Just Another Week in Suburbia

by Les Zig

I don’t bother answering that.

  When the bell rings to end second period, I stuff my things into my bag. I have two quests to fulfil during recess. One: I have to ask Shirley if she’ll swap my yard duty at lunch today with hers tomorrow; two: I have to ask Beth if she’ll accompany me at lunchtime to help pick out a gift for Jane. But when I step out of the classroom, Maya is waiting for me.

  ‘Mr Gray, can I speak to you?’ she says.

  I want to move on, but don’t want to refuse a student’s request—particularly Maya’s, since she always tries so hard.

  ‘Sure, Maya. What is it?’

  ‘Can we go back inside the classroom?’

  We do so. I lean back against the desk. Maya looks at her toes.

  ‘What is it, Maya?’

  ‘Would you …?’ Her voice trails away as she takes a sketchpad out of her bag. It’s small—only A4. She doesn’t meet my eye when she passes it across.

  I take the pad and open it to the first page, expecting gaudy teenager art, but I’m wrong.

  The pictures must be from Maya’s neighbourhood. They’re all seen through narrow windows. My impression of the first two is that they’re different views from Maya’s bedroom—an array of townhouses marching down a hill in one; a house under construction in the other, one builder on the roof, his head upturned as if he’s caught you looking at him. Others are drawn from different windows, curtains, or the pane, always offering a frame.

  There’s a surrealist quality I could never hope to mimic—not that surrealism is something I aspire to. I try to capture what’s in front of me. But the strokes of her pencil, as well as her use of shade, are exquisite. These simple everyday settings bleed with loss and sorrow.

  ‘These are wonderful, Maya.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘More than really.’

  ‘I have others at home. In a bigger pad. I’ve drawn them in charcoal.’

  ‘I’d love to see them one day. How long have you been drawing?’

  ‘Since I was old enough to hold a pencil. My parents thought it was important to develop a creative skill. I don’t think they’re very good. I don’t really like drawing.’

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  I understand pushy parents—I see them often enough. But I would kill to have had parents who’d made me pursue drawing as religiously as Maya’s parents have. She doesn’t appreciate it. But I guess that’s because it’s been forced on her.

  ‘You know, Maya, anybody can draw competently given enough practice.’ Even me. ‘But you have a gift.’ I close the sketchpad and hold it out to her. ‘It’s something you should pursue.’

  She takes the sketchpad. Her cheeks have flushed a bright red. She still can’t meet my gaze.

  ‘I’m sorry to rush out, Maya, but I really have to get going.’ I guide her to the door. ‘But that,’ I indicate the sketchpad in her hand, ‘isn’t something you should be ashamed of.’

  ‘The other kids already think I’m a nerd.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what they think.’ We’re outside the classroom now. I close the door. ‘It really only matters what you think, right?’

  She nods.

  ‘Keep drawing, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ Maya’s smile is childlike.

  ‘I’ll see you.’

  ‘Bye, Mr Gray.’

  Both Shirley and Beth are in the staff room with all the other teachers—including Stuart, who sits in a corner with a cup of coffee and the morning newspaper. His eyes are pointed at the newspaper, but I feel them on me.

  Oddly, Beth doesn’t look at me at all. She chats with Jerry Logan, the maths teacher, who’s almost as much of a windbag as Stuart, but keeps her nose buried in her exercise book, like she’s trying to hint that she wants to be left alone.

  I approach Shirley and hit her with the fact it’s my wedding anniversary on Saturday and I want to use lunchtime to buy Jane a gift. Shirley’s suckered by the emotion of the sentiment, which is when I hit her with swapping yard duties. She’s more than happy to do so. For the next five minutes, she tells me how she and her husband were married for forty-four years before lung cancer got him. She dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief. It’s now impossible to leave, and I spend the rest of recess with her as she tells me about how she and Harold lived in the same house from the day they were married and never once went to sleep angry.

  ‘That’s the key to a successful marriage, Casper,’ she says. ‘Never go to sleep angry. Thrash it out between the sheets if you have to.’

  I gape at Shirley, never associating her with sex, let alone angry, passionate sex. She laughs and pats my knee. The bell rings and the staff begrudgingly disperse. I extricate myself from Shirley like I’ve had my foot trapped under a boulder and had to gnaw it off at the ankle. I catch Beth in the hallway. It’s been getting hotter throughout the morning, but she wears a pink silk blouse with long sleeves and her armpits are damp with sweat.

  ‘Everything okay?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says, but doesn’t look at me. ‘Well …’ She shrugs. ‘To be honest, I’m a bit embarrassed about yesterday.’

  ‘I got the impression there was more happening than met the eye.’

  ‘Can we not talk about it?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Although I was going to ask you a favour.’

  We reach the art room. Beth stops at the door. Kids stream past us.

  ‘It’s my seventh wedding anniversary on Saturday. I’ve left getting a gift late. I was going to duck out at lunchtime. Would you come with me? I know what she likes, but I thought a woman’s opinion couldn’t hurt.’

  Beth sways—she wants to be gone, into the safety of her classroom, where she has control. If I’d asked last week, there wouldn’t have been a problem. Yesterday, we invested in an elephant. Now she’s worried I’m going to ask about it. But she’s my friend, and I know she wants to help.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Just …’

  ‘I understand.’

  Beth smiles. ‘Thanks.’ She pats my hand.

  My car’s been cooking in the sun and it takes forever before the air-conditioning offers any relief, its blowing the only sound as we drive up to the plaza. Beth’s unusually quiet, and constantly pulls down the cuffs of her blouse. I’ve never seen her so fidgety—or fidgety at all.

  I want to unload on her, but now’s definitely not the time, so I tell her about the weekend Jane has planned—dinner Saturday evening, spend the night at the Sheraton, Sunday morning we put the exclamation mark on the anniversary with our traditional picture.

  ‘That sounds lovely,’ she says, but her eyes brim. Telling her our plans has upset her.

  ‘We’re going to have dinner tonight at The Andion,’ I say. ‘I’m actually meeting an old friend there after school for a beer or two. Then Jane’s going to come down for dinner. You and Roger should join us. Or that’s something we could do. Dinner. As couples.’

  My attempt at a segue. She doesn’t take it.

  ‘Anyway, seems we’re always either eating out or ordering takeaway. It was pizza last night. We went to a restaurant on Monday night. Out again tonight.’ I’m babbling, trying to catch Beth in my slipstream and take her away from whatever’s on her mind. ‘Don’t know what would happen if we did end up having a baby. I don’t think either of us would know how to feed it.’

  We reach Westfield, and I pull into the parking lot. Given it’s early afternoon on a Wednesday, parking isn’t too bad. I find a spot right under a tree by the entrance we need, and kill the engine. Beth’s eyes are lowered. Her forehead glistens.

  ‘We don’t have to do this,’ I say.

  ‘What about your gift?’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of days. I can try do it after tomorrow’s after-school meeting. Or Friday. I’ll work something out.’

  ‘I don’t know if I want to be with Roger anymore,’ Beth says.

  Silence. On Monday, she wanted to get serious with him. Something’s changed her mind quick.

 
; ‘Did he hurt you?’ I ask.

  Beth shakes her head. ‘Not in the way you’re suggesting. And that doesn’t have a lot to do with why I’m thinking like this. You get to a point where you want to move forward. I almost feel like I’m Roger’s fail-safe, but he’s on the hunt for somebody better—somebody who can be the trophy he needs.’

  The car’s stifling without the air-conditioning. My T-shirt sticks to me, and my cargo pants are scratchy. Beth’s not faring any better and her hair sticks to her face.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ she says. ‘We need to get out of this car before we die of dehydration.’

  The shopping centre is chilled, and the sweat cools on my skin. It’ll be hard going back outside after this. Shoppers march past us. They’re the usual crowd to me—mostly mothers with preschool kids; some guys and girls on their lunch breaks; and teenagers in crimson uniforms from one of the nearby schools.

  ‘You want to get something to eat?’ I ask. ‘Or something to drink?’

  ‘No, let’s go shopping for you.’

  ‘We don’t have to.’

  ‘We should. Just because my relationship’s a lost cause doesn’t mean it should affect yours.’

  We go to Sunderland’s, a place Jane shops regularly for jewellery. Rows and rows of rings, earrings and necklaces sparkle in the window. They all look okay to me and although I know Jane’s taste, I don’t really know what’s suitable.

  ‘What’re you looking for?’ Beth says as we go inside. Sunderland’s is pristine, with glass counters and staff in suits. It’s like being in a museum. The air-conditioning is even cooler in here.

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘It has to be good. Jane always gets me great gifts. I always feel inferior.’

  ‘What does she like? Rings? Necklaces? Earrings? Bracelets?’ Jane doesn’t like wearing rings because she uses her hands so much for presentations at work, and flashy rings can be distracting. Necklaces are also not high priorities because they’re often lost in the shirts she wears.

  ‘Earrings or a bracelet,’ I say.

  ‘What’s your budget?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Can you give me a range?’

  ‘Five hundred or so, I guess.’

  Beth whistles. ‘Generous.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You don’t think?’

  ‘I don’t know. Jane says the seventh anniversary is wool or copper.’

  ‘You want to buy her something in copper?’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very romantic.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wool, then—how about I buy her a sheep?’

  Beth chuckles—the first joviality she’s shown. ‘That’s probably not going to do.’ She points out a bracelet. It’s a fine gold chain with a small diamond set in its nub. It’s four hundred and twenty-five dollars. ‘How about this?’

  ‘Can I see this?’ I ask the salesgirl.

  The salesgirl could just as easily have applied for a job as a mannequin, her skin alabaster and features pointed. She has an air of casual aloofness, only warming when she deems shoppers worthy. She unlocks the counter, takes out the box the bracelet is in, and holds it aloft. I reach for it and she pulls it back, like she’s afraid I’m going to pollute it.

  ‘Can I see it?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course,’ she says, though her tone says something different. She doesn’t want us to touch it. I can only imagine how we look—sweaty, dressed casually as we are. She’s concluded we’re window-shoppers. We aren’t worthy.

  I pick up the bracelet, but Beth takes it from me. ‘It’s gorgeous,’ she says. She holds it above her right wrist, modelling it. Peeking out from under the cuff of her sleeve, running across her wrist, is a bruise. I wonder if it goes all the way around. Beth quickly drops her arm, letting her sleeve fall over her wrist.

  I pull out my wallet, take out my credit card, and give it to the salesgirl like I’m doing no more than paying for groceries. ‘I’ll take it,’ I say.

  ‘You will?’ If her face could register shock, I’m sure it would now.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  The salesgirl runs my credit card through the scanner as Beth places the bracelet back in its box. I can see bruising on the top of Beth’s left wrist, too. She’s used make-up to try to cover it, but it’s there.

  ‘Love how you shop,’ Beth says.

  ‘I like it, you like it, why wait?’

  I punch in my pin. The salesgirl closes the box and puts it in a Sunderland’s bag. She hands it to Beth, her eyes flitting to Beth’s wrists. One finely plucked brow shoots up. She thinks I’ve done this to Beth and that the jewellery is a bribe.

  ‘I’m sure your wife will love it,’ the salesgirl says as she hands me the receipt.

  ‘I’m not his wife,’ Beth says.

  ‘Oh, of course.’ The salesgirl’s gaze strays to my wedding band.

  Beth gives me an awkward embrace—well, it’s fine on her behalf, as she grabs me side-on and nuzzles her cheek against my shoulder, but I go rigid. She feels soft and warm and totally inappropriate against me.

  ‘We’re having a tawdry affair,’ Beth says.

  The salesgirl frowns, trying to work out whether it’s the truth or whether Beth’s making fun of her. Beth smiles back at her.

  ‘Thanks,’ Beth says. ‘Let’s go, honey.’

  I take my Sunderland’s bag and shove it in the side pocket of my cargo pants as Beth grabs me by the hand and leads me out.

  We have about half an hour before lunch finishes, so we go to the food court and each grab a hot dog and Coke from Donut King. Then we sit down to eat, although I keep looking at Beth’s wrists and hope she doesn’t notice.

  ‘What was that about?’ I ask.

  ‘That bitch already thought we were having an affair,’ Beth says. ‘How do people get the way they are?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘We all have our faults and stuff. But somebody like that, she’s just fault.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s got a crowd where she fits in, and we’re faults to them.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  We finish our hot dogs and I try to find something to say that won’t upset Beth, but all I can think about is Jane and me, Beth and Roger.

  ‘You keep looking at my wrists,’ Beth says.

  I don’t say anything, and force myself to look at her.

  ‘On Monday night Roger and I argued—the worst we ever have. It didn’t get much better on Tuesday morning. Then he went to work for the morning because he had a meeting. I think by the afternoon I’d decided to leave him. But his attitude changed. He promised to look at getting serious, although I think that’s only because he realised he pushed me too far.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘He wants to talk more today. I don’t know that I should give him the chance. But part of me wants to because, well, I do love him.’ Beth takes a deep breath, then asks, ‘You don’t like Roger, do you?’

  I start thinking of a diplomatic way to answer this.

  ‘You can be truthful.’

  ‘You see something in him.’

  ‘I want to be like you and Jane. It’s sweet you’re shopping for an anniversary gift. I’m sure she’s got you something, too. Then you make an event of it. I want that. But I don’t know if Roger will ever become that.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have to sacrifice the person you are for your partner.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘We all make compromises in relationships. Jane’s a neat freak, so I can’t leave my clothes lying around or dishes in the sink the way I did before we were married. But if she wanted to change something about me, or wanted things I didn’t want, then we’d be useless together.’ If we haven’t become so.

  ‘I need time to think about this.’

  ‘What happened to your wrists, Beth?’

  ‘We should get back to school.’


  ‘If you need to talk, you can ring me or text me—I hope you know that.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  On the drive back to school, Beth asks me about taking her art class yesterday. I tell her what I did, then remark that Maya showed me some of her drawings, which were extraordinary. Beth agrees that from what she’s seen in class, Maya’s got talent, and suggests Maya must have a crush on me to show me her work. I scoff. The conversation goes on like this—forced and superficial.

  Beth’s told me as much as she will about Roger and her wrists.

  For now.

  15

  After school, I have bus duty. I lean against the fence, sweating, thinking I’d love to go home, have a shower, and maybe pull on some shorts. At least The Andion will be air-conditioned. The kids are oblivious to the heat—most still in full uniform, some even in blazers.

  I’m there for half an hour, supervising the loading of four buses. Other kids walk home, or drift off in the direction of The Corner where they congregate to smoke cigarettes or—for those lucky enough—make out.

  Then I hurry to the parking lot. I almost hope to see Beth, so I can offer her some encouragement, or reiterate my offer that she can call on me if she needs to. But she’s well gone. I wonder how she’ll go with Roger. It’s sad that her act to affirm the relationship has turned out like this.

  My car is roasting and the steering wheel too hot to hold. I start the engine and put the air-conditioning on full. Hot, stale air blows in my face.

  Another couple of minutes and I’ll have a beer in my hand.

  The Andion’s a squat brown building that’s been around for decades, although sections of it have recently been refurbished. The pub itself is split in three: the bistro, which has a patio; a gaming room; and the pub, which opens up onto a cobblestoned beer garden. There’s parking at the front and back.

  The rear lot has trees planted intermittently to provide shade. I find one and pull up under it. When I get out of the car, I see parked across the street a battered red van, although the passenger door—which must’ve been replaced—is blue.

  Jean Jacket leans casually against the driver’s door, like he’s posing for a cigarette commercial. As I make my way to the door of The Andion, my vantage point improves and I see Bianca striding away from him. Jean Jacket calls something unintelligible after her and grins. She casts a glance over her shoulder, totally unafraid, smiles, and hollers something—two words I’m sure I can lip-read.