Not Your Ordinary Housewife

by Nikki Stern

  Ben and Ya’el were gurgling happily in their playpen after dinner; Shoshanna was helping me clean up as Paul erupted.

  ‘Those fucking bastards! Those cunts! They caused us to go broke, and now their tax has been overturned.’ He was ropable. ‘We could still be in business if it wasn’t for those fucking Canberran politicians.’

  ‘Stop swearing in front of the children,’ I scolded angrily, telling him to calm down. ‘I know it doesn’t seem fair, but that’s what happens when you go into porn: it’s always on the outer—that’s why the rewards are so high.’

  ‘There were twelve operators before the tax, and now there are barely any. I wanna know if they’re gonna repay what they took,’ he ranted. We had paid a fortune to the ACT government—and had additional costs from operating out of Darwin, not to mention the legal fees we’d contributed through AVIA. ‘We should all be reimbursed.’

  ‘We should—but don’t hold your breath,’ I warned him.

  Paul became pensive. ‘You know, this could have implications for all the other state taxes.’

  Paul was right, and later we read the fine details of the judgment. Had all state fees been declared excises, the states could have expected multibillion-dollar-refund claims from the alcohol, tobacco and petrol industries. We discovered that the High Court had limited its decision to the X-tax—and specifically forbidden the re-opening of any old cases, thus forestalling any such challenges.

  This landmark judgment nearly caused a major meltdown for the federal government. Apparently Prime Minister Paul Keating was ready with emergency safety-net legislation which would have ensured the Commonwealth could have collected revenue on the states’ behalf. In anticipation of an adverse decision, the ACT government had already passed an act limiting liability for damages and refunds by bankrupt companies for a tax later ruled to be invalid. Thus, in one fell swoop, the government had denied the industry justice. None of the monies paid to them would ever be recovered, nor would we gain compensation for the loss of our businesses.

  By the time of this decision, John Lark had already liquidated his interests in porn, losing millions in the process, and gone bankrupt. He was nevertheless canvassing the possibility of seeking damages against the ACT government for what he considered their role in Capital Duplicators’ demise. He had moved to Moscow, intending to enter the porn industry there, but, due to the Russian Mafia’s presence, he was now successfully promoting classical music concerts instead.

  Gerry Hercus got in touch soon after the court decision. With his business picking up, he commissioned Paul to write movie reviews of German and Dutch videos. Paul’s spirits lifted immediately as his superlative copywriting unleashed his ingenuity yet again. It seemed as if he could only be creatively fulfilled within the porn industry.

  From an article in The Bulletin in 1994, we learnt that our old office became a duplicating plant, turning out 14,000 porn videos a week. In Darwin, Gerry announced that he was planning a legal challenge against the federal/state agreement whereby each state receives $35 every time an X-rated video was classified. Over the previous decade, state coffers had been made $1.16 million richer by X-rated porn. Why, he asked, should the states profit from something they do not allow to be sold legally?

  The article had sparked discussion one evening after the children were in bed as Paul related how even some feminists were now supporting porn. I’d always thought of myself as a feminist, but there was a dichotomy in the ideology—it depended on whether one believed the women were exploited or in control.

  ‘It’s the same as the argument about prostitution,’ I said. ‘Frankly, it can be either, depending on the situation.’ I had long thought porn was the single biggest conundrum facing feminists. I’m a sex-positive feminist in theory, but I’m still conflicted about my participation on a personal level—not that I consider myself a victim. I don’t regret it . . . but I would have done things differently if I had my time over again. I loathed anything that commodified or subjugated—and some would argue that that’s what the whole Horny Housewife brand was about.

  But Paul described it as a social fantasy. ‘Together we created the perfect fantasy couple.’

  ‘Yeah, you masterminded the whole operation and I went along with it: I was the face and body. Calling me the Un-Horny Housewife would have been more appropriate!’

  ‘Yeah, how ironic—promoting you as a wild, wanton woman while we were celibate,’ observed Paul, with more than a hint of bitterness. ‘Still, our stuff was never violent; we never hurt anybody.’

  ‘Except maybe each other . . . and the kids.’ I preferred not to dwell on any harm we may have visited upon our precious children. Porn could be very damaging. One had to balance its exploitative element against freedom of speech issues and the right not to be controlled by censorship. And it scared me how ‘pornified’ our society had become, with porn somehow seeping into mainstream media. I abhorred the thought of little children being sexualised by it. ‘God forbid if any of our kids contemplate a career in it,’ I said. That didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘Still, one has to differentiate the sicko stuff from the healthy porn,’ said Paul.

  ‘If there is such a thing,’ I scoffed.

  ‘I mean the ethical stuff that doesn’t denigrate,’ Paul continued. ‘The non-violent erotica. The industry needs to be regulated to avoid exploitation.’

  ‘At least we had creative control . . . and still own the copyright on all our stuff. I’d say that’s a pretty unique situation.’

  ‘True,’ said Paul.

  At this time Paul had predicted that soon there would be an explosion of porn. ‘All the new technologies around will make it almost impossible to regulate.’

  ‘Hmm . . . interesting times ahead,’ I’d mused.

  But that had been more than ten years earlier, and it felt as though it was even longer than that. Now in Melbourne, I was taking on extra hours at the library and struggling to raise the children on my own. Paul was totally broke and the children’s visits to Queensland had all but ceased.

  I lived for my children as I watched them grow and achieve their milestones. Shoshanna was doing an accountancy and commerce degree at uni; Ya’el had won a swag of art competitions; and Ben was singing with the National Boys Choir of Australia (often dubbed the Qantas Choir, because of the well-known ads), performing here and overseas. Through Ben’s interest in music, I reconnected with my love for singing and joined a community choir.

  Meanwhile, I was working diligently on my retro greeting cards, completing over one hundred designs using public domain photographs; I luridly colourised images of movie stars in a Warhol style, and then collaged them onto garish backgrounds with humorous or smutty speech bubbles. Everyone agreed the results were stunning; for the first time since my glass-blowing days, I was producing artworks of which I was proud. Finally, I had found an artistic medium in which I was comfortable.

  A meeting with the Ink Group’s marketing manager seemed extremely promising; she was proposing to print a range of my cards, and suggested that I think of a title for the series. Without warning, they withdrew their offer and I decided to self-publish under the name ‘Let’s Get Retro’. A Sydney distributor supplied them to some of the more alternative shops Australia-wide and orders soon followed. I knew that eventually they would be perfect to market as framed pictures and T-shirts.

  For Christmas 2004, I posted my regular card to Julian Durie’s chambers. I was shocked when it was returned unopened with an unsigned, terse note on the envelope informing me he was dead. I was devastated, remembering fondly our one passionate night together, although mainly saddened for his family. Immediately, I googled him and found the obituary. Apparently, he had committed suicide after a period of deep depression. His passing was lamented by the legal profession, too—it seemed he might have been destined to become a High Court judge.

  I had begun a relationship with a lovely man who was about as far removed from Paul as possible: stable and
conventional. I’d known him in primary school, and he had become a teacher. I realised what I knew all along—that it was me that was normal and capable of having a fully functional relationship. Contrary to what Paul had accused me of I didn’t move him in, ever, as I continued raising my children, working at the library and doing my artwork.

  In early 2009, I noticed a distension of my abdomen. A CT scan confirmed that I had a massive ovarian cyst. Despite numerous visits to casualty, surgery was dubbed elective and scheduled for three weeks hence at the Mercy Hospital.

  On waking from the anaesthetic, I was told that my cyst had weighed 5 kilos. Apparently, if it had not been for a full blood transfusion, they would have lost me.

  28

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, Nikki?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’ The phone had woken me and I was drowsy, but I recognised the voice instantly.

  ‘It’s Deirdre here in Brisbane. Sorry to call so early in the morning . . . Paul’s passed away.’ Her voice was flat, almost matter of fact.

  ‘Oh no . . . no . . .’ The deep sense of loss hit me instantly.

  ‘I found him this morning. He was sleeping in the basement and I went down there . . .’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Deirdre . . .’ I was finding it impossible to adequately express my sympathy to her without sounding trite.

  ‘As soon as I felt him, I knew . . . I knew he was dead. He was so cold. He must have died during the night,’ she said, softly.

  ‘How incredibly tragic.’ I was paralysed with sadness, although no tears were forthcoming.

  ‘Yeah, he was such a tortured soul. At least he’s at peace now.’

  She told me he had just come out of detox, but he’d relapsed.

  ‘Was it suicide?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said calmly. ‘He took a cocktail of wine, anti-depressants and God knows what else . . . kind of an accidental overdose . . . but there was no note.’ That seemed right—he had once admitted to me he’d never have the guts to kill himself.

  ‘Listen, I’ve got the police and the coroner here,’ Deirdre said nervously. ‘I have to go.’

  I hung up the phone and tried to collect my thoughts as Deirdre’s words replayed in my mind. I was in shock, but this was not the time to grieve; I needed to be composed for the children’s sake. Telling them of their father’s death would be the single hardest thing I had ever done.

  I went to wake Shoshanna. Now twenty-four, she’d had almost no contact with Paul in the eight years since he’d left. Still, her reaction was shock as we hugged each other, and then her tears flowed as her body spasmed in distress.

  Ya’el was at her boyfriend’s, but she had switched off her phone. I rang him and left a message.

  Ben was stoic; of the three of them, he was perhaps closest to Paul.

  Over breakfast, Shoshanna and I talked. Neither of us felt much like eating. We would need to organise flights to Brisbane and accommodation.

  ‘This is affecting me more than I thought it would. I have a lot of mixed feelings about your father.’

  ‘Me, too,’ said Shoshanna through a veil of tears. Her body was limp as we embraced; we held each other in a grip of support.

  ‘People always assumed that because I hadn’t seen him in years, I didn’t care—but it wasn’t true at all. I’d always loved him.’ In fact, it was Paul who’d rejected her: he hadn’t even called for her eighteenth or twenty-first birthdays. But there was no point dwelling on that now. She was thankful he’d called her several days earlier. He must have just come out of detox. She was excited because they’d arranged to meet during his planned visit to Melbourne in a few weeks. ‘He’d mellowed—maybe he knew the end was near.’

  ‘Just try to remember the positives,’ I coaxed.

  Shoshanna explained how she had thought of him as disabled: he was sick and, as soon as she’d realised that, there was no point being annoyed with him. Shoshanna had a mature attitude to life, always having a sensibility beyond her years. She reminded me that the reason she’d studied accountancy was because she never wanted to be in a position where she couldn’t understand finances. Money had never been Paul’s forte; indeed, life wasn’t his forte.

  We talked for hours. I recounted how, after Saskia died, his repressed memory obsession had surfaced again. Maybe his uncle did abuse Paul; by the time Klaas died, he’d apparently abused several children. But the family, even Omoe, had swept everything under the proverbial carpet.

  We discussed how Paul’s distress had been compounded by the fact that Saskia had left him nothing in her will. He had gone to court in Holland to get his rightful share, but her estate had only debts by then. Most of the assets were in Prague; however, Czech law didn’t recognise them as being half hers, because Vlad had brought them into their marriage. Paul had been told to wait until the Czech Republic joined the European Union so he could enforce the Dutch court order, but by then he was broke. ‘No wonder he was bitter—he didn’t get so much as a photo or memento from her,’ I said. ‘So sad.’

  ‘He had heaps of loss in his life,’ Shoshanna observed quietly.

  It occurred to me that Paul, like Trudie, probably had Diogenes Syndrome—the squalid hoarding disorder that could manifest itself in self-neglect. I recalled how his stench had made me retch. ‘Remember the dozens and dozens of empty wine casks after he left?’ I queried. ‘He just never threw anything out.’

  Shoshanna wiped away a tear. ‘Even that beautiful BMW he’d cherished was so jam-packed with empty casks, the boot wouldn’t shut properly . . . and he’d drive around with them.’

  ‘You know, I mightn’t have turned up at Trudie’s funeral if it wasn’t for the fact that Paul did the same thing with Brian.’ I’d wanted to talk to him about that, but by then our relationship was acrimonious. He’d always been so supportive of anything to do with my birth parents, I understood how he’d felt. ‘It’s the lack of acknowledgement and hypocrisy that hurts.’

  ‘It’s a pity you couldn’t have stayed friends after you separated,’ Shoshanna speculated.

  ‘I tried, but he was constantly abusive.’ I sighed. ‘Yet there were times when I desperately wanted to share moments with him—about you children, or just things . . . Like when I watched The Big Lebowski and knew he’d love it too.’ Occasionally, we’d speak, usually to communicate the death of someone we’d known.

  ‘It seems like the few friends Dad had mostly died—like Lloyd—and those who didn’t, he neglected,’ Shoshanna noted.

  I’d often wondered why he’d never stayed in touch with Richard Brautigan. They had formed this intense friendship . . . and then nothing. I theorised that maybe they were similar and recognised that in each other. Certainly both were immensely talented, but self-destructive. I’d read that, tragically, Richard had shot himself at his ranch; when his body was finally discovered, it was badly decomposed.

  One of the last times Paul and I spoke civilly was just after 9/11. Shoshanna knew he’d rung me then; he’d been crying, and he said how now was a time to reflect upon loved ones. He was already with Deirdre, but kept repeating to me, ‘Whatever happens, I’ll always love you. Just remember that. Deirdre and I just find comfort in each other. You will always be the only woman I ever loved.’

  Shoshanna sorted our flights and we investigated funeral websites: the children wanted input into the service, and I thought it appropriate to offer to pay half.

  I tracked down Ya’el; she took the news very badly and said she’d come home as soon as she could. She looked pale and teary as I hugged her.

  I gathered the children, saying that, before I called Deirdre to discuss the funeral, I needed to know their wishes.

  ‘I just want some of his ashes,’ said Shoshanna. She intended to get a beautiful urn and have them in her room. Ben thought it was a brilliant idea.

  ‘Me, too,’ said Ya’el. ‘I think it’s what he would have wanted.’ I knew Paul would have been touched to think that his children
each had a piece of him always with them; I thought it was a lovely idea. ‘I’d even like some ashes too. He was such a big part of my life—seventeen years of marriage. And maybe Deirdre wants a share.’ I was determined to support whatever the children wanted.

  We all concurred: it should be a simple service—and one with a celebrant who wasn’t going to mention God.

  ‘Yeah, he would have hated that,’ said Ya’el.

  It dawned on me that possibly the only thing Paul and Dory had had in common was an aversion to God.

  Unfortunately what followed was an unseemly squabble with Deirdre.

  Before I’d phoned her, she had decided on her own arrangements. She was going to have the body cremated in Brisbane and the ashes couriered down to Melbourne. She had a friend in the funeral business and he was arranging everything. They were going to have a service by the beach at Mount Martha and scatter the ashes at sea.

  ‘But we’re coming up to Brisbane,’ I protested. ‘I’m about to book four flights . . .’

  ‘There’s no need to come,’ she said tersely.

  ‘But we want to.’ I was puzzled by her attitude.

  ‘Well, there’s not going to be a service here, only the cremation.’

  ‘But we . . . the kids . . . want to have a proper funeral and view the body.’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘We don’t want to just scatter the ashes: the kids want to treasure them. They need closure. Besides,’ I continued, ‘the children were hoping to see where their father died; it might help with their grieving.’ Neither of the girls had been to Deirdre’s house. But she would have none of that.

  ‘This is a private sanctuary now,’ she declared.

  ‘I wish you’d consulted them about the funeral,’ I said.

  ‘Why would I do that?’ she retorted. ‘I know what he wanted. The ashes are going to be scattered. Anyway, they were all estranged from Paul.’

  ‘That’s not true. They were all mending their relationships . . . even Shoshanna. And, besides, he was still their father. If you could see them . . . they’ve been crying constantly—they’re extremely distressed.’