by Les Zig
I should just ask her.
I will.
When she gets out of the shower.
I find the hole in the corner. It’s one of Wallace’s older ones. I kick the dirt back in and stamp it with my slipper. Wallace watches me, trying to work out why I’m sealing something he’s worked so hard on.
‘You stay here,’ I tell him.
He spots a magpie on the other side of the yard feeding from the grass and sprints after it, barking.
I go to our second bathroom—designated my bathroom—undress, and stop as I’m about to enter the shower. Pull back. Take a deep breath. And become aware of my nudity, of my skin. Pale? Or pasty? Of my chest, or lack thereof; my stomach, with the first hint of a pot belly; my cock flaccid in a forest of pubic hair. Is it too small? Unsatisfactory? I once heard somewhere that 5.8 inches is average. I think that’s about me, but maybe that’s not enough. Maybe, after all this time, I don’t please Jane.
Self-consciousness explodes like a flare. I caress my teeth with my tongue—they’re straight, although there’s a gap between the top two that I’m self-conscious about when I smile; run my hands through my hair, and feel the way it’s already creeping back around my temples; pry my fingers into my ears, and remember that just last week, I found a few stray ear hairs that I plucked out with tweezers.
Am I—or have I become—undesirable? Was I always, but never knew it? Is it something Jane’s discovered? Did she wake up one morning and conclude that she’d settled? She’s never complained, although she wouldn’t. Of course she wouldn’t. I wouldn’t, even if there were anything to say. There’s not. She’s perfect—well, she’s perfect for me.
The condom sits on the bathroom sink.
Hey, hon, I stumbled on your handbag last night and this fell out.
Like I could be so glib.
Hey, hon, last night, Wallace was barking, so I got up. Anyway, after I let him in, I was still wide awake, so I went into the study to sketch. But I didn’t see your bag and tripped on it. All your stuff spilled out. That’s when I found this.
Still too succinct.
I won’t get past the first line. Because what’s at stake? Almost seven years of marriage, one miscarriage, slowly saving up for IVF, four years of trying to have a kid, a house (that we bought in anticipation of having a family) with a sizeable mortgage, a life in the suburbs, Wallace, family, in-laws (and the loan we owe them), Christmases, other functions together—all of it. You build a community from a relationship. And then it can be lost, like a meteorite hit. Bye, bye, civilisation.
All because of the answer to one question.
Of course, it could all be preserved with one answer.
But, right now, the only certainty is not knowing.
I shower, dress in jeans, a shirt, and a blazer, then go into the study and stand over Jane’s handbag, holding the condom in my hand. I can’t confront Jane about it. Not yet. I put the condom back in her bag. Retreat to the kitchen with the intention of making breakfast, then see it—Jane’s phone, charging, plugged into a socket adjacent to the stove.
I’ve never looked through Jane’s phone. Never. Even if I want a number, I ask her for it. But who knows what secrets her phone might hold?
I pick it up, hold my breath as I realise I’m crossing a line which can never be uncrossed, then flick through messages. Nothing—messages with me, some with her best friend Sarah, a few with her mum, and that’s it. I go through the call log. Nothing there either. Of course, she could’ve erased anything incriminating, but still, it’s a relief to find nothing.
I put the phone back and make breakfast—two slices of toast and a cup of tea for me, just a coffee for Jane—and stand at the window. The morning’s overcast, but it won’t be long before the clouds break.
Jane comes in about fifteen minutes later. She always takes forever in the shower. She wears a suit, the skirt tight around her hips. Her shirt is pinstriped, the first couple of buttons open to reveal her naked chest, but no cleavage. Her hair is pinned back. Her cheeks seem bright. But she wears no more or no less make-up than any other day.
She picks up the coffee I’ve left on the bench for her. Our routine is clockwork. She sips on it and goes through her satchel. I wonder what she does all day. She’s the account manager at Web Myriad, which builds websites for big business. But I’ve never really known what she does on an hour-to-hour basis.
‘We’ve got dinner tonight,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘Dinner.’
‘Dinner?’
‘You okay? You seem a little out of it this morning.’
I shrug.
‘Dinner. Tonight. With Stephen and Renée.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
‘What do you think I should wear? That little red dress? Or my blue one?’
‘Surprise me.’
‘You’re hopeless.’
I finish my toast. Throw the plate in the sink, wanting to be out of there.
‘You’re not going to wash up?’
‘I’ll do it later.’
Jane already has the taps blaring. She rolls up her sleeves. Grabs a sponge. ‘What’s the rush?’ she says.
‘I need to get going.’
‘Early, isn’t it?’ Jane soaks a plate under the tap.
‘Stuart wants to address the staff about something or other.’
‘Oh.’
Stuart is Stuart Piper, the school vice principal. The staff meet every morning at 8.45, but sometimes Stuart calls us in earlier—usually for something insignificant.
‘Sorry, I forgot to tell you,’ I say.
‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘Yeah.’
I pick up my bag, the kitchen counter separating us. ‘What’re you up to today?’ I say, and inwardly cringe. It’s a question I never ask.
‘Usual,’ Jane says. ‘Lunch with Sarah today, too.’
Sarah, her train wreck of a friend—always picking the wrong guys, always crying on Jane’s shoulder. They catch up almost weekly, but is Sarah an alibi? Not like Jane needs it—not for a lunch hour where she’s never had to account for herself anyway.
‘I should go,’ I say, starting for the hall.
‘Hey!’
She purses her lips. I lean over the kitchen counter. The water gushes into the sink between us. I kiss her.
‘Have a good day,’ she says.
‘Thanks.’
My feet are leaden down the hallway. Each step widens the separation between us. I look at her. She’s washing our cups. I keep moving. There’s a crash. Hurried footsteps—Wallace come to see me off. He slides down the hall and leaps at my shins. He wants to get out.
I tramp to the front door, swing it open. Sunlight hits me through a part in the clouds. Then the sounds of morning in the neighbourhood, of people getting ready for work, for school, for whatever the day holds.
When I push open the security door, Wallace streams out, barking. Kids scream his name. It’s Kirit and Pia Gupta, our neighbours to the right. They’re only eight and seven, so understandably Wallace excites them. The kids are dressed in their burgundy uniforms and backpacks. They kneel as Wallace greets them and pat him, scratching him behind the ears until he falls on his back so they can rub his belly. Their mother, Tarika, emerges from the house and walks towards her Lexus. She always smiles and waves at me—as she does now. On the front curb, the bins stand empty. I want to get going, but if I leave them Jane will fetch them and really know something’s wrong with me this morning. This is my job.
I put my bag down by the front step and go grab the bins.
‘Hello, Casper!’ Tarika says.
I wave and grab the bins.
‘How’re you this morning?’ Tarika says.
‘Good. You?’ I start wheeling the bins back.
‘Good, thanks! It’s going to be a beautiful day, isn’t it?’
‘It’s going to be a hot one.’
I deposit the bins in their usual place, around the side
of our house.
‘Come on, kids!’ Tarika says, as she gets in her Lexus. Typically, the kids don’t listen. Wallace is much more interesting.
I retrieve my bag, head for my little black Fiesta.
‘Hello, Casper!’
This comes from Vic’s house. It’s his wife, Chloe, scrambling out of her red Mazda. She’s tiny, blonde hair in a topknot. It makes her look like the teenagers I teach. Her figure is taut in a purple and black leotard. When she’s not working shifts as a nurse, she seems to split her time sunbathing by her pool, or doing aerobics or Pilates in the morning.
‘How’re you today?’ she asks.
‘Good,’ I tell her, because what else am I going to say? Chloe’s friendly. Sometimes I get mixed signals from her, although that’s probably just me. I don’t read signals well.
‘Oi, Gray!’
I stop as I reach for the door of my Fiesta. It’s Vic, dressed in his greasy coveralls and wiping his hands on a handtowel—blackening it with each wipe—as he comes out the front door of his house. He’s big. Not muscly big. Just solid big—the sort of guy who seems part wall. He has a crew cut. It makes him look militant.
‘Your stupid dog was in here again last night chasing my cat,’ Vic says.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. And mean it. I tried to make friends with Vic when he first moved in four years ago. I even took my car to him to be serviced. But we have nothing in common. He’s abrupt, and he overcharges. Jane’s friends with Chloe, and they’ve gone out to movies together. But Jane can’t stand Vic either. I don’t know how Chloe does.
‘I’ve warned you about your dog, Gray.’
‘He’s a dog. You have a cat.’
‘I catch your dog in here, I’m going to dropkick him out, okay?’
‘He’s ankle height.’
‘That’s a good size to kick.’
‘Vic!’ Chloe says as she approaches him. She pauses, like she wants to exchange a morning kiss. He ignores her. ‘He’ll be fine, Casper!’ she calls as she brushes past Vic into the house; he swats her hard on the butt, leaves a greasy handprint. She yelps and jumps but doesn’t stop. Vic points at me once. Chloe’s words aren’t going to contain him.
‘Kids!’ This from Tarika. The kids jump up from Wallace, bid him their goodbyes, and get into the Lexus. Wallace gets up and shakes, straightening himself out.
‘Go inside!’ I tell him. I’m always worried I’ll run him over on the way out.
‘Wallace!’ It’s Jane, standing at the front door. Wallace bounds to her and leaps. She catches him and cradles him to her chest with one hand while waving goodbye to me with the other.
I open the door of my car. Across the street Josh and Karen Meyer are about to get into their car—they’re a married couple in their twenties, just starting out like Jane and I were not that long ago. They wave to me, a simple acknowledgement of my presence. I wave back. Slip into my car, start it up, depress the clutch. The radio blares. I leave it, look at my house flanked by Tarika’s and Vic’s. They’re clones, but for the shades of brick. On the nature strips are tulipwoods—I think that’s what they’re called. The ones in front of Tarika’s and Vic’s houses are green, the one in front of ours a deep, rusty maroon.
My eyes flit from Vic on his doorstep watching me, to Tarika making sure her kids are buckled in, to Jane rocking Wallace. She grabs his paw and makes him wave goodbye. His furry face registers his disapproval, and he scowls, unimpressed.
I pull off the nature strip and drive away.
3
Driving, all I can tell myself is I should’ve asked, I should’ve asked, I should’ve asked, although I know it’s retrospective bravado. Everybody knows what they should’ve done after it’s too late to do it.
I could turn around.
But I keep driving.
It’s still early for school. I could hang out in the staff room, but don’t feel like the company.
I wish I had the sort of friend I could bounce this off. Stephen used to fill that role. But now he’s mine and Jane’s friend. I can’t trust him not to share anything I tell him with his wife Renée, who’ll tell Jane.
I could try Luke. He, Stephen, and I were inseparable as teenagers and into our early twenties. But I married, Stephen married, and Luke’s still living the life of a sixteen-year-old. When you’re a couple, your closest friends are almost always part of other couples.
That leaves Beth. Most of the faculty are older than us, so we became close by default. Then there’s my drawing. She’s always encouraging me. She lives close, too. She’d be on the way to school herself about now. I could call her, but I’m not sure I can tell her about this anyway.
I drive to The Corner—that’s what the kids call it. It’s actually the corner of Stark and Werner, which is about ten minutes’ walk from school. There’s a strip of shops—most of them fast food or coffee shops. Although they’re not meant to leave during school hours, kids usually go to Hamburger Haven at lunch, which sells great cheap hamburgers. I bypass it and drive to Sofia’s. There are a couple of handicap spots out the front that are always empty. I almost take one without thinking, then find another spot a few cars down.
I sit in the car, trying to make sense of my thoughts. People stream past, probably on the way to work. Kids from Meadow High—evident by their violet uniforms—amble by. Some smoke. One kid from my English class, Dominic Carelli, pauses right in front of my car as he drags on his cigarette. He sees me through the windshield, then tilts his head upwards once in acknowledgement, totally unflustered—but that’s Dominic; at sixteen, he’s not only one of these kids who thinks he has it all worked out, but he probably does.
On the actual corner of Stark and Werner is a thirty-something guy with a mini-mullet and a faded jean jacket with the collar pulled up. I don’t know his name, but the consensus among the faculty and proprietors of the shops around here is that he sells pot or something. Sometimes, the proprietors call the cops to chase him away, but they mustn’t ever find anything on him.
Jean Jacket says something to two sixteen-year-old girls from Meadow High—Bianca Orsino and Justine Gardiner. They’re the school minxes—latest fashions, latest styles: Bianca dark and sultry, Justine bright and relaxed. They laugh and Bianca waves her hand, like she’s dismissing him. Jean Jacket grins and says something else, oblivious as a sleaze in a bar trying lines on all the women.
As if sensing my derision, Jean Jacket looks at me. I turn away but feel his eyes still on me. I wait; the sensation remains. Sure enough, he is still looking at me. He takes a step towards me.
I get out of the car and scurry into Sofia’s. It’s bigger than it looks from outside. Photos from local artists hang on the walls, and tables with checked tablecloths. A brick archway leads to a back section. It used to be another shopfront, but Sofia’s did so well they rented it, broke through, and fitted it for their own patrons.
I approach the counter in the corner. A customer’s just leaving with a takeaway coffee cup and a paper bag that probably contains donuts.
Caroline—who owns and runs Sofia’s with her husband Leon—is so tiny, she must have trouble seeing over the counter. At first glance, she could be mistaken for a child, right down to the energy that radiates from her. But lines are creeping through her make-up, and her hands are worn and veined—reward for a lifetime in the service industry.
‘Good morning, Casper!’ she says. ‘How’re you?’
‘I’m good, thanks.’
‘And Jane?’
‘Jane’s great.’
‘Pass on my regards.’
‘Sure.’
‘What can I get you?’
I scan the shelves of donuts, croissants, and other pastries. Everything’s too sweet. I look at the menu on the wall above Caroline. I know everything Sofia’s serves, so I don’t need to read the menu, but I do it all the same, trying to decide between the various teas, lattes, cappuccinos, and milkshakes, only to take a bottled water from the fridge.
; ‘And a chocolate donut,’ I say.
Caroline deposits my donut into a small white bag. ‘Don’t usually see you here for breakfast.’
I pass her a ten-dollar bill, shrug, and offer a nothing smile.
‘You okay?’ Caroline hands me my change.
‘Yeah. Didn’t sleep well.’
‘It’s the heat.’
‘Yeah.’ I stuff the change into my pocket, take my donut and water. ‘I should get to school. See ya.’
‘Bye, Casper. Have a great day.’
I leave Sofia’s. Jean Jacket’s waiting outside the door.
‘Hey, buddy, saw you checking me out,’ he says.
I don’t answer. Return to my car.
‘Want to buy?’ Jean Jacket asks. He probably approached initially with a mind to sell, but he’s picked up he can toy with me.
I get into my car, throw my purchases onto the passenger seat. Jean Jacket laughs. He pops something into his mouth and chews. For an instant, I want to put the car in drive and run him over.
I pull out, and drive to school.
4
I sit in my car in the school’s parking lot. Kids walk past, pausing briefly, trying to work out why I’m sitting there. Others joke and laugh. I’ll become the topic of speculation in recess conversations.
Mr Gray was sitting in his car before school.
Do you think he’s doing something? Like drugs?
He looked like crap to me.
I take out my phone and tap the screen like I’m using an app. That should shut up gossip, although I’m amazed I’m worried about that at a time like this.
A knock at my window startles me. I jump and the phone falls out of my hands, bounces on my lap, hits the floor. It’s Beth. She told me once her maternal grandmother was a Filipino, a heritage that teases her features—the big, dark eyes, the latte complexion, and the small pursed lips—into something almost ethereal.