‘Very pretty girl,’ he says. ‘You should have given her the flowers though. Look, they’re beginning to wilt.’
‘I’m not in love with her.’
‘Who then?’
I want to tell Joe, I trust him, but it’s far too risky. I sit on a bar stool and arrange the library books in order — biggest down the bottom, smallest on top. The bad feeling is returning again, turning my skin to ice. What is it? My head is beginning to ache with confusion; the vaguest feeling that something important, and terrible, has been forgotten.
‘Has Julia been into the café this morning?’ When I feel my cheeks going red, I lower my head and pretend to inspect the petals on one of the flowers.
‘Tom …?’
‘Hmmm?’
‘It’s not Julia you’re in love with, is it?’ His voice is quiet. He sits down beside me on the bar stool. ‘Listen, Tom, she’s very beautiful, so I can understand, but she’s a married lady, and well …she has kids.’
‘I like kids.’
‘But you don’t want to be responsible for breaking up a marriage, do you?’
My heart shrivels up in my chest, blackened and dry. My throat is closed shut. There are no words to be said or thoughts to be thought that will comfort me now and, in a nasty waterfall rush of emotion, the memory of Mother’s words, the shame of what I’ve done to Simon and my friends comes flooding back over me and I run from the café and try to dissolve into the bush and the energy of the earth.
Julia
Three times she sits down with pen and paper to write the letter. The thought of writing it makes her chest ache and her hands shake. But she doesn’t have a choice, does she? She can see now that an affair will be too difficult to manage. Oscar needs her. And the feelings she has for Tom are too powerful to hide; they’re not small feelings to be kept neatly tucked away in a pocket somewhere. They are atomic. They will get her into trouble. If she continues to see Tom, then in no time the whole town will know of her infidelity. And she can’t imagine the shame of that happening.
So she forces herself to write: Dear Tom …
Here she pauses. Words are useless, unable to convey the complexity of heart and longing; so empty of feeling.
She gets up for another coffee, which is probably not helping the shaking, and sits down again. She bites the end of the pen; taps it against her chin. What she wants to say is: Dear Tom, I want to make love to you and lose myself in the process. I want a new life with passion and orgasms. Let’s run away together.
But the truth won’t do.
And nothing else sounds right when she reads it over. The more deeply she tries to express her feelings the more shallow they read on paper. So, in frustration, she aims for simplicity, and hopes that Tom will forgive her cowardice.
Dear Tom, I can’t see you anymore. Sorry.
Regards, Julia
Sealing the envelope, she ignores the flicker of guilt, picks up her handbag, gets in the car and drives into town. She posts the letter, then wishes the moment the envelope slides out of her hands that she could retrieve it.
Has she done the right thing? Who knows? Who knows what the right or wrong thing is until the events can be viewed through the stabilised lens of the future? And that will take ages. Perhaps if she went to the post office, the guy behind the counter might have a key she could borrow. Would Australia Post let her unlock the box, rifle through the mail and retrieve her letter?
‘You okay, love?’ Mrs Fatori is standing behind her, a small parcel in her hand.
‘Oh, sorry,’ she says. ‘I was thinking.’
‘Sometimes that does more harm than good, love.’
‘What? Thinking?’
Mrs Fatori nods.
Julia suspects she might be right. So, before she can think about it anymore, she sets her feet in the direction of Summer’s house. What she plans to do there, she’s not entirely sure. A confrontation of sorts. Long overdue. She hopes that her marriage can be straightened out by this action, and a new life can begin. Julia has given up Tom. Now it’s only fair that Bryant give up Summer.
Summer opens the door, and welcomes Julia inside, then leads her along a hallway with modern artwork into the kitchen. The house reflects its owner — sunny and fashionable. The adjoining dining room could have been lifted straight off the front page of a Vogue magazine.
‘Have a seat.’ Summer points at a row of bar stools. ‘Do you want me to make you a coffee or something?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Tea? Or a cold drink?’
‘No.’
‘I really don’t mind.’ Summer waves her hand towards a stainless-steel espresso machine on the bench top. ‘Look, I make a wicked cappuccino.’
Julia takes a deep breath. She wishes Summer wouldn’t be so nice. It only makes what she has to say more difficult. ‘I don’t want a coffee,’ she says, firmly. ‘I only came here to ask you something.’
‘Sure. Ask away.’
But now that she is standing in front of Summer, who continues to smile so sweetly, she feels rather foolish. ‘Well … you know, the other night when you came around?’
‘Yes?’
‘We didn’t get much of a chance to talk, what with Bryant coming into the kitchen and everything. But I wanted to ask you … I wanted to see what your feelings for Bryant were.’
‘Oh, I care for him,’ Summer says. ‘A lot.’
‘Yes, I think any fool can see how much you “care for” my husband.’
Summer’s smile falters then and she adds, quickly, ‘Oh, but perhaps not in the way you imagine.’
Aha, Julia has her. ‘And what exactly do you think I imagine?’
Summer regards her for a moment. ‘Well, you know, sometimes spouses get jealous. I know Charlie does. He hates me having male friends. He imagines they all want to sleep with me.’ She runs her hand over her stomach, which has grown rounder since Julia last saw her, tracing a spiral inward until her hand comes to rest on her belly button and, once there, she pats the bump a couple of times.
Julia holds her breath. The action is probably subconscious but, even still, it’s like a huge exclamation mark over her worst fear.
‘I need to know …’ Julia says, keeping her gaze averted from Summer’s stomach. ‘I need to know …’ Her throat is starting to hurt with these words that really don’t want to be spoken, but must be.
‘You look pale, Julia. Do you want to sit down?’
‘No. For heaven’s sake. Are you and Bryant more than friends?’
Cautiously, Summer nods her head.
Julia feels like shaking her. ‘I mean, is it love?’
Summer presses her lips together, nervously. Her gaze moves to the window, staring outside for a moment, and then back again. In the end, she simply says, ‘Yes.’
‘And I suppose Bryant has the same feelings for you?’
‘Definitely. We love each other. But listen, Julia, we’re not lovers.’
‘I don’t want you to see him anymore.’ Julia’s voice is trembling.
‘I know how it probably looks. But I promise you. We’re friends. That’s all. You’ll just have to trust me on this.’
‘Trust you? You expect me to trust you?’ Her voice is getting louder. ‘I want you to stay the hell away from my husband.’
‘Oh, God. This is dreadful, isn’t it?’ Summer takes a couple of steps closer to Julia. ‘What a mess. Over a misunderstanding.’
‘You must think I’m an idiot.’
‘No, of course not. Look, I can’t say any more about this yet, not until I’ve spoken to Bryant. But I’m sure we can sort it out. You’ll realise you’ve made a big fuss over nothing.’
Julia is speechless with anger. She wants to rip Summer into little pieces and throw her in the air and let the wind scatter her body in a thousand different directions, never to be found again. To say Julia has made a fuss over nothing. Nothing. The nerve of the woman. Julia storms up the hallway to the front door, red-faced and fuming
. She doesn’t return Summer’s goodbye. Doesn’t even look back at her.
She heads straight to the mall. She is a bus without brakes, a body without a brain. If she stops to think, courage will abandon her. So, without thinking, she walks resolutely to Charlie’s butcher shop.
He is about to lock up when she knocks on the door. He beams at her widely as she steps into the white-tiled shop. ‘Just about to knock off,’ he says. ‘Were you after something for dinner? The lamb cutlets are nice and tender.’
She clears her throat. ‘No. I don’t have any money on me.’
He squeezes her shoulder with his large hand. ‘Don’t you worry, you’re a friend of Summer’s. What did you want? Anything.’ He gestures to the row of refrigerators.
She is hungry and sick at the same time and turns away. ‘I … I’m not sure.’
‘Have a cup of tea with me, come on.’ He leads her through to the back of the shop, past the carcass chopping blocks and large refrigerators, and into a cozy room overlooking the creek. There is a wicker settee and two chairs, a small sink, electric kettle and a row of cups hanging by nails.
‘Sit down.’ He indicates the couch. ‘How do you have it?’
‘White thanks.’ She clears her throat, runs her finger down the seam of her jeans. ‘You know, Charlie, I’m not really friends with Summer.’
He pauses in his tea-stirring. ‘Have you two had a falling out?’
‘No. It’s just that we were never friends. I met her for the first time when she came to see Bryant. She’s one of his yoga students.’
He places the tea into her hands and offers her a Tim Tam. ‘Summer was getting cravings for these things,’ he says, indicating the biscuits. His indefatigable smile flickers. ‘I bought twenty packets, so she’d never run out, but after the third pack she said they were making her sick.’
Julia takes a bite of her biscuit and sips her tea, feeling like a thief. It was a mistake telling him about Bryant and Summer, she realises. It will achieve nothing except hurt two people whose lives and affairs are none of her business.
He looks into his tea and she can see him thinking. After a while he raises his head. ‘That’s interesting what you say, Julia. That really is. It explains a thing or two. All those times she said she was going to see you.’ His usually florid face is paler than a macadamia nut. He stares at a row of knives and cleavers lined up on a magnetic strip. Julia imagines the gristle and bone they have dismantled and wonders at the strength of his forearms. ‘Summer was so miserable before Bryant arrived.’
‘It’s probably a coincidence.’
Charlie’s head looks heavy. His cup is on an angle and tea is dripping onto his leg, which he seems not to notice. ‘Your husband has been very kind to her though, hasn’t he? He lets her do the classes for free. And Summer has loaned him a fair bit of money, although she said, at the time, that it was for you.’
Julia can feel her cheeks burning. She turns to look out of the window so Charlie can’t see her embarrassment. She had no idea about the money and doesn’t know what Bryant did with it; certainly not pay off any of their bills.
Charlie gets to his feet and holds out his hand for her cup even though she’s only taken a couple of sips from it. ‘Oh, thank you.’
He washes the cups carefully, with a couple of drops of concentrated washing-up liquid on a dried sponge and hot water. He sets them on a drainer and wipes his hands against a tea towel. Then he moves over to the knives. He regards them for a moment, his index finger running across the handles, back and forth, making his selection. He stops at one with a wooden handle — thin, slightly curved, sharp-bladed. He removes it from the magnetic strip and wraps it slowly and carefully in a stiff black holder. Then he slides the knife down into a pocket at the side of his cargo pants.
Julia’s heart has stopped. What does he want the knife for?
Charlie turns to face her. ‘Are you sure you don’t want any of these biscuits, or some meat?’
She swallows. ‘No, thank you.’
He makes her take three packets of biscuits and insists on giving her a lift home. And she sits in his big slow-moving car, just like him, and breathes in his after shave and hand cleaner and feels slightly scared. She remembers that her car is still parked behind the supermarket in town, but too late to mention it now. Bryant can get it later.
‘Here we are,’ he says, with the engine running outside her house, and he stares at the front windows as though looking for a message on the glass. ‘Bryant gave Summer quite a few late-night healings.’ He says the word healings like it is dirty. ‘But you probably knew that already. You probably sat up waiting and wondering like I did.’
‘There’s nothing going on between Bryant and Summer, you know. I think it’s my mind playing tricks on me. My motherin-law reckons she was suspicious of her husband too. A lot of women think things like that. It’s hormones apparently.’ God, shut up, Julia, you idiot. ‘You won’t do anything with that knife will you?’ The question is out of her mouth before she can stop it.
He stares at her blankly for a moment. ‘Oh, that,’ he says, placing his hand over his pocket. ‘I’m doing a roast tonight.’
‘Oh, right. Sorry. I thought … I just meant …’
Julia opens the car door before she can do any more damage, and waits on the verge while he puts the car into gear. And she watches Charlie drive away — with a carving knife in his pocket.
Tom
There is nowhere for me to hide. I run with blind eyes, crashing through the bush, until my legs can no longer carry me, and then I collapse into the brown rattle of leaves beneath the gums. The creek is nearby, I can hear it, but I make no effort to move to its side. An ocean of water could not wash something this heavy away.
How can evil lie dormant in my mind for all these years, curled up like a virus sleeping? How can I kill so many people and not remember it? Mother’s words have unleashed something terrible, and a cold sweat of fear and shame cloaks my back. No wonder Wilson hates me. In a place where everyone is connected to everyone else, like bricks in a house, I must have been a wrecking ball that night.
I take a section of hair in each fist and pull it away from my head; hard, harder, until I feel pin drops of blood spring from my scalp. I must remember. I must remember. I curl myself into a tight circle and traverse the dark rooms and passageways of my mind, looking for clues. I shine a light into the corners and force myself to be still and face what is there.
‘Simon …?’ My voice is a whisper, barely loud enough to disturb the magpies sitting overhead. ‘Show me.’
A single memory falls into place then. I see it as clear as moonlight on our kitchen floor. It’s the night of falling stars. How long ago was that, I wonder? I watched through my bedroom window, breathless, smiling on the window sill, as pieces of silver, like cut-up tinsel, fell out of the sky towards earth.
I creep down the hallway while everyone is asleep to Simon’s bedroom to tell him to watch too. It’s one of those airless nights that come mid-February, where your body gets as sticky as fly paper and there is nowhere to put your arms and legs.
Mother is in his room already, with her dressing gown tightly belted, despite the heat. Her hair is pinned up in a damp twist, revealing the top of her spine, as hard and knotted as a sailor’s rope. She cradles Simon’s head in her lap and rests her left hand on his chest, as though frightened he might get up. And she reads to him from a book, Tales for Small Folk. Her eyes are closed so she must know the words by heart. But I have never heard these stories before, and Simon is no longer small. She’s telling Simon about a pony that wanted to skate on a frozen lake because he’d seen the young children do it, but the pony keeps falling down.
Simon watches me in the doorway, trying to convey some shade of distress to me; his eyes begging for help, his mouth opening to form a wordless plea as though he is drowning.
But I close the door carefully, without Mother hearing, and go back to my bedroom. I sit on the window sill,
staring at the stars which a moment ago were alive and silver, and now lie dead in the sky.
‘What could I do?’
— You could have helped me.
‘I’m sorry, but she was too powerful.’
— You didn’t even try.
‘Shut up. I said I was sorry.’ Then louder, I tell the sky, and Simon, if he’s up there watching. ‘I’m sorry,’ and hear the flap of wings overhead.
I don’t know how long I stay under the tree, allowing grief to devour my heart and bones.
But after a while …
… the earth stops singing.
I sit up and stare at the tops of the trees in disbelief. Nothing. I press my head to the ground. Silence. My heartbeat becomes the drum roll to the entrance of my worst fears. I can’t hear the world. Where is the reassuring hum of earth? Where is the cooling sigh of trees? And the clear blond note of sunlight?
Panic attacks me. I stumble forward, unable to breathe. Fear alters the familiar paths at my feet, making me awkward, off balance, my ankles twisting, my knees threatening to buckle. I stop now and then to press my ear to the crumbling bark of a eucalypt or the dark-ribbed torso of a pine tree, listening desperately.
All is dead. All is mute. What is happening to me? Am I being punished?
Oh, God. It’s not possible to live in this place; devoid of innocent sound and pure colours. If I can’t see the tiny parts that make up creation, if I can’t hear the song that calls them into movement, how can I survive? I won’t survive. Lovely, without light and music, is just an empty hole.
I am suddenly possessed with a white rage that blasts to the outer edges of me. I beat the ground with my fists, demanding music, as if I could drum it out of the earth with my hands. Over and over I hit the dirt.
‘Give it back,’ I yell. My sweat and tears fall. ‘Give it back.’ My hands begin to bleed, colouring the dirt, like an offering. Which is refused. ‘You bastard,’ I scream. ‘Give it back.’ I keep hitting, uselessly, until my hands grow limp. And my strength and rage are leached.
‘Please,’ I whisper, but the earth humps its shoulders at me.
Defeated, I rest my head against one of the mute cabbages in Mother’s vegetable patch, surrounded by sadness, blurry dusk and a solitary star.
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