Milk Fever

by Lisa Reece-Lane

  For a moment her face is contorted with anger, but the sound of the postman’s motorbike revving at the end of our driveway dissipates the emotion, and she sighs.

  ‘Go outside,’ she tells me. ‘And get that yoga idea out of your head. Yoga.’ She snorts in disgust. ‘There’s a perfectly good bible in the lounge room whose pages need airing if religion is what you’re after.’

  It’s peaceful when only Dad and I work. Neither of us feels the need to fill the milking shed with words. We’re content to stay in our own minds and I like that. The shed is hot, the cows are sleepy and blowflies hover in front of my face.

  Dad groans when he straightens up. ‘Well, that’s it for now.’

  Circling his waist is a strap of leather; old and smooth, it has been getting smaller every season and I notice that he has punched a new hole in it recently.The plaid shirt and trousers are baggy although they used to strain against his chest and thighs once.

  Don’t get older, I tell him silently. Stay where you are. Stay the dad I remember, the one who used to make swings for me out of old truck tyres, pushing me over the dam, laughing as I slipped through the centre. Stay the dad who pulled funny faces behind Mother’s back when she nagged me, the one who would slap her on the bottom, the one who gave me the lecture about girls. Stay the dad who could pile bags of cement on both shoulders and still smoke a cigarette between his teeth, the one who had mates and could drink more beer than any of them and still stand upright.

  I miss that man and yet I suspect he can’t return, not even if he wanted to.

  ‘Where …?’

  ‘Where what, Son?’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  He raises an eyebrow. In a gentle voice he asks, ‘How are the headaches, Son?’ He wipes his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘You’ve been taking your tablets, right?’

  I circle my head, something between a nod and a shake. I hate to lie to him, but I can’t tell him the real reason for throwing the tablets away. I can’t tell him about Mother’s plan for me.

  ‘Well,’ he says, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and coughing. ‘I’m not going anywhere so don’t worry about that.’

  That’s a promise he can’t keep but I love him for making it. ‘Do you want to sort out the calves now?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Why not.’

  We work until the sun softens and the kookaburras begin to laugh. The dam is the colour of red gold, reflecting the sky and the air is thick with eucalyptus. My head is cracking in several places but that won’t stop me from going into town later. Endure dinner; wait quietly in the lounge room, pretending to play solitaire, while the cats try to outstare me from Mother’s armchair, listening to Mother’s knitting needles clack and Dad’s newspaper whisper.

  Then, I am free to sneak out of the house.

  Julia

  Her famous chocolate torte is an inch high and burnt on one side and, even though she used double the icing, it sags pathetically in the middle. The strawberries seem intent on betraying her too. She had placed them around the cake in what was supposed to be a casual and inviting ring but they look bruised and messy, as though swept up from the greengrocer’s floor and flung from a distance. At the old house, with her electric oven, this recipe had been her pride and joy.

  Now, look at it.

  Bryant’s new friends fuss over the cake as though it’s a masterpiece. One woman is even able to keep a straight face while asking Julia for the recipe.

  It’s the woman who rang up the other night. Her name is Summer. She wears a dress that reveals every perfect curve of her body. Julia had tried on her favourite dress earlier in the evening, one Bryant used to whistle at, but it was too tight — way too tight — over her breasts and hips. She had stared at her reflection in the mirror, horrified to see this altered version of herself; one that obviously possessed no willpower. Eventually she put on a floaty blouse over jeans, and hoped to disappear into the background.

  ‘Let me help you with that,’ Summer says to Julia, and begins to ease a knife into the cake’s centre. ‘Pass me a plate.’

  ‘It’s flourless,’ Julia says. The knife’s surface is covered in brown goo. God, isn’t it cooked enough? She left it in the oven for an eternity. Forty minutes longer than the recipe suggested, skewering it every ten minutes to check if it was ready. Everyone at the table seems to be watching the cake with a look of disgusted fascination on their faces.

  Bryant clears his throat. ‘They’re very tricky to make, apparently. But I guarantee you, folks, you’ve never tasted a more delicious cake.’

  One of the men pats his stomach and says that he’s too full after the delicious barbeque and really couldn’t fit another thing in anyway. Several of the other guests agree.

  Summer has managed to get one lump of cake on a plate and she winks at Julia. ‘Well, I’m going to have some, although I’m sure it will go straight to my hips.’

  Bryant isn’t quick enough to turn his gaze away from the woman’s backside and his cheeks flush slightly when he realises Julia is watching him.

  ‘Well,’ he says, rubbing his hands together. ‘Who wants a brandy?’

  It’s quarter past ten, a pile of dishes wait for her on the draining board and bench top. The oven will need a good scouring. After several chemical bombs, it still has a sticky brown layer she can’t shift. And the thought of other people’s grime makes her trembly inside. Her hands are getting rougher and redder with each cleaning session, but the house remains dirty and constantly smelling of mould. It refuses to yield to her.

  What she wouldn’t give to lie down and close her eyes, unlock the smile from her face and sweep these people out of her house. She feels so tired she’s nauseous. But Bryant is getting more animated with the wine. His face is flushed and he’s full of witty comments. Everyone is laughing.

  ‘Look,’ Bryant says, ‘I absolutely believe in the ability to contact the other side, don’t get me wrong, but I do think the Americans are a bit too commercial.’ Bryant holds his hands up in the air, his head cocked to one side as though listening for something. He says in an American accent, ‘I’m getting a D … a D? No, wait … it could be a B. Does anyone in the audience know anyone whose name has a B in it?’ Bryant joins in with the others to laugh at his own joke. He swallows a mouthful of brandy. ‘I mean, these guys make a truckload of money but do people like me a lot of damage because the general public believes that all psychics are fakes.’

  Summer looks at him side on. Her eyes are half closed, not sleepy, but seductive. ‘Are you a psychic?’ She’s like a porn star. Blonde hair, blue eyes, huge white teeth and round breasts. Her beauty is like a weapon and it makes Julia nervous. All the men in the room are sneaking glances at her, trying not to let their partners catch them. Bryant hasn’t taken his eyes off her all night.

  Come on, Julia, you’re jealous. Admit it.

  Julia has always envied people who find conversations and parties easy, those who walk into a room full of strangers and, after a short time, have made friends with everyone, including the obnoxious uncle no one gets along with. Summer is obviously like Bryant in that respect: charming, flirtatious.

  Bryant takes a slow breath through his nose. ‘Actually, Summer, I’m a healer.’

  ‘A healer. Would you do a healing on me?’

  ‘Sure. Perhaps Saturday? I have a few hours free after the morning class.’

  Julia shifts in her seat. ‘You were going to come with me and the kids to IKEA. Remember? To pick out the sofa? The sale ends Sunday and we were going to make a day of it.’

  Bryant smacks his palm against his forehead. ‘Bugger, I forgot all about that.’

  Mrs Fatori pauses in her eating. ‘There’s a perfectly good furniture shop in the mall, Julia, they have these lovely three-piece suites that aren’t very expensive and they look like real leather. Although I think they only have them in white now, after Sonia Riddley bought the last blue one.’ She takes another mouthful and
bounces her head from side to side as she chews. ‘Best to support our local traders.’

  Bryant laughs. ‘Yes, Julia, best to support the locals. And the couch we have is hardly falling apart.’

  ‘Let’s make it another time,’ Summer says.

  ‘No, it’s okay, Summer, we can still do it.’ He turns to face Julia. ‘Darling, I’ve had the most brilliant idea. Why don’t you go visit your sister on Saturday? I’m sure she’d love to see you.’

  From nowhere, an image of Bryant and Summer making love drops into Julia’s head. It gives her a sudden feeling of vertigo and she has to drink a full glass of wine to wash the image away.

  But her husband’s right. She should go and see Yvonne. It’s been two years since they last caught up. But the visits are so awkward Julia has grown to dread them.Yvonne seems to endure for politeness’ sake until they reach small-talk saturation point and then she invariably remembers an appointment or pressing duty that can’t be postponed. So Julia stands up to leave and Yvonne is effusive in her goodbyes and promises to catch up again soon. It’s no one’s fault. Their past has seeded a jungle to lie between them — a tangle of emotion — and it grows ever wilder in the darkness of non-expression, and neither woman is brave enough to traverse it.

  Summer rises from the table and takes her plate, with most of the cake still on it, over to the sink. She balances it on the top of the dinner plates and stands back for a moment with her hands extended in case it topples.

  ‘Don’t even think of doing those,’ Bryant tells her.

  It was obvious to Julia that the woman had no intention of doing the washing up but Summer gives Bryant a wide, teasing smile. ‘Where’s the dishwashing liquid? And I’ll need rubber gloves too. I don’t want to ruin my nails.’

  ‘Don’t you dare, young lady.’

  Summer pouts and folds her arms, deepening her cleavage. The men laugh and stare.

  ‘I won’t do a healing on you,’ Bryant teases.

  Phillip Barchester, the local GP who rents out the building next to the yoga centre, clears his throat. His gaze has spent most of the evening resting on Summer’s breasts too, but it is now lifted to Bryant’s face. ‘You don’t really believe in this whole spiritual healing business, do you?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Bryant says. ‘I wouldn’t go to a doctor if I got sick. And I wouldn’t send my children either.’

  There is a mutual look of concern reflected in the faces around the table. Even Mrs Fatori pauses in her eating. Oh God, has Bryant forgotten Phillip is the town’s GP?

  Phillip frowns. ‘But isn’t that dangerous?’

  ‘What does a doctor do?’ Bryant says. ‘He says, “Hmmm, I think this is stress, or a virus” — mind you, he’s not sure, but he would never admit that. He tells the patient, “You need to rest up for a few days until it passes. Oh, and by the way, I’ll write you a prescription for some antibiotics — which will have no effect on the virus, of course, and will destroy all the good bacteria in your gut, so on top of the nasty cold you’ve got there, you can expect a few bouts of diarrhoea — but, hey, come back in a week so I can charge you more money to spend another hour in my germ-laden waiting room.”’

  ‘What’s the alternative?’ Phillip says, tightly. ‘Visit some untrained crystal healer who waves her hands around in the air, chants nonsense, gives you a foul-tasting herbal tonic that will do nothing except shear off half your tastebuds, and then leaves the cancer in your abdomen undiagnosed?’

  Everyone around the table laughs.

  Bryant claps his hands. ‘Touché, touché, Phillip, you have a point. But don’t dismiss natural healing before you’ve tried it. Given enough time, I think I could confidently cure anything, or anyone, and not many doctors can claim that. Now, who needs a refill?’

  Julia checks the expressions around the table. Everyone looks stunned by Bryant’s ridiculous statement on healing. Why does he do that, she wonders? For the attention?To shock? Does he really believe he has the power to cure sickness? She has no recollection of him doing so. In fact, when he gets a cold, and he gets one every winter, he whimpers like a little boy and Julia has to fuss over him until he’s well again.

  Tom

  I’ve discovered where he lives. Not at all where I expected. I thought a man like him would buy the old rectory, that huge red brick and bluestone building on Driver’s Hill, and do it up all fancy. But he lives in a small weatherboard house on Drew Street. The house backs onto Mr Shaw’s farm and needs re-stumping, and painting, and the corrugated iron roof is striped with long seams of rust.

  Party noises drift out through the windows: waves of conversation and laughter, music, the clatter of plates and cutlery. Nothing is visible through the front windows; a breeze pulls a net curtain out of the opening. I can’t believe they don’t have any fly screens, they’ll be bitten alive by mozzies.

  A gap in the blinds allows me to peep through the kitchen window.

  Here they all are. Mostly newcomers, ex-city folk, apart from Mrs Fatori and her husband, both of whom are scooping up mounds of dip with corn chips. I close my eyes and listen to the man’s voice. Jasmine from the paling fence beside me sweetens his words.

  ‘… Everything in our world is a creation of our own minds,’ he says. ‘It’s all just energy. Our thoughts are projected outwards, like a movie, which means you are responsible for everything that happens, good and bad.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Phillip Barchester says. ‘Surely not everything, I mean what about kids that get abused or die in childhood, you can’t believe they created that?’

  ‘It’s harder to accept but, on a soul level, they have chosen that particular experience to learn from. Our bodies are a small percentage of who we are, the rest is all spirit. Energy. Vibrations.’

  There is a wave of laughter from the table. They all think he is making a joke, but I’ve seen the energy he’s talking about and I’ve felt the vibrations.

  Phillip isn’t laughing. ‘And those people starving in Africa?’

  ‘They’re learning.’

  ‘You think they deserve —’

  The man interrupts. ‘Oh, I never said “deserve”, did I? What happens to their bodies is sad, there’s no denying that. But as souls nothing can hurt them. A soul can’t die. It just changes form.’

  Phillip shakes his head, drinks wine.

  A woman sits opposite me. Her colours are exquisite. Although, I must admit, her body looks exhausted; there are dark smudges under her eyes and she keeps yawning. Her gaze has melted into the table in front of her.

  Phillip stands up, his back blocking my view. ‘Time to hit the road, I’m afraid. I have to get up early in the morning; patients to see to.’

  His wife joins him and picks up her handbag from the floor.There is a shuffle as they move legs and shake hands and find belongings. Then the table resettles and I can see into the room again.

  The woman yawns so widely behind her hand that her eyes water. Why doesn’t she go to bed? I squint down at my watch. A couple of minutes past eleven; it’s getting late. I’ll have to milk the cows in a few hours.

  ‘Go to bed,’ I say and she looks up, straight at me and frowns.

  I duck down into the shadows. Did she see me?

  The conversation at the table is still running. No one has paused to say, Did you hear that? But I dare not take any chances and begin to crawl alongside the house, back towards the street.

  She is standing at the letterbox by the time I get there, her arms folded, her slender feet pointing in opposite directions as though unsure of which way to go. Her eyes are aimed directly at mine, although I’m standing as still as a post in the cool shadows of the camellia bushes.

  I watch her take a deep breath and sigh it out again. She rubs her arms and gazes for a moment at the stars. She carries the most beautiful sound with her.

  The front door bangs open and the party noises spill into the night.

  I hear him say, ‘Oh, there you are. I wondered where you dis
appeared to.’

  ‘Getting some fresh air,’ she says.

  He puts his arm around her shoulder. ‘Great party, hey? I think the locals will be glad we made this tree change. We’re going to be popular in this town, Julia. I can feel it.’

  She nods without enthusiasm and he steers her back inside the house.

  Julia

  Didn’t think I would do it, did you?’

  Bryant has done the washing up; two mountains covered by tea towels, set on either side of the sink. He’s even fed the kids, bacon and eggs by the smell of it, and they’re outside now, dressed in their pyjamas and gum boots, throwing grass at the cows in the back paddock.

  Julia puts her hand on his shoulder and kisses his cheek. ‘You’re an angel.’

  He’s in good spirits this morning; no sign of the hangover that is pounding through her own head. She accepts a cup of instant coffee from him and sips cautiously. Still no plumber to install her machine.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asks.

  ‘Almost eleven.’

  ‘Shit.’ Julia shakes her head and even that small movement causes pain. So much for an early morning jog. The medicine things are packed in with the unorganised jumble of boxes and she’s got no hope of finding them.

  ‘So, here’s the plan,’ Bryant says. ‘I don’t have a class until later this afternoon so I thought I’d take the kids out to the lake for a couple of hours and see if we can catch some fish for dinner. That will give you time to unpack the boxes like you wanted to.’

  ‘I have to clean that bathroom first. It’s disgusting.’

  ‘The bathroom is fine. This is an old house. Why don’t you give the cleaning a break, Julia.’ He picks up her right hand and they both inspect the chapped skin and ragged cuticles. ‘Darling, you’re wearing all the skin off.’

  She removes her hand and puts it under the table. ‘Hey, I saw someone outside our kitchen window last night.’

  He turns and stares at the blind, as though they might still be there. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘It was a kid, I think. Probably curious about all the noise.’