‘Dunno. See how I feel once I’ve eaten. You ever tried pheasant?’
‘Twenty-eight dollars. I think they’re quite small.’
‘Good, it’ll leave room for dessert. White or red? I’ll order a bottle.’
‘Just get yourself a glass. I’m fine.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’
Luke hadn’t intended it to be this way. He had made an effort to leave the buttons unpressed, but they just went right on ahead and pressed themselves. He knew he should apologise, before her special look, a duo of bewilderment and accusation, set for the evening.
‘Can’t you just for once relax and enjoy yourself?’ Luke heard his voice rising to a fight and marvelled at its will. This was the truth. He simply could not help himself. ‘Happiness isn’t like saving for your retirement you know. You can’t set it aside, to be enjoyed at some later date. It doesn’t pay interest.’
Robyn accused him of having a temper, of speaking without thinking, and she was right. But so was he, that was the problem. So was he.
‘Keep your voice down,’ she told him.
‘Okay, I’m sorry. I’m just saying a glass of wine won’t kill you, that’s all. I wanted tonight to be special. Okay? Sorry.’
Luke smiled. She smiled back. He mistook forgiveness for a willingness to compromise.
‘So, red or white?’
‘Luke, I’m pregnant.’
The world stopped; every possible feeling rendered useless, clumsy, inappropriate. Luke recognised this state. Back then, the first time, he’d put it down to ignorance. Yet here he was again, with three and a half years of fatherhood to draw upon, still blank. All he felt was the lack of feeling. He smiled, as one must, and waited, and when that didn’t work, he tried to think the emotion to the surface.
Another child. You are going to be a father again. You love your child. Your child has changed your life. You are happy. You are truly, strangely happy.
‘Say something then.’ Robyn looked at him, anticipation crinkling to concern. ‘You are happy aren’t you?’
‘Of course I’m happy.’
‘We discussed this. We said how it would be nice for Alicia to have a little friend to grow up with.’
Luke couldn’t remember this. He certainly hadn’t used the phrase ‘little friend’.
Luke looked across the table. Tears were forming. She was vulnerable, devastated. Instinct kicked in, late but welcome. He reached across the table, took her hand, squeezed it. Said the words and felt, to his great relief, feelings swarming forward, smothering the gaps.
‘Robyn, it’s wonderful news. Jesus, of course it is. Better than wonderful, it’s … This will change our lives. I’m just a bit surprised, you know. It takes a moment to sink in. You must have been the same.’
A mistake, of course. She shook her head.
‘Have you, did you, like were you expecting this? Had you been, like, or did you forget? Or was it a mistake? A malfunction?’
She grinned, shrugged.
‘I guess I just forgot.’ Robyn looked down as if to mark a cute, inconsequential oversight, like forgetting to turn the oven on, or misplacing your car keys. Then she smiled, and somehow it didn’t matter. Luke noticed he hadn’t let go of her hand. Wouldn’t let go.
‘You are happy, really?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. Yeah, I am. What about you?’
She nodded vigorously.
‘I’m surprised,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know how I’d feel.’
‘You’ve just started back at work.’
‘Yeah, I know. But I can work through till Easter. They’re fine with that.’
‘You’ve already told them?’ He let go of her hand.
‘I had to check it all out, before I told you. So you wouldn’t have any worries. I’ve seen the bank too, we can just spread out the mortgage. And you know, maybe you can go for an HOD job at the college. You’ve said so yourself, how you were feeling like a challenge.’
The dead man behind Robyn coughed and brought his napkin to his mouth too late. The dead woman looked around, to make sure nobody had noticed. Luke saw a school corridor, full to bursting with the sounds and smells and bodies of ignorance, stretching out forever. He saw himself walking against its tide, heading towards an exit which he could not see, and awfully, could no longer believe in. He stopped, turned, allowed himself to be carried back towards the black hole of the classroom. Had he been alone just then, he would have cried.
‘Or maybe the steak,’ he said. ‘I fancy a steak. How about you? What do you feel like?’
‘Yeah, I’ll have the steak too,’ she smiled. ‘And I’ve been thinking about our cars. We don’t need two cars. I mean, not right away, but we should sell one, don’t you think? The school bus goes right past the end of the road doesn’t it? Yours, probably, would be best. We’d get more for yours. And mine’s fine. It still runs really well.’
‘It’s an automatic,’ Luke heard himself say, in the voice of a man who has just had the means of his execution explained to him.
‘Yes,’ Robyn agreed, happy that he should understand. ‘And it’s an automatic.’
DIFFERENT DRINKS, RICHARD found, each had their own way of turning him. Wine made him talkative, beer grumpy, whisky maudlin. All of them made him a little sick. The East West Ferry, on its last run for the night and barely with the energy left to resist the buffeting of the wind, didn’t help. The passengers crammed together out of the rain, and their smells thickened the air: Friday night drinks, wet woollen coats, perfume hopefully reapplied in the elevator, seasoned with sea spray and diesel. Richard sat on one side of a small table and tried to take his mind from the discomfort by staring out the window into the darkness. It was his wife’s birthday and he was late home. It was inexcusable, bad manners which a clumsy gift in paua would not, should not, make amends for. She deserved better. Always had.
Seeing William had depressed him. William depressed him. ‘When you choose to always be on the side of the angels,’ had been his old friend’s parting shot, ‘how do you know you haven’t just grown used to their company?’ Which he had no answer for. Doing right was hard enough, without the added difficulty of identification. But that wasn’t the depressing thing. What made him … ill was the right word, were the injuries on the face of a man who would never hit back. And the secret Richard carried, that he knew he was too weak to share.
Across the table two young men were discussing the election. Even this close it was no easy matter distinguishing one from the other: the hair cut short and carefully worked up with gel, black and shining; dark confident eyes; stabbing fingers; smiles never more than a frame away from a snarl. Too young surely for the suits they wore, or the expensive watches upon their wrists. Richard could feel the line separating youth from age rising like a tide behind him. Soon it would peak and he and his generation would be discarded one by one on the shore, that the whole game could start again. Everything set back to zero.
‘Yes, but I’m saying,’ said Young Rich Man One, thumping the table, oblivious apparently to Richard’s scrutiny, ‘that she’s up herself isn’t she? Who wouldn’t be, after this long in government? I’m not saying it isn’t understandable. I’m not even saying she hasn’t done a good job, over all. History will be all right to her. But people like a fair go. They like to see people get their turn don’t they? And they don’t like people being up themselves. They want to teach her a lesson.’
‘But that’s a stupid reason not to vote for her,’ the other countered, immediately becoming Richard’s favourite.
‘People are stupid.’
‘Are you stupid?’
‘Not like that, no.’
‘So why aren’t you voting for her?’
‘Who said I’m not voting for her?’
‘Are you?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Can’t stand the bitch.’
‘Democracy,’ Richard muttered, surprised by how loudly he said it. Whisky.
Both men looked at him.
‘What was that?’ asked the bitch-hater, when nothing more was offered.
‘Sorry,’ Richard mumbled. ‘I didn’t mean to say that quite so loudly.’
‘Yeah, but what did you mean though?’
The inquisitor leaned forward, primed for a confrontation. Lawyers.
‘I meant, I suppose, that this is what we fight for. The inalienable right of every adult citizen to teach the bitch a lesson.’
They thought about this for a moment, clearly trying to gauge whether this old, poorly dressed man was taking the piss.
‘What do you do?’ asked the less odious of the two.
‘I’m at the university.’
He thought about this response for a moment, before nodding.
‘Figures.’
Elizabeth was standing at the doorway, a moth belting itself to confusion on the veranda light above her head. Worry had settled into its familiar pattern on her face. Richard had married a worrier, although nobody else would know it. It was one of their little secrets. Often relief got in the way of the anger she was entitled to. He hoped this was such an occasion.
‘Waiting for your present?’ Richard joked. The light drizzle made his skin prickle. Elizabeth didn’t look at her watch. Nor did she step forward to embrace him.
‘Richard, we’ve been robbed.’
Richard was caught short by the moment. A beat of puzzlement before the obvious, necessary, question.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course I’m all right. I wasn’t here.’
‘Well when … where were you?’
‘I went round to see Judy. When you rang to say you’d be late, I went round to see Judy.’
‘Lucky you did.’
And now the hug. They disengaged, standing at the doorway like awkward almost-strangers at the end of a first date.
‘How’s that lucky?’
‘Well, if you’d been here …’
‘If I’d been here, they wouldn’t have broken in,’ she told him.
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Where’s the car?’
‘I caught the boat.’
‘You’ve been drinking.’
‘William was beaten by some protesters today. He’s all right.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Lunch time I think.’
‘Why didn’t you …’
‘I didn’t want to worry you.’
The creases returned to her still-beautiful face.
‘Well, where is he now? Is he in hospital?’
‘No, he was at his office when I …’
‘You should have invited him here. Why didn’t you invite him?’
‘I did. He’s … he wants to be by himself.’
‘Of course he doesn’t want to be by himself.’
‘He told me he wanted to be by himself.’ Richard raised his voice in contradiction, well aware volume was not the missing ingredient.
‘Well of course he did.’
‘I took him at his word.’
‘You shouldn’t have. You’re very late.’
‘Happy birthday.’
Richard took the small gift-wrapped parcel from his coat pocket.
‘Where’s the card?’ She was smiling.
‘I sent a stripper. Did he not arrive? Perhaps when you were out.’
‘Perhaps the burglar scared him off.’
‘Or vice versa.’
Richard watched her small pianist’s hands work free the wrapping. The eyes, he realised, do not age. Looking at her eyes it could be twenty-five years ago. How many gifts had he bought her in that time? When did he start letting shop assistants make the decisions? Elizabeth was a small woman, always had been, her nervous energy burning everything the world could throw at it. She had let her hair turn grey, and now mostly white. He had said to her once that women who didn’t dye their hair always interested him. It was true. And perhaps she had listened. More likely she was already that type of woman. He was lucky.
‘It’s lovely.’
‘Put it on.’
‘It’s just what I need.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, mostly they stole jewellery.’
‘Oh. What else?’
‘Nothing much. They found some cash, in the drawer in our room.’
‘They were in our room?’
‘Why wouldn’t they go into our room?’
‘Well, it’s a bedroom,’ Richard reasoned, knowing at once he was being ridiculous. ‘It’s … I don’t know … manners isn’t it?’
‘They’re burglars, Richard.’
‘Have you called the police?’
‘They’ll be round in the morning, for insurance purposes. Or we can just make a list and drop it by the station.’
‘So what, we have to leave it all untouched?’
Elizabeth began to laugh. It crinkled the eyes first, and then her hand shot instinctively to her mouth, to keep the sound in, but still delight gurgled from her throat. It was her favourite thing, making comedy of him.
‘Oh Richard.’
‘What?’
‘They don’t do DNA tests for break-ins.’
‘I could do one for them,’ he grumped.
‘I’m sure they’ll appreciate the offer.’
‘They didn’t break anything?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Why are we standing out here?’
‘I don’t know.’
This time they kissed. As warm and familiar as coffee. They walked through into the house. Richard didn’t know what he was expecting, something less ordinary he supposed. He cast his eyes about, looking for some sign of the intrusion.
‘You’ve already tidied. Why did you do that?’
‘I had nothing else to do.’
Fair point. ‘Sorry. I just think, I think I would have liked to see.’
‘There wasn’t much to see. Just a few drawers open, cupboards, the wardrobe. I haven’t finished in our room yet, if you want to look. The policeman I talked to on the phone said it’ll be kids…’
Elizabeth’s voice followed Richard down the hallway. The bedroom door was open. The ransacking had been quick and random. On the left the dresser drawers were pulled wide open and socks and underwear spilled onto the floor, as if caught mid-escape. The drawers on the right were apparently untouched. The wardrobe door was open and a box of old papers had been hauled out into the middle of the room, tipped on its side with its contents fanning out across the floor. The bedspread was turned up on one side, marking a place where some stranger had peered beneath their bed. Not such a transformation really, nothing that couldn’t quickly be put back in place. Yet, Richard realised, something had changed. The gap between their world and the world outside could no longer be considered impermeable. One less thing they could pretend. This place, their place, had been made common.
The burglars would not have intended this. They wanted some easy money, and perhaps the thrill, that was all. They (he imagined two of them: skinny, surly, brown) would not have stopped to think of the people who had made these walls the boundary of their promises. A memory swam unexpectedly to the surface. Sitting here, on the end of the bed, holding their youngest, Julia. She would have been three. The first of her asthma attacks. He’d never felt so helpless, nor so ready to do whatever was asked of him. Somewhere inside Richard’s stomach another wall crumbled and he was sitting again, sniffing back the beginning of a tear. Reliable whisky. Elizabeth sat beside him, her small hand rubbing the top of his broad, son-of-a-farmer’s back, as if he were a child.
‘Sorry, this is … it’s not … it’s ridiculous. Look at me. It’s your birthday, we should be … come on, I’ll clean this up.’
Richard stood but Elizabeth didn’t move.
‘Richard.’
‘What?’
‘I haven’t checked your study.’ She spoke gently, as if afraid the news might break him. ‘They were in there, but I haven’t checked. I wouldn�
�t know if anything was missing.’
The mode of operation was the same. Drawers open, papers thrown to the floor as they sniffed out the portable and the valuable. Richard saw immediately what was missing.
‘There was a hard drive. Here, plugged into the back of the computer, a little silver case, with all my … you haven’t moved …’
‘Is it important?’ She stood beside him, her arm around his waist, head pressed against the side of his chest. It would have been so easy then to tell her, but this was the wrong time.
‘No, no of course not. Well, you know, work things. Back-ups mostly, but nothing I can’t … Shit. Shit shit shit.’
‘Your speech for tomorrow?’ She guessed. Right and wrong.
‘No, no, it’s fine. It’s here.’ He pointed to the computer. Just kids. That was all it was. They’d dump it. They wouldn’t have any idea, couldn’t possibly understand the importance. Richard looked down at his wife, who gave him her ‘Oh well, it isn’t going to kill us is it?’ look, which so far had proven accurate. Still, you only get to slip up once.
‘Well, happy birthday eh? I should have brought food back with me.’
‘I’ve ordered from Jonty’s.’
‘I should have done that.’
‘You’re wet through. Run a bath. It’ll be half an hour, they said. Red or white, or are you done for the night?’
‘No, of course not. It’s your birthday. Ah, white.’
The bathroom mirror steamed over, the polite thing to do. Richard rubbed a space clear and regarded his ageing body. It was a sort of punishment, this kind of truth. He wondered what the heavy feeling in his heart was, and why he couldn’t shift it. Could it be the first glimpse of that perimeter fence which must not be mentioned? A greeting. Not today, it said, but not never. Not any more.
Richard looked closer at the body he hardly recognised. It was still a shock to him, that time could grow another self and place it so ingeniously over the body of the man he felt inside. A disappointment. There was hair now, in places where hair had never grown. It encroached like weeds in a garden. His skin was patchy and put upon by gravity: too many meals enjoyed, too few steps taken. His muscles had retreated in modesty, and when he pinched a fold of flesh at his arm, it recovered only slowly. This is what it means to be alive, Richard thought. To decay. And this is what it means to be human. To watch. To be aware.
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