Just Another Week in Suburbia

by Les Zig

  This is marriage. That’s what goes through my mind. Like when I had the food poisoning a few weeks ago. Relationships are pretty when you first get into them. Everything’s pristine. But as you go on, those unattractive everyday things—like Jane standing over me as I vomit uncontrollably into a toilet—dull the lustre. Maybe that’s why an affair is so appealing, because it’s unsullied.

  Eventually—I’m not sure how long it is—I get up. The floor’s still unsteady and I stumble back into the bedroom. Because the clock radio’s been knocked over, I can’t tell what time it is.

  I fall onto the bed, curl into a foetal ball, and pull the covers over me.

  I put one arm on the empty half of the bed and close my eyes.

  32

  I’m sure I don’t go back to sleep, but the next thing I know daylight’s streaming through the window.

  I yawn, sit up in bed, and pull the clock radio up by its power cord. The time’s 7.03am.

  On any other weekend, I’d lie back down. But I don’t want the stillness. I don’t want my mind open and receptive to everything. I need to keep occupied. There’s also the stench of vomit that drifts in from the bathroom. That’s going to have to be cleaned up.

  I get out of bed, walk to the window and look out. Not a cloud in the sky. The pool in Vic’s backyard draws my eye. It’d be a beautiful day to lounge poolside with a beer in hand. Or go to the beach. Or do anything other than confront the day that’s going to be my world.

  I put on my robe, leave the bedroom and am halfway down the stairwell with the intention of feeding Wallace when I remember he’s not here. As soon as it hits 9.00, I’ll ring the vet and see what’s happening. I wonder how he went overnight.

  I wonder how Jane went.

  I go back to the bedroom, grab some shorts and a T-shirt, then go to my bathroom to shower.

  After showering, I go downstairs, stand in the dining room, momentarily at a loss as to what comes next. The paper bag Jane put on the kitchen counter last night is still there. I ignore it. Or try to. I turn away from the kitchen. I’m not hungry.

  I sit on the couch, unsure what to do. My usual Saturday morning routine is to walk Wallace, try and draw, read the newspaper, watch a bit of TV, and maybe surf the net. But those things don’t appeal to me. I should clean Jane’s bathroom of my vomit. But that’s not something I want to face yet either.

  So I sit there. I have to break the day into signposts to survive. The next one is 9.00am, when I can ring the vet to check on Wallace.

  After that, I don’t know.

  I lie on the couch and clench my phone in my hands, willing Jane to contact me. I don’t know what she’d say—maybe she’d want to talk, want to explain why. Maybe she’d tell me she wants a divorce because she’s leaving me for Kai.

  Anything would be better than nothing.

  At 9.00, I grab the landline that sits on the kitchen counter and call the vet. My eyes fall on Jane’s paper bag. The phone continues to ring. An automated message answers, reciting the times of the clinic. I hang up, thinking I’ll give it a minute before I call again, but decide to hell with it, grab my keys, and drive over there.

  The veterinary nurse, Rebecca, has a smattering of freckles and a big toothy smile that must assure every pet owner who comes in here. She’s surprised to see me and tells me they’re prepping Wallace for surgery. I ask to see him and she takes me out the back where Wallace lies on a cot.

  His tail spirals and he lifts his head when he sees me. There’s a moment where I’m sure he’s going to try to get up. I hurry across and pat his side, making sure that he doesn’t. He licks my hand, probably in gratitude.

  Dr Dudek comes in. ‘Casper,’ she says, ‘what’re you doing here?’

  ‘I thought I’d see him before he went in.’

  Dr Dudek rubs my arm. ‘He’ll be okay. We’ll call you in the afternoon.’

  ‘I could wait.’

  ‘You could. But I’m sure you’ve got things to do.’

  I can’t tell her my world’s collapsed.

  ‘Go home, do whatever you’ve got to do,’ she says. ‘We’ll call you. Okay?’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  Dr Dudek rubs Wallace under the chin. ‘Ready, champ?’

  Wallace’s spiralling tail slows.

  ‘Okay,’ Dr Dudek says, ‘here goes.’

  She wheels Wallace out. He watches me until he’s out the door.

  I don’t want to drive back to an empty house and since I should have breakfast, I drive to The Corner. Lots of people are out because it’s a Saturday morning, so there’s no parking. I end up in The Andion’s lot, and even debate going in for a beer, although it’s only 9.30. No. Definitely not the path to take. I go with my original intention, cross the road, and order a latte and a chocolate donut from Sofia’s.

  Caroline smiles as she fixes me the latte. Usually, I’d find a table and one of the waitresses would bring out my order, but while Sofia’s has a decent morning crowd, there’s nobody in the queue behind me, so Caroline does me the courtesy of fixing my order on the spot.

  ‘You’re out and about early for a Saturday morning,’ she says.

  I hold up my hands as if to say, What’re you going to do?

  ‘How’s Jane?’ she asks.

  ‘Our dog broke his leg,’ I say, almost robotically.

  ‘What? That’s horrible. How did that happen?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I came home and it was broken. The vet’s going to operate. Put plates in.’

  ‘They do that for dogs?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘I hope he’s okay.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She finishes fixing the latte, slides it across the counter. She grabs some tongs, picks up a donut and puts it on a plate.

  ‘Where’s Leon?’ I ask before she can return to Jane.

  ‘He plays golf on Saturday mornings.’

  I give her the money for the latte and donut.

  ‘You know how it is.’ She gets my change.

  ‘I know how it is?’

  ‘When you’re married. You each have those things you do.’

  Or people you do.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say.

  ‘Keeps you sane.’

  ‘Keeps you something, all right.’

  She gives me my change, we trade goodbyes, and I grab my latte and donut. I slip into the corner of the cafe, to the table Beth and I shared on Monday, sit down, stir my latte, and take a bite from my donut. It’s too sweet and I have to force myself to chew and swallow. It isn’t a very good breakfast choice. Neither’s the latte. I barely drink coffee. This is something Jane would have for breakfast.

  I take out my phone, rest it on the table.

  What I should do is find out where Kai lives and kick the crap out of him. That’d be the typical husband reaction. Somehow, he corrupted Jane. He seduced her. She’s innocent in this. Although that’s wishful thinking. It takes two to fuck. And regardless of how it started—even if yesterday was the one and only time they did it—she got involved.

  I put my phone in my pocket, get up and go.

  My latte remains untouched, my donut with a single bite missing.

  It’s really warming up outside. I sweat as I cross the road and stride into The Andion’s parking lot. I should buy some beer to take home, but don’t want to lose control. I won’t fall into the same trap my dad did. I should go about my day. The onus isn’t on me. It’s on Jane. She cheated on me. She left. I’m in the house. If she plans to stay away, at some point she’ll need clothes and things.

  Of course, if she takes that route—if she comes to collect her things and that’s the end of it—then fuck her.

  Fuck her anyway.

  I stop when I enter The Andion’s parking lot. Jean Jacket leans on the driver’s door of my car. He’s still in his jean jacket, despite the heat. I walk on, get my keys out.

  ‘Hey, buddy,’ he says. ‘Shit news about that school girl, huh?’

  ‘Yeah.’


  ‘Cops talked to me about her. You put them onto me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The other day, when we saw each other … You tell the cops I was harassing her?’

  My hand tightens around my keys. ‘Look, I don’t know why you do this to me, but I can’t do it right now.’

  ‘Do this? Do what?’

  ‘This. This.’ I gesture at him, at me, then back and forth again.

  ‘What? What?’ He mirrors my gesture.

  ‘This thing we have … between you and I.’

  ‘You and me.’

  ‘This. Dammit.’

  ‘Man, you’re really uptight.’

  I shove my key into the lock of my door.

  Jean Jacket reaches into his pocket and pulls out what I initially think is a rolled-up cigarette—but of course it’s not. He thrusts it in my face.

  ‘Joint?’

  ‘No thanks.’ I unlock my door.

  ‘It’ll take the edge off.’

  I open my door. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘It’s something to relax.’

  ‘No.’

  He pulls something out of his other pocket with his free hand—it’s a small transparent bag containing capsules. ‘Uppers?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get you up.’

  ‘Get me up?’

  ‘Happy. You seem a little bleak.’

  I begin to slide into the driver’s seat, but he grabs my shoulder, pinning me against the car. I throw my hands up, although I’m unsure why—whether in surrender, or whether in self-defence. Even my own brain hasn’t synchronised to the reflex. But there must be something about me—eyes wide, flaring nostrils, jaw tensed as my mouth draws into a thin line—because Jean Jacket’s hand pulls back.

  He smiles, nods, maybe in approval. ‘You should stand up for yourself more.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll take that under advisement.’ I slide into my car, slam the door shut. The heat in the car is stifling. I roll down the window. Jean Jacket leans against the door, his face poking in the open window the way a friend might when they’re about to see you off.

  ‘Come on, you must want something,’ he says. ‘Everybody wants something.’

  ‘I don’t want anything.’

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out all these baggies, each of them containing something different. ‘Something to relax?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Something to hallucinate?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Something to get you full of energy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Something to make you forget?’

  I pause, but it’s only for a millisecond—long enough for me to think about how nice it would be if I could un-know all this. Jean Jacket notices because even though I reflexively tell him no, he’s right on me.

  ‘So you want to forget?’ He grins. His teeth are perfect, and the seediness leaves his face. He holds up a bag of white pills. ‘How about these? One of these and you won’t know anything.’

  ‘Nothing. Thank you.’

  Jean Jacket thrusts another baggy into my face, one that contains triangular blue pills. ‘Viagra?’ he asks.

  ‘What the fuck am I going to do with Viagra?’

  Jean Jacket is unblinking and the smile fades, until he’s earnest—somebody sharing a confidence. ‘Have some sex. Sex never hurt anyone.’

  I start the car. ‘Wanna bet?’

  33

  As I approach home, I see Chloe getting out of her car. She’s in her nurse’s uniform. I consider driving past, but she looks over her shoulder and sees me.

  I slow the car, but she shows no indication of going into her house. Naturally. So I pull into my drive, slowly reverse onto my nature strip, brace myself, and get out.

  ‘Hi, Casper,’ she says.

  Her hair’s tied in its usual topknot ponytail, and her shoulders are upright. She looks bright and perky so, for a moment, I’m sure I’ve read that situation wrong—she hasn’t just come home, but is preparing to leave for work.

  ‘I heard about what happened with Vic,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s …’ What? It’s not okay. It’s deplorable. There’s no etiquette here. ‘I have to get going.’

  ‘Wait, Casper. Wait.’

  I stop, but don’t face her.

  ‘I am going to have Vic apologise to you.’

  ‘No!’ I spin back. ‘God no.’

  Chloe’s taken aback.

  ‘I appreciate the thought, but the last thing I need is you fighting my battles.’

  Chloe unbuttons the top buttons of her shirt. ‘I understand; I’m sorry. It shouldn’t be a battle, and I understand a lot of this is Vic’s fault—his temper. All this over a little dog.’

  I hold up my hands, as if to say, Well, he’s your husband. ‘I should go.’

  Chloe cocks her head, pointing an ear towards my garage. ‘He with Jane?’

  ‘What? Who? Vic?’

  ‘Wallace. He barks when you get home. It’s quiet. He’s not home?’

  ‘Didn’t Vic tell you why we argued?’

  ‘About Wallace coming into our yard.’

  I hmph. ‘It was a little more than that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe you should talk to him about that.’

  ‘I will—when he gets home. He went into work today.’ She looks up at the sky, and unbuttons a third button on her shirt. I’m sure I catch a glimpse of something maroon and lacy. ‘It’s going to be a beautiful day. It’d be a shame to be indoors. Maybe I’ll sit out by the pool for a little bit.’

  ‘That sounds …’

  She unbuttons a fourth button—one button too far for modesty (if the third wasn’t already), although the lapels of her shirt remained sealed. ‘You should come for a swim one day.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You, Jane, me, Vic—maybe we can all sort this out. I don’t like this friction. I want us to be good neighbours.’

  ‘Good neighbours?’

  ‘Great neighbours—the sort who do things together. I’ve told Jane that when we’ve gone to the movies.’

  I open my mouth because that’s what you do when you want to respond to somebody, but I have nothing to say.

  ‘If nothing else, you should feel free to come over—enjoy our pool.’

  ‘Enjoy your pool?’ My voice is hoarse.

  ‘It can get hot. And if you see me splashing around, feel free to join me.’

  Again, that same offer. ‘I … should get going.’ I thrust a thumb back to my front door.

  ‘Sure. Have a good day, Casper.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  We start up the respective paths to our respective front doors.

  ‘Oh, Casper!’

  I turn. Chloe smiles at me.

  ‘Don’t forget my offer,’ she says.

  She twirls coquettishly while I stumble for the appropriate response, and disappears into her house.

  I make myself a tea, gulp down a glass of orange juice, and force myself to eat two slices of toast. Jane’s paper bag still sits on the kitchen counter. It’s stupid, but the way the paper’s crinkled, it looks like a face watching me. I shy away from it, contemplate Chloe’s offer.

  Signs are never something I’ve been good at reading, but I’m sure Chloe hit on me—twice. The first time she tried to redeem her offer of a swim by claiming to be neighbourly and including Vic and Jane in the invitation. Was that an advance also? I don’t know. I think of the amateur porn Vic was watching when I went over last night. Maybe they have an open relationship. Maybe they’re swingers. Maybe they’re into group things? Who knows what goes on behind their closed doors? I can’t straighten things out in my head. And as far as Chloe goes, I’ve never understood how she can be married to Vic—or how anybody could—but who knows how and why couples become couples?

  For a moment—or perhaps two or three moments—I entertain the notion of dropping around to her place. It’s false bravado, but I can dream. It’d be
just me and Chloe. We’d chat poolside, flirt, it would be payback against Jane, and a screw you to Vic.

  I wash my dishes, then decide it’s about time I undertake the ugly job of cleaning Jane’s bathroom.

  I grab a bucket, fill it with hot water and detergent, and carry it and the mop upstairs. The landing smells of vomit. It’s worse in the bedroom, and in the bathroom it’s so thick that I gag and have to lift the collar of my T-shirt over my nose, like a makeshift gas mask.

  I open the window and wave my hands, as if that’ll help usher the stench out. I clean the toilet, wiping the seat down, and flush repeatedly. Then I mop the floor until it’s glistening, rinse and clean the mop, and dump the water down the laundry sink. Once I’m done, I feel like a beer, although it’s still early and I know I shouldn’t.

  I go back up to the second floor. The smell’s still there, so I open the windows in our spare rooms, in the landing, in the bathroom, and finally in the bedroom. The curtains flutter as a breeze wafts through the bedroom.

  I stop.

  Chloe emerges from the back door of her house. She wears a pair of sunglasses, a sunhat, and a frilly little red silk robe, her legs bare. She carries a couple of small bottles in one hand—I’m sure one’s water. The other might be suntan lotion. In the other hand she holds a magazine.

  She walks around the pool. The hem of her robe bounces around her hips—it looks like she’s not wearing anything underneath. She drops her stuff on one of the banana lounges, then slips off her robe to reveal a tiny red G-string bikini bottom. Her skin is latte all over—no tan lines, so maybe she does this regularly, although neither Jane nor I have ever seen her. Her breasts are pointed, the nipples swollen.

  I run my hand down the front of my shorts. I’m erect. I can’t help it but I am. I shouldn’t even be horny, but now all I can think of is how much I would love to fuck Chloe—to fuck somebody who’s not my partner the way Jane did.

  Chloe bends towards her banana lounge to clear the things she dropped there, putting the two bottles on one side, the magazine on the other. Her buttocks arch into taut curves. The G-string may as well not be there.