by James Roy
‘By rights, I should take it further right now. And I can, if you like. Do you want me to?’
‘No!’
‘That’s what I thought.’ He came over and took his place beside her on her log. ‘But no one should have to put up with that shit. No one. Seriously.’
Anonymity nodded.
‘Seriously.’
‘I know.’
‘Good. So you’ll tell me? If the same thing happens again?
‘Yes. I promise.’
‘All right then.’ He picked up his cup from the ground. ‘Now listen, on a more cheery note, I’ve been thinking about your major project. A friend of mine is showing some of his work in a gallery in town, and the exhibition is opening this Friday night. I wondered if that sounded like something you’d like to come to.’
‘With who – you?’
‘Yes. I mean, I could just give you the details and let you go on your own, but don’t you think it would be more fun if you went with someone you know?’ he asked.
‘Of course. I just...’
‘But it’s not an official school sanctioned thing, so you won’t need to fill out any forms or anything. I mean, you’re old enough to be independent now anyway, aren’t you?’
She suppressed a smile. ‘I’m old enough for my mother’s sleazy boyfriend to think that I’m worth a crack.’
‘There you go, then. And if it’s all the same to you, I might give you the address of the place and meet you in there. It’s just easier.’
‘Of course. I get it.’
‘So we’ll go to the opening, have a look, hopefully get some project ideas, maybe grab something to eat afterwards.’
When she heard him say this, a chill ran around Anonymity’s shoulders, across her collarbones and down into her sternum, and exploded between her lungs like a warm filling. It made her want to stretch, yawn and giggle like a kid, all at once.
‘Sounds good,’ she said, smiling at him.
‘So you’re definitely free on Friday night?’
‘I’ll make sure I am.’
‘And you really don’t mind meeting me in there?’ he asked, anxious to please.
‘No, that’s fine. Like you say, it’s easier.’
‘It’s just that I’m leaving school early that day to do something else in town, so it makes sense–’
‘Seriously, it’s fine. I understand. I’m already looking forward to it.’ She glanced at him, thought about kissing him on the cheek again, just as she had in the darkroom. But then she was suddenly and acutely aware of how that might make her a one-trick pony. Her standard response to anyone treating her like an adult – kiss them on the cheek. What a cliché.
Chris checked his watch, stood up and tossed the last remnants of his coffee into the fire. Steam billowed up, and the little burning teepee hissed and slumped over.
‘Come on, we need to go.’
They drove back out the way they’d come, snaking up past the tall gums and the twisted, laden banksias. Again, nothing was said, except once: when they reached the lights at the top of the hill, just past the toll-booth, he said, ‘Where am I taking you? Home?’
‘I guess. Where else would I go?’
‘Good point.’
He pulled in at the same place he’d been waiting for her earlier, at the corner. ‘So, you’ll be all right?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Remember, if anything else–’
‘I’ll call you. I know. Thanks. For coming and getting me.’
‘I didn’t do much.’
‘You did enough.’ And then, cliché or not, she pecked him on the cheek, and she felt him tense up and make a clumsy little noise, and pat her shoulder, just like the first time.
She watched him drive away and around the corner. At the last moment, just before he disappeared from view, he waved. She barely heard the wailing, yelping dog behind the tall white house.
No one was home at her place. She called Sam, but he didn’t come. She went to the back door. He wasn’t out there either.
Then came a text, buzzing into her consciousness: I hope ur ok. C u at school. We probly shouldnt mention today.
School. Anonymity, a best friend with a boyfriend, two other friends who were in the process of drifting away, and a teacher with a warm car and the strong, square hands of an artist. And little more of any consequence.
Art was the period before lunch, and the unspoken-ness between Anonymity Jones and Chris Moffat filled the room. The class was discussing the madness of artists and, as Chris spoke, Anonymity placed her forehead against the blunt end of her pen and leaned against it, watching the tip pushing, burrowing into her page while the pain in her forehead begged her to stop. Then the pen slipped sideways, clattering away across the table, but only after leaving a long comet-tail of blue across the page. Emma Dickins passed the pen back and rolled her eyes like a hard-bitten parent, and Anonymity took it from her without a word and used it to turn the comet-tail into the vapour trail of a bullet, while the deep indentation in the page became an exit wound in the side of a man’s head. And that man was driving a blue convertible, because she really couldn’t be bothered searching in her pencil case for a red pen just for the sake of accuracy.
As he spoke, Chris passed close by her, and incense and wood shavings and maybe a breath of eucalypt smoke came with him.
‘What do you think?’ he asked, stopping behind Anonymity. ‘I know you’ll have an opinion on this.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. Do you think van Gogh was mad?’
‘Clearly. But not as mad as that French guy.’
‘Which French guy? Delacroix, Renoir, Pissaro, Bazille, Manet, Monet–’
‘That one. The last one.’
‘Of course,’ he said, with a flicker of recognition. ‘Claude Monet, 1840 to 1926, one of the founding fathers of Impressionism. Why was he mad?’
‘Well, he painted the same thing, over and over. Didn’t he paint the same field of haystacks, like, twenty times?’
‘Twenty-five. Plus the preliminary sketches.’
‘There you go. Mad.’
‘And why does that make him mad? Maybe he just wanted to get it right.’
Anonymity laid down her pen and turned in her chair to face Chris, whose eyes were sparkling. He was enjoying this.
‘He was either mad or he was a slow learner. How many times do you have to paint the same thing before you realise that it’s not going to be all that different from last time?’
‘I’d have thought that familiarity might bring comfort. Do you think he was expecting something new with each new sketch and painting?’
She shrugged. ‘Either that or he was mad. Because everyone knows that it doesn’t matter how many times you paint a haystack, it’s still just a big pile of hay.’
‘What if he painted them, and on the fifth or tenth time he saw something new, something unexpected?’
‘Then he might keep going.’
‘But if he didn’t?’
‘All I know is that if it was me out there with my easel and my oil paints, I’d give that haystack maybe five goes at showing me something new. But, if it was still the same after that, I’d set fire to it, just to see what happened. Then I’d paint that.’
The rest of the class laughed, and Chris smiled. ‘And you reckon he was the mad one...’
She considered telling her father about what had happened when John had come into her room. She wondered if she should tell him on the next Wednesday, over their weekly dinner. She imagined the explosion. Or worse yet, his silent, white fury followed by him doing something he’d later regret. She decided to let it slide for now.
But then he rang to tell her that he wouldn’t be able to have Wednesday dinner with her anyway. He was going to a conference in New Zealand, he explained, and he felt terrible that he couldn’t keep their date.
She wanted to ask him if it was a real conference. She wanted to ask him how long the actual meetings went for, and how
long he was planning to stay there, and with whom. But he had no one to lie to, and she hadn’t the heart to make him wish that he did. So she didn’t ask. She just wished him the best.
‘I reckon I might stay for a while afterwards,’ he said, without prompting. ‘I’ve never been to the South Island before – I thought it would be a good opportunity to jump across.’
‘How long will you go for?’
‘Maybe a couple of weeks, maybe more. It’s open-ended at the moment.’
‘Don’t you have to get back here to work? I mean, how can you just take a couple of weeks off, maybe more?’
Perhaps he sighed, just a little. ‘It’s complicated, love.’
‘How complicated can it really be?’
Another sigh, unmistakable this time. ‘Greg Giles thought I should take a break. You remember Greg?’
‘The Capricorn?’
‘The first-class dickhead, you mean. And the senior partner. Look, it’s OK – I’ve got some time owing anyway.’
‘He thought you should take a break? What does that actually mean, Dad?’
‘Just ... just what it sounds like. And my counsellor thinks I need to “find myself again”, whatever that means. Ah, Greg’s probably right – I can’t imagine I’ve been much fun to work with, and apparently my clients have been complaining or something. He wants me to get my shit together, stop moping around, I guess.’
‘Moping? What’s he talking–’
‘Don’t. We both know it’s true. Christ, I’ve rooted up my life good and proper, haven’t I?’
‘Not entirely, Dad. I mean, I’m still talking to you, so that’s something.’
She could hear his smile through the phone. ‘You’re right, it is something.’
‘So, you’re going to this conference alone?’
His response sounded slightly indignant. ‘Yes, I’m going alone. Do you believe me?’
‘That’s a weird thing to say.’
‘ Do you believe me?’
‘I do,’ she replied, with perfect honesty.
‘Good. So long as we got that straight ... Oh, wait, there was one more thing. When I dug out my passport yesterday, I found yours in there as well. I guess I must have picked it up by accident when I got the last of my stuff from home. From your place.’
‘Huh. I almost forgot I had a passport. I’ve never even used it.’
‘I know. And I’m sorry about that.’
‘It’s never too late,’ she hinted. ‘Do you want me to come and get it?’
‘Only if you’re planning to fly somewhere in the next month or two. You’re not, are you?’ he asked, as an afterthought.
‘I don’t think so. I wish, but no.’
‘In that case I’ll keep it at the office for now,’ he said. ‘It’ll be safe here. I’ll give it to you when we meet up after I get back.’
‘But if I did decide to go somewhere...’
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Please don’t. Even though we Geminis sometimes do rash stuff. Which is exactly why I’m treating myself to a trip away. You should do something nice for your birthday as well. But nothing too predictable. That would be too un-Gemini.’
‘Something like what?’
‘I don’t know – that’s up to you. But I’ll put some money in your account, so you can treat yourself. It’s not every day you turn seventeen.’
As the week began to slip by, she saw Friday evening approaching, accelerating towards her like a train, while she stood paralysed and willing in its path.
On Tuesday she sat on the back step stroking Sam’s head, and felt his weight against her shoulder, and told him that he was a good boy. Then she watched him poking around in the leaves at the base of the Japanese maple at the bottom of the garden, and working briefly at his latest hole, and she loved seeing him so happy, even though her mother was convinced it was a sign of anxiety. Sam was a constant in her life – a dying breed, she thought.
On that same Tuesday afternoon she and Sam went for a walk, and some of the time he stayed beside her, sometimes he darted ahead, and occasionally he fell behind to investigate something. And she’d stop and wait for him to catch up, because his happiness warmed her soft centre and turned it runny.
They reached the tall white house on the corner. A letter lay on the grass in front of the letterbox and Anonymity picked it up. JM and FC Vella. She poked the letter through the slot, and heard the squeak and brassy chink of the flap fall back into place. The sound set the dog off in the backyard, barking and howling and mewling and yelping, but mostly barking. It seemed to distress Sam, but she calmly reminded him that there was no need to worry, even though she doubted her own words.
She stood in front of the white house for what felt like a long time. She was considering her next move, while the dog continued to bark. How did it know that she and Sam were still there? They weren’t even moving. Perhaps it could smell them, or could hear their breathing, hers and Sam’s.
Finally she made up her mind and knocked on the front door, which briefly led to an increase in the noise from the backyard. But no one answered the door, so, with Sam hanging back a little, Anonymity walked down the path to the side gate. She called out, but still no one replied. ‘Wait there,’ she told Sam, before testing her weight on a tap that was bolted to the fence. Then she managed to hoist herself a little higher, and saw the dog that she’d only ever heard.
It was tied to the clothes hoist by a length of chain, and around the hoist was a deep furrow worn by the dog’s crazed circlings, with nothing but mud and dirt within the ring, where the chain had torn and worn out every runner and stem and blade of grass. The dog sensed her there, and stopped circling long enough to look over and really get to barking in earnest.
‘Come on, Sam,’ Anonymity said, but he’d already gone and was well on the way home.
That was Tuesday.
On Wednesday she paused on the way home from the station to watch a plane fly over. The sky was clear and the jet was high. It left thin vapour trails behind its swept-back wings. And then, some distance behind, came its rumble, falling to earth like poison rain, and she thought of her father who was, if not on that plane, on one very like it, sitting back with his headphones in place and the first of several gins-and-tonics before him, watching a Bond film on a seven-inch screen, and yet not paying all that much attention, on account of his job’s perilous state. That thought stuck in her for the rest of the afternoon, like a hair in her throat.
That was Wednesday.
On Thursday she stayed out until late. She went and saw a movie – a romantic comedy with cheese for a heart – and she saw it alone. She’d invited her friends. Viera and Andi were already busy, and Tina said that she had to study, as she had several assessments due. Anonymity begged, reminding Tina that it was a movie they’d both wanted to see for months. Tina refused. She had study to do, she reiterated. Plus she’d heard some bad reports about the film. They could watch it together when it went to DVD, she promised.
So Anonymity saw the movie alone. It turned out that the bad reviews were pretty much right on the money. Then, later, as she was leaving, she saw Tina and her Henry standing in the long queue for the same film. There was no chance they’d spot her, since they were so deeply in love that they no longer saw anyone but each other and the enormous bucket of popcorn between them.
When Anonymity saw this, something switched in her mind. Perhaps it had been a long time coming, perhaps it was a freak lapse in reason. Either way, she soon found herself sitting on a nearby seat, watching as the staff with empty bin liners over their arms and long-handled dustpans in their hands went into the theatre, re-emerging five minutes later with full bags. Then the waiting patrons began to file in, and Anonymity slipped into the queue, no more than five or six metres behind Tina and Henry. She kept her face down as they chose their seats, slightly to one side in the first tier. Then she slid into the row behind, and waited for the shorts to go by. The slides for local restaurants, the piracy wa
rnings, the trailers for upcoming features. Then, just as she was wondering if she had the patience to see this plan to its ultimate conclusion, the house lights fell dark, and the curtains beside the screen retracted fully, in preparation for the main feature.
This was when she leaned forward, her face between Tina’s and Henry’s, and whispered, ‘The girl from the chocolate shop isn’t really his sister. That’s why it’s OK for them to fall in love and live happily ever after. The end. Enjoy the movie.’ Then she kissed Tina on the cheek, quickly, just the lightest of pecks, and stood up.
Between the cinema and the station, she felt something that might have been guilt. But once she was on the train, with her head resting against the window while ghostly passengers sat, wandered, walked along the platform outside, she allowed herself a quiet smile. She’d suffer for it tomorrow, but for now, all was well.
Then it was Friday, and she’d told no one about her plans to visit the gallery that evening. Not even Tina. She was glad of this, as it turned out, because Tina’s reception when Anonymity got to school that morning was as icy as the frosted blades of grass on the hockey oval.
‘That was a nasty trick you pulled last night,’ Tina said, the muscles around her jaw visibly tensing.
‘Oh, please, I did you a favour. That movie was a piece of shit.’
‘A piece of shit I sat through right to the end.’
‘No one asked you to stick it out. You could have slipped into a different movie.’
‘Well, we didn’t. And you’d better not let Henry catch you – he’s absolutely furious.’
‘Did I spoil the film for him?’
‘No, you spoiled it for me. That’s why he’s furious. He cares about me.’
‘That’s nice. So, that assessment you had to do – did you get it finished?’
‘I had two, actually. I did one during the afternoon, and one after the movie, thanks for asking.’
‘Then everything’s fine, isn’t it? You know, you could have told me you had a date, Tina. You didn’t have to lie.’
‘I don’t need a morality lecture,’ Tina retorted.
And when she said that, Anonymity remembered her plans for the evening, and wondered if Tina possessed some extraordinary ability to read minds or visual signs of guilt and intent, or had perhaps scanned the horoscopes on the ride to school.