Maggie's Going Nowhere

by Rose Hartley

  Chapter 27

  I was full of nervous energy after work so, despite the rain, I walked to the supermarket, armed with fifty dollars I’d borrowed from Jen – the last loan, I promised her, seeing as I would get paid next week. I made phone calls as I walked. I had a plan.

  PC Pink Cheeks was down for it.

  ‘Shall I bring wine?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Now, the important thing is for Rueben to know I got you to make sure the police wouldn’t harass him in future. Can you remember that?’

  ‘Of course! But you know, we don’t harass people, generally.’

  ‘And let me do the talking – you just back me up afterwards.’

  ‘Sure, sure, can do.’

  I returned to the caravan soaking wet, lugging supermarket bags. The interior smelt weird, as if whoever had stolen it had rubbed their creepy underarm scent all over the place. Incense would cover it. I took a stick of sandalwood from a drawer and struck a match to light it.

  Smelling the sandalwood, I became twenty years old again, in my second year of university, lying on a single bed in my college dorm with Salvatore, my old boyfriend. He had large, dark eyes courtesy of his Maltese mother and big, soft hands. There was nothing hard or mean about him, nothing unnecessarily tough. We never talked about anything important – neither of us cared about politics at that stage of our lives, and we’d never experienced much beyond school, university, parental divorce and minor heartbreak – but we could talk all night about whatever it was that wasn’t important. I remember we exchanged I love yous, but I don’t remember ever thinking that love was a permanent state, or at what point in the relationship I grew restless. Maybe two years into it. Acting on my restlessness, of course, was what ended the relationship and broke Salvatore’s heart. I had no excuse, except that I never realised quite how much he loved me, or how I felt about him.

  When we broke up, he moved everything he had out of my room at college; ‘everything’ being his Grand Theft Auto games and PlayStation console, his Clint Eastwood films and his bike helmet. I saw him from my window, wheeling his bike back to his own residential hall with the bulging cardboard box under his arm, passing between the shadows of the trams along Royal Parade. It’s easy, when you’re nineteen or twenty, to believe that there will always be a new person to love you. But that break-up cut me deeper than I expected. And no one had loved me like that since.

  When the rain eased, I opened the windows to further air out the caravan. It took a few minutes to stack up all the splinters of cupboard and ease them under the bed, brush out the dirt on the floor with a dustpan and broom, and wipe down every surface. Jen arrived with a pile of clean sheets and gathered the dirty ones to be washed. She had somewhat excised Salvatore from her catalogue of Maggie stories, or at least sidelined him in my history, turned him into a minor character. He didn’t fit the narrative of Carefree Maggie, who’d never been in love. I wonder if she ever suspected my twinges of regret about him.

  ‘Are you sure you want to sleep here tonight?’ she asked, holding the dirty sheets at arm’s length. ‘You can stay at my place.’

  ‘I plan to get laid tonight, Jen,’ I said. ‘But yeah, if that doesn’t happen I’ll stay over.’

  ‘Good luck, comrade.’

  ‘So you’re coming back at seven-fifteen?’ I asked.

  ‘On the dot.’

  Clean clothes were few and far between, but I dug out a pair of jeans and my vintage Meatloaf T-shirt, bought online in a fit of irony. It was from the Bad Attitude tour of 1984–5 and featured a picture of a sexy red-lipped skank leering from a motorcycle. The shirt was completely ridiculous, but also soft and delightful from thirty years of washes. It rubbed against my breasts like a kitten. There was no way Rueben could resist the T-shirt, I told myself. I put on mascara and lipstick, checking myself out with a hand mirror.

  When the rain started to come down again harder, it dampened my mood. If Rueben was undecided about coming, this would really put him off. I made a beef stew on the camp stove and opened a bottle of red wine to go with it, then sat down to wait.

  Sometimes, on a really bad day, I’ll list all the terrible things I’ve never done to another person. Like, sure, maybe I’ve been unfaithful a few times, but I’ve never stabbed anyone, thrown acid, sabotaged a condom, blabbed a terrible secret to someone’s mother, or deliberately listened to U2, so I can’t be that bad. But. Sitting and waiting is a bad idea. Inevitably, after you’ve listed all the reasons why you’re not a monster, you can’t help but catalogue all the reasons why you’ll never be happy anyway.

  I suspected that I was madly in love with Rueben.

  I suspected it was the deepest thing I’d felt since Salvatore.

  I suspected that Rueben didn’t love me back.

  I went over the history of our friendship. Borrowing money for sandwiches, email hacking, time wasting, general complaining, and getting him arrested. Half the glass of wine somehow found its way down my throat. I had displayed weakness, assuming that his attraction to me would ensure he overlooked the things I did and said.

  Seven o’clock came and went and there was no sign of Rueben. Fifteen minutes later, Jen knocked on the door again.

  ‘He not here yet?’

  I shook my head.

  Pink Cheeks knocked soon after.

  ‘I brought the wine,’ he said. ‘I forgot to ask if you wanted red or white, so—’

  ‘Great, come in, he’s not here yet,’ I told him. Pink Cheeks sat down at the table opposite Jen and smiled nervously. There wasn’t enough room for three of us at the table, so I sat on the bed.

  I texted Rueben.

  I’m really hungry, are you coming over?

  I told you I’m not coming, he wrote back.

  Fool, I wrote back. Heartbreaker. I made a stew for you.

  No response.

  ‘Tell him you have something important to show him,’ Jen said.

  ‘You mean like my vagina?’ I asked.

  Pink Cheeks coughed.

  I texted him again. I have something important to show you and it’s not my vagina. Seriously, I’m not trying to sleep with you, just have to tell you stuff.

  I took out three bowls and tore a piece of bread in half, dipping it into the stew as I scooped out three serves.

  ‘More wine?’ Pink Cheeks asked.

  ‘Fill me up,’ I said.

  I replaced the lid on the pot and lay down on the bed with the bottle beside me. At the table, Jen poked at her stew doubtfully.

  ‘Have you read all those novels?’ Pink Cheeks asked, pointing at the books stacked at the base of the bed.

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘What I really need is a guide to celibacy, preferably written by a monk.’

  Outside, the rain had settled into a dull rhythm, heavy drops splashing up from the gutter, flashing in the yellow streetlight. I sat up and dragged a brush through my hair while Jen and Pink Cheeks watched awkwardly.

  ‘There’s probably no point waiting, guys,’ I said. ‘I’m doomed. I met the man of my dreams and then let him see the real me. Error of the century.’

  ‘The real you is wonderful,’ Jen said. ‘If he lets a little food fight and minor police questioning stop him from grabbing onto the greatest love he’ll ever know, he’s an idiot.’

  ‘You’re a loyal friend, Jen.’

  I poured another glass of wine, thinking that if the fundraiser was successful then at least I would still have a job and be able to pay off my Centrelink debt in about hundred years, even though I wouldn’t have Rueben. And wasn’t I a survivor? Wasn’t I always the one who came through relationships unscathed, with only a Hawthorn scarf and a few sad memories to never speak of?

  But the more I drank, the more I felt.

  At a little after eight, Jen stood up. ‘Maggie, do you love Rueben?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Then what are we waiting around here for?’

  Tommasio looked at her with adoration in his eyes.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You’re so right.’

  ‘What’s she right about?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re going to his house,’ she announced. ‘We’re gonna get this guy.’

  I hooked the caravan up to the tow bar and we all piled into the panel van. Tommasio sat in the back, holding the stew carefully between his knees so it wouldn’t spill, and Jen had the wine with her in the front passenger seat. She was firm in purpose, her mouth set in a determined line.

  ‘Is that, uh, an open container of alcohol?’ Tommasio asked her cautiously. ‘Because—’

  ‘I’ll put the cork back in,’ Jen said, and Tommasio shut up.

  ‘Here we go,’ I said, as I put the car into gear and eased it out of the parking space. The little caravan rattled and wobbled but followed faithfully. ‘We’re taking the party to him. Are you ready to play your part like a champion, Tommasio?’

  ‘Never been more ready for anything in my life,’ he said.

  I parked the van across the street from Rueben’s flat and the three of us got out. Jen and Tommasio took the stew and wine into the caravan while I walked across and knocked on Rueben’s door with a shaking hand and a pounding heart. The latch turned with a soft click and my mind went blank. It was as if my body was frozen solid. Then the outline of Rueben’s face appeared in the dark doorway and I melted again. The light from next door’s living room bathed him in soft light that suited his casual grace.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve come over,’ I said.

  ‘I see that.’

  ‘Actually, I haven’t come over.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve brought my house to you.’ I stepped back and waved a hand towards the caravan, a silver turd beneath a Northcote gum tree. ‘Would you like to come in?’

  There was a pause the length of eternity. Then he smiled, and I saw his white teeth and those laughing eyes, and without thinking I smiled back.

  ‘I have wanted to see the caravan for a while,’ he admitted.

  We crossed the street and I flung open the door, before remembering that Jen and Tommasio were inside. Jen stood up to greet Rueben as if the caravan was a palace and she was the butler.

  ‘Hi, Rueben,’ she said. ‘We didn’t quite meet properly the other night. I’m Jen. Come in.’

  ‘I liked your speech at the rehearsal dinner,’ he said. He ducked his head as he came in and flicked me a quick curious glance but didn’t say anything more.

  ‘This is Tommasio,’ I said. Pink Cheeks jumped up, smiling, and held out his hand. ‘Tommasio is a police officer.’ Rueben’s expression became slightly grim, but he shook Pink Cheeks’s hand anyway. Before I could start my speech about how I stood up to the police for him, Pink Cheeks blurted out triumphantly, ‘We’re not charging you with damage to the restaurant. I checked to make sure.’

  ‘I already knew that,’ Rueben said. ‘They let me go with a warning.’

  ‘Well, I mean, I got the warning struck off. Maggie asked me to.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I ground my teeth. Pink Cheeks had jumped the gun and stolen my thunder. And now that Tommasio had said it out loud, asking the police not to harass Rueben was not quite the heroic act it had been in my head.

  ‘So,’ Rueben said, looking at me, ‘what was it you wanted to show me?’

  ‘Uh, that was it. Tommasio just kinda blurted it out.’

  ‘Well, it’s not just that,’ Jen said indignantly. ‘Maggie did all this stuff for you. Called Tommasio, made a stew. She’s never done anything like this before.’

  ‘Thanks, Jen,’ I said.

  Rueben’s mouth twitched. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘My standards are highly unreasonable.’ He took the glass of wine Pink Cheeks offered him. ‘Are you here as a witness, Jen? To Maggie’s good deeds?’

  ‘I’m here to make sure you’re good enough for my best friend,’ she said. I nearly covered my face with embarrassment, and tried to signal to her to stop, but she didn’t notice. ‘Maggie is tops. She tried to tell me that my ex was a dud, and if I’d listened I might have saved myself a case of—’ She almost said ‘crabs’, I could see the words form on her lips. ‘A case of a broken heart. So I want to make sure you know her value.’

  Perhaps Jen had missed the point of this exercise, which was to convince Rueben that I was good enough for him. My grand gesture was rapidly turning out to be a mediocre gesture. I appreciated her sentiments, but they were poorly timed.

  Rueben smiled. ‘I know her value,’ he said gently. ‘Couldn’t have missed it if I’d tried.’

  Jen and Pink Cheeks, winking and smiling ostentatiously at me, left to walk to a bar on High Street, with Pink Cheeks dropping clumsy hints on their way out about how Jen’s ex obviously hadn’t appreciated her. Jen nodded vaguely at this while she said goodbye. Rueben sat on the bed beside me. The rain drummed gently on the aluminium roof. His hand rested between us on the bedsheet, his fine, brown fingers tracing lines on the cotton. There was only twenty centimetres between us but it felt like a kilometre. I was petrified of screwing up. All of a sudden I wanted to be sitting at the table instead – wanted even more distance between us. It would be safer.

  His wineglass was empty. He picked up mine and held it to the light, and when he ascertained that it was freshly poured he sipped it.

  ‘Well, this is my caravan,’ I said.

  He touched the wall beside him.

  ‘It’s nice,’ he said.

  He shifted closer. I tried to keep my mouth closed, as if I didn’t want to tear Rueben’s T-shirt from collar to base and bite the skin above his bellybutton. I could smell his soap and the laundry powder he used, and it occurred to me that I’d hardly seen him wearing anything else.

  ‘Do you just have a wardrobe full of grey T-shirts?’ I asked.

  He didn’t blink. ‘Six. I wear my Stones T-shirt when I’m not working.’ He started humming ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’.

  ‘You should take over from Bunny. Sing at the next Prayer Time.’

  ‘I’d rather fuck a lamprey.’

  He put a hand on my waist. I felt an upwards rush of heat from my stomach to the top of my head.

  ‘I’m not a lamprey,’ I said.

  ‘You’re pretty jumpy for someone who’s been harassing me to come over.’

  ‘You said no.’

  ‘But now I’m here.’

  ‘The word “no” is not to my taste,’ I said.

  ‘Clearly.’

  ‘So I had to come all the way here and now the stew’s cold. And you’ve taken my wine.’

  ‘Any other complaints?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You’re always going on about my character defects.’

  ‘When have I ever mentioned your character defects?’

  ‘In my head you bring them up all the time.’

  He bent his head and kissed me, hard and slow, tracing lines down my body with his fingertips, sending my blood into a roaring, pumping torrent in my head, in my ears.

  ‘So what made you decide to come over instead of slamming the door in my face?’ I asked when he broke the kiss. ‘Was it because I promised not to show you my vagina?’

  ‘I was looking online at eHarmony profiles. Lots of accountants.’ He stroked my shoulder. ‘Not many of them looked like they had a Meatloaf T-shirt hidden in their bottom drawer.’

  He put down the wineglass and held out his hand. I took it without thinking and he eased me gently onto the bed.

  ‘Are you glad I’m here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  He wrapped his arms around me and I felt my legs give and become tangled up in his. He slid his body onto mine, slow and supple. I drew his T-shirt over his head and unbuckled his jeans. God, his body was fine. Two birds tattooed on his chest looked like honeyeaters in flight, the yellow in their wings faded almost to nothing. Below his navel, next to a small white scar, a wattle branch traced its way down to his left hip bone. There was a patch of dark hair o
n his chest. He was exactly the right ratio of lean muscle. My neck burned where his lips touched and it felt hot in the caravan as he dragged my T-shirt over my head and kissed his way down my chest to my belly.

  ‘I promise I won’t get you arrested,’ I murmured. ‘But I’m pretty sure it’s illegal for someone to be this hot.’

  He rolled onto his back and pulled me on top of him and by then I was completely naked. Somehow he’d made my clothes disappear; my jeans were in a crumpled heap by the bed and my tits were brushing his chest as I bent over him and kissed him and eased him into me, and then there was nothing left but the hot air and his body and my body and the sounds of his breathing as I rocked myself on top of him, tracing designs on his hips with my fingertips. His hands were exactly where they had to be, and when I lost my grip on time and place I braced my own hands on the cold wall and cried out.

  ‘When did your beard start going grey?’

  He had his eyes closed but was smiling a little as if he knew I was watching him. We were lying on the hard vinyl bed, clinging to each other, and I was almost ready to believe in the existence of a divine creator because I’m pretty sure a man as beautiful as him couldn’t come into being by accident.

  ‘Young,’ he said. ‘Late twenties.’

  ‘How old are you now?’

  ‘Thirty-six.’

  ‘Huh. The grey makes you look older.’

  He put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me in to rest my head on his still-hot chest, rising and falling with his breath. The chest hair under my cheek was coarse.

  ‘Earlier today you said you had something to tell me,’ he said. ‘What was it?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about wallpapering the caravan,’ I blurted quickly. ‘Getting some pretty William Morris wallpaper like in my mother’s dining room, the kind with the hummingbirds, just like your tattoos.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I think my cat would like new wallpaper.’

  ‘You’re terrified, aren’t you?’

  ‘No.’ Liar. My heart was pounding. ‘Well, it’s just that my cat used to love me, but now she loves my mother more. So I don’t know about the whole thing.’