Dark Oasis

by Dulcie M. Stone

  They discussed the books; the stories, the writers, the themes, an appealing phrase. But lightly and without depth. Without tension.

  The hour flew. Outside the open window the moon rose, huge moths battered frustrated wings against the fly wire.

  From close at hand, Blue barked.

  “He’s just outside!”

  “Under your window,” Rick laughed. “He’s telling me it’s my bedtime.”

  “He follows you everywhere?”

  “Just about.”

  “He’s scary.”

  “That’s because he’s my guardian.”

  “You make him sound like a person!”

  “Do you think so?” He was thoughtful. “I don’t know about that. But you’re probably right. Blue thinks he’s a person. If I have a friend, it’s him.”

  Illogically, unexpectedly, jealousy attacked; a familiar enemy.

  “What’s wrong?” His response was immediate. “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

  “I guess I’m tired.”

  “Oh Lord! I’ve done it again. I’ve stayed too long. I’m sorry.”

  Here they were again, at an inexplicable impasse she didn’t know how to handle. She let it stand. He had reason to think she was tired. He’d comprehend tiredness, not jealousy. This particular jealousy – not of Barbara but of a dog – she couldn’t even begin to comprehend herself.

  They’d spent a relaxed hour together; as friends do. There’d been no undercurrents, no distortions, no discomfort. So – now – she must be very careful. Any plea for him to stay could send him back into whatever dark place he went into. As her father had done, and her mother; both confronting premature death. Death? Where had that thought come from? Rick was fit and strong and worked harder, for longer, than anyone she’d ever previously known. And yet …

  She must be very careful.

  “I’ve stayed too long,” he repeated. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she answered. “I really enjoyed your visit.”

  “I’ll let you go to sleep.”

  He left. He left because he thought she was tired and because he cared how she felt.

  Surprisingly, he returned the next evening; before dinner. Fresh from shower and shave and wearing crisp white open-necked shirt and khaki shorts, he looked young and relaxed and handsome and achingly attractive.

  “Ah! They’ve got you sitting out.” His smile was tentative. “I thought if I came early, you’d not tire too quickly. Okay?”

  “Okay.” She turned from the open window.

  Outside, the recently watered lawn was sparkling diamonds on the thick green lawn, a magpie was carolling from a nearby jacaranda, the sounds of exiting cars reported workers leaving for home, and the evening star was winking in the greying sky. As always, the immense sky and the sounds she never heard in the city were enthralling. She’d miss them. As she would miss this gentle, frustrating, man. What mood would he be in this time? Why had he appeared so early? Even though he had to know his tardiness would lengthen his mother’s impossibly long working day.

  “Have you eaten yet?” He came into the room.

  “Of course. Your mother always brings my tray early. Do you always eat so late? Even when it’s not picking time?”

  “Good God no! The rest of the year we’re normal people.” He joined her at the window.

  The closeness of his freshly bathed body was electric. Although at this moment his face and his eyes and his whole being radiated self confidence and a serenity that was almost palpable, there inevitably remained something else.

  There’d always been something else, something disquieting, since she’d first seen him standing, still and aloof, in the lounge room. It was this, not imagined, not identifiable, but increasingly evident, that troubled her. Yet still, despite the discrepancy of years and experience and the insistent whisper of caution, this – whatever it was – was drawing them together. What the mystery was, she couldn’t even begin to guess. Except tonight there was an added something, something new.

  “Why are you here, Rick?”

  He did not answer. For a full minute she thought he’d again retreated into his inner place.

  She waited, as she was learning to do.

  His response, when he made it, was a question. “How long have we known each other, Gail?”

  “No time. Why?”

  “Precisely.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means we’ve become friends very quickly. And it’s not because I feel guilty.” A slight quirk curled the corners of his mouth. “You’re the victim of your own stupidity.”

  “Be serious, Rick. You like me, don’t you.”

  “I told you,” he teased. “You’re …”

  “Stupid but beautiful,” she laughed.

  “That, too.”

  “I’m glad we’re friends. Even if it’s happened too quickly for you.

  Will you keep in touch when I go home?”

  “Will you?” he countered.

  “I’d like to,” she admitted. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  “I’m nearly old enough to be your father.”

  “So really … why do you bother to visit?”

  “Okay, my girl,” he laughed. “I like you. Get it? I like you. I like being with you. I’ll miss these talks. It gets lonely way out here. But that’s all. Do you hear what I’m trying to tell you?”

  “I’m not deaf.”

  “Nor stupid,” he laughed. “Forgive me for that.”

  “It’s not funny, Rick.”

  He stiffened.

  She’d done almost nothing! Nothing to trigger another episode. “I’m not a child, Rick.”

  His fists, clasped rigidly together, twitched. He wanted to touch her. Of course he did. Confused, she placed a tentative hand over his, and felt not flesh but rock.

  He quivered, but did not pull away. Obstinately, she left her hand in place. The minutes, the seconds, were eternal. Her outstretched arm was tiring, but still he did not speak; nor was there any sign that his clenched fists would relax. It was idiotic. And stupid. And as farcical as arm wrestlers at an impasse. It had to end.

  She looked up. He’d gone away! Again, even as she touched him, as he’d wanted her to touch him, he’d left! He was here, she was touching him. But he’d gone away.

  She withdrew her hand.

  There was no reaction, nothing. Amy would know what to do. She left his side.

  Immediately, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “You were …” She hesitated. “I was going to get your mother.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “But you …!”

  “Mother’s busy, Gail. Leave her alone.”

  “I have to …”

  “You have to do nothing.”

  “What’s wrong, Rick? Let me …”

  “I’m very tired.” Again he interrupted. “I’ll call in again.”

  “No,” she flashed. “You won’t.”

  Almost to the door, he turned. “You’re right. I shan’t come back. There can be nothing between us. Not even friendship.”

  She shouldn’t have lost her temper. “Let me help you, Rick.”

  “I will only hurt you.”

  “Why? How do you know that? You don’t know me.”

  “You don’t know me, Gail.” Yet he did not pass through the open door. Instead he re-crossed the room, and held her face in his work-hardened hands.

  She dared not move.

  His lips, light as air, brushed her forehead. “You mustn’t worry so much. I’m all right.”

  “You’ll come again?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I won’t upset you, Rick.”

  “You are right to be angry.”

  “No I’m not,” she protested. “Not when there’s something really wrong.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know. Honestly. I don’t know.”

  He searched
her face. “You don’t! You really don’t.”

  Again, she felt fear. But why?

  “I’m sorry.” Abruptly, he released her. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “You should,” she urged. “You should, Rick.”

  He took her hand. “You must not doubt it, Gail. I will hurt you. So know this – you’re the very last person I want to hurt.”

  Again she felt it, unity; two halves had become one. He felt it too. Otherwise he would have already left the room.

  Outside, Blue barked.

  Amy called, “Rick! Dinner!”

  His grip tightened. The pain was excruciating.

  Yet still, she begged, “Please come again, Rick.”

  Softly, very softly, he whispered, “Don’t do this. Don’t.”

  Tentatively, she ventured, “You’re hurting me, Rick.”

  “Oh God!” He freed her.

  “Rick!” Amy was in the doorway. “Dinner’s on the table.”

  “I’m on my way, Mother.”

  “You must not tire our patient, Son.”

  “I told you, Mother. I’ll be there.”

  “Your father’s waiting. He’s …”

  “I’ll be there.” Each softly spoken word chilled the hot room.

  She shivered.

  “Gail needs all the rest she can get.” Amy looked to her guest. “Don’t you dear?”

  Confused, she did not respond.

  From the doorway Amy waited, then nodded, and left for the kitchen.

  “Mother’s right,” he agreed. “You need your rest.”

  “Tell her you’re good for me. I need the company.”

  “You heard what I said, Gail.” He was very grave. “I mean it.

  Mother’s right to intervene. I am in no way good for you.”

  “I know what’s good for me.”

  “Don’t … don’t …”

  She moved closer. “Let me help. Please let me help.”

  “Stop! Stop …” He tried to ward her off.

  Not flinching, she moved into his arms. “I can help, Rick.”

  Surrendering, he held her close. His body was warm, his touch gentle. And his pulse, visible in the open-necked shirt, was racing.

  He came every evening. Together, in the darkening room, they watched the sun’s quickening descent, the hovering twilight, and the triumphant stars light up the desert sky. Sometimes they talked, about his childhood, hers. Never about The War. Never about The Future. The present was theirs. Ineffable treasure, they would not waste it. A pact never spoken, but tacit in every action, in every glance.

  Except, just once.

  They were watching the sun’s last brilliant halo fade to orange to purple to grey. They were anticipating the imminent night and the brilliant stars when he asked, “Do you believe in God?”

  “I guess so. Why?”

  “What about predestination?”

  “If you’re asking me whether we were destined to meet, I have to believe that.”

  “Maybe it’s the sky,” he mused. “Every night it’s there for us to watch. Our private picture show. It never lets us down. Even when the picture show is closed, when clouds blot it out – or dust. We know it’s there. We know there’ll be more clear nights. You can put your trust in it.”

  She’d learned to wait.

  “I have this … this feeling … and yet … No,” he decided. “I’m not a believer.”

  “You think too much,” she gently scoffed.

  That was all. Things unspoken were to remain unspoken. But she felt it too. He was touching her as no one ever had before – or ever would again. No matter what the dark undercurrent threatened, no matter what the truth was, these moments were infinitely precious.

  Their first kiss was as natural as breathing; implicit confirmation of the promise whose fulfilment drew nearer at each meeting.

  Soon she was able to walk with him in the long late summer evenings. Hand in hand they dawdled down the jacaranda-lined private lane towards the road, or down through the vines towards where a bend in the river bordered the block. Together, they marvelled at the falling sun, monitored the brightening stars, anticipated the moon, listened to the birds, talked, waited for Blue to catch up, walked.

  He took her to his cottage. Consisting of a single bedroom, a living room, a large kitchen and a small bathroom, the original farmhouse was little changed from the primitive shelter built by the early settlers. Like the Sunview Guest House, it was built of timber, corrugated iron and un-glazed fly-wire windows. Unlike the Sunview, with its overheated stench of sweating humanity, the cottage was bland and impersonal and oddly neutral. If it had ever emanated any kind of character, old fashioned charm or seedy hovel, it was long gone.

  The living room, which was entered directly from a tiny front porch, was sparsely furnished. In it were only two faded leather lounge chairs, a desk, a record player and one book-lined wall. Except for the books and the stack of records by the record player, the room could have belonged to anyone.

  “The great grandparents started in this cottage,” he explained. “Gus wanted to demolish it, but Mother hung on to it for me. It’s private.”

  Their first lovemaking was as natural as living. Two parts of a single whole, they became one. Experienced and gentle, teacher and lover, he fulfilled the promise.

  Afterwards, she said, “You are my life.” Easily said in love’s heated aftermath. Yet this, too, she knew was truth.

  His arms around her breasts tightened. “I wish to God.”

  “What is it, Rick?”

  His lips brushed hers. “Your imagination.”

  In the privacy of the cottage, they listened to his operas. Guided by the little blue opera book, she eagerly learned to more fully appreciate the music that was his and had been her father’s.

  In the main house, although the family seemed not to know of their love, it was impossible for them not to know. For whatever reason, no one attempted to intervene – even his mother.

  There was no talk of her return to Melbourne, or to the Sunview. For their differing, obscure, and unvoiced reasons each member of the family co-operated in what had to be a mutual hands-off agreement. Amy, exhausted after the weeks of catering to the demanding needs of the pickers and the patient, slept late and retired early. Gus escaped to the block, and also retired early. Jake, busy establishing himself in the cut-throat career he’d chosen, visited rarely. Meanwhile most nights Ryan, the unambitious extrovert who was happy to follow family tradition, went into town to disappear behind the mysterious doors of the Belleville Farmer’s Club.

  Rick remained tender, caring and attentive; teacher and lover. Except for their most passionate moments he remained unnaturally disciplined. Yet he could be quick to welcome humour, quick to be gently ironic, or to gently tease. Genuine laughter brought light to his enigmatic eyes and curled the corners of his firm, too often bitter, mouth. He remained a continuing puzzle.

  She’d been with the family for two months. The sun was setting earlier, the leaves were changing colour, the musty scent of decay and the ice of bitter morning frosts heralded winter. Premonition reawakened.

  In the dark hours, when his shallow breathing was almost inaudible, memory screamed her dead mother’s devotion to her dying husband; and confirmed mistrust of happiness. To love is to lose. But in the daylight hours, when he was working on the block and she was working in the house, or reading, or playing records, or resting, common sense prevailed. Surely the premonition had to do with memories roused by the season. Until, inexorably, mounting awareness of the family’s peculiar behaviour demanded attention.

  As they grew closer, she saw with clearer eyes. Though he never bullied and never tried to dominate, no one crossed him. Ever. In his presence, even in the rare moments when he seemed truly relaxed and comfortable, voices were lowered. When he entered a room, or the work shed, people made way for him; as though a respected elder had appeared. When he left a room, the room breathed an almost audible sigh o
f relief. When he gave an order, or made a request, the listener paid extraordinarily keen attention. And sometimes someone – Ryan or his father or the foreman or the foreman’s son – would, unasked, fetch him coffee or a cool drink, or be at his side just a little longer than seemed necessary.

  Uncharacteristically, motivated solely by anxiety for him, she began to ask herself questions. Why didn’t she try to rouse him when he went off somewhere inside himself? Or, more sensibly, why didn’t she walk away? Why didn’t she rush to self preservation? Why didn’t she pack her case and go home? Why did she not press him for answers he wouldn’t give?

  Initially there had been the revelation of sex, then the surprise of totally selfless loving. Because at first all her feelings had centred around herself, her sense of fulfilment, her joy in being loved. Because at first what had mattered was how she felt, what she wanted, what she needed. But then, infinitely more profound than the novel pleasures of sex and romantic love, the inexplicable empathy she’d occasionally felt for him, took over. His unexplained suffering filled her with foreboding. Truly, as she’d so naively proclaimed on their first night, he had become her life.

  Pampered, self-centred, selfish, aloof and troubled as she was, she surrendered herself to him. Every breath, every action – every non action – was servant to her sense of his need. The antithesis of fearful submission to another’s domination of power, hers was the devoted submission of self to another’s need. Because he was her love, her life.

  Though the metamorphosis had been gradual, her conscious acknowledgement of the change was sudden. It happened, unheralded, at midday. The autumn sun was a warm glow in the giant blue and cloudless sky. Beneath it, the autumn vines were a multi-coloured carpet of red and gold and brown.

  She was standing at her bedroom window. The men would be coming in for lunch. After helping Amy prepare the meal and set the table, she’d gone to her room to watch for them. Coming from the distant work shed, Gus and Ryan rounded the corner of the house.

  Rick was trailing behind. As his father and brother disappeared towards the door leading to the small dining room, he stopped.

  Blue bounded from the vines, panting.

  Rick bent to pat him.