A Change of Texture

by Paul Maxwell Taylor

  But weeks passed and I knew procrastination was the refuge of the weak. I had to act, I could not avoid my conscience, it was a constant and disrespectful companion. I picked up the painting without looking at it and carried it into the lounge room. It was a comfortable room, elegant; her taste. We used it for socialising and she liked to read there. It had a nice atmosphere, she said; she liked the light, the curious patterns the late afternoon sun made as it filtered through the dwarf sugar gum in the front yard. Curious patterns… those words echoed as I stood with the painting leaning against my hip and asked, ‘where’s the best place?’

  On the wall facing the front of the house was a framed photograph of the two of us at a dinner dance two years ago; she had insisted I buy it. I remembered how pleased the young photographer was. It was fine photo of her, but I had lots of those and I didn’t need to see myself, I replaced the photo with the painting.

  It was time for me to look at it, but rather than the canvas I found myself examining the frame, It was a poor-quality wide wooden frame. A small piece was missing from the edge, halfway down the left side, and there was a crack about three centimetres long at the bottom. It needed to be reframed – of course, that would be the right thing, she’d have wanted that. The sense of satisfaction that came from determining this was something I hadn’t felt for some time.

  I knew there was a picture-framing shop nearby. Ten minutes later, the painting under my arm, I entered Fabulous Frames.

  ‘Oh, I like this.’ I nodded at the man on the other side of the counter; I was sure all his customers heard the same thing. Perhaps my body language said just that. ‘No, I am serious, it’s rather delightful.’ I wanted to believe him.

  He looked at me hard and, from behind the counter, produced a framed painting of the Eiffel Tower. He held it up. ‘Look, I can’t believe anyone would bother paying for the frame. My point being I didn’t tell her I liked this, I just smiled at her and, in my sweetest manner, suggested some framing options.’

  I laughed despite myself; it was hard not to like him.

  He showed me a variety of frames, saying each was a ‘real possibility’. He soon had me absorbed in the exercise, and we eventually agreed on a mahogany frame, with a raised edge and a subtle pattern. ‘We could use a more ornate frame but I think we need something that leaves the piece to speak for itself…that holds its hand and directs it to the mind’s eye.’

  He asked me if I was the artist and seemed disappointed when I answered no. I gave him my contact details and left him with the painting. As I got in the car, I realised I was smiling. I had achieved something and wanted more of the feeling. I needed to jog. It would be the first time in ten weeks.

  I moved quickly as I put on my jogging gear. Soon I was in the street, thinking of nothing but putting one foot in front of the other. But, after a kilometre, each thump of my feet on the pavement was drawing me backwards; I pushed hard but remorse sat on my shoulder, negativity was my jogging partner, I arrived home tired and depressed.

  I drank water, trying to be normal. I showered, put clothes in the washing machine, made a pot of tea and tried to talk myself back to life.

  I wandered outside. It was a gloomy afternoon. I stared at the garden as if I hadn’t seen it for a long time. It needed attention but where would I start? I had almost perfected the art of procrastination. I made an effort to pull some weeds, but my body, sore from jogging, insisted it was not a day for gardening.

  I returned inside, washed my hands and sat in front of the television, wanting the clock to give me permission to open a bottle of red wine. I choose a shiraz that we’d bought while visiting McLaren Vale. That holiday seemed a long time ago but, as I poured the wine, I realised it was only last February. I waited for my emotions to settle. As I poured the second glass the wine smiled; it was my friend.

  CHAPTER 7

  What would I call it?

  The Nearness of Separation appealed. Or One Vision of Two. No.

  Four Eyes One Soul. Sounds like a sports movie.

  The Unknown Half. No, that would be a psychological thriller. Maybe that’s what it’ll become?

  When I was in Year Twelve, a teacher had told me my writing had potential and over the years I had completed a few short stories and submitted them to competitions with no luck. Maxine always said she liked them and offered me the sort of support that a loved one might. It gave me satisfaction to see the completed stories even if the judges didn’t give them the nod. This was the first time I had opened the Word file ‘My Novel’ since…since before...

  My novel was about twins. I was curious about them, and their ability to share emotional and physical reactions. I was an atheist and a cynic, I’d upset friends who were religious, and been the target of Stephanie’s angst as I condemned astrology. I liked logic, wanted to believe that all was explicable. What twins could do was still unexplained.

  I had decided that the protagonist twins would be of different sexes, and not identical, though not too different in appearance. They would accidentally come in contact with each other as adults, just a couple of times, only brief chats, with no reason for mutual curiosity.

  When I told Maxine, she’d been worried they were going to fall in love. I recalled the look on her face as we sat at the dining table, her nose screwed up. ‘Oh, you can’t let them get together and then find out later who they are. That would be so gross.’

  I had offered a superior smile and told her that I had a nobler intent: to write about the mysteries of knowing without realising we know. Hopefully, my speech did the job of hiding the embarrassing fact that I had considered a sexual liaison between the two.

  I needed background, or, rather, backgrounds. I read that authors write themselves into their work, but the male of the pair couldn’t be me. Recent events had left me unsure of who I was and I couldn’t duplicate what I didn’t know. So, with Carter Burke hopefully excluded, I might end up with bits of people I knew. Maxine had told me I had a fertile imagination.

  I hit the keyboard, started with the basics. His age, likes and dislikes, temperament, career. I was Geppetto creating Pinocchio; I shaped him, sanded, chiseled, shaped again. I smiled as he grew.

  But who was she? I needed her to sit next to me and talk quietly. She wasn’t Maxine, I couldn’t risk that. Do writers exist by making the unreal real, by confusing reality and imagination? Isn’t that insanity?

  Two hours later, I smiled again. I had advanced. I went to the bathroom, then the kitchen, emptied the dishwasher and put the dishes away, checked the mailbox, poured my second glass of pinot noir. Then back to the screen.

  Now, the event. That moment that moved them towards each other. It would be the death of their birth father, a man neither knew, at a moment when both brother and sister were near each other. They were at a big party and, at the same moment, both visited by something. It is grief, but how can a person grieve for the passing of someone they did not know existed? I had to create the emotion that overtakes them.

  CHAPTER 8

  There is always a choice. I chose to drive the same route I always did. My belief was that if I did it often enough and never saw him, I might convince myself that it had been my imagination. Now, it was too late for choices. There he was, this time I had to chase him.

  I yelled, ‘Wait!’ but no one heard. I felt nauseous. I stopped in a no-standing area, stumbled from my car and left it running. I sprinted over the road, and a taxi swerved. Fuck him. I got to the other side.

  I hurled myself at the fence, my eyes straining. There, he’d crossed the bridge over the railway line and was running down Myles Road, him…me…. I could go left and follow him over the footbridge, or go right and run down to Loncol Avenue and through the gates.

  Behind me, I heard a car horn. My car was blocking someone but I didn’t care. In front of me was a railway line and on the other side there was a jogger.

  I
heard a noise and looked to my right.

  As the train neared, I screamed again. The train went by slowly. I felt like I was holding on to the fence to keep from slowly falling, that somehow the world was tilted. Maybe that’s it, I’ve momentarily moved to some other level, some parallel universe, I’m seeing me in another place, another time.

  Then the train was gone.

  He entered a chemist’s. I don’t use that shop.

  The car, that would be better, I charged back over the road, I reached for the handle, my hand slipped, ‘fuck’, I dived in, hit my head and swore again. I started the car, tried to move, cars honked, ‘Let me in, you prick!’

  I had to get back to Loncol Avenue and cross the railway line. But no, there was another train, this time coming from the other direction. The bells screamed like banshees, they pierced my ears and made my blood boil. I wanted to piss, to vomit.

  I planted a bomb under the gates, watched the glorious cascade of metal and timber and noise and smoke, saw myself coming out the other side, an all-powerful soldier of truth bent of rightful vengeance.

  But I didn’t have a bomb.

  Once the train had passed, cars edged by, like old men on walking frames. Move, stop, swear, move again. The agony of forced patience.

  Eventually I moved, I was in Loncol Avenue, I parked outside the chemist.

  I walked into the shop. There were no customers, just the pharmacist. He looked up and smiled. I half expected recognition: ‘Hello, back again? You forgot something?’ But he offered nothing. I pretended to shop. Pity he isn’t a psychiatrist. I could have thrown myself on his couch, screamed for mercy.

  ‘Can I assist you, sir?’ There was no familiarity. I held his stare, gave him time. He didn’t react. I said the first thing I could think of. ‘I just need some sunscreen.’

  He smiled. ‘On the shelf behind you.’

  I pretended to examine the various jars and tubes. I picked one up, made like I was reading it. What now? I saw the brand that I usually bought, and took a tube to the counter. I heard someone else enter the store, and spun around. It was a woman; at least she wasn’t me. She walked straight towards me, then stopped and smiled. What? Then I realised she wanted to talk to the pharmacist.

  Remembering I had no money, I mumbled, ‘I’ve left my wallet in the car.’ I placed the sunscreen on the counter and left quickly. The woman looked at me, her smile shaded by curiosity.

  I got to my car. I just wanted to get in, slam the door behind me and cocoon myself. But there was a young man putting a large cardboard carton in the rear passenger side of the car parked next to mine.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said.

  I nodded. I wanted to tell him to hurry, then realised he was nervous, he wanted to get out of my way. He finished and moved quickly past me. I saw him glance back at me. Did he know something?

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘Get one of the other guys to pick you up, or can you just not jog today?’

  ‘Why can’t we just get it on Sunday? You said you put a deposit on it, phone her; what’s a day matter?’

  ‘Oh, come on, when’s the last time I really wanted the car on a weekend? You can be so selfish.’

  ‘Darls, if it was urgent, then no problems, but this isn’t. You know I jog every Saturday, and it’s always Charlie or Ox taking me. I told them I’d drive this week, and then were going to Charlies for lunch, he’s invited me so many times, I can’t knock him back again. Sorry.’

  It’s amazing how your idea of what’s important changes. On that day, that jog meant something. All it takes is a twist, a slight realignment, and all that seemed normal becomes extraordinary.

  ‘I promise I’ll drive you on Sunday. We can check out a few of the other galleries and shops….’

  ‘You’re selfish,’ she said, and turned and walked away.

  We were both riding high horses, both wanted our own way. It was no big deal, a painting. Why? Surely tomorrow would be fine, it couldn’t be that urgent, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

  The police report was painfully brief. It happened at 9.27 am, Saturday, 17 August. It would have been about the time we started our run. I was probably smiling, joking.

  ‘Eyewitness reports say the deceased’s vehicle turned left out of Simpson Avenue into Burnley Street and collided with the vehicle driven by Mr Benno Carlucci. It appears that the deceased’s vehicle was turning as the lights changed. It is uncertain whether the lights had turned red or were in the transition through amber. There had been rain the previous night but it was difficult to determine if the road was still wet at the time of the accident.’

  Maxine wasn’t a bad driver, but she wasn’t a car person. The one she’d hired was a make she would not have driven previously. There’s a ‘Le Cheap Hire’ office in Simpson Avenue; she must have walked there. She would have rented the cheapest car. There was nothing to say that there was any vehicle malfunction.

  If I had driven her, I wouldn’t have gone that route; I would have taken the freeway. Why didn’t she? Which way did she go the day before when she had driven to Kyneton? She’d been there on business. I don’t even know who the client was.

  Maxine worked for James Design Concepts, as a graphic designer. She was one of only four people who worked there, and she liked to say that she was the best ‘not so much at the ideas but I am the best technician’.

  The police report stated in concise, emotionless words, ‘our conclusion is that it was an accident’. Conclusion means that there is no more.

  CHAPTER 10

  I sat in Slim’s beige office and wondered if I liked him. We’d played football together fifteen years earlier, and we saw each other at some social functions and the occasional game of golf with other football friends. He had a habit of smirking, which gave him an air of arrogance, but he was not a nasty person. As he sat in his loose white shirt, with the blue collar and blue opal cufflinks, I wondered how people viewed that smirk when they first met him. He’d always been skinny, but he got the nickname Slim because his surname was Pickens.

  I was really here because of Lawrence, who’d phoned a few days after the accident.

  ‘Mate, I called Slim. I just didn’t want you worrying about that stuff. I reckon a solicitor is the best person for all that, and he’s a mate, so he’s going to contact the car hire company and the police, and do anything else you need.’

  I wanted to leave it, wanted to tell him I’d worry about it later, but he was right.

  Now Slim was saying, ‘There won’t be an inquest. The coroner has concluded that it was an accident, and that the circumstances don’t warrant one.’ He fidgeted as he spoke. ‘The hire car company had some issues with insurance but I examined the hire agreement that Maxine signed.’ He looked down as he said her name; his voice seemed to quiver, or maybe that was my imagination. ‘I also read the police report and I don’t believe that the hire company have any grounds to take it further.’

  ‘Take it further, I don’t understand. How could they? I mean, fuck, she had insurance; it was an accident, right?’

  My heart was thumping hard, a drum pulsating to each of my words.

  ‘Well, it seems Maxine was probably, and I say “probably” because that’s the word one of the policemen used, moving a little late through the amber light; that she, ideally, should have waited. But it was marginal and the police have concluded it was an accident. So, mate, I don’t expect there will be any repercussions. I’ve emailed and spoken to the hire car company and its insurer, and the insurer of Mr Benno Carlucci, the driver of the other vehicle. He’s made a claim due to some back pain as a result of the accident but I don’t think there’s much to it and, anyway, that’s not our concern. Is that all clear?’

  I stared out the window of his first-floor office at a blackbird sitting on a power line. It was looking at me, its head nodding slightly as if to say, ‘Listen to Slim;
listen to him, Carter.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s all clear.’

  ‘And there’s a will, is that right?

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘So, I need to prepare probate; do you want me to start on that?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Carter.’ I looked back at him and he took his spectacles off. ‘Did Maxine have a life insurance policy?’

  ‘No…well. I don’t think so… I’ve gone through her stuff.’

  ‘All right; and the house, whose name is it in?’

  ‘It’s in both our names.’

  ‘Well, that shouldn’t be a problem.’

  I was nodding at him but looking at the blackbird.

  CHAPTER 11

  ‘It’s great, I really like it.’

  Keith tried to keep his smile small. ‘Well, I’m so pleased, and one of the exciting things is that now you can see more of the signature; some of it was hidden under the old frame. Can’t say it’s anyone I know but, then again, it’s not very clear. Also, the new frame sort of changes the whole scene. That bit of a window on the house, you couldn’t see that earlier. Over here, the sun is setting at the edge and it throws more light on the scene; do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I do. It’s brighter somehow; well done.

  I examined the signature – Keith was right, there seemed to be a complete name, and it looked as if the surname might be Tyler or Tyson. I tried to remember if I owned a magnifying glass.

  I felt a sense of fulfilment as I drove myself and the painting home. I took it straight to the lounge room and propped it on the sideboard, then stood back and breathed it in. Even though it wasn’t hanging on the wall, I was surprised how different the room became: there was a sense of fresh light but also of gravitas. I felt concerned, almost frightened, as if I might have changed what was not mine to change; this room had been ours and I had no right to make it something else.