Just Another Week in Suburbia

by Les Zig

  ‘No. No, I guess not.’

  ‘Maybe it’s me.’

  ‘Why would it be you?’

  ‘People grow apart.’

  ‘Have you felt that?’

  ‘Not on my side, but …’

  Beth sets her empty plate down on the coffee table, which gets me thinking about dinner, and that gets me thinking about calamari—my signature meal whenever we go out. Unless it’s not available, like that night with Stephen and Renée—the night Jane went up and sang karaoke. She wanted me to come up but I was … I was so many things. Meek. Embarrassed. Cowardly.

  ‘Maybe I bore her,’ I say.

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe anymore.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you’re that boring. You’re questioning yourself. That’s understandable. And you’ll probably do that for a while over a lot of things, if not over everything. But maybe this is about her, not you.’

  ‘Do you believe people can change?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Do you believe people can change?’

  ‘I believe everybody can change. But they have to have self-awareness.’

  ‘Was Roger self-aware?’

  ‘No. Everything Roger does is with a view towards controlling a situation because he can’t bear to be out of control. Although …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That night we argued, when he was begging, there was a point I think the thought of losing me opened his mind up to possibilities he’d never considered before.’

  ‘What possibilities?’

  ‘Marriage, kids, all that. I think he caught a glimpse of that in his future as something he wanted. You know, from the heart, instead of it being a measure of stature or a way of keeping me compliant. It’s like when people who have a pack-a-day habit have a heart attack and realise what all that smoking’s done to them. I’m sure beforehand they know smoking is bad. But when their minds open up to the reality, that’s when they change.’

  ‘So all you need is a near-death experience?’

  ‘All you need is the capacity to look inside yourself. Everybody I know is so much on autopilot, like the way Stuart patrols the hallways at school, or Stan complains about his marriage during the staff breaks but does nothing about it, or the way Roger’s so career oriented because that’s what he’s been taught to pursue. That’s why I like art. It’s not automatic. You don’t sit there and say, “I’m going to draw a house”, or whatever. Sure, some people do. But the great artists reach inside themselves. They shrug off everything they know, everything that’s been programmed into them through upbringing and relationships and everyday life, and they produce something original, something only they can produce. That’s when I think people are special. I mean, it doesn’t have to be art—it can be anything. But it’s when they go inside themselves in that way.’ Beth laughs, sips at her coffee. ‘Sorry. I’ve gone off.’

  ‘No. It’s … I like that.’

  ‘That’s why I encourage you with your art. You’re good—you probably don’t know or believe you’re good, but you are. I guess, though, you’re asking if you can rebuild your trust in Jane, right? That she’ll change and won’t do this again? That things can be like they were?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Beth hugs me tight at the front door. She kisses me once, but soundly, on the cheek before she pulls away.

  ‘I can stay if you want,’ she says. ‘I mean … for support.’

  ‘It’s okay—I appreciate it, I really do, but I need to start working this out in my head. I need to start working through it. And there’s Wallace.’

  ‘If you need to speak to somebody, you call me. Don’t hesitate. Just do it. Okay?’

  I nod.

  Beth hugs me again. I open the front door.

  ‘Bye,’ she says, although she lingers.

  ‘See ya.’

  We stand there, looking at one another, before she flashes a smile, and starts away.

  I close the door.

  Alone again.

  45

  I sit on the couch, absorb the vacuum of the house—THE GREAT EMPTINESS—close my eyes, and take a deep breath. And then, it’s like I’ve entered a black hole, like the house is imploding with me at its epicentre, crushing me. Perhaps Luke is right. There may be no fixing things. Maybe all you’re left with are scars.

  I jump to my feet. Tomorrow, I’ll have school. That’ll keep me occupied. In fact, I should call Stuart and apologise for last night’s tirade—not that he deserves it, but I could’ve handled that better. That’s something to do. I need to buy Wallace’s playpen. Pick up Wallace.

  It seems hardly enough to fill an hour, let alone a day.

  I wash the dishes, and put everything away in the dish rack as it hits 9.00am. I grab my tea, take a sip, hit the number for the vet, which I have in my favourites. I don’t recognise the voice of the nurse who answers. We have a short conversation. I introduce myself and ask about Wallace. She tells me Wallace is fine and he’ll be okay to come home at midday. I thank her and press whether I can come earlier. No—midday’s the earliest. I thank her and hang up.

  That gives me three hours to kill.

  Better get the next bit of unpleasantness out of the way.

  I pace back and forth in the kitchen as Stuart’s phone rings in my ear, then open the fridge and almost grab a beer out of habit. It’s tempting, but right now I still need to get my head around Stuart. Perhaps he’s not home. Or maybe he’s still asleep in bed. I begin formulating a response to leave on his voicemail, but then he answers.

  ‘Hello?’ he says.

  It’s now I realise I have nothing formulated to say at all.

  ‘Hello?’

  I cough to clear my throat. ‘Hi, Stuart, it’s me.’

  ‘Casper?’

  ‘Um … yeah.’ Surprised. Like I have to confirm it even to myself.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  His voice is as even as always. There’s no recrimination, no expectation, nothing but Stuart being Stuart. Anybody else might respond warily, or indignantly, or with a sense of indebtedness. I would. But Stuart seems to be more magnanimous than that.

  ‘I wanted to apologise for last night.’ I say it before I lose the courage. ‘As you might’ve picked up, I’ve—’

  ‘Casper, it’s all right.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  Quiet. I find his graciousness hard to reconcile.

  ‘I understand you’ve been having difficulties, and we should’ve informed you immediately about the Bianca situation. That was unpardonable. I’m happy to tell you she’s fine. You’re right; Principal Hetrick and I queried your handling of the situation, but if I’m hard on you, Casper, it’s only because I believe you have it in you to really make a difference to kids’ lives.’

  ‘Thank you, Stuart.’

  ‘But you need to consider the repercussions of any actions you take.’

  ‘I understand that now.’

  ‘That’s excellent, Casper. Why, you remind me of myself at that age.’

  I’m unsure how to take that. ‘Thank you, Stuart.’

  ‘Is there anything I can help you with?’

  I almost laugh at the offer—well, not the offer itself, but at everything I need to remedy. It all seems beyond help.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, Stuart.’

  ‘Then I will see you at school tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  ‘8.45.’

  ‘8.45.’ I close the fridge door finally.

  ‘Have a pleasant Sunday, Casper.’

  ‘You, too.’

  He hangs up.

  I sit back on the couch, still tempted to have a beer. The apology to Stuart has bought some small peace of mind. Now I have to move onto whatever’s next. What I should do is go to Westfield, buy a pl
aypen, then catch a movie. That’ll kill the morning. I could grab lunch, and finally pick up Wallace.

  Perhaps I should call Beth. She did offer. Although I hate to be an imposition. She’d say I wasn’t, so I start pulling her name up on my phone. No, this is all avoidance of THE GREAT EMPTINESS. Or maybe it’s me wanting to hang out with Beth, with somebody who’ll be strong for me because I can’t be strong for myself.

  I shoot to my feet, and grab Wallace’s basket from where it sits by the couch.

  46

  I crash out the front door and freeze. My car’s gone! It’s not on the nature strip where I always park it. Across the street, Josh is washing his car and Karen is pruning the roses in her garden. I take one hurried step forward with the intent of running across to ask them if they saw anything. But then it hits me: I put the car in the garage.

  A door bangs open to my right—Kirit and Pia charge out of their house, their mother Tarika calling after them. I open the garage door before the kids can see me. If they see me—particularly because I’m holding Wallace’s basket—they’ll ask about Wallace, and I can’t get into it.

  I put Wallace’s basket in the passenger seat of my car, then get in the driver’s seat and stare at my eyes in the rear-view mirror, like I’m expecting some revelation. My heart’s a drum, a herald to some unimaginable battle I’m yet to face. But there’s nothing.

  Nothing but me in this car.

  I start the engine.

  I’ve no sooner reversed from the garage, the garage door sliding closed in front of me, when there’s a thump at the window. I slam on the brakes, sure I must’ve hit something. A hand splays across my driver’s window—a hand that’s meaty and grimy and calloused. It slides down and the door’s yanked open.

  ‘Put the car in park and get out,’ Vic says.

  My foot judders, a reflex to hit the accelerator. But I check myself, put the car in park and pull on the handbrake, although I don’t kill the engine.

  I have to slither out of the car, since Vic doesn’t give me much space. He towers over me, his greasy coveralls stinking of petrol and grease.

  ‘What’ve you been doing with my wife?’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Chloe—you know, Chloe? Always chatting to you. Always nice to you. Always smiling.’

  Different fears fill my head—ranging from Vic knowing I watched her while she was sunbathing to possibly believing I made an advance on her. Is this why he hates me so much? Not because of Wallace, or not just because of Wallace, but because he feels Chloe has something for me, even if it’s only sympathy? Is this his own insecurity?

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Vic—’

  Vic grabs me by the scruff of my T-shirt and swings me away from the car, my feet dangling briefly above the ground.

  ‘Did you tell her I hurt that shit of a dog of yours?’ he asks.

  ‘Vic, I really can’t do this—’

  Vic shakes me, literally shakes me, like he’s trying to jangle the answers out of me. ‘She got upset at me,’ he says.

  ‘Vic, please—’

  ‘Over your fucking little mutt.’

  ‘Vic, this isn’t a good—’

  ‘She wants me to pay for his vet bill.’

  ‘Well, you did—’

  ‘Fucking animals cost fortunes.’

  ‘Vic—’

  ‘Vic,’ he mimics me.

  I shove him flat in the chest. His grip on me breaks as he stumbles back a step, steadies, his face shocked that I’ve offered any defiance. His shoulders rise up and fists clench, veins on his neck and temple bulging.

  ‘Don’t push me.’

  He thrusts his hands into my chest. It’s as good as a punch and knocks the breath from my lungs as I stagger backwards. I leap, propelling my hands into his chest. It’s like hitting a brick wall, but he teeters and his face hardens.

  ‘You fuck!’

  Vic swings a punch at me, a right hook that comes flying up from his hip. My reaction is purely reflex, or perhaps it’s instinct cultivated from all those years of plucking Luke from the dozens of fights he got involved in. I duck, the blow sailing harmlessly over my head, the momentum throwing Vic off balance. My right knee fires into his groin. An explosion of breath bursts from Vic’s mouth and he collapses to his knees, gasping.

  I spin with the intent of diving into my car to make a getaway. But the rage that’s been building incinerates my fear, incinerates my natural instincts. Vic is momentarily defenceless. I have the advantage.

  When I spin back, it’s with a punch—the first actual punch I’ve thrown at anybody in my life. But I’ve seen Luke maul people. And when we were younger, we would train and box and impersonate any fight movies we might’ve seen at the time, because that’s what teenagers do.

  So the punch, as clumsy as it might be, as misdirected as it might be—I aim for the square of Vic’s cheek but hit him flush in the nose—lands fully and jars my hand. But there’s a satisfying crunch as Vic’s nose shatters and he falls and curls into a foetal position.

  I kick him then, without even thinking, landing my toes in his left ribs. Whatever breath was left in Vic’s lungs belches like a fart from his mouth. ‘Is this what you want, Vic?’ I ask, and punctuate it with another kick. ‘Is this what you want?’

  I do it again and again, I don’t know how many times: first the question, then the kick, until he’s cowering, holding his hands up in front of his mottled face, nose bleeding, eyes bleary.

  My own breath is ragged, rage burning away until I’m left only with a self-consciousness—a hyper-consciousness. Vic wheezes on the ground, blood trickling from his right nostril. I run a hand through my dishevelled hair, push it back over my head. Josh and Karen are unmoving across the street. Tarika holds Kirit and Pia close to her. I’m sure the curtain in the front window of Vic’s house flutters. Surely Chloe couldn’t be home, or she’d come out.

  I thrust a finger in Vic’s face. ‘You are paying for Wallace’s surgery, you fuck, or I will take this wherever it needs to go—cops, courts, whatever.’ The thought again of what’s happened to Wallace incenses me and I cock my leg back. Vic holds his hands up in surrender. I lower my leg. Get into my car. Josh waves in acknowledgement.

  I pull the car out onto the street.

  As I drive away my arms tremble. I grip the steering wheel tighter. Vic could retaliate, or press charges, although the neighbourhood could attest to the fact that he started this altercation, just as he started the previous one. And if what Vic said about Chloe is true, she’s likely to verify what Vic did to Wallace—well, hopefully she would, even after what I’ve done to Vic.

  What I’ve done to Vic.

  There’s an unreality there. But also a satisfaction. I stood up to Vic. Maybe the anger was fuelled by a combination of things, and maybe my actions weren’t even wholly conscious, but I stood up to him all the same. On this day when I want to be putting things right, I put Vic right.

  But in recognising that, I also recognise that I snapped. I can’t afford to lose control. That’s what Dad did. I can’t do the same.

  I pull the car over to the side of the road, take a deep breath. What I’d love is a beer or two. The temptation is undeniable. I stamp down on the thought. I can’t discipline the fear of losing control by losing control through drinking, even if the prospect of facing another day of this is terrifying.

  The tremors grow violent, like a quake moving through my body and I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and close my eyes. The simple reality is, this could be it, this could be my life. Maybe this is who I become in the aftermath, in life post-Jane, where her affair has obliterated everything I once knew and took security in.

  I need to keep my mind moving. I can’t stop. If I stop, this is what happens.

  I open my eyes and hit the accelerator.

  47

  I park close to the entrance, stroll into Westfield, and take in the faces of the few Sunday morning shoppers, wondering what
else is happening in their lives. I see a twenty-something blonde in pink shorts and wonder if she’s having an affair, even though I don’t know if she’s even in a relationship. I see a group of teenagers and wonder if any of them are capable of a sexual offence. Everywhere I look there’s somebody—old, young, male, female—and I question what might be happening in their lives that they keep to themselves. Everywhere there’re secrets. I’m sure of it. Nobody’s who they seem on the surface.

  I want to scream at them to beware, that their secrets will see them undone. That their secrets will hurt those around them. But what good would that do? Nobody’s fully honest, not even with themselves. It’s a case of living through a filter. But maybe that’s all we are—a projection of who we let ourselves be, and how we try to have people see us.

  I push onwards, wandering aimlessly, not even aware if Westfield has what I’m looking for until, right at the opposite end of the complex, I spot a store called Baby Mart. Of course. I’d earmarked this place during some of Jane’s previous false alarms. I’d forgotten it was here. Or perhaps I’d blocked it out.

  There are other people in the store: several pregnant women who look ready to burst, mothers with kids or infants in prams, and even a handful of couples—just people building families. I pause to watch them as the wondering returns—wondering how intact these families are, how truthful, how true. Nobody knows the secrets you keep until it’s too late.

  I hunt through the aisles, things that mightn’t have meant anything before now taking on an entirely new context due to Jane’s pregnancy. There’s a pram we might need. And a gorgeous crib. There’s a cute mobile with dangling birds. Things jump out at me, explode, like fireworks demanding my attention. Everything is too bright. The store rocks.

  In the corner is an assembled sample playpen. I stumble over to it. Lean on it for support. It’d be perfect to contain Wallace and later, of course, it’d be perfect for the baby, so it has a double use. Well, that is, if Jane and I remain together, although if we don’t I guess I’ll need my own things for when I have custody—if I get custody.