followed them. Suddenly, she stopped at the footpath and looked over her shoulder. And, just like she had done in the workshop, she wriggled her fingers goodbye.
‘Take care, my friend,’ she said.
He took a final snapshot – her large nocturnal eyes, her black, bobbed hair still silky like a stallion’s tail.
‘Goodbye, Lola,’ he said.
She smiled, slowly walked into the street, and the deck fell quiet.
And that’s that, he thought.
He looked down at his hands and began picking at his fingernails.
‘Be tough,’ he thought, ‘and take the hit. Your decision to leave her was necessary to survive. Remember, you will find someone else.’
Then, he recognised the horrifying truth: he didn’t want anyone else. He never would. It had been real and genuine love and he had lost it as easily as a five-cent coin.
There’s one thing worse, he concluded, than fretting that the right person hasn’t entered your life – and it is this: if they came, went, and you missed them.
His fingers started shaking and he brought his hands in between his knees. He knew, once home, he would sob like a child, and he now focused hard, staring at his hands, trying to hold it off.