by Les Zig
She reaches for it, but Dom cuts her off. ‘Sign it, Mr Gray.’
I scribble my name in the corner and shove the picture into Bianca’s hands. She takes a chemistry textbook out of her bag, opens it, and carefully places the picture in the middle. Then she closes the book and puts it inside her bag.
‘Thanks, Mr Gray,’ she says, smiling shyly.
She’s gorgeous then—not in a sexual way, although she’s obviously pretty. But there’s none of the pressures of adult life in her face, none of the confusion about trying to decipher relationships or indecision within herself. I’m sure she—and all the other kids—feel all those things, but at this stage they are adjuncts to their lives, instead of the core. I envy her. Them.
‘Okay, everybody, off to lunch.’
The kids filter out, some of them still talking in disbelief about my sketch, like teachers are incapable of anything—of any life—outside teaching.
I sit in my car and close my eyes until the flightiness seeps from my body, my shallow breathing grows steady, and the tension in my shoulders relaxes.
Beth. I should call her. I pick up my phone and ring her twice. Again, it goes to voicemail. I’m sure something’s wrong. It’s too coincidental she’s unreachable the day after she said she was going to confront Roger.
I want to ring Jane, ask her advice. But this feels like an evening conversation, something we’d discuss over dinner.
Beth wasn’t at school today.
No?
I’m worried. She was going to confront Roger yesterday.
You think something happened?
I’m worried he made something happen to her.
I’m being melodramatic. I wonder how concerned I’d be if I didn’t desperately want to speak to Beth. If I didn’t need her advice, would her absence be a blip on my radar? This is more about me than her.
I look at my phone, scroll through the contacts, try to find an alternative … Luke. Stephen said Luke wanted to catch up. Yesterday I ruled him out, but now he’s my only option.
I text him. Luke’s hopeless at getting back to anybody with texts. So I leave my fate in the hands of providence.
Hey, want to catch up for a beer?
He responds almost immediately: Okay. Working today. Tomorrow?
We go back and forth, thrashing out the details. Initially, Luke suggests catching up late. I explain that’s impossible on a weekday because I work the next day and I’m married, and that it’s only going to be a couple of drinks, not a night out. Luke doesn’t have to worry about his other half, and he works shifts at several different bars so his hours are all over the place. He comes back to me with 4.00pm tomorrow at The Andion. I tell him 4.15, as I have bus duty.
I can’t believe it’s come to relying on Luke for relationship advice.
I open the door, put a foot out.
Pull it back in.
Close the door.
And start the car.
9
Beth’s house—well, Roger’s house, which she moved into—sits in Greenbrook, a suburb over from Meadow. Greenbrook’s all hills and trees, the houses older, the bricks ugly shades of brown and tan (I’m not sure when they were ever fashionable). Many of them are double storey, although they’re utilitarian more than anything else. The yards are big and filled with greenery, most of it overgrown.
I pull into the driveway, hop out of the car, and run up the steps to the front door. I use the bell, which echoes through the house. I wait for footsteps but there’s nothing. I ring the doorbell again, then knock on the door. Still nothing.
There are lots of reasons Beth might not be answering. She could be sleeping. Or too sick to get up. Or she could be embarrassed to show herself because Roger’s backhanded her.
I don’t know why the latter presents as such a threat. The truth is, I know so little about Beth’s relationship with Roger. She hardly ever talks about him, and he’s only shown once to a school function. On Monday mornings in the staff room, I don’t recall anybody asking Beth how her weekend was with Roger whereas I get asked about myself and Jane all the time.
A car pulls up to the curb—a silver Porsche. Roger gets out. He looks like he models his whole look on flashy lawyers in films—the tailor-made suit, the fancy shoes, lustrous hair that bounces with every step. Only the image doesn’t quite work because he’s so lanky, with big sunken eyes that are strangely captivating. Despite the heat, he’s not sweating.
He comes up the stairs, two at a time, a box of KFC in hand.
‘Can I help you?’ he asks.
‘I’m from the school,’ I say.
‘School?’
‘Where Beth teaches.’ I put my hand out. ‘Casper.’
Roger clenches my hand, shakes it, but doesn’t let go. His brows are manicured thin and sharp, possibly to make him look aerodynamic. ‘Oh, we met at the thing last year.’
‘Yeah.’ He’s still got my hand. ‘The thing.’
‘What’re you doing here?’
‘I was a bit worried about Beth, so I thought I’d see how she is.’
‘She’s got gastro.’
‘Can I talk to her?’
‘She’s probably sleeping.’
‘Just for a minute.’
‘I really don’t know …’
‘I won’t be long.’
Roger releases my hand, and puts his on his hip. ‘Is there a reason you’re being pushy?’
‘Pushy?’
‘Yeah, pushy.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to. It’s … well … we have a staff meeting after school she was meant to speak at.’ Good old staff meetings. They can get me out of anything. ‘I’ve got to cover for her. So I wanted her input.’
‘I’ll get her. Wait here.’ Roger waggles his finger at me the way I would at Wallace, then opens the door. The first thing I notice is a whirring coming from somewhere, soft but distinct. Then it’s the long hardwood hallway that stretches out before us. ‘Beth, honey!’ he calls. ‘I brought you some lunch.’
He walks to the end of the hallway, opens one of the doors, and disappears. I strain my ears and hear bedsprings. He must be rousing her from bed. Conversation follows, too muffled to make out. I fold my arms across my chest, expecting to see Beth pop out, but there’s nothing. I lean in through the front door, try to find an angle where I can see through the open bedroom door, but it’s impossible. A mirror hanging in the hallway shows the bedroom. I lean further inside, slip, steady myself against the wall.
The whirring stops.
I stop.
Then, in the reflection, I see Beth get out of bed. Roger, holding her robe open, obscures her, but it’s evident she’s naked. She gets up, guides her hands into the sleeves of the robe. Roger folds it around her. It’s such a caring gesture that it doesn’t seem like him. She ties the robe around her waist, brushes Roger off, and heads for the door. I pull back to the doorstep.
‘Hey, Casper,’ Beth says as she comes down the hallway. Roger stands in the bedroom doorway, like a bouncer minding the entrance to some exclusive club.
‘Hey, Beth.’
She takes one little step after another, like an old woman with arthritic hips, and keeps her arms folded across her chest. Her hair is messed up, she’s not wearing make-up, and crescents sit under her big eyes. She looks exhausted. But not sick.
‘What’re you doing here?’ Beth asks when she gets to the door. She smiles a little smile that’s the same old Beth, but for the tiredness.
‘I thought, you know …’ I don’t know what to say, not with Roger standing there. ‘We’ve got the staff meeting this afternoon. I had to take your art class. Is there anything you want me to put across?’
The request must sound like the stupidest thing in the world. But she must get that it’s for Roger’s benefit.
‘Can you let Stuart know we need more art supplies?’ Beth says. ‘Especially paints. There’s hardly any left, and only a few colours, like red and black. I also need to note Bianca’s
attendance because she’s been ditching. The last few weeks she’s missed. I thought she and Dom must have something going because he wasn’t there the first time. The second time it was just her. But I did see her at school on that day.’
Roger doesn’t move. The prick.
‘Okay, so that’s it?’
‘I can … I can cover the rest of the stuff when I’m in again.’
‘I tried to call …’
‘Sorry. I’ve got my phone on silent.’
‘So is it settling?’
‘Settling?’
‘I told him about your gastro,’ Roger says.
‘Yeah,’ Beth says. ‘It’s settling.’
‘So you’ll be in tomorrow?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay.’ I want to say more, wish we could slip away, but Roger’s not moving. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Bye, Casper.’
‘Roger.’
Roger lifts his chin at me by way of acknowledgement.
I head down the steps.
I get in my car, start the engine, but sit there. Tomorrow, I’ll have to ask Beth what all that was about. She wasn’t marked—at least not that I saw—but something’s going on. She doesn’t have gastro—Roger wouldn’t be bringing her KFC if she did. I hope I haven’t caused more problems for her.
I put the car into reverse, pull away from Roger’s house, and drive back to school.
10
I’m distracted through my remaining classes and, in the staff meeting after school, I sit mutely while Stuart drones on. He talks about being watchful of kids smoking, of kids going to The Corner at lunch (we all see them, but nobody but Stuart cares), and attendances. He goes on—not for the first time—to talk about how we need to develop relationships with the kids so that they feel we’re their confidantes, and yet maintain boundaries at all costs.
When he’s done at 4.45pm—he should’ve been finished fifteen minutes earlier—he asks if anybody has anything to add. I relay Beth’s messages about the paint and Bianca, but that’s it. Even if the others had anything to say, they just want this meeting to be over.
Stuart dismisses us and I go home.
11
As I pull into my street, I’m worried Vic will be outside and there’ll be some new issue with Wallace. Vic’s got worse over the years. Now everything about Wallace bothers him. But as I pull into my drive and reverse onto my nature strip, I see Vic’s not there, although Chloe is, getting out of her car, dressed in her nurse’s slacks and shirt.
‘Hey, Casper,’ she says as I get out of my car.
‘Hi, Chloe.’ As usual, Wallace begins yapping in the garage.
‘Had a good day?’
‘It’s been survivable.’
‘That good?’
I shrug. Wallace’s barking gets more insistent. ‘I should get him,’ I say.
‘Before you go, if I can have a word with you.’
Chloe steps up to the invisible boundary separating our properties, unbuttoning the top two buttons of her shirt to reveal a necklace of sweat.
I swallow and look away. ‘I’ll get him and come back.’
‘Okay.’
I hurry around to the side of the garage, adjust the tent of my pants, and open the garage door. Wallace almost flies into my arms. He licks my chin and his tail thumps faster than ever.
I walk back around to Chloe, who smiles when she sees Wallace.
‘Hello, boy,’ she says, and scratches him under the chin and behind the ears. ‘Hello.’ She looks up at me. ‘This is who I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s nothing bad!’ Chloe laughs. ‘I wanted to apologise for the way Vic’s been behaving in regards to Wallace. I don’t know what it is with Vic.’
I do. He’s a bastard.
‘I’m sure he’ll calm down.’
‘It’s okay, Chloe.’
‘It’s not. Vic has a temper and he should learn to control it. If he gives you any more grief about Wallace, let me know and I’ll talk to him.’
She doesn’t realise how emasculating her offer is. I don’t know how she controls him, he’s that unreasonable. But I’m not privy to their relationship. It’s not like Tarika, who I always hear hollering at the kids while her husband Chapal is virtually invisible. Nothing comes from Vic and Chloe Booth’s house, although they mustn’t see each other much with Chloe’s shift work.
‘Okay, thanks, Chloe.’
Chloe smiles. ‘You’re welcome, Casper.’
It’s her cue to leave, but she remains there, eyes locked on mine in a way that makes me feel naked.
Wallace writhes in my hands, breaking the spell.
‘I should go,’ I say.
‘Sure.’ She touches me on the arm. ‘Have a good evening, Casper.’
‘Thanks.’
I feed Wallace, fill his water bowl, clean up his business, and throw a ball around for him a little bit, until he’s panting, and looking at me plaintively, as if to say, You don’t have to wear all this fur. So I give that up and settle in the study with my sketchpad on my lap. After my efforts sketching Bianca today, I truly expect my imagination to be firing. Wallace, who sits on the couch, rests his chin onto his paws, sighs, then closes his eyes. I scowl back at my blank page, but still nothing.
I check the time on my phone. It’s getting on 6.00pm, which means Jane should be home soon. Expecting her makes it impossible to draw, knowing that at some point I’ll be interrupted. It’s hard—especially in the early stages—to resume a drawing. It’s at the start that you have to capture the magic.
I put down the sketchpad, go into the kitchen and search the fridge. Neither of us have thought about dinner and it’s too late to defrost anything, which means we’ll probably have to order in.
I check the time. It’s after six now. My mind ticks. I sit on the couch, turn the television on, and put on the news. But I can’t focus. Jane’s rarely late. Six is late for her. If she’s ever later, she texts me.
At 6.20pm I text her, asking her where she is. I sit through the sports report, but when there’s no response I check that the message sent. I wait through the weather report, then check the reception on my phone—three out of five bars. Sometimes, the carrier jams up, regardless of what the reception’s showing. I restart the phone. Still nothing as the current affairs show following the news begins. I consider sending her another text, then decide to call her, but as I’m about to select her name from the favourites, her response arrives:
Car wouldn’t start. The guys pushed it to garage. Getting lift home now.
How considerate of the guys. I squash down the bitterness. Perfectly logical explanation for her tardiness. It’s another one of those things where previously, I wouldn’t have thought twice. In fact, I would’ve been thankful for the guys, since what I know about cars could fit on the nub of my pencil.
But now I visualise one of the guys as being the owner of the condom. He’s already moved in on Jane, already fucking her, and is now relieving me of my other duties, helping her out when I should be.
The fears tangle around me until I can’t extricate myself. This has blown out of all proportion. All because of that stupid condom. For a moment, I relish obliviousness—it would be fine for her to do what the hell she wants as long as I don’t know. But that’s an ugly rationalisation.
I’d rather know, for better or worse.
But I’d rather take her at her word.
I text Jane over the next fifteen minutes, throw out suggestions for dinner I know she won’t want—heavy stuff like steak and pasta. We settle on pizza. It’s not that dinner’s that important. It could wait until she gets home.
It’s the thought of her chatting with whoever’s driving her home—joking, laughing. I don’t want her to have that repartee. I know it’s stupid. I try to reason my way through the irrationality in my head. She probably has that repartee all day at work. But that is work. Her being driven home crosses boundaries.
/> Even that’s stupid.
I sit on the couch in the dining room, by the front windows, and tap a foot on the carpet. Wallace jumps up onto the couch, curls up on my lap. I scratch him behind his left ear. His eyes close as he enjoys the sensation. I go from scratching him to stroking his fur. He sighs contentedly.
A car approaches. After living in the street for as long as we have, I recognise the sounds of all the neighbours’ cars. I twist—Wallace awakes and looks at me reproachfully—so I can pry open the blinds and peek out.
There’s Vic, watering his lawn. Then a big blue Ford pulls into the drive. Jane’s in the passenger seat, Kai in the driver’s seat. He says something and they laugh. She reaches across to him. I don’t see what her hand does. The movement suggests she’s put her hand on him—hopefully just on his arm, the way you do when somebody’s being funny.
Oh, you crack me up!
She gets out of the car. Kai reverses out of the drive.
Vic says something to Jane. She smiles politely. I scowl. Vic says something else. It must be a joke the way he grins. This time, Jane forces a laugh, the way you would when you’re humouring somebody. Vic leans back to admire her figure as she walks to the front door. I seethe, and for a moment forget what I’m doing.
Jane’s key hits the lock.
I hurtle across to the study, grab my sketchpad and stick it on my lap.
Wallace comes bolting in, stands alert at the door looking at me, trying to work out if this is some game. Then he disappears as the front door opens. Moments later, he’s back, heralding Jane’s entrance. She drops her handbag inside the doorway.
‘Hey,’ I say.
Jane nods at the blank page. ‘That picture not coming?’
I shake my head. ‘What’s with the car?’
‘Electrical system or something. It was lucky—another thirty seconds, and everybody would’ve left.’
‘You do have me, you know.’
‘You know what I mean. Henry, Barry, and Kai pushed the car to the garage. Don’t know how long it’ll take. Mechanic said hopefully Friday.’