When he believes you can’t survive without him?
When you’re not sure that you can survive without him?
When he’s not a bad man. What kind way is there to say goodbye?
They go on a date to a restaurant in one of the suburban towns halfway between where they live, and where they used to live; a grim 1950s American-style diner with nearly every piece of furniture rimmed with chrome.
Bryant hasn’t mentioned the running off and digging holes episode yet, which suits Julia just fine, but she knows there is a lecture brewing, and it all feels like storm clouds dripping over her head, about to pour.
She tries on the black dress again, hoping that it will fit the way it used to. It should fit after all the jogging she’s been doing. But it doesn’t. She wears it anyway despite the fact that she can barely breathe, and her breasts are straining against the seams.
Strange things are happening to her hearing again. This morning, while she was hanging some washing on the line, she could have sworn the cows in Mr Shaw’s paddock, at the rear of their yard, were singing — a fine earthy, milky tune.
Bryant has rung ahead and booked, so they have one of the special banquettes near the front window. There is a strange noise in the restaurant too, something sad, although Julia can’t locate the source. She turns her head this way, and that, listening for it.
‘I was thinking we should do this more often,’ Bryant says. ‘Especially while Mum’s staying with us.’
‘Yes.’ Julia stops listening to the sad song and focuses her attention on her husband for a minute. ‘Yes, that would be nice.’ Look at the pair of them, smiling, nodding. Why are they keeping up this pretence? she wonders. How much longer can they keep it up? The strain is almost unbearable.
Bryant folds his napkin, and leans towards her. ‘Are you all right? Is that dress a bit tight?’
She looks down at her cleavage and at the roll of flesh on either side of her underarms and shrugs. ‘A little, maybe. Does it bother you?’ When she was dancing she didn’t really have any breasts. Although, looking down now, she must admit that the view is not so bad.
Bryant clears his throat, ‘Well, if it doesn’t bother you.’ He takes his gaze away from her abundance, and returns his attention to the menu. ‘So, what do you want?’
‘I want everything to stick,’ she says, and demonstrates by pressing her hands together. But maybe the whole world is programmed for separation in the end, Julia thinks — couples, families, nations. Maybe there is nothing in the spaces to hold everyone together. She looks up at Bryant. ‘To be honest, I’m not really sure what I want anymore.’
He nods his head. He puts down his menu, next to a small pottery vase on the table, and smiles. ‘I meant food, actually.’
‘Ah,’ Julia says, and smiles back. She realises where the sad noise is coming from now. It’s the flower on their table; a single pink gerbera letting out a finely pitched keening, singing its last song.
Bryant shrugs. ‘I’ll order you the chicken then.’
When they’ve finished eating, Bryant pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and winks at her, and Julia is flooded, briefly, with a feeling of remorse. This marriage is finished. She doesn’t love her husband anymore. It’s over, and he doesn’t have a clue.
She watches him as he looks for the right money, adding up numbers in his head, biting his lower lip, smiling at her when he sees her watching, leaving a decent tip under the coffee cup. He’s not a bad man. It seems cruel not to love him.
What is it in her that loves anyway? What fickle thing? If her best efforts to love have failed; if her body and mind and will cannot make it happen, then she is at the mercy of something else. Her heart? That can’t be trusted. It loves those it shouldn’t and remains stubbornly closed to those it should cherish. If her heart is running the show, and she suspects it is, then she is in deep trouble.
‘I think I’ll move this,’ Julia says, and she plucks the gerbera from its vase and puts it in with a single yellow one beside the till. ‘So they won’t be alone,’ she tells the waitress.
On the way home, Bryant drives onto a side road and parks the car beside a closed service station. He undoes his seat belt. Loosens his tie. He slides his seat back as far as it will go, and smiles.
‘What are we doing?’ Julia asks, feeling slightly panicked. ‘We should get home. I bet you anything the kids are still up and waiting for us.’
‘Relax. They’ll be asleep.’ Bryant stretches his arm across her seat and strokes the side of her neck. When she remains stiff, unable to meet his eyes, he puts his other hand on her breast and begins to fiddle with her nipple, like he’s trying to tune the dial on a radio, searching for the right station.
‘Bryant, don’t.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t have sex with you anymore.’
He withdraws his hand. ‘You’d prefer Tom, I take it?’ He regards her down the length of his nose. ‘You’d prefer to be digging holes in a paddock with Tom?’
‘Don’t be like that, Bryant.’
‘What should I be like exactly?’ He folds his arms across his chest. ‘You kissed him; how do you think that makes me feel?’
‘Well, you kissed Craig so I’m guessing we feel about the same way.’
‘Craig didn’t mean anything to me, but I bet you can’t say the same thing about Tom.’
No, she can’t, not without lying. But this conversation is heading into the quicksand of futility; they’ll be getting mean and petty with each other in no time, and she doesn’t want to end things like that. ‘Bryant, have you ever wondered what your life would be like if you hadn’t married me?’
‘Brilliant.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
He seems to realise his error and adds, ‘But it wouldn’t be the same without you, of course. And the kids.’ He pulls his tie off and begins to wind it around his hand like a tourniquet. ‘Come on Julia, give me a break. You know I’m not having an affair.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with an affair anymore,’ Julia says. ‘Our marriage is over. And neither of us wants to admit it.’
‘What are you saying?’ He bangs his tie-wrapped fist against the wheel. ‘God, Julia. Think about what you’re saying. You can’t leave me.’
She’s surprised by his distress. She doesn’t know how to react. ‘Bryant, you can’t possibly be happy with our marriage?’
‘Happy? No, that’s probably not the best way to describe it.’
‘There you go.’
‘But happiness was a stupid goal in the first place,’ he says. He stares out the window for a moment, his gaze blurring. ‘Everyone wants to be happy. We all strive for it. But then it arrives, whatever it is we think will make us happy, and you know what? We’re still empty inside. So we try another goal, hoping that this one will make us fulfilled. But it never does, Julia. I’m wise to it. I never really married you expecting to be happy.’
‘Bloody hell, Bryant.’
He lifts his eyebrows at her. ‘What I’m trying to say, in my rather clumsy fashion, is that I married you because I love you. And I’ll stick by you, whether I’m happy, or not.’
This should be enough for her, she thinks. To have a man that will stay by her side no matter how bad the marriage gets. It’s actually very noble of him. But she can hear his note clearly now. And Tom is right, her husband is in a completely different key to her. They are like two notes sat next to each other on a piano; close, but tonally incompatible. The dissonance of their relationship is something she can no longer bear.
‘I can’t, Bryant.’
‘Shit.’ He reaches out to grip the steering wheel, as though the car might drive away by itself. ‘What’s the real reason, Julia? Tell me. It’s Tom, isn’t it? You want to be with him.’ He squeezes the wheel. He shakes it and she can hear the faint sound of plastic straining. His knuckles are turning white and she wonders if it’s her neck he’s imagining between his tight fingers.
&nb
sp; She says, gently, ‘Bryant, stop it.’
He takes a shuddering breath and releases his hands from the wheel.
They stare at each other. Seeing the truth in each other’s eyes for perhaps the first time. The moment can’t be sustained, of course. Some views are best left shuttered. Julia turns to look out the window.
Bryant puts his seat upright and leans forward to start the engine, and they drive back onto the main road, travelling the rest of the way in silence.
Tom
I sense it coming. Like the first ripples of dawn that travel outward from the light. I think the cows feel it too because they are twitchy and difficult to milk this morning. I lay the equipment down and hurry into the house.
Mother tries to stop me in the kitchen but I ignore her warning and walk resolutely to his bedroom. For I will not miss this goodbye.
I lie down beside Dad and pick up his hand. His colours are paler than water and beginning to dissolve. A shaft of silver hovers around his head and I know that the angels are talking to him, preparing him for the journey. And in that moment I feel a sense of peace.
As the last breath is drawn from his body, and his hand grips and softens in mine, I close my eyes and fall towards sleep, so I can travel part of the way with him. I’ve been to this land before, briefly, carried by water. He’ll travel upward, flowing back into the ether, to all that is and isn’t, until he’s one with the pulse of life again.
And in the morning he will be the cows and the hills, and the light through my bedroom window.
Julia
She begins cleaning. The aim is twofold: one, to have a tidy house to return to after the funeral; and, two, as a distraction from thinking about Tom. He’ll be at the funeral, of course, so there’s no way she can avoid him. She is terrified of her heart; certain that it is scheming against her. What will she do? She already feels unhinged. Will she throw herself at him? Wrap her arms around his wide shoulders and press her ear to his heart again, listening with rapture, no longer concerned with what other people think. No, no, no. She will hold herself together. Heaven help her.
Her efforts at cleaning are half-hearted. She starts in the bathroom; makes a cursory swipe of the sink and squirts toilet cleaner under the rim. Ignores the shower. On her way out, she takes three toothbrushes and puts them in an unused make-up bag. In the kids’ room she straightens toys, and puts together enough clothes for a few days. Then, in the bedroom, she opens the wardrobe and stares inside for a moment. She chooses three summer tops, two pairs of shorts, knickers and her favourite tracksuit pants. As she lays it all on the bed in a neat pile, it dawns on her what she is doing. She is packing. She’s actually doing it. She’s leaving. She has no idea where she is going, or what she’ll do, but it doesn’t matter; she’ll figure that out later.
Julia takes a deep breath at the realisation.
Why has it taken her so long to reach this point? To wake up to herself? Bryant was never really a good match for her. And no amount of striving or pretending was ever going to change that.
In many ways she was a scared little girl, waiting for her father to pick her up, and hold her tight, and tell her everything was going to be all right. But no parent is going to come along and fix everything for her. And no man will either. She must do it on her own.
Bryant doesn’t notice the clothes on the bed. He walks in with his hands fighting a tie. ‘Bloody thing. Would you …?’
Julia flips the end of the tie around, pulls it through the loop and knots it against his neck. She stares into his eyes, no longer afraid of what she will see in them.
Bryant doesn’t meet her gaze but pulls at the material. ‘God, you’ve done it up so tight, Julia, I can hardly breathe. Mum …?’ He wanders out of the bedroom to find Barbara. From the kitchen she hears him joke, ‘Perhaps she was trying to strangle me.’
They stop in the mall to buy the kids an ice-cream, advanced bribery to get them to behave at the service. Bryant tells everyone to wait in the car. But the day is scalding hot and the kids get out anyway. Mrs Fatori is sat outside the fruit shop, dressed in funeral attire, her swollen feet baking in the sun. She has a cardboard box beside her.
‘Oh, Mum, the puppies are here.’ The kids rush across the mall.
‘They’re ready to be taken home,’ Mrs Fatori says, as the kids kneel down and plunge their hands into the box. ‘I like this one, Oscar.’ She hands him a brown one with a white nose and a huge pink belly. ‘He’s the bravest of the litter. And he’s naughty too, which gives him more character.’
Julia walks over. ‘Come on kids, put them down. You’re not having one.’
Mrs Fatori smiles at her. ‘You know, Julia, kids look back on their childhood to remember the love and cuddles they got, not how tidy their house was.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Julia says. ‘Is that flat above the fruit shop still vacant?’
Mrs Fatori nods.
‘I’ll take it.’
From the other side of the street, Bryant is yelling. ‘Come on.
These damn ice-creams are melting. And we’ll be late.’
‘The service won’t start on time,’ Mrs Fatori says. ‘They’ll have to get the pastor out of the pub first.’
Bryant hates dogs; doesn’t trust them after a Jack Russell bit his leg when he was young. But it’s not his decision anymore, she realises. Mrs Fatori is right, the puppy will be good for the kids, but it might also help her to let go of her cleaning obsession. What a terrifying thought. She smiles to herself, thinking of the home she will create, one with newspaper all over the floor. ‘Which one do you want, kids?’
They look at Julia in disbelief.
‘Really?’ says Amber.
‘Do you mean to have?’ Oscar says, suspicion and hope in his eyes. ‘To keep?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Now hurry up and decide which puppy you want before your ice-creams melt away.’
Tom
They bury my father’s body in a corner of the cemetery, next to the highway. He’s got a stone angel sitting next to him with small wings and sad eyes. A Moreton Bay fig casts long fingers of shade over nearby graves, but doesn’t quite reach his lot.
The sun presses beads of sweat from the pastor’s forehead. He smells of beer. Most of the town is here, red-faced and squinting in the heat. Joe keeps smiling at me from the other side of the hole. I feel his strong energy holding me up. Streams of blue and silver light flow from his heart to mine, wrapping me tight.
Be strong, he seems to say. Keep your chin up.
‘I will,’ I say.
Mother digs me in the ribs with her elbow and tells me to be quiet.
Julia is here too. Beautiful as a summer night. I know she watches me, but keeps averting her eyes whenever I look at her. ‘Look at me, Julia,’ I say. ‘Please.’
This time, Mother hits me hard on the shoulder. Under her breath she warns me to be silent. People whisper. Bryant clears his throat. The pastor falters in his speech.
There is a sadness in Julia’s eyes that goes straight to my heart. She sways slightly on her feet. ‘There’s a force,’ I say. ‘A sideways kind of gravity that pushes people together. It’s getting stronger between us. Surely you can feel it.’
‘Tom,’ the preacher says. ‘Please.’ And he points to the hole.
‘Dad’s not in there,’ I tell him.
Julia’s face has gone very red. She looks left to right to see who is watching — everyone — but I also see something ignite behind her eyes and I know she wants to hear this. In fact, I’m sure she needs to hear this.
‘Bryant can’t give you the love you need,’ I say. ‘He likes kissing men.’ There is an explosion of laughter from somewhere on my left, Wilson by the sound of it. Bryant’s gaze is nailed to the ground. Julia seems to be leaning towards me, her energy is pouring towards me. Her eyes are fluid blue and gold light. I want to fall into that light and hold its edges. ‘Come to me, Julia. I’ll put the harmony back in your song.’
; Mother attacks me then.
It takes me by surprise and I stumble backwards, with her pressing on me, gouging at my face with her nails. There is a scream gurgling in her throat, unable to get out. The pastor, Joe and Wilson try to get her off but she is stronger than all of them, her energy brighter and redder than a CFA truck.
‘You bastard,’ she screams. ‘You ruin everything.’
‘Leave her,’ I tell the people who try to pull her away. ‘Leave her,’ I say. She needs to get this fury out of her body.
She doesn’t slow either, not as the tears begin to dry and the crowd stands aside. She doesn’t slow when she realises I am not resisting her. Or when the pastor reminds her of where she is. She keeps going; rage and despair like an accelerant, fuelling her on.
I remember her now, years ago. I remember a Christmas where the tree was real, there was laughter, and Grandma Enid was drunk and fell asleep at the table, and Simon sat nudging me with his knee. I gave Mum a pot holder with: World’s Greatest Mum on it.
And she was.
Once.
She held me on her hip; wiped ice-cream from my face with a tissue; and smiled. Perhaps there are other times like that; her smiling, her holding me. If I dig and dig I might uncover my mother as she used to be, before the accident.
I step forward and take her into my arms. She fights for a breath or two but I hold her tight and kiss the top of her dry head, and she strains against me, saying she hates me, and I tell her that is fine.
Sadness breaks apart my loathing of her. I marvel at how skinny and brittle she is, like old paper. How has she survived?
Despite the venom in her words, despite the bitterness in her heart, she is just a woman. A woman who has turned her life into vinegar and is doubled up with the pain of consuming her own poison.
‘Let it go,’ I say to the crown of her head. ‘Let go of everything and be happy again.’
Julia
Heavy clouds, like slow-moving dinosaurs, crowd the sky. They seem low enough to touch. As the pastor recites his oration, thunder sounds in the distance and everyone looks upward.
But not Julia; she continues to stare at the grave; the plain wooden box hovering above the hole, too embarrassed to look at the other mourners.
Milk Fever Page 27