by Les Zig
Jane comes down the stairs, hidden behind a bundle of sheets—of course, she’s changed our sheets since we made a mess last night. I should’ve changed them myself. I hear her toss them into the washing machine, then the machine begin to whir. She’s a blur as she crosses the study, but she senses me, stops, and comes in. She’s in another business suit, although this one has slacks. Her shirt is plain, and the slightest bit transparent so I can detect her bra is pink.
‘Hey,’ she says. ‘You drawing?’
I shrug.
‘How’s it going?’
I shrug again.
‘It shouldn’t be this hard, should it?’
‘Listen, I don’t know how to say this …’
And that’s become more than the truth. Do I tell her I stumbled upon it the other night or that I just found it? All my overthinking hasn’t prepared me for this simple point.
‘What?’ she asks.
‘I was coming in here and I tripped on your handbag.’
Her jaw sets. She knows what’s coming.
‘A condom fell out,’ I say.
There are no other indications of anything untoward. She smiles, but doesn’t laugh it off, like she knows that’s the wrong reaction.
‘It’s Sarah’s,’ she says.
‘Yeah?’
‘Sarah met me at work so we could go to lunch. We stopped at the chemist because I needed tampons. Sarah wanted condoms for her and Alex. She was goofing around and opened the box to … show me they were glow in the dark. I put the box in my bag because she didn’t have anywhere to carry them during lunch. I guess one fell out.’
It’s a stupid story, but the truth often is. Still, there’s something treacherous about finding a condom. It’s like a lipstick stain on a collar.
‘This was yesterday?’ I ask.
I’m sure Jane pauses for a millisecond longer than she should. ‘Last week,’ she says. She steps up to me, takes her phone out of her pocket, and thrusts it at me. Her expression is stony. ‘You can call Sarah if you like.’
She could’ve arranged for Sarah to be her alibi. Or Sarah might do it automatically out of friendship. Of course, I should trust Jane instead of picking holes in her explanation. That’s going to lead to a vicious cycle of doubt.
Jane hurries out.
Wallace looks at her, at me, then follows her.
I go into the kitchen. Jane stands at the bench, her back to me. I embrace her.
She’s unresponsive.
I kiss her cheek. ‘I’m sorry.’
She embraces me, her chest heaving—she’s trying to not cry. I run my hand up and down her back.
We stand there for a while.
I see Silver is back in the yard.
We kiss on the front doorstep, the neighbourhood unfurling around us as it does every morning. Then Jane goes into the garage. I pick up Wallace. Kirit and Pia call out a greeting to him, and I move his paw to wave at them. Their mother greets me. I smile, wave at her. Across the street, Josh and Karen get into their car. They wave. I hold up a hand back.
The garage door opens and Jane pulls out. She pauses in the drive. I wave to her. Her window rolls down. She holds up a hand. Then smiles.
She drives off up the street.
I take Wallace and put him in the backyard. Silver’s nowhere to be seen. Then I lock up the house and walk to my car. Vic, outside in his coveralls, is about to get into his car.
‘Your dog was barking again, Gray,’ he says.
‘Your cat was in my yard,’ I say. ‘Twice.’
‘It’s a cat.’
I stand there, unsure how to address the double standard. Vic snorts, hops into his car. He starts the engine and revs it, grinning at me. Chloe emerges from the front door. She’s in her leotard again and covered in sweat.
‘What’re you doing?’ she calls to Vic.
Vic cocks his head to indicate he can’t hear her. Then he pulls out of the drive. His tyres screech on the road as he accelerates away.
Chloe looks at me almost apologetically. She arches her brows.
I get into my car.
8
I park in the school parking lot and sit in the car again, fiddling with my phone. Sweat streams down my face. It’s 8.47—I’m already running late for the staff meeting. I should hurry, especially after missing yesterday’s. But I don’t. I roll the window down and relish what little breeze there is.
Jane’s explanation gnaws at me—I don’t know if it’s unease, or something to do with her story about Sarah and Alex. Then it hits me. Jane said Sarah bought the condoms last week for her and Alex, but Jane only told me about Alex yesterday, like she only found out about Alex yesterday. A feeling of sick elation surges up inside me, like I’ve caught Jane out. I squelch it down. It’s possible Jane knew about Alex earlier and didn’t tell me—it’s not like I show interest in Sarah’s love life. I rub my temple, trying to remember what Jane said exactly. She asked if she’d told me Sarah had a new guy. It’s ambiguous—it could mean she knew earlier and was only now getting around to telling me, or she found out yesterday. Maybe I’m paranoid … Definitely I’m paranoid, I just don’t know if it’s justified. But now this possibility nags me with fresh vigour. This whole thing should’ve been settled. I wish Beth would come out and greet me—today, I’m ready to spill everything. I will, too, the moment I can pull her aside.
But right now it’s just kids, walking past on their way into the school. Some gawk at me. I smile weakly at them, wave at the ones I know, then continue to play with my phone like I’m doing something important.
Maybe I could do something important with it. I could ring Sarah, like Jane dared me to. Of course, Sarah would relay any conversation we had back to Jane, even if I begged her not to. I try to think of ways I could ask Sarah discreetly, but no such way exists.
What I should do is trust Jane.
That’s all it comes down to.
Stuart is waiting for me at the front doors to the school. He points to his naked left wrist. I’m sure he usually wears a watch. Maybe he took it off, like pointing at his naked wrist would be a more emphatic condemnation, like he can keep track of time even without a watch.
‘You missed another morning staff meeting,’ he says.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Is there something I need to know about?’
‘Like what?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I have a lot on at the moment and it’s getting a bit on top of me. But don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.’
‘I would hate for your personal life to affect your teaching.’
‘It won’t.’
Stuart doesn’t blink.
‘It hasn’t.’
‘I went through an ugly divorce early in my career, Casper. I made sure it never affected my work.’
‘I’m not going through a divorce. It’s just … stuff.’
‘Stuff? The point remains that we need to keep our personal and professional lives separate.’
‘It’s really not a problem.’
Stuart says nothing, eyes peering at me over the frames of spectacles that have slid down his nose. I wait again—as I did yesterday—to be dismissed. No such luck. Stuart’s one of the world’s great pausers.
‘Does this involve Beth?’ he asks.
‘Beth?’
‘She wasn’t at the staff meeting yesterday either. And she’s not here today.’
‘She’s not here?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘You’re going to have to take her 10A art class, third period.’
I don’t know anything about art, almost spills from my lips.
‘Okay,’ I say.
‘You better get to class.’
I reach for the door.
‘Casper?’
I stop, brace myself.
‘Let’s not make a habit of this, okay?’
I bite back several retorts. ‘It won’t happen again.’
Hurrying down the hallway, I take my phone out of my pocket and message Beth: You okay?
I put my phone on silent and get to class—8A English. We’re reading Robert Cormier’s I am the Cheese. I give the kids the job of reading several chapters to occupy half an hour because my mind is elsewhere, vacillating between Jane and Beth.
I think about what Jane must be doing at work, how she must be feeling about me after the way things unfolded this morning. I should be allowed to have suspicions, all things considered. If the positions were reversed, Jane would have them, and she wouldn’t be gracious about wanting answers. Still, I take out my phone, text her, Sorry, and put the phone on my desk.
Then there’s Beth, who was going to confront Roger. Now she’s not here today. Surely that’s not coincidence, but what could it mean? She might’ve learned that Roger was cheating on her and is home right now in tears. Or he could’ve grown violent. Maybe he hit her, and she has a bruise she can’t show at school. Of course, just because Roger’s a prick doesn’t mean he’s violent.
That’s when it occurs to me I should’ve asked Stuart why Beth couldn’t make it in today. She would’ve given a reason.
My phone vibrates on the desk. The whole class looks up, some of the kids startled. Others titter.
‘Keep reading, please,’ I say.
The kids get back to it. Relief washes over me—finally, an explanation from Beth. I snatch up the phone. But it’s Jane.
It’s okay.
X.
I send her three kisses in reply.
When the period’s over, I try to catch Stuart, but he’s nowhere to be found, so I get to my next class—humanities. I leave my phone on the desk throughout.
At recess, I try to ring Beth twice, but the phone rings out to her voicemail.
I hurry into the staff room. The other teachers are there, but not Stuart, so I head to administration. The principal, Charlotte Hetrick, sits in her office, sifting through paperwork. She would seem an unremarkable woman if not for the gravity about her—whenever I’m in her presence, I feel I’ve done something wrong.
She smiles at me, although the smile contains little recognition. I could be anybody. Still, I smile back, sure it looks more like a grimace, then head to Stuart’s office.
Which is empty.
He must have yard duty—or be on duty, even if he’s not assigned it. Stuart does that sometimes. He’s hardly magnanimous, though. I think he lurks around corners and eavesdrops on the kids to keep abreast of attitudes in the school—not that he’d admit to that.
I find him circling in front of the school, patrolling the lawns and exchanging greetings with Year 7s and 8s, some of whom are playing football, while others are sitting in groups.
‘Excuse me, Stuart.’
‘Casper. I must commend you.’
‘Why?’
‘Disgraceful!’
‘What?’
We’re passing the lockers. Deidre Kent and David Jenkins are in there, standing close, holding hands. David had been leaning in to kiss Deidre. Stuart fixes his gaze on David. Deidre bows her head. David takes a step back from Deidre.
I. Am. Watching, Stuart mouths, pointing his finger at them with each word.
‘They’re just …’
Stuart glares at me, and I decide not to tell him that they’re just teenagers.
‘I was going to say,’ Stuart says as we walk on, ‘that your classes were quiet this morning.’
One relatively noisy class yesterday and he goes on like that’s the norm.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘Is there something I can do for you?’
‘Beth—did she say why she couldn’t come in today?’
‘Look at that!’
We’re around the back of the school now. Through all the kids on the courtyards, we see the triumvirate of Dom, Bianca, and Justine approaching from the soccer field.
‘They’ve probably been smoking if they’ve been sitting out there,’ Stuart says. ‘They certainly weren’t playing soccer.’
‘Sometimes the kids go out there to sit.’
‘Their uniforms are a travesty.’
I don’t see anything wrong with them—they’re not dirty or dishevelled, although Dom doesn’t have his shirt tucked in.
‘Have the girls hemmed their skirts?’
‘I don’t know, Stuart. They look normal to me.’
‘They most certainly do not.’
‘Stuart, about Beth—’
‘She has a stomach bug, Casper.’
‘Really?’
‘That’s what her partner told me.’
‘You didn’t talk to her?’
‘I am certain those skirts are shorter than regulation.’
‘Stuart?’
‘No, I didn’t speak to her. Her partner said she was pitched over the toilet. Gastro’s a nasty business, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
Stuart rips his attention from Bianca and Justine. ‘Why are you so curious, Casper?’
‘I was just … wondering.’
Stuart is unmoving. I need something to satisfy him. He’s putting two and two together and coming up with all sorts of wrong answers. The bell rings. Kids haul themselves up. Stuart checks his watch—the anal bastard has it on now—and nods, as if everything is going according to schedule.
‘Don’t forget the 10A art class,’ he says.
When I get to class, I take my phone out and leave it on Beth’s desk. The kids stare quizzically at me. They have sketchpads like mine. I need to come up with a plan. I haven’t given a single thought to what to teach, nor have I tracked down any of Beth’s notes.
‘Where’s Ms Buckley?’ Bianca asks.
‘She’s sick today, so you have me,’ I say.
‘What do you know about art?’ Dom asks.
‘I’ve picked up a bit here and there. I want you to reach into your bags and take out one item. It can be a drink, a snack, your lunch—anything.’
The kids rifle through their bags. Most of them take out the first thing they grab—either a pencil case or a book. Some look for something unique, as if that’ll hold them in better stead.
‘Now, put whatever you’ve grabbed in front of you,’ I say, ‘and look at it. Study it. Look at the object’s texture, look at its corners and facets, look at the way it’s made up of shades and light. Close your eyes and see it in your mind. Feel it, the way it occupies space.’
I scan the class. Everybody has their eyes closed. Some aren’t taking the exercise too seriously, but others are concentrating.
‘Now, open your eyes and draw your object.’
‘That’s it?’ Justine says.
‘It’s about the way you imagined the object in your head, the way you interpreted it. Not the way it actually looks.’
Some of the kids get to work immediately. Others know this is filler and screw around, chatting and joking. I caution them to keep it down. Last thing I need is Stuart in here.
I do a round of the room to make sure the kids are undertaking the task, but my attention keeps wandering to my phone. I sit at Beth’s desk and check it—nothing. I lean back, fidgeting. Kids glance at me. It’s not difficult to tell something’s wrong. I must look like an idiot, sitting here, clueless, so I take out my notebook, flip it open, and drum my pen.
The lined page of my notebook challenges me—empty like the blank page of my sketchpad, like the abyss I feel between Jane and me. Her explanation should be the bridge, but it isn’t. I imagine myself plummeting. Hitting the bottom, I jolt. My chair screeches against the floor. Kids look at me again. This is the last place I want to be. I fixate on the pad, drum my pen harder. The breathing of the kids is too heavy. The sound of pencils scribbling across sketchpads is a cacophony of inhumane squeals.
I half rise, planning to excuse myself for a bit, but in the process see Bianca, sitting in front of me, head bowed as she sketches an apple. Her lustrous black hair falls over half her face, reminiscen
t of the way Jane’s hair can cover her face. She is Jane, from many years ago—unsullied by hand, by thought, or by suspicion, beaming with hopefulness for the future, the way she was when I first met her, before the pressures of setting up our future and constantly trying to have a baby marked her with the responsibilities, realities, and burdens of everyday life. Bianca’s visible eye is large, make-up not entirely disguising the shadowy crescent beneath. Her lashes are upturned and dark—too much mascara. Exactly like Jane at that graduation party.
As I sit, my pen comes down on the page. The first stroke is almost automatic, the second like a misstep on a slippery slope. Then there is nothing but my ballpoint scratching against the lined page. My anxiousness dissipates into calmness that isolates me from the kids as they whisper behind their hands, trying to work out what I’m doing. Even when the bell rings and kids pack up around me, I keep drawing.
‘Whoa, Mr Gray!’
It’s Dom, who—on his way out—has caught sight of my sketch. Now, because Dom’s endorsed me and he’s about the coolest kid in Year 10, the other kids crowd around. Their gasps flatter me.
‘You’re an artist, Mr Gray!’ Justine says.
‘That’s incredible, Mr Gray,’ Maya says. ‘I wish you’d drawn me.’
‘Should’ve drawn her as a centrefold, Mr Gray,’ says Anthony Tselikas.
‘That’s gross, Anthony!’ Bianca says.
Anthony leers at her.
I’m worried Bianca might be uncomfortable about me drawing her, but the picture transfixes her. Up close now, I see she’s wearing more make-up than she should. Typical teen, in a hurry to grow up. My sketch of her has greater maturity—perhaps Bianca, ten years down the line, after she’s graduated, found work, and started to think about what she wants to do with the rest of her life. Perhaps it’s not even Bianca, but Jane I’ve drawn by proxy. My sketch condemns me for my distrust. I tear it out, wanting to be done with it, and thrust it unthinkingly at Bianca. ‘There you go.’