Smoke in the Room

by Emily Maguire

  ‘What used to be in there? Before it was a mall?’

  ‘What? I don’t know. Who cares? I want to know about when you were a shirt-lifter.’

  ‘Right. Well, my mom was proud – she took me to PFLAG events and even set me up with guys she knew from the neighbourhood. And it was great, really. I liked the guys I dated: they took me to all these cool clubs, gave me awesome drugs. I was comfortable with them, they had all this anger and pride – it was what I’d been raised with. I know it’s a tiny, rarefied world, the scene I grew up in, but it seemed like the way to be happy.’

  ‘But you couldn’t drive stick?’

  ‘No, I could. I did. I was sixteen – I had a boner all the time, anyway; it wasn’t hard to pretend it was directed at a guy. And man, did those guys know what they were doing. The sex was way better than anything I would’ve been having with girls my age. But I felt bad. I really liked the guys I dated. I couldn’t keep lying to them, pretending I was jerking off over Judd Nelson rather than Molly Ringwald.’

  ‘So you came out, again.’ Katie laughed.

  ‘Broke Mom’s heart. Made slightly better by the fact that the next girl I dated was a Chinese punk rocker. Disappointed her all over again when I married Eugenie, of course.’

  ‘She didn’t like her?’

  ‘She didn’t know her. She didn’t like the idea of her, I think.’

  ‘That’s sad. I love the idea of her. I wish I met her.’

  ‘Me too,’ Adam said. It was just a reflex.

  10.

  While Adam slept, Katie decided to shave her head. First, she hacked at it with kitchen scissors, then trimmed it close with nail scissors. She lathered her head with soap and began to scrape a razor over it, but the blade kept getting stuck. At one point she pressed too hard and blood dribbled into her ear. She balanced a hand mirror on the toilet cistern and twisted so the back of her head was reflected in the medicine cabinet, but when she swivelled she lost sight of the mirror. She tried to do without the reflection but nicked herself again, and swore loudly, kicking the wall until she remembered this was supposed to be a surprise and so she should take care not to wake Adam until she was done. ‘Fuckity, fuck, fuck fuck,’ she whispered, pressing wadded toilet paper to the back of her head. ‘Fuck, diddly, fuck sticks.’

  ‘Are you all right in there?’ It was Graeme. ‘I heard banging. Are you hurt?’

  She opened the door, pulled him in, and shut it again. ‘Sshh! Adam’s sleeping.’

  He looked down at his blue-striped pyjamas. ‘So was I.’

  ‘Sorry! I just –’ She bent to show him the back of her head. ‘I cut myself.’

  ‘Yes.’ He took the wadded paper away. ‘Do you mind if I . . . ?’ He pointed between the sink and the back of her head.

  ‘Okay.’ Katie realised as she said it that she didn’t really know what it was he was asking and she was consenting to. She remembered feeling afraid of him that night in front of the TV, but couldn’t remember why.

  Graeme took a silver tin from the shelf over the sink and pulled out a cluster of multi-coloured cotton balls. He wet several under the cold tap and dabbed at the cuts. Katie winced, more for effect than out of real pain.

  ‘Okay.’ Graeme tossed the cotton balls in the bin. ‘Bleeding’s stopped. I think you’ll survive.’

  Katie looked in the mirror. ‘I look like that little swan. You know, in that story. I look like the swan before he knew he was a swan, when he thought he was a duck and all the other cuter ducklings were mean to him. That’s me.’

  ‘If I remember correctly, the ugly duckling had “feathers all ruffled and brown”. You have no feathers at all. Just a few little tufts. More like a plucked chicken than a baby swan, I think.’

  Katie punched him on the arm. ‘That was mean. But I’ll let you make it up to me.’

  ‘How kind of you. What can I do?’

  She pointed at her head, then at the razor on the sink. ‘Fix it.’

  Graeme hesitated. Katie hadn’t considered until now how gross it would be to pick up something covered in someone else’s blood. Plus dangerous. Even she couldn’t be sure she wasn’t infected with something. She was about to reach around him and push the nasty thing into the bin when he picked it up and held it to the light, turning it around. ‘Skin stuck in this one,’ he said. He tossed it in the bin and then washed his hands. If Katie were him she would be scrubbing the skin with a nail brush and soaking her hands in Dettol. But he just soaped and rinsed for a few seconds, then grabbed the hand towel and, still drying, opened the door. ‘Wait here.’

  She sat on the toilet, facing the mirror. She had never noticed how small her ears were. They were like dried apricots. Her nose was small, too. All her features were. She looked like a baby pig. She opened her eyes as wide as they would go but that only made her look murderous.

  Graeme came back carrying an electric shaver. ‘Okay. Sit still now.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Katie made herself stiff. She was sick of her own face and so she watched him in the mirror as he worked. He had almost as little hair as she did, just a few light brown patches over his ears. Gran said he was a lawyer but he looked more like a gardener. The skin on the back of his hands and face had that mottled look that pale men get after years spent outdoors, and although he was skinny, the muscles in his forearms rippled as he manoeuvred the shaver. His fingertips, when he pressed against her skull and pulled the skin taut, were soft and cool.

  ‘Right. You’re ready for . . . well, you’re done, anyway.’

  ‘Think Adam will like it?’

  Graeme met her eyes in the mirror, then looked away. ‘This is for him?’

  ‘Yeah.’ There was an almost empty bottle of baby oil beside the sink. She poured some on her hands and rubbed them together to warm it. ‘He told me the girls he used to go out with – before he got married – those girls had shaved heads. Some of them, anyway. So I thought . . . He’ll probably laugh, but that’s okay. It’s nice for him to have something to laugh at, I think. And if he reckons it’s, you know, sexy or whatever, then that’s good, too.’

  Graeme began cleaning his shaver with a small brush. ‘I didn’t know he was married.’

  ‘No, no. She died. It’s why he’s . . . well, the way he is.’ Katie rubbed oil into her scalp. It stung a bit where she’d cut herself. ‘God, his wife’s dead and I shave my head. Real helpful, Katie. Jesus.’

  ‘You know in many cultures it’s common for people to change their appearance when someone dies. Women wear black. Men grow their beards. Some cut their hair. It’s a way to show that things have changed.’

  ‘I like that idea. It makes sense. But it doesn’t apply.’ Katie wiped her oily hands on the front of her T-shirt. ‘Adam’s the one in mourning and this was just a whim. I do stuff like this all the time. It doesn’t ever mean anything. I’m not that deep, if you want to know the truth.’

  ‘Well,’ Graeme said. ‘I better get back to bed. I need to leave for work in a couple of hours.’

  ‘We haven’t had a chance to get to know each other properly, have we? You’re a lawyer, right? Must be so interesting.’

  ‘No, actually. It’s very dull.’

  ‘I bet it isn’t. Most people’s jobs are fascinating if you really get into the detail of it. Gran works in a tollbooth, and you wouldn’t believe the stuff she sees. The things people do and wear in the privacy of their cars not thinking some old lady in a tollbooth is going to be able to look right down and see! And then tell everyone and his dog, of course. I reckon a lawyer is like a tollbooth attendant, because people do all this weird embarrassing stuff not thinking anyone will ever know, but then suddenly something happens and there’s a lawyer looking right inside of what they thought was a private place. Man, you must have some stories. Tomorrow when you get home you can tell me some. Don’t worry – I’ll keep it confidential. Maybe I’ll make dinner or something.’ She touched her head. ‘To thank you.’

  He smiled. ‘Goodnight, Katie.’ />
  ‘Goodnight.’ She kissed his cheek. He flinched as though stung. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I just . . .’

  He smiled again, but it was a funny kind of smile. It reminded her of the smile her mother gave when she was telling her she’d be living with her grandmother for just a little while, until we’re better settled.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said again, but he was gone.

  Katie sat in front of the muted TV and smoked. There were infomercials on all three commercial channels and soccer on SBS. She didn’t try the ABC because all it ever showed was news and documentaries about Hitler or brain cancer. She settled on a skincare infomercial because the presenter on the soft rock one looked like he was about to rip open the last three buttons of his shirt and growl (who wants to see that at three in the morning?) and the presenter on the Pilates one looked like a newborn foal. Every time she bent backwards Katie felt her bones snap.

  She liked the presenter in the skincare infomercial. She had bouncy auburn hair and large white teeth and her cheeks were rosy. She was talking to a bunch of teenagers, who were nodding seriously, then smiling, then nodding again. If she had turned the sound up she knew she would hear about cleanser and toner, so she left it muted and imagined the rosy-cheeked girl was giving the teenagers advice about life. Be brave, she was saying, be wild. Pretend you’re a bear or a Tasmanian devil. Roll in the mud and dig up food with your hands. Climb trees and throw rocks and fight anyone who tries to take what’s yours. Forage and scavenge and scream. The girls nod and smile. One leans forward and asks a question. The presenter touches her face and replies, My rosy cheeks? A result of drinking the blood of cosmetic peddlers. How do I keep my teeth so strong and white? I grind the bones of bullies and wowsers and then polish with vodka.

  Katie remembered that another girl used to do these. Or maybe it was a different skincare range? Anyway, it was an American singer with long blonde hair and a Southern accent and she used to say how her skin was real bad until she tried this product and now look how purty she was. And she was, Katie thought, even after she shaved off all her hair. She’d been on the cover of all the magazines and they wrote like it was some big tragedy but Katie had thought yes. Like the girl was finally saying fuck you to the people who needed her to be pretty so she could sell their anti-acne crap.

  She had never considered that the singer may have shaved her head because she was sick like the magazines said. It had seemed such a strong and powerful thing to do. But Graeme had made her wonder about shaved heads and the reasons behind them. She ran her hand over her own baldness. She had done things before, thinking it was for one reason and then found out later it was for another altogether. But she felt happy without hair. She wished the bald singer was talking to those teenagers instead of the rosy-cheeked girl. She was sure the bald singer would say the things Katie imagined and she would mean them.

  11.

  Adam dreamt he was sitting on Eugenie’s back, pressing her face into a puddle of mud. They were in the street outside their old apartment building and the neighbour’s kids were peeking through the curtains, giggling. Eugenie did not struggle and Adam held her there for a long time. When he stood up she stayed where she was and he felt impatient and frustrated. He kicked her in the ribs and walked away.

  He ran the dream over in his mind, trying to recapture the feeling of Eugenie’s head under his hands, the look of her freckled shoulder blades flaring like wings. He was disappointed to not have dreamt of her face or voice and wondered when he’d see her eyes or hear her laugh again.

  It was several moments before he noticed the shiny skull on the pillow beside him. ‘Katie, what did you do?’ She rolled over, smiled, snuggled into his chest. ‘You cut yourself.’ He fingered the small scabs: one near her left ear, several above the wrinkle where her skull fused with her neck. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘While you were asleep.’

  ‘You never sleep. Are you a vampire, or what?’

  ‘I was sleeping just now,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re mad,’ he said, and kissed her on the forehead so she wouldn’t know how ugly he found her. She sighed and a sickly familiar sense of protectiveness surged through him. It was this feeling that had made the years of casual sex before Eugenie so unpleasant. He’d see a former one-night stand at a club or on the street and he’d remember unevenly sized breasts or a pimply back and he’d know that other people had seen those flaws and judged them. He felt sure only he could see the beauty in those bodies. He felt sure he had let his lovers down by allowing them to expose themselves to the scorn and derision of others. He’d tried to explain this to his mom once and she had called him egomaniacal. He still didn’t know if that was true or whether he had just explained himself badly.

  He had sworn again last night that he would end this, but now pity kept him lying still as Katie kissed and rubbed him. She worked until he was hard and then climbed on top, all without him moving or making a sound. It was as though he was her job. With his eyes closed and his hands behind his head he tried to imagine the light, jerky girl on top of him was his dead wife. His stomach seized up with panic.

  ‘Hey, come down here.’ He eased her onto her side and entered her from behind. He held on to her bony hips and kept his eyes on the back of her head. ‘Katie, Katie, Katie,’ he said. He concentrated on the flat sound of her moans, reached around to grasp her small, high breasts, said her name over and over.

  It was no good.

  He rolled over on top, pulled her up to her knees and pushed the top half of her body into the mattress. He closed his eyes, imagined the feeling of his hips slapping Eugenie’s arse, sensing the movement of her breasts, her nipples chafing against the bed sheets. He gripped the bed board with both hands, pushing deep inside, his eyes still closed so he could see the way her soft blonde hair was tangled about her face.

  Katie moaned and said his name.

  ‘Sshh,’ he said, and pushed his fingers into her mouth. She sucked on them and he thought about the first time Eugenie let him kiss her properly, the way her mouth had frozen when he slipped his tongue between her lips and then she all at once opened up and kissed him back and how fast her tongue moved and the way she moved her hips into him when they kissed and the colour in her cheeks and chest when she was excited and how good it was to feel her climax while his tongue and fingers were up inside her.

  When he came, Katie bit down on his fingers. Before he’d even pulled his hand all the way free she said, ‘I love you so fucking much.’

  The tenant was in the kitchen, gazing out the window, sipping from a novelty Christmas mug. He turned and smiled when the pair entered. ‘Ah, the swan is up early today.’

  ‘I’m a swan now?’ Katie jabbed Graeme in the arm. ‘Last night I was a plucked chicken.’

  Adam felt disoriented, unsure as to why he was standing in his underwear in a sea-green kitchen in Sydney watching a middle-aged man and a bald-headed girl tease each other. He fought the urge to back out of the room, to leave these strangers to their morning intimacies.

  Graeme rinsed his mug and placed it on the draining tray. ‘I’m off,’ he said.

  ‘Righto. What time can I expect you home?’

  ‘Er, six or thereabouts. Is there something . . . ?’

  ‘I’m cooking you dinner, remember?’

  ‘Right, yes.’ Graeme glanced at Adam. ‘See you then.’

  Adam waited until he heard the front door click closed. ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘What was what all about?’ She spooned Nescafé into the freshly washed mug Graeme had left behind and took a second mug from the overhead cupboard.

  ‘All that chicken and swan stuff,’ Adam said.

  ‘He helped me last night. With my head.’

  ‘He didn’t do a very good job. You’re cut all over.’

  ‘I cut myself. Don’t blame him.’ Katie handed him one of the mugs; he set it down on the table without looking at it.

  ‘I
didn’t think you knew him that well.’ Adam walked back a few steps to escape the Nescafé steam. ‘Well enough to trust with a razor to your head, I mean. In the middle of the night and all.’

  ‘Are you jealous?’

  ‘Because he shaved your head? Ah, no.’

  Katie danced over to him and wiggled her hips. ‘What then? You’re grumpy!’

  ‘I’m not. I just don’t think it’s a good idea to let a strange old man cut you.’

  ‘Who should I let cut me, Adam?’ He pushed her away. She stepped in front of him. ‘You? Because if that’s what you want I’m happy to oblige. Come on, cut me, Adam. I’ll get the razor.’

  ‘You’re insane.’

  ‘Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. Why do you keep saying that? It’s like your only response. Be original!’

  ‘Fine. You’re a crazy bitch.’

  She swung out and caught him on the nose with her closed fist. Before he could recover and block her she reared up and head-butted his chest. He fell to the floor and she was on him, pounding his face with rigid little hands. ‘Yeah!’ she hollered. ‘Crazy, that’s me. I’m the crazy bitch. How crazy is this, huh? Insane, right? I’m fucking insane.’

  He grabbed both her wrists and threw her off. She skidded on her back a few feet then leapt up and ran from the kitchen. Adam lay still, breathing hard. ‘Katie,’ he said, but not loud. ‘Insane bitch,’ he said, louder.

  Rage throbbed through his body, hotter and more insistent than lust. He sat up and pounded the floor with both fists, then stood and kicked a chair, which slid harmlessly across the floor. He felt the muscles in his legs would break through the skin if he didn’t kick and kick; kick something hard – a thick glass pane, a wooden plank, a skull. He stalked to his bedroom and threw on a shirt and a pair of sneakers. He could hear Katie sobbing through the wall. He kicked it hard.