Just Another Week in Suburbia

by Les Zig

  They’re archetypes that are generally perpetuated in media everywhere and make me wonder, outside of some biological imperative to procreate, why people follow this pattern of generational reproduction. I only ever hear parents complain about everything they lose when they have kids—time, freedom, peace of mind. And, as Luke said, families specialise in fucking you up. This could be me.

  But in thinking that, I see myself rocking my baby to sleep, pacing with it as it cries in early mornings; reading to it, playing with it, teaching it to feed Wallace; I see myself in the pool teaching it to swim, at parks on the swings, and tucking it into bed. I don’t know its sex. Nothing tells me. I just see us together and in that sight I’m sure the world is right.

  Well, it would’ve been.

  Finchley escorts the family out, then frowns at Jane and me—I’m not sure whether it’s how strung out we look, the way we’re dressed, or he’s simply surprised to see us given the way I responded to him yesterday.

  ‘Jane, Casper, I’ll be a couple of minutes,’ he says.

  Jane nods and Finchley goes back into his studio.

  Today has been a day of fixing things—Wallace with his surgery; apologising to Stuart; standing up to Vic; and even leaving that beer on the bar and having that chat with Jean Jacket. But I don’t know how to fix this.

  I stand up. Jane catches my hands.

  ‘I want to come home,’ she says.

  I pull my hands from hers and fold my arms across my chest. Don’t look at her. But I can imagine her eyes brimming and tears streaming down her cheeks until they drip from her jaw.

  ‘I don’t expect you to forgive me. We don’t even have to sleep in the same bed. I’m not expecting it to be like it was—not right away. But I’ll prove myself to you.’

  ‘How can you prove yourself? How?’

  ‘I …’ Jane lowers her gaze to her toes.

  ‘How?’

  Jane sways there, like Bianca did when I questioned her about Jean Jacket.

  ‘How?’

  Jane looks up at me.

  ‘Because that’s the wall I keep hitting—what happens next?’

  ‘What happens next is we try. It doesn’t have to be the way it was. It can be anything—anything we want to make it. Anything.’

  Desperation strains her face, her eyes unblinking, and what worms its way into my mind, oily and undeniable, is she’s talking about sex. She’s offering me what she had with Kai—something untamed and boundless, meant to convince me she’s giving herself to me wholly. Maybe I’m misreading it, filtering her offer through what I saw. Can this ever again be pure? Can it ever just be?

  ‘On Friday I realised why you stare at that blank page in your sketchpad for hours on end,’ Jane says. ‘Our lives are nothing but endless possibilities. I lost sight of that. Let me prove myself to you. Let me prove my commitment to you, to us, to the future we can build together.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can ever trust you again.’

  ‘I understand. But I can’t convince you otherwise unless you give me the chance.’ Jane reaches for my hand. I pull it out of reach.

  My eyes flit to her belly. Rise up her body. To her teary face. So many times over the years, this is when I would’ve reached out to pull her into my arms. The instinct is there to do it. But I don’t want to. She can cry. She deserves to cry. But I still want to hold her.

  I think about my sketchpad, about the excitement I had drawing her, what her gesture meant to me, and how for the first time in a long time I found the inspiration to draw. No, wait, there was Bianca during Beth’s art class. But even then, it was only because Bianca had reminded me of Jane. Now my sketchpad sits at home with that incomplete picture, every effort after it ditched, every subsequent page torn out, scrunched up, and thrown away. Maybe that’s what my future would be without Jane: nothing. Well, nothing but me. Maybe this isn’t even about Jane anymore, or about us, but me—what I want for my life, what I want for my future, and who I want to be.

  The week’s events scatter through my mind, like they’ve been crammed into a box that’s been upended. I don’t like what I see, the way I’ve handled things, the way I’ve been—things that are reflective of my life in general. I like today. This morning. That’s where I need to stay, and in staying there, I need to factor in what happens next.

  Nothing else exists now but this decision. I’ve spoken to everybody, I’ve pontificated, I’ve obsessed about it, but now it’s only me and what I need to do. I don’t want to end up like my dad, mourning what was, or become like Roger, lamenting what could’ve been, and yet how do you repair the seemingly irreparable? The choice I have to make terrifies me. But maybe that’s a good thing—like Jane told me during dinner that night at The Andion: usually, the path we’re meant to take is the scarier one.

  ‘You can come home,’ I say, ‘but I don’t know where it’s going to go.’

  She jumps to her feet and her arms go wide, as if she’s going to throw them around me. But she stops herself. I lower my arms from where they’re crossed against my chest.

  ‘But if you think this is going to be a smooth transition,’ I say, ‘you’re kidding yourself.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It might never work.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Finchley emerges from the studio. ‘Ready?’ he asks.

  I stand by Jane, my body tense, my arm around her but barely making contact. My smile is strained, but can’t look much stupider than the clueless smiles I’ve forced the last six years, and it does me the courtesy of erasing the perpetual shock I usually wear on my face in these photos—or at least I think it does, because I don’t feel the usual bemusement. Jane’s smile is genuine—not one of happiness but relief, and tinged with trepidation, like she knows it might come apart at any moment. We must look farcical dressed the way we are—at least compared to years gone by.

  ‘Let’s get this started,’ Finchley said.

  He begins snapping pictures.

  50

  I drive to the vet, grab my chequebook from the glove box, and enter with Wallace’s basket tucked under my right arm. The nurse, Rebecca, greets me with a smile and comments on what a gorgeous Sunday morning it’s been. I’m not sure what to say to that.

  I want to take care of the formalities first and pull out my chequebook. I put it on the counter, flip it open, and scrounge for a pen.

  ‘Oh, no need for that,’ Rebecca says.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘A Chloe Booth came in this morning with her husband,’ Rebecca says.

  ‘What?’ I threatened Vic that he should be liable for the cost, but I didn’t think he’d actually pay it. Of course, he wouldn’t have. Chloe would’ve made him. I feel almost guilty about her gesture.

  ‘They paid for everything. Mrs Booth said her husband was inadvertently responsible—he said he backed out of the drive and hit Wallace.’

  ‘Oh.’ My guiltiness evaporates. I’d like to hit Vic with my sledgehammer.

  I put my chequebook away, then Rebecca gives me some medicine for Wallace to take daily—an anti-inflammatory, a painkiller, and an antibiotic. We arrange another appointment for Tuesday for an examination.

  When we’re done, Rebecca takes me out the back while giving me all the same advice she did when I visited Wallace post-surgery. I assure her I have it under control and that I’ve bought Wallace a child’s playpen.

  We enter the back room. Wallace lies on a cot, head pointed away from me. The moment he hears us, he lifts his head to look back over his body. His ears flip back. I can imagine the expression says, Help—I don’t know what’s happened to me. But then his ears pull back and his mouth drops open, like he’s grinning.

  He scrambles to get up. I tell him not to, hold him so he stays where he is, and scratch his belly. I’m sure his eyes beam with gratitude. His tail quickens, like a propeller building speed. I scratch him behind the ears and gently ruffle his chest. He licks my hand.

  I put Wallace’s
basket down on the cot.

  ‘Want to go home, boy?’ I ask.

  His tail quickens.

  51

  I pull into my street, one hand on the wheel, the other patting Wallace, who lies in his basket on the passenger seat. The air-conditioning is blaring, blowing into my face and sending a chill through my T-shirt and down my chest. Wallace’s fur flutters, like somebody has a hair dryer to his muzzle.

  It seems everybody’s out, like they’ve gathered to welcome Wallace home. There are neighbours I know only peripherally, who I might only ever exchange a wave with, others I know by sight but have never spoken to, and a few I don’t even recognise.

  I should feel nervous coming home, but all I feel is disconnected, like I’ve stepped outside myself, and I’m watching everything unfold as a spectator, witness to some film that’s only of the mildest curiosity to me.

  As I near my house, I see Chloe is out watering her lawn, wearing little shorts, a singlet, and a visor, her ponytail sticking out the top. She waves as I pull into the drive. Kirit and Pia throw a ball back and forth in their yard while Tarika prunes some potted plants lined up by the flowerbed. Her husband, Chapal—a small, balding man I rarely see—is hanging them up on the verandah.

  I get out of my car, rush around to the passenger seat. Josh and Karen are across the street, washing Josh’s car. Karen’s car is also out, like they’re planning to do that one next. They wave to me as I open the passenger door. I wave back.

  Then I slowly lift Wallace’s basket from the car, careful to support the underside. I debate taking the child’s playpen, but it’s too much to carry. I need to be sure I don’t jostle Wallace, let alone drop him.

  ‘Oh, the poor thing,’ Chloe says, approaching as she continues watering the lawn. She tickles Wallace under his chin. Wallace licks her hand. ‘I hope he’ll be okay.’

  The curtains in her front window flap—Vic. My heart thumps once in my chest before it settles. I glower in that direction—or hope it comes across as a glower.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough for the vet bill,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t be silly. I should be thanking you for not taking this further.’

  ‘Really, Chloe, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘It’s so much—’

  ‘It cost whatever it cost. I also want you to know you have every right to take this matter further, if you like. You should.’ Chloe casts a pointed look at the window. ‘But we won’t be.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Just be sure.’ Chloe runs a hand up and down my arm. ‘Make sure he’s okay.’

  ‘Thanks, Chloe. I should get him inside.’

  ‘See you around, Casper. Maybe by the pool one day.’

  As I approach the house, Kirit and Pia ignore Tarika and charge towards me, jumping up on tiptoes to look into Wallace’s basket. They are wide-eyed and their mouths hang open.

  ‘What happened to Wallace?’ Kirit says.

  ‘He broke his leg.’

  ‘How?’ Pia asks.

  ‘He had an accident.’

  ‘Is he going to be okay?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Can we pat him?’ Kirit says.

  ‘Maybe just gently—we don’t want to give him too much excitement.’

  Kirit and Pia stroke Wallace’s head like he’s a house of cards that might collapse under their ministrations. The astonishment doesn’t leave their faces.

  ‘Kids!’ Tarika says. ‘Come back here! Let Mr Gray take Wallace inside.’

  ‘Can we come visit?’ Pia asks.

  The question is indiscriminately pitched—it could be at me, or at Tarika. Chapal, on a stepladder, pauses in the act of hanging a pot plant. He shrugs at me, like he’s telling me that it’s my call.

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  ‘See you, Wallace!’ Kirit says.

  ‘Bye, Wallace!’ Pia says.

  They run back into their yard, and I unlock the front door of my house.

  52

  Wallace pants as Jane bounces down the stairs. She’s changed from Sarah’s clothes into her own, and now wears shorts and is buttoning up her blouse.

  There’s silence between us. I don’t know what to say. Neither does she. Fortunately, Wallace’s presence saves us. Jane coos over him and scratches him behind the ears. He laps up the attention.

  I set him alongside the couch, then grab the playpen from the car. I’m no handyman, but can follow a set of instructions. I pull everything out of the packaging, lay it out, then get to work, cursing every now and then when I get something wrong.

  At one point, Jane brings me a beer and, without thinking, I take a drink and set it down on the coffee table. For the next half an hour, I continue assembling the pen, interspersed with gulps of beer and wiping my sleeve across my brow. It could be just any other day.

  Wallace seems bemused once I’ve caged him in. Jane brings his bowls and sets them down by his bed. He gazes quizzically at her. She scratches him under the chin, then rises to stand next to me. Absently, I move to put my arm around her back.

  And stop.

  ‘Ex …’ Excuse me. That’s what I was about to say. Excuse me. Like Jane’s some stranger or first date I’m trying to make a good impression on.

  I flee upstairs.

  In my bedroom, I change into a fresh T-shirt, then sit on the corner of the bed. Although the house is just as quiet as it has been, I can feel Jane and Wallace downstairs, but it’s not the same as it was. I close my eyes, trying to find some familiarity, like I’m trying to identify the name of a song whose tune I can’t shake from my head. There’s no answer—nothing but that ringing in my ears.

  I go into the bathroom, pee, then go to the bathroom sinks. One is filled with white water, and it takes a moment for it to click this is where I left Jane’s anniversary gift to disinfect.

  I wash my hands in the other sink, then pull the plug out of the filled sink. The water drains away to reveal the bracelet. I rinse it under some hot water, dry it with a towel, then retreat to the bedroom. I threw the bracelet box but have no idea where it landed.

  Kneeling, I press my cheek to the floor and scour the bedroom. There’s a shadow by the rear bed leg. It’s the box. But there’s also something else behind it, something long, flat, and rectangular.

  I pull it out. It’s a gift, wrapped with a ribbon—Jane’s anniversary gift. I tap it. It sounds like a wooden box. I shake it. There’s lots of minute rattling inside. I ponder what it is. Then, as my hands tremble, I decide it doesn’t matter. Holding this gift makes me think of our lives together, of the way our anniversaries have been the heartbeat of our marriage.

  I slide the gift back under the bed. Take the bracelet box and put the bracelet back in it. Close the box, and slip it into my pocket.

  When I enter the dining room, Wallace tries to get up. I hurry across to him, and pat him, encouraging him to stay down. He licks my hand. I smile at him. He really is a good dog.

  ‘Want something to eat?’

  Jane’s in the kitchen, making a tuna sandwich. I shake my head as she comes into the dining room. We move to sit on the couch at the same time. Jane sits in the middle, like she wants to get close to me. I pull away, lean on the armrest.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

  I don’t know what to say.

  She nibbles at her sandwich. I grab my beer and scull what’s left of it for fortitude. The tension is unnatural, a reaper hovering over our relationship. There’s no way we’ll survive the day, let alone any attempts at reconciliation, if it remains.

  ‘Here,’ I say. I grab the bracelet box from my pocket and thrust it at Jane.

  Jane hurriedly swallows the bite of her sandwich and puts the plate on the coffee table. She takes the box, opens it, her eyes both widening and tearing.

  ‘This is gorgeous,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’

  Usually, she might lean over, give me a kiss, but now all the protocols have
changed. We stare at each other awkwardly. I feel almost like I should offer a handshake. I shoot to my feet.

  ‘Gonna take the bins out,’ I say, starting out.

  ‘Hey.’

  I stop.

  ‘I got you something, too.’

  The silence that follows is so long that I’m starting to put a foot forward when Jane talks again.

  ‘I’ll get it?’

  I turn my head and offer her the smallest smile. ‘Surprise me,’ I say.

  As I head outside to the bins, my phone beeps. I pull it from my pocket. It’s a text from Luke:

  You okay?

  My fingers move to the screen, but I stop. I don’t want to be glib—not now. Luke deserves better, given the way he’s stood by me. I deserve better. But in thinking that, I realise that I’m unsure there’s any satisfactory answer. I throw the empty beer in the recycle bin, drag both bins to the curb, and try to work out that simple question.

  Am I okay?

  I lift my face to a cloudless sky, although the day cools with the promise that this belated summer’s finally breaking. The neighbourhood teems with life around me—I’ve always heard it, always seen it, but never really registered it. Now I recognise how rich and alive and unique every sight and sound is. Kirit and Pia shriek and whoop, then charge from their yard down the street to join some other kids, who run around chasing a ball. Opposite me, Josh and Karen now wash Karen’s car, vigorously attacking it with soapy sponges as they chat and smile—I can’t hear what they say, but I feel their happiness, their contentedness, and that sense of belonging. Chloe continues to water her lawn; she notices me looking and flashes a smile—she might even wink, although I’m not sure if I imagine that, and I find myself almost winking back. The door to her house opens and Vic—nose swollen, eyes blackened—stands there, sees me, then darts back inside and closes the door.

  And that’s when it hits me, and I think the simplest thing I could possibly think: fuck it. It’s that easy—that easy to fit in, to move forward, to create a place I want in this world, to create the world I want. The labour itself might be hard—and there will be obstacles and detours and diversions—but the rest is just the way I approach it, and I’ve been timid and indecisive for too long.