We'll Stand In That Place and other stories

by Michelle Cahill

  One day I entered the dementia ward and Kevin wasn’t there.

  ‘Gone to psych,’ said Jo, without even looking up from her notes. When I asked why, Jo told me that he became disoriented and wandered around the unit at night, yelling at anyone who came near him.

  Kevin never became ‘manageable’. I never saw him again.

  * * *

  Everything was locked and bolted at the aged care facility. No fresh air. It bugged me. I opened windows whenever I could during groups. I had a set of keys that I wore around my neck like a warden.

  * * *

  Three staff barricaded the door as Ezra moved towards it. They clearly didn’t have their next move planned.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind going for a walk,’ I said, smiling at Ezra like a co-conspirator. I wanted to get out of that place just as much as Ezra.

  Sandra rolled her eyes. ‘OK, fine, Emma will take you for a walk.’ Take him for a walk. Like a puppy on a leash.

  The cars on the main road rushed past, engines roaring. One after another, they shot through, some hurtling towards the city, others heading back to the suburbs.

  We walked and found a crappy café and Ezra spoke.

  ‘I ran businesses, you know, I’m not an idiot, but that place . . . I can’t live in that place, it’s run by idiots.’

  I offered a restrained smile.

  ‘I’m so sorry Ezra, I can see you are a man with a lot of pride. This must be terrible for you.’

  We drank our coffee in silence watching the cars quickly drive past on their way to somewhere.

  We are all somebody’s baby. Held with tenderness by someone at some time.

  A Twist Of Smoke

  Emily Brewin

  I t starts with a twist of smoke and ends in humiliation.

  ‘Take your hands off the window, Tom.’ I pull him back to

  the tram seat by a flap of nappy sticking out from his pants and wipe vegemite off his hands. ‘Stay,’ I say as he wiggles from my grasp again and lands on the floor next to the shopping.

  ‘Mummy.’

  I try to clean the window with a baby wipe.

  ‘Mum!’

  The vegemite smears into arcs.

  ‘What?’

  Jem sits primly in her princess dress on the seat opposite. One of the sleeves is torn and the hem is tattered.

  ‘Tom’s got the yogurt.’ She waves a silver wand in his direction.

  Tom scoops a handful of yogurt from the tub and shoves it in his mouth. Then he offers a young man in the aisle some. I recognise him as the barista from the café we go to sometimes. He laughs. I don’t think it’s funny.

  The tram stops.

  ‘Tom!’

  I reach for the yogurt. Tom screams, so I leave it with him and wonder how I got here.

  We’d gone shopping at the Vic Markets because a kinder mum told me supermarkets are bad for kids.

  ‘All that artificial lighting,’ she’d said out the window of her Range Rover. ‘Dulls their senses.’

  I stopped short of telling her I was the one whose senses felt dull. My kids were fine.

  At home, Ben said she was probably right. Our children needed to get outdoors more. Then he’d patted me on the bottom and wished me good luck.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got your hands full.’ The barista says. ‘Need some help?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, catching the scent of his peppery aftershave. ‘We’re getting off soon anyway.’

  He nods slowly and I look away.

  Jem snatches the yogurt from Tom. ‘Bad buba,’ she says, licking a streak from her fingers. Tom releases a blood-curdling cry. I decide to get off at the next stop and try not to think about the long walk home.

  ‘Sure?’ the barista asks again. ‘I’m off here anyway.’

  I glance at Tom’s red face and reconsider. ‘Okay.’

  The barista smiles at me clear-eyed and bright, with the pluck of a person who’s had eight hours sleep. I turn back to my children.

  When the tram stops again, he picks up my shopping and heads for the door. Jem tags after him, tiara lopsided on her head and Tom grizzles as we follow.

  The fresh air is a gift. I lower Tom to the footpath and try to ignore the silvery trail of snot on my shoulder.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  The barista is tall and gangly the way young men are. He grins as he sweeps his hair back. His face is Ray Ban ad perfect. I glance down at the t-shirt I’m wearing. It’s stretched and covered in fine white balls. My mother-in-law was right. It does pay to separate laundry.

  I wait for him to go so I can let my smile slip and watch Jem.

  ‘Jemmy,’ I call, with Tom attached to my leg. ‘Come back from the road, darling.’

  Jem gives me an angelic grin before lifting a stained ballet slipper off the kerb. The lights turn green and suddenly the traffic hurtles towards her. Her princess dress wraps into her legs as she teeters on the edge of the road.

  ‘Look, Mummy.’

  ‘Jem!’ I yank Tom off and lunge, grabbing her roughly. Under the cheap gauze sleeve, her arm is matchstick thin.

  ‘You’re hurting me,’ she whimpers.

  I drag her back and let go, fearing the force of my anger. Tom grabs my leg again.

  ‘Sit down,’ my finger shakes as I point at the café steps behind us. ‘Breathe,’ I tell myself quietly. But all I want to do is cry.

  ‘Here.’ The barista says.

  I thought he’d gone.

  He hands Jem a juice box and leads her to the step. She wipes her nose on her sleeve.

  ‘I can put the straw in myself,’ she says, the sun returning to her face.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say again, as he hands Tom one too.

  Their heads bob in concentration as we watch them drink. I don’t know what to say. Maybe, what bands have you seen lately? Or, how’s uni? I stop. It sounds like something a mother would ask. I feel his eyes on me and stand a little straighter, tucking my tummy in.

  ‘Smoke?’ He takes a roll-up from his pocket and places it be- tween his lips. It sticks there as he speaks. Ben used to do the same.

  I’d found it irresistible, the way he smoked and talked. The drawl of his accent, like a cowboy, and the laugh that came straight from his belly. He quoted Shakespeare, and we discussed politics and literature and the invasion of Iraq until the smoke from his cigarette clouded the air and we could barely contain ourselves.

  I look at my children, engrossed in their drinks. ‘You saved the day,’ I venture, an old flutter in my voice.

  ‘Nah,’ the barista grins, offering me the roll-up.

  A twist of smoke drifts by, reminding me of another time and another me. I used to blow smoke rings, slowly, one after another into the murky pub light. It was my party trick. It made men crazy.

  ‘Maybe, just a puff.’ I turn my back on my children. If Jem sees, she’ll tell Ben for sure. Then he’ll be at me with the vigour of a reformed addict.

  I draw in, relishing the crackle of the paper burning. For a moment, the roar of the traffic and the sound of my children chattering ceases. My head spins. It’s been almost a decade. Where did it go? I exhale through pursed lips. When I open my eyes again a smoke ring is dissolving in the air above my head.

  The barista arches an eyebrow. ‘Impressive.’

  The cars return.

  I smile and hand the roll-up back, waving a hand in front of my face.

  ‘Want to come in?’ He gestures to the café. ‘I make a mean coffee.’

  ‘Mama,’ Tom rubs his eyes.

  ‘The juice boxes,’ I say, reaching for my purse as Jem rifles through the shopping bags.

  ‘On the house,’ he says. ‘Come in sometime.’

  I extend a hand. ‘Rachel.’

  He takes it. ‘Romeo.’

  I suck in my cheeks to stop myself laughing. ‘Really?’

  He nods, then winks at my kids and walks into the café.

  ‘The yogurt’s all over my Barbie!,’ Jem screams.
<
br />   ‘Yogurt,’ Tom wobbles past.

  I pick up the bags, the scent of smoke still fresh in my nostrils, and grin at them. ‘Let’s go.’ Suddenly, the walk home doesn’t seem so far.

  The next time I see Romeo, I’m running a lap of the park in my Victoria’s Secret exercise pants. I’d bought them because I liked the way they held my bottom in.

  ‘Hi,’ Romeo approaches with a jaunty bounce, singlet slipping off his tanned shoulder.

  I run past, then stop and turn around.

  ‘How’s things?’ He dislodges a pair of ear buds and smiles like we’re old friends.

  ‘Good, just enjoying the solitude after a long day.’ I try not to huff at the size of my understatement.

  It was a bad day. In the morning, Tom stepped in dog crap at the park and Jem fell off the swing.

  Then we went home and did craft to the ear-splitting screams of Tom at nap time.

  ‘Why can’t we make a skyscraper, Mummy?’ Jem asked as I cut into an egg carton. ‘Mr Maker does it all the time.’

  ‘Ouch, shit.’ The scissors snipped my finger so blood stained the cardboard bright red. I pressed down on the cut. ‘Mummy’s not Mr Maker.’ It stung. ‘Mr Maker has an art director and assistants and a stylist and a bloody dressing room all to himself.’ I pressed harder on the cut and took a deep breath.

  ‘Daddy says you shouldn’t swear,’ Jem said, fixing me with the look of tiny policeman.

  I got up for a Band-Aid. Ben used to love my dirty mouth. Now, it’s just bad manners.

  ‘Shame. I wanted to join you,’ Romeo says, squinting into the afternoon sun.

  I glance at my wristwatch; it’s bath time at home. ‘Sure, let’s run, Romeo,’ I say, laughing at his name.

  We jog together, and the looks I get from the other women on the track make my struggle to keep up worthwhile.

  He smiles. ‘You know I’m messin with ya.’

  ‘What?’ I say, bewildered.

  ‘Romeo . . . it’s a stage name.’

  ‘Stage name?’

  ‘I’m in a band.’ He touches his hair. ‘The Romeos. Heard of us?’ I cough. ‘No, no.’ I decide not to tell him the last gig I saw was The Wiggles and they were better than expected. ‘I don’t get out much.’ I wait for him to mention my kids. He doesn’t.

  ‘You should come see us.’ We reach the duck pond and he slows down. ‘You’d like our music.’

  I grin. ‘Okay.’

  We stop. ‘I’ve gotta go to work. Bar job.’

  ‘Right, right,’ I say, like all the people I know still work in bars.

  ‘But here,’ he takes out his phone. ‘What’s your number? I’ll text you our next gig.’

  I try to recall it, distracted by the scent of salt on his skin, then say the numbers slowly.

  ‘Catch you round,’ he says as he walks away.

  I’m too flattered to wonder how he could possibly know what music I like, or to ask what his real name is.

  I’m like a teenager with a secret. For two days, I jump every time my phone makes a sound. ‘Stupid,’ I reprimand myself as I put steamed vegetables on for the kids.

  Then one night, after I’ve picked a truckload of toys off the floor and made a cup of tea, it beeps.

  ‘Yours,’ Ben calls from in front of the computer screen where he’s playing Tetris. He says it helps him wind down, but he looks less than relaxed when a block lands the wrong way up. ‘Shit,’ he mutters.

  ‘Swearing,’ I singsong, under my breath.

  I make myself stack the kids’ books into a neat pile and wipe the bench before I look. It beeps again. Probably Mum, I think, or Nadine from kinder asking me to pick Harry up tomorrow. The anticipation is sweet. In those moments, anything is possible. Like waking up on Christmas morning.

  Ben swears again as I pick up my phone.

  Hey. Late notice, soz. Next gig: Tonite, Bar Vee at 10. See u there? Romeo x

  X marks the spot. I stare at Ben, bent over the keyboard and tell myself it’s just a friendly invitation. Too many things separate us; six seasons of Northern Exposure for a start. Not to mention Kurt Cobain, grunge and at least ten years. And, I doubt Romeo’s ever used a landline.

  ‘It’s Sophie.’ I say in Ben’s direction. ‘Her cat died. I’m going over there.’

  Ben barely registers. ‘Righto.’ Then he turns around and I see how tired he is. ‘I’ll leave the front light on for you.’

  In our bedroom, I throw on little black dress and some platform shoes. Then I shake out my hair and put on some makeup, two coats of mascara and red lipstick to match my shoes. I slip a jacket over top. Jem is snoring in the room across the hall. It’s ragged and slow, and reminds me of when she was a newborn and I, a terrified new mother.

  The air in the bar is fuggy with bodies and beer. But there’s something else too; the sweet smell of freedom and youth, of drinking oneself silly without worrying about the hangover. Lamps with shades create shadows for couples to kiss in. Behind me, someone’s smoking a joint.

  I order a vodka and cranberry; suddenly realising my clothes are out of place, or possibly even out of fashion. The girl behind the bar wears tight pants and bowling shoes and the girl next to me, a flared skirt and chequered socks. And, I’ve never seen so many pairs of dark framed glasses in one room before.

  I picture the light bathing our front porch in a warm glow and contemplate going home. But then I think of Ben, intent on Tetris, and of the dirty dinner dishes in the sink, and I change my mind.

  I order a shot of whisky instead. Romeo is nowhere to be seen. He’s not on the stage with the bearded four-piece or on the crowded dance floor. I order two more and squint into the dark.

  ‘Hi.’

  I steady myself on a crusty sofa.

  ‘You came,’ he says.

  ‘Yep.’ The whisky makes my limbs light. I chuckle. Suddenly, the messy beats coming through the speakers make sense and Romeo’s face is just as I’d imagined. A little like River Phoenix’s in My Own Private Idaho.

  ‘I still can’t believe he died,’ I say aloud.

  Romeo looks confused.

  ‘You texted me.’

  He smiles and holds my arm when I lean towards him. ‘I didn’t think you’d be on Facebook.’

  ‘I am,’ I say quickly, before recalling my account. It’s plastered in kids’ parties and photos of Ben in bike Lycra. ‘But I don’t use it much.’

  He holds both arms now and looks at me intensely. I gaze back. This is it, I think; this is my moment of betrayal. I should probably be more shocked, but it doesn’t feel like a revelation.

  I move with the music towards Romeo. He’s so close. I smell the laundry detergent his shirt was washed in and see his eyes and his lips. I hear the quickness of his breath. The room dissolves.

  Romeo’s grip on my arms hardens. He holds me inches from his face.

  I close my eyes.

  ‘I might get us another drink,’ he says, suddenly backing away.

  I blink. Humiliation hits me like a punch in the guts. Suddenly the music is too loud and the jumble of dark glasses, all-seeing.

  He lets go.

  ‘Sorry.’ I say, tugging my dress down where it’s crept up my thighs.

  He shakes his head. ‘You just looked like you could use a friend.’

  A familiar weariness settles over me. ‘I have to go.’ I pick up my handbag. ‘My kids get up early.’

  The taxi drops me off at the end of our driveway. I stand there for a while, gazing up at the porch light. It illuminates the steps to our front door. Inside, my children are asleep, lips like rosebuds, and my husband is warming our bed. I let my handbag swing. I whisper Shakespeare into the night air before I go in: Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs.

  Still Life

  Kathy Prokhovnik

  T hey arrived at the town in the middle of January, early evening, shop lights spilling through the dusk, the streets full of bustling shoppers, greeting each other in that French two-cheeks kiss
, their hands full of bags that said ‘Soldes’.

  The outskirts of the town had been grim. The approach was a long road flanked by two-storey buildings, with shutters hanging off and boarded-up doorways. Huge buildings stretched out towards the hills, each with an enormous neon sign flashing its name. Kay left Cressida to sleep in the back of the car, glad that she was missing this entry to the town they had talked of for so many months.

  For once Will’s driving was unerring, and he followed the signs to Centre Ville to the old, charming part of town, within the high walls. Its narrow winding streets were lined with stone terraces with arched windows, little shrines protecting Virgins built into the walls, and the citadel loomed above them on its peak.

  Will went into the first hotel they found and came back to the car smiling. ‘They’ve got a room,’ he said. ‘It’s a good price.’ The room was large, with two double beds. It looked out onto a courtyard that would be leafy in summer, and beyond that to a tangle of tiled roofs that bent in all directions. There was a cross on the church tower high above the roofs. It was like filigree, its shape formed by twisting metal rods. Kay tied back the curtains and opened the windows to lean out towards the dark sky. ‘Isn’t it beautiful!’ she called out, the cold air rushing past her into the room. Cressida, still teenage-grumpy from being woken, threw herself onto one of the beds.

  Will had lived in France with his first wife and said it would be easy to find a furnished apartment in the low season, that there was no need to organise in advance. He had said that ‘everyone speaks English’. But when they made their first attempts the next day, the estate agents only spoke French and, by midday, were closing for two hours for lunch. Not one of them gave any sign of hope but handed out forms that required references and information that Will and Kay didn’t possess.

  Will complained of stomach-aches and stayed in the hotel room, the walls too white now and the air too stuffy. Kay and Cressida went out to see unfurnished apartments and wrestled with the notion of buying the bare minimum of furniture for their five-month stay. Mattresses, tables, chairs. Crockery, cutlery, saucepans. Linen. Blankets. A TV? The list was growing. It wasn’t possible.