by Les Zig
‘How’d you get home?’
Jane pauses. Maybe she saw me at the window. ‘Kai drove me,’ she says. ‘Did you order pizza?’
I open my mouth to respond, then don’t.
‘You forgot?’
‘Sorry, I got caught up.’
‘With your blank page?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘I don’t suppose you took the sheets out of the washing machine?’
I press my lips together, to show speaking would incriminate me.
‘You know, the world goes on outside your non-existent artwork there.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I …’
But she’s already a blur out of the study.
Later, we sit on the couch, one of Jane’s reality shows on television. A pizza box lies open on the coffee table. We both drink water—a habit from when we first began saving for IVF, and soft drink, juice, or alcohol, were deemed too big an expense. Wallace sits at our feet, awaiting scraps of ham from the pizza.
‘You’re going to have to take me to work tomorrow morning,’ Jane says.
‘It’ll have to be early so I can get back for the morning staff meeting. I’ve …’ I stop. I was about to say, I’ve missed both this week. But Jane doesn’t know that. ‘I’ve got to be on time because Stuart’s so anal.’
‘If that means you have to drop me in at work at eight-fifteen or eight-thirty, that’s okay. I have work to do.’
‘You really want to go in that early?’
‘What choice is there?’
There’s no direct train line to Jane’s work and the morning buses are roundabout and filled with schoolkids. My Fiesta’s a manual, and Jane can only drive automatic. She’s right—there is no choice, and yet I can’t help wondering if there’s a reason she wants to get to work earlier. I can’t stop the thought.
‘You can take me in,’ she says, ‘then get me about five?’
‘Okay … Shit, I’m meant to have drinks with Luke tomorrow after school.’
‘Since when?’
‘I texted him today—you know, because Stephen said Luke wanted to catch up. I didn’t expect him to respond.’ I reach for my phone. ‘I’ll cancel.’
Jane grabs my wrist. ‘It’s fine. One of the guys can bring me home.’
‘Isn’t it out of their way?’
‘Kai’s out this way.’ She drops the crust of her pizza slice into the box, picks up some stray ham that’s fallen on the couch, and drops that in the box, too. She checks for any other pizza shreds, then goes to the kitchen sink, and washes her hands. I take the ham and hold it out for Wallace. He wolfs it down.
‘Don’t encourage him,’ Jane says.
‘You talking to me or Wallace?’ I ask.
She harrumphs and shakes her head. ‘How was Beth today?’
‘She wasn’t at school.’
‘No?’ Jane comes and sits back on the couch.
‘I’m worried. She was meant to confront Roger yesterday.’
‘You think something happened?’
I shrug.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised with him. I bet he’s got a temper. You call Beth?’
‘Yeah, rang out. Stuart said she had gastro.’
‘There you go then.’ Jane wriggles up against me.
‘Stuart said it was Roger who called.’
Jane looks up sharply. ‘That is weird. You’ll see her tomorrow, so you can ask her then.’
‘Yeah.’
Jane puts her head on my shoulder.
Nothing for a bit as we watch television. I recoil from all the lies I’ve told. I should’ve told the truth—I was concerned about Beth and called around to see if she was okay. But it’s the reason for the urgency I had to talk to Beth that undermines me. I’m worried it’ll come out, and then I won’t know where we go from there, especially after this morning.
‘How long will you be with Luke tomorrow?’ Jane asks.
‘A couple of hours, I guess.’
‘Don’t drink too much.’
‘I won’t.’ I think about her being driven home tomorrow, laughing in the car with Kai, or whoever. ‘How about we grab dinner there?’
She lifts her head. ‘At The Andion?’
I shrug.
‘How many times are we going to go out to dinner this week? Monday, it was with Stephen and Renée. Friday it’s with Sarah and her latest.’
‘This’ll just be us.’
‘It’ll just be us on Saturday.’
I forgot about the anniversary dinner.
‘Yeah, but that’s like … an event,’ I say. ‘This can be something to do. Maybe you can get dropped off.’
‘We’re meant to be saving for IVF.’
‘One dinner’s not the end of the world.’
‘We keep saying that—do you notice?’
‘Do we?’
‘We’re not putting enough away. We spend too much on frivolous stuff.’
‘Okay, I just thought as far as tomorrow went, it’d be convenient.’
The bridge of Jane’s nose wrinkles into two lines as she thinks about it. ‘Tomorrow, and that’s it,’ she says. ‘Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘We have to be more frugal.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘Are you humouring me?’
‘No. I’m agreeing.’
‘I think it’s amounting to the same thing.’
‘Never.’
She pouts before resting her head back on my shoulder. We watch more reality TV. I hate it, although there’s an addictiveness about it. You keep meaning to tear yourself away, but never end up doing it—the things that are bad for you are the hardest to give up.
‘I’m sorry about today,’ I say.
Jane rubs my chest. ‘It’s okay.’
We fall quiet and watch television.
Wednesday
12
We get up forty-five minutes earlier than usual and yawn through our morning ritual. Only Wallace is unaffected. He joins us for breakfast, then goes out through his doggy door to chase some magpies from the lawn.
It’s 8.00am when we lock up the house. There’s nobody else out. It’s too early for the neighbourhood routine. It’s too early for us. We’ve never done this run before so we want plenty of leeway. It’s especially important for me. I can’t miss another morning staff meeting. And I also want to talk to Beth—not just about my own stuff, but about why she missed school yesterday. I hope she’s okay.
We get into the car and I start the engine and drop my sun visor. While it’s another beautiful day with barely a cloud in the sky, I’m tired of the heat.
‘I wish we could go back to sleep,’ Jane says with a yawn and leans onto my shoulder.
I pull off the nature strip and onto the road.
‘I want you to wear your charcoal suit on Sunday morning,’ Jane says.
‘Sunday morning?’
‘The picture.’
‘Oh, yeah, of course.’
Our annual anniversary picture. I’d forgotten about it, even though we’d talked about the anniversary dinner last night. The whole day’s an event for Jane—a reaffirmation of our marriage. It makes me feel good that she’s still so caught up in it, that she speculates about what she’ll wear and how she’ll do her hair. I smile a tight, wry smile. In the rear-view mirror, it looks like I’m struggling to hold back tears.
I haven’t even bought a gift yet either. I should do that today. I’m meant to have yard duty at lunch, but if I can swap it maybe I can duck to the plaza and buy her something. I could ask Beth to come, get a woman’s opinion. What is the seventh anniversary anyway? I have no idea.
‘So what do you think?’ Jane asks.
‘About what?’ I haven’t registered a word she’s said. We’re on High Street now, passing an endless line of shopfronts and cafes.
‘I asked you if I should wear that frilly red dress on Saturday night, or the tight black one. You weren’t listening.’
‘Why do you
ask me?’
‘Because I’m interested in your opinion.’
‘And then you go make your own decision anyway.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘You do.’
‘I’m asking your opinion now.’
‘I like the tight black one.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it makes your butt look good.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
Jane seems pleased by that. Then: ‘So my butt doesn’t look good otherwise?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘But you said the black dress makes my butt look good. So how does it look when the black dress isn’t making it look good?’
I pause. Mines, everywhere. ‘Your butt always looks good. The black dress highlights it. The red dress is loose, so it doesn’t. That’s all I meant.’
‘But the red dress gives me cleavage.’
‘How about we just go naked? Then you’ll have your cleavage and your butt.’
‘Don’t be snide.’
‘I’m not being snide. You look good in whatever you wear. You decide.’
‘Is this how you handle your kids?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No, the kids listen to me.’
Jane laughs. She has always been able to take a joke, even at her own expense.
‘Maybe I’ll buy something new,’ she says.
‘We’re meant to be saving, aren’t we?’
‘I guess, but there are some great stores down here. And I’d like to be in something different, something you haven’t seen me in before.’
‘Like?’
‘Something different for this anniversary. Seventh anniversary is wool, or copper. Maybe I’ll get something in wool.’
‘That’ll be fun in this heat.’
‘Good point. Any suggestions?’
‘Surprise me.’
‘Maybe I will.’
We reach Web Myriad. It’s on the third floor of a three-storey shopfront. Web Myriad itself looks great—it’s entirely glass, and wouldn’t be out of place in some affluent business district. But the first two floors are red brick with narrow windows. A neon sign on the first floor says Redux Travel. There’s nothing identifying the second floor. It used to be an accountancy business.
‘What’s on the second floor now?’ I ask.
‘It’s for lease.’
‘Wasn’t it—’
‘Adams Accounting. Rent went up and they couldn’t afford to stay.’
‘So where are they now?’
‘Found cheaper offices somewhere. Even Henry and the guys on the first floor are complaining about the rent.’
‘So it’s vacant?’
‘Henry says the landlord claims he’s got lawyers who’ll be moving in.’
‘Lawyers?’
‘Yep.’
I pull into a side street leading to the narrow parking lot that services many of the businesses in the area. At this time of the morning—the clock on my dash says 8.17—it’s almost empty. All but for Kai’s big blue Ford.
‘Whose car’s that?’ I ask, as if I didn’t know.
‘Kai’s. He gave me the lift yesterday. There was a problem with one of the frontends he built, so he’s been coming in earlier to work on it.’
‘Oh.’
I think of Jane in the office with Kai for forty minutes before the official working day starts—not that that really matters. I don’t know if Henry and Barry are there during the day or what goes on.
Jane undoes her seatbelt, leans across and kisses me on the lips. ‘I’ll see you tonight,’ she says as she opens her door.
‘Okay. Hey?’ I dart across and force my mouth onto hers. She pulls back initially. My tongue pushes her lips open and she meets me in the kiss. She tastes like coffee. My left hand cups her breast. I can feel the lace of her bra through the silk of her shirt.
‘What was that for?’ Jane says when we break apart.
‘Just because.’
‘You need better timing,’ she says. She kisses me on the lips. ‘Love you.’
‘Love you,’ I say.
She gets out of the car, closes the door, then walks to the back door of Web Myriad. It leads into a small foyer. A doorway leads through to Redux, there’s an elevator, and a stairwell that zigzags up to the other two floors.
Jane pulls the glass door open and goes in. As she moves to the first step of the stairs, I can still see her. She must be able to see me, too, because she waves.
Then she jogs up the stairs and disappears from my sight.
Driving away from Web Myriad, the sense that I’ve sacrificed Jane grows until I want to go back and get her.
But I don’t.
13
I sit in my car parked outside Sofia’s.
It’s 8.44. Kids walk past. I identify Bianca, walking like she doesn’t have a care in the world—or if she does, like those cares don’t affect her. I think about Wallace. He sees a magpie, he chases it, he moves on. But I can’t. I should be at school, sitting in the stupid staff meeting.
A knock on my window startles me. It’s Jean Jacket. I don’t move. He knocks again. I wind down the window.
‘You a cop?’ he says.
‘What?’
‘You a cop?’
Under his jean jacket, he wears a T-shirt tucked into his jeans. Everything’s too tight to be concealing a weapon.
‘Because if you are and I ask you, you have to tell me.’
His face is lined, aged prematurely, although there’s still something handsome about him, something almost dignified. His hair reminds me of Roger’s—scruffy in a way that’s fashionable. Drug dealers and lawyers, they’re the only ones who can manage it.
‘So you a cop?’ he asks again. His eyes are bright blue—I would’ve imagined they’d be bloodshot or have bags. He looks in better condition than me.
Despite the absurdity of the situation, my logical mind—the hyper-analysis I’ve been experiencing all week—kicks in. ‘You know, I don’t think that’s true,’ I say. ‘I don’t think I’d have to tell you if you asked me.’
‘So you are a cop?’
‘No!’
‘Then why are you telling me that?’
‘I’m just … saying.’
‘Just saying?’
‘Yeah.’
Jean Jacket snorts. ‘What are you then?’
‘What do you mean, what am I?’
‘Why are you sitting here?’
‘I’m a school teacher.’
‘A school teacher?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why does a school teacher sit in his car?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
I shrug.
‘I’ve seen you sitting here a few times this week.’ Jean Jacket folds his arms across his chest. ‘Got a problem?’
I almost laugh. This is who’s going to counsel me—a drug dealer.
‘I’m … thinking, okay?’ I say.
‘Okay, okay.’ Jean Jacket looks around. ‘Can I get you something, school teacher?’
He’s toying with me. My vulnerability is a plaything for him—if it’s indeed vulnerability. The way I skulk around Jane, my need to consult Beth or Luke, maybe it’s not vulnerability but cowardice. I don’t like that possibility.
‘Why’re you doing this?’ I ask.
Leon appears in the doorway of Sofia’s. I want to call out to him.
‘What am I doing?’ Jean Jacket asks.
Leon heads back into Sofia’s.
‘This,’ I say.
‘What is this?’
I slide the window back up.
‘Come on!’ Jean Jacket says.
I start the car, pull out of my parking spot—almost rear-ending an approaching car—and drive to school.
14
I arrive at school as the bell’s ringing and I’m the last one into my Year 8 English class. Some of the Yea
r 8s admonish me in that cheeky way they think is funny, so I force a smile at them.
After class, I find Stuart waiting in the hallway, one foot drumming the floor. Perhaps banality has a beat.
‘I’m sorry, Stuart,’ I say. ‘It really couldn’t be helped. My wife’s car broke down.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ He doesn’t have to know that it broke down yesterday. ‘I had to drive her to work and then drive back.’
‘Casper, you’ve missed three morning staff meetings in a row. Let me say, I’m dubious about your ongoing excuses.’
‘They’re not excuses, they’re reasons.’
Stuart is unmoved, like he’s trying to work out whether there really is a distinction there. His glasses slide down his nose a little. Kids check us out as they hurry to their next classes. Stuart’s such a bastard for accosting me like this in front of them. He should’ve waited until recess.
‘There’s not a single problem with the rest of my work, is there?’ I ask.
‘No—other than for the noisy classroom.’
I knew he’d bring that up, and I want to shove it back down his throat.
‘And I was at the Tuesday after-school meeting.’
‘Casper. I am just concerned. About you.’
No, he’s concerned about the school. I’m one of the tiny screws that hold it together. He’s trying to work out if I’m becoming faulty—not if I’ve become faulty, just if I’m on my way.
The hallways are empty now. All the kids are in their next classes, which means there’s a classroom minus me. Stuart should be sending me on my way quick smart, but he’s showing no urgency to resolve this.
‘It’s really an amazing string of coincidences that I haven’t been able to attend the morning meetings.’
‘I see.’ He doesn’t.
‘It won’t happen again.’
‘You told me that yesterday.’
‘I promise.’
He pushes his glasses back up his nose with his middle finger—like he’s giving me the finger. But Stuart wouldn’t do that. I don’t think.
‘I am taking you at your word,’ he says.
‘You’ll see.’
‘You better get moving,’ he says. ‘You’re late for your next class.’