The Good Son

by Greg Fleet

  Their first date went just like most people’s first dates go.

  (If most people lived in the 1940s and were saving themselves for marriage. Sophie and James were not doing either of those things but, while both of them considered themselves to be smart, savvy and urbane, they were also terrified of saying too much. So instead, as people had for centuries, they just had dinner and said too little.)

  They laughed and plotted and talked about Charlotte Durham and their upcoming performance. Working together meant that when a silence grew too long or a gaze too intense, they could safely and annoyingly fall into talking about the Peggy Day centre. But it was a good night – the food was a hit and Sophie had to admit that James could cook. He had worried that he’d put too much chilli and soy in the fish; apparently he hadn’t.

  ‘That fish was amazing,’ said Sophie. ‘I adore chilli and soy.’

  ‘I didn’t wreck it by adding the fish, did I?’ he replied. ‘I could have just served chilli and soy sauce for the main.’

  ‘No, it was perfect. I don’t often say this, but I loved it all.’ By now James found himself smiling at almost everything she said, and her loving his cooking made him smile a lot.

  She particularly liked the tom yum soup and as she never directly asked him how or even if he had made it, James didn’t feel too bad about his culinary deception. One day he would tell her the whole truth but at that time, in that place, there was too much riding on it.

  ‘What do your parents do? Have you got parents?’ James asked Sophie as they walked out onto the balcony with their glasses of wine. It occurred to him that for all of his interest in Sophie, he knew very little about her past.

  ‘I’ve got a mum,’ she replied. ‘My father left when I was a kid; I haven’t seen him since I was ten. He lives in America, I think.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said James with a genuine sense of sorrow for his friend.

  ‘Don’t be. Everyone is always sorry. He was a flake. But my mum is fantastic.’

  ‘Great,’ said James. ‘I never really thought much about my mum while she was alive, and that’s because I simply assumed that she would always be around. Now that she’s gone I spend heaps of time wondering how I could have made her feel more appreciated.’

  ‘No, Mum and I are pretty good with that stuff. And she loves the fact that I work in aged care. She’s sixty-five, in very good health, and absolutely hanging out to move into the Peggy Day. Most people that I know struggle to convince their parents that moving into a retirement village is a good idea. My mother, on the other hand, is absolutely champing at the bit to get in there. I’m sure when that day comes she will completely take the place over.’

  ‘Yeah, go easy,’ said James, pretending to be pissed off.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stop boasting,’ he said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  James was smiling but trying not to.

  ‘You, with your fun stories about your family. “Oh, both my parents are still alive, blah blah blah . . . My mum loves me.” Jesus, Soph. Both of my parents are dead. You’re being very insensitive.’

  ‘Be quiet, orphan,’ she said warmly, pouring them each another glass of wine. She passed him his glass with a smile that lit up the balcony. Then again she also flicked on the light switch at that moment. So it could have been the light that lit up the balcony, I’m not too sure.

  Eventually Sophie called an Uber as they had a big day coming up. James opened the apartment door for her and they came together for a peck that hardly qualified as a kiss but, still, it was contact.

  After James shut the door they both leaned against opposite sides of the same wall and sighed like frustrated but happy idiots. Sophie said, ‘Oh god!’, smiled and shook her head nineteen times in the Uber on her way home.

  When James eventually went to bed, glaringly alone, he replaced the photo on the mantle. ‘I know, Charlie Girl, I know. But other than that, it went pretty well! She loved you. And she liked my, and Graham’s, food . . . Glass half full, my licky friend. Glass half full.’ And with that he turned off the lights, flopped down on his too-big-for-one-person, bought-for-a-couple, memory-foam-clad, king-sized bed and went to sleep.

  Trust me. They are definitely going to have sex. I’m not holding off on that for ‘literary suspense’ reasons; this is just how it went down. They were both actually that terrified and dumb. Cute, sure, but terrified and dumb. Factaroo, my friends, factaroo.

  James and Sophie had put more work, research and thought into their plan for Charlotte Durham than they had for their other attempts, and it showed. This wasn’t just going to be James swanning into somebody’s room and announcing, ‘Hi, I’m your son.’ This was going to be a production of Hollywood proportions. James looked the part. He was even wearing a jacket exactly the same as the one Billy was wearing in the photo that Johnny had given them. Sophie had ‘set dressed’ Charlotte Durham’s room with beautiful flowers and candles while Charlotte was at the other end of the complex for her weekly medical check-up. Meanwhile, Malcolm, wearing a suit and tie, had set himself up in the corner of the room and was playing the cello. (I know, right?) When Charlotte came into the room Malcolm would begin playing Trio in E-flat by Franz Schubert. Malcolm generally preferred the Velvet Underground to Schubert, but it was a genuinely beautiful piece of music. All in all, it was to be a rarified moment. Everyone was at their best, and so was the food.

  Johnny DiVada had brought the dishes in on beautiful trays, covered by ornate silver cloches to keep it all hot. Everything was sublime, and James felt very relieved that he hadn’t made his beef ragout. It was good, sure, but it wasn’t at this level. It would have come in a Tupperware container and he would’ve felt like a dick.

  I’m not going to tell you what the courses of the meal actually were. You would become green with envy. You would put down this book and head immediately to Johnny DiVada’s restaurant, calling on the way to make a reservation. When you got there you would say, ‘I want Billy’s food! The food you made for Charlotte Durham!’ And Johnny DiVada would say, ‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’ Not because he’s cruel or secretive, but because he would literally have absolutely no idea what you were talking about. Let’s not forget this is a novel.

  Sophie went out into the hallway to take Charlotte Durham and her wheelchair from the orderly who had brought her back from the medical centre.

  James went and stood by the window.

  Johnny got ready to serve the food.

  Malcolm started playing Schubert.

  The door opened and there she was.

  Charlotte Durham slowly took in the scene. Then her face lit up and she clasped her hands together like a little girl.

  ‘Oh, hello Billy! Hello Johnny! This is just beautiful! What are you boys up to?’

  Charlotte’s complete and immediate acceptance of the scene being played out in front of and all around her was a joy to behold. It emboldened James, who in no time began finishing his ‘mother’s’ sentences and, brazenly but lovingly, correcting her on certain details of her stories.

  ‘Yes, Mum, I do remember that,’ he said. ‘But you said that car was green. I seem to remember it was blue. Wasn’t it? A blue car?’

  At this point Sophie and Johnny exchanged looks that said, ‘Oh god, he’s losing it.’ James’ correction of Charlotte even caused the unflappable Malcolm to hit a couple of bum notes.

  But James was on a roll. He was in his element. To the astonishment and relief of everyone present, he was exuding such confidence and showing such love that, after the briefest of pauses, Charlotte simply agreed with her ‘son’.

  ‘You know, Billy, you just might be right. I think it was a blue car after all.’

  As Johnny served everyone’s meals he and Charlotte talked about his restaurant and she joked about Billy, teasing him gently, the way that a mother does. Sophie helped Charlotte with her food, cutting it for her, adding sauces and generally making sure
that everything was easy and within her reach. Charlotte appreciated and was proud of her son’s cooking, but ate very little. Anything she didn’t finish (which was everything) she insisted that Sophie give to Malcolm, who sat happily in the corner, between tunes, scoffing course after course.

  Once the meal was finished, Charlotte was helped into bed by the four of them. Everybody wanted to be involved. Johnny was straightening her doona, Malcolm fluffing her pillows. Sophie and James eased her back and helped to lay her down. Within seconds of her head touching the pillow, she was blissfully asleep, dreaming of distant times, happy families and blue, blue cars.

  The four conspirators made a beeline for the office. The excitement and accomplishment that they felt was way too intense to be displayed in the corridors of an old people’s home. It required jumping. It demanded victorious shouting. And anyway, it’s hard for four people to give each other hugs and exchange high fives when they are carrying a cello and large silver serving trays.

  Once the office door was closed behind them Sophie, James, Malcolm and Johnny went off like a Dutch cracker factory. (A saying I heard a friend use once. I have no idea of its literal meaning but its intention and rhythm are clear enough.) They were like a band who had just played their first really big gig, and played better than they ever had before. They yelled. They hugged. They body slammed. Sophie was so excited that she punched James on the shoulder, as hard as she could. James was so excited that his reaction to this assault was simply to yell ‘YES!’ three times. Malcolm was having some kind of evangelical experience. Johnny was repeatedly miming kicking a football, before running to the other end of the room and giving himself the all-clear for a goal.

  The next morning James dropped in to the Peggy Day Home for a meeting with Sophie to work out who would be next on their list. He chained up his bicycle and ran up the main stairs of the centre, the same stairs he had run up weeks earlier when he had been ninety-three minutes late to see his actual mother.

  When he entered the office Sophie was behind the desk beaming. ‘Hello, beautiful man,’ she said.

  ‘Beautiful man?’ replied James, a smile taking over his face. ‘You have never been so complimentary. What have I done to deserve that?’

  ‘Everything. This. Our plan. You were amazing yesterday. You were, as described, a beautiful man.’

  Looking back later James realised that was the moment that any resistance he had to Sophie, and by then he probably didn’t really have much, melted away. That was his Waterloo. To him she was pirate radio and desert treks. She was midnight graffiti runs and ordering things in restaurants because the idea of them terrified you. He was going all in, and hoping for a pair.

  ‘What have you been doing today?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘Not much. Cash and I are going out for dinner tonight and we both want you to come.’

  ‘Excellent!’ she replied, with an energy that surprised James.

  ‘Why excellent?’

  ‘Because I get to spend time with the enigma that is Cash Driveway.’

  ‘Ha! Be careful what you wish for.’

  For a couple of seconds they both stared out the window, watching Mrs Murphy standing next to the oak tree.

  Sophie broke the silence. ‘So . . .’

  ‘So,’ replied James. ‘Who’s our next parent? Glass–Rogers Enterprises are on a roll.’

  ‘I have a couple of suggestions,’ replied Sophie. ‘I just thought I’d see what you —’

  There was a knock on the door. It opened and Malcolm entered the room. He looked confused. As though he had just been told something that made no sense. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, as if trying to keep something out.

  ‘Malcolm! King of the cello!’ blurted James, unaware of the strange energy that Malcolm had brought into the room.

  ‘Malcolm? Are you okay?’ asked Sophie. The look on her face said that she knew he wasn’t. Something bad was about to happen.

  ‘It’s . . . It’s Charlotte Durham . . . She died.’ The colour had drained from Malcolm’s face.

  ‘What? When?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘She didn’t wake up this morning . . . I found her . . .’ His voice made him sound lost. He was.

  ‘Oh Malcolm,’ said Sophie, crossing to him and giving him a hug. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Then she tried to take charge. ‘It’s okay. It’s okay. She was eighty-five years old . . . She had lived . . . And yesterday!’ Sophie wasn’t going to let what they had all done together be washed away with this sadness.

  James felt numb. He was staring at Malcolm as though waiting for him to say he was kidding, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen. ‘We gave her a great afternoon,’ he said, looking for the light in this sudden gloom.

  ‘Her last day was pretty cool,’ added Malcolm, his face brightening. ‘There was a lot of love in that room.’

  ‘There was,’ agreed James.

  The three friends came together in the middle of the room. The smallest of huddles by a team just realising that, no matter how well they played, they were sometimes going to lose the match.

  ‘Get ready,’ said Sophie. ‘This is just the beginning . . .’

  James and Malcolm understood what she meant and realised that she was completely right. No matter how happy they made the clients. No matter how good a job they did. Whatever food they served, whatever music they played. Death was the inevitable outcome. Sick people sometimes get well, but old people never get younger.

  James had rung ahead and told Cash what had happened with Charlotte Durham. When Sophie and James arrived at the apartment, Cash opened the door for them and handed them each a glass of wine.

  ‘Hey, James. Hi Sophie, I’m Cash. I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  Before she even knew what was happening, tears poured from Sophie’s eyes, and she fell into the kind embrace of a man she had only just met. Cash, whatever other qualities he may have possessed, could be a remarkably reassuring man. He held the weeping and exhausted Sophie, stroking her hair. James watched his old friend easing Sophie’s heartache and when he met Cash’s gaze he saw in those eyes such a deep reservoir of kindness that it brought a lump to his throat. That combined with the fact that the two people he loved the most in the world were embracing in his living room caused James’ eyes to unexpectedly fill with tears as well.

  The night was, for James and Sophie, something like coming up for air. It was light and fresh and full of hope. This was in no small part due to Cash Driveway’s quixotic tales of adventure and, to a lesser extent, his seemingly endless supply of marijuana. It was a beautiful, clear evening that had James and Sophie feeling very glad to be alive.

  No. Not that night. Not yet. Seriously, stop asking.

  Two days later Sophie had an appointment with a woman named Catherine Darling who had called making inquiries about moving her mother into the Peggy Day Home. As they sat across from one another, Sophie studied Catherine Darling. She was in her mid forties, tall, very attractive, expensively dressed, and had the breezy, confident charm often displayed by minor members of royalty or those who’ve grown up around serious wealth. Catherine Darling placed her bag on the desk that separated her from Sophie, and began.

  ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to see me.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Sophie.

  ‘It’s just that everything is happening so fast, and I really don’t know what I should be doing. It’s my mother. She’s in her late seventies, and she lives alone. She’s had a wonderful and independent life, done everything she ever wanted to do, but in the last few years everything has started to fall apart . . . For the last eighteen months or so I’ve had live-in carers staying with her but that is no longer working. Aside from the fact that she keeps sacking them or driving them away, her staying in the house has become untenable. She needs somewhere with professionals on call 24/7.’

  ‘We really are a great option for when people can no longer take care of themselves. It kind of gives everyone
peace of mind,’ Sophie agreed.

  ‘Wonderful. And please don’t misunderstand me; I’ve been looking after her for the best part of the last ten years but I have my own family, and work . . .’

  ‘Of course. What do you do?’ asked Sophie. ‘For work?’

  ‘I run a gallery in the city,’ replied Catherine Darling. ‘I’m also on a few charity boards, so time is becoming increasingly hard to find.’

  ‘I completely understand. Could you tell me what your mother’s physical ailments are?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I can. They are numerous. She is legally blind. She can no longer walk and is confined to a wheelchair. She has severe arthritis. She has had two strokes and three cancer diagnoses, all of which she has successfully fought. She takes a small pharmacy full of tablets each day; I don’t even know what most of them are for. For the last few years she’s been getting more and more forgetful, but now that seems to have accelerated to the point where she is getting delusional. Sometimes I can tell she doesn’t even know who I am . . .’

  At that point Catherine’s eyes filled with tears and she let out a tortured sob. She then very quickly, and with practised dignity, took a tissue from her bag and dabbed once at each eye and, in an act of will, dragged herself back from the edge of human emotion.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said as she regained control. ‘I love her and I worry about her. Sometimes it all just gets a little too much.’

  ‘Oh please, don’t apologise. You’re in a safe place. Be as emotional as you need to be.’

  Catherine Darling, now fully recovered, was looking at Sophie as though she was speaking a foreign language. Emotional outbursts were, to Catherine, things to be avoided, and on the odd occasion that they were indulged in they were to be forgotten about, quickly. Sophie, blissfully unaware of any of this, just barrelled on: