A Change of Texture

by Paul Maxwell Taylor

  Time was allowing me to view the painting differently. Nothing would bring her back. And she wanted this paining, that fact was crucial, together with the possibility that there might be something about it that is intimately related to her. As a result, I believed I didn’t have permission to see the painting as anything other than an inexplicable but intimate part of Maxine, an artistic and intimate legacy to her memory. I had to pay it respect which caused me a dilemna, after all, I’d spent much time regretting its existence. Life had been fine before it, I believed no issues stood in the way of a happy relationship, but this had changed our history. My mission was to try and discover its meaning, and when I did, I would simply do with the painting what I believed Maxine would want. And there was another angle, I hoped that its story would be give me some redemption.

  CHAPTER 15

  This time I would catch him. I was committed to the next round of me versus me.

  He was one hundred metres away, then fifty, and over there was space to park my car. I was out and running. How will this look?…I don’t care. We could be twins...Lawrence had joked that I should’ve checked the birth records. I was gaining, then I slowed,…it was nearly time...I didn’t let myself consider what would happen when I got to him. Do I tackle him…how will he react? He was wearing my faded blue Converse T-shirt I bought in a sports-store sale and my baggy grey tracksuit pants. I saw the back of my head; my hair was thinning. I saw the headline ‘Man punches himself in street fight’.

  It was only twenty metres, then ten…I was there. I stopped, took a long step, reached, grabbed his arm. He turned, our eyes met; his eyes and mine were wide. I was hot, sweating, he stopped, sidestepped, half danced, half stumbled. What the fuck was I doing?

  We were stationary, me holding his arm, him looking confused. He freed his arm, and I looked at the T-shirt. It wasn’t Converse, but had a logo that was vaguely similar, some sports club. What the fuck? I didn’t know this man. I stepped back, looked around, felt my hands slap hard against my thighs in frustration. He wasn’t me. I was lost again. What I happening? And why is he so calm? He was my age and about my size, with the same amount of hair but maybe a bit greyer. He was clean-shaven and I had two days’ worth of stubble; he had an earring, I hated them.

  ‘Carter, isn’t it? I didn’t expect to see you.’

  What? I felt the heat of confusion surge through me, it was like a giant hand had just picked me up and shaken me. I was scared. I had chased someone who wasn’t me, someone I didn’t know but who knew me.

  Through eyes that I no longer trusted, I saw him extend his hand.

  ‘I’m surprised, I didn’t think you’d remember me,’ he said. ‘In fact, I don’t think we actually met.’ Then he smiled.

  Shit, what is this? Stanley meeting a Livingstone who shouldn’t be there.

  Come on, think quickly … I’ll bullshit, I’ve done it before.

  I tried to grin but my cheeks wouldn’t move. Then I tried to talk and heard something come from my mouth: ‘I’m sorry, I feel a real dick. I’ve forgotten your name.’

  ‘Warwick Gardiner.’

  Then his face changed. He paused, lowered his eyes then brought them back to mine. He said sombrely, ‘And I want to say that you did a great job, the speech you made was outstanding.’ He was nodding as he added, ‘She was a wonderful lady. You and Max were obviously well matched.’

  He was talking about the funeral!

  He was looking down at the ground. I turned and looked around me. Is this a bad joke? I had to say something. Maybe I’d simply forgotten him. That was not unreasonable; I’d been a mess, and there’d had been a large crowd.

  ‘Yeah, sorry. I, um, Warwick, the reason I chased you was to meet you. I saw you running and suddenly remembered seeing you at the funeral, but I didn’t know you; I mean, how you fitted in.’ I felt an absurd satisfaction at how well I’d lied.

  He looked surprised, and he nodded, then reached into his pocket, took out a large orange handkerchief and blew his nose. I waited, my heart rate having slowed from explosive to rapid.

  ‘I’m an old friend of Maxine’s, went to Uni with her. We, um, well we were together for almost two years…’

  Of course, Warwick. She’d spoken of him, she said she’d had two serious partners before me and he was one. She’d ended it and he’d been unhappy about it, but it was a long time ago.

  ‘Of course, Warwick, forgive my confusion; she spoke well of you. I’m sure she would have appreciated you attending … thanks… and sorry to jump up behind and, you know, surprise you.’

  He was shaking his head as if to say, ‘It’s fine.’

  I wanted to leave. I shoved my hand out and we shook again. I turned and took a step, and felt his eyes on me. ‘Carter,’ I turned back, ‘Are you OK? It must be hard for you. Is there anything I can do?’ Shit, this is absurd.

  ‘No, no, thanks…I’m all right – moving forward, as they say. I’ll be fine; thanks for your concern.’

  My legs worked now. I heard myself yell over my shoulder, ‘See you again sometime. All the best!’ Do I mean that?

  I heard him reply, ‘Take care of yourself.’ By then, I was walking fast, embarrassment pushing me. Where was my car?... I half stumbled into it, twisted my knee, swore. I slammed the door, my hand found the keys; I heard the motor starting, a good sound. I made a U-turn, wanting home. Then I risked a look back. He was jogging again but had not gone far; he must have stood and watched me.

  CHAPTER 16

  Do the mind’s photos become cloudy; do they fade like ink? We’re unreliable, we forget, get confused – my mother gets everything wrong. But some memories are so clear? They line up, reality upon reality. I was scared because they were all I had, all that remained of so much. When the other person’s gone, there is no ‘Hey, do you remember when…’ The memories, the photos, they seemed so little, yet so much. A sense of fear pushed me. How could I secure these precious things? Was there a way to make copies, a fail-safe? And why was this suddenly so important? Was this me feeling sorry for myself, and again regretting all the things I hadn’t done and the things I no longer had? Regret is a fucker. Its sharp edges cut in a way that no one else understands, because they weren’t there.

  We’d spent last Christmas in this house, Maxine sparing no effort. It had been the first occasion where both our families had been together at the house. On Christmas Eve, I had wanted to watch the carols on television but she couldn’t relax. She insisted we go through her checklist of everything: the food, the seating, the presents, timing, music and wine. She wanted it to be the perfect Christmas lunch.

  My brother, Daniel, had brought his new lady, Charlotte. She was vegetarian, of course. We had only met her once before, and she was self-possessed, or up herself, as my brother willingly admitted. She dropped names, her friends were ‘models’, her best friend was a television soap ‘star’, named Leah Switch. Charlotte was skinny, with big boobs, lots of hair, attractive in the way that youth allows most females to be at some stage, a reminder that for some, beauty is for a moment, while for others, it is perpetual. Perhaps it was what Charlotte and Daniel didn’t see in each other that made it work? What would I know?

  My sister, Shelley, and her precocious daughter, Asha, also attended. Asha was sixteen about to turn twenty-five. I liked her; she was a pain in the arse and I had decided to ignore her tantrums, and even laughed at them. The fact that I showed no angst pissed her off at first and then made her curious, and somehow, we’d formed an understanding. My sister and Asha’s dad, Shelton, were having a trial separation; I was sure the jury would reach a guilty verdict. Anyway, there should be some law about anyone named Shelley pairing off with a Shelton.

  Asha argued loudly with her mother, who had declared that she could only have one glass of wine. Asha wanted unlimited bar rights. Lengthy negotiations resulted in her having two glasses of champagne. Neither party was ent
irely satisfied, but glasses were poured and champagne bubbles danced, as did most of us. Toasts were made.

  The day had gone well; about eight and a half out of ten. Maxine had been annoyed because she felt the turkey was overcooked, but no one agreed. We all survived due to adequate planning and shared Christmas spirit. Despite the minor skirmishes, we remained a war-free zone on a day when families can implode. When they had all left, I was loud in my praise for Maxine’s efforts. She scoffed; it was no big deal, she said, but she was pleased. We enjoyed the empty house, sat on the back deck and drank cognac. We made love. Christmas seemed a long time ago. The discordant clangs of the doorbell rushed down the hallway and dragged me back to the present. It was time to put last Christmas’s memories back in their box.

  I opened the door to Gloria. She explained that Virginia was coming separately. She smiled a genuine smile and I reciprocated. I recalled a counselling session where I had asked about shared grief and how it would bind those left behind. Would their common love of the departed throw them forever onto the same wavelength, make them forever soul buddies?

  ‘Not always,’ the counsellor had said; it depended. And, as was so often the case when I wanted an answer, I got a question: ‘what do you think?’ I said something about being fucked if I knew, that I guessed it depended on how they saw the other person’s relationship with their loved one. It seemed realistic that a mother might think a particular person was not good enough for her daughter. Then I’d grinned and said, ‘Maybe the other person doesn’t think that the mother is much of a mother…’

  Gloria and I pressed cheeks, and almost kissed. I should have hugged her. At the funeral, she told me she knew I loved her daughter. I smiled as I wondered if she’d like the ‘other me’ more. Maybe I should grab him next time I see him and introduce them? But she probably knew him anyway, given that he was Max’s old boyfriend.

  Gloria handed me a large plastic container. ‘Baked you a carrot cake, I know you like them.’

  One thing mother and daughter shared was the ability to bake a cake. Gloria followed me to the kitchen, where I opened the container. The cake looked and smelled wonderful, and I grinned like a boy. This time, I took the initiative and embraced her. ‘Thank you very much; it smells great.’

  ‘Oh heavens, it’s nothing, really; my pleasure.’

  ‘I miss homemade cakes. I miss the smell of baking in this kitchen. I guess I should try myself…hey, maybe you could teach me?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so. Yes, why not, we’ll schedule some cooking lessons.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  She smiled again, nodded, her hands clasped in front of her waist. I knew me hugging her would have made someone happy.

  Gloria and Virginia had offered to help me ‘with Max’s things…if I wanted.’ It was time. A few weeks after her death, I had quickly gone through various pockets and bags, to ensure that there was nothing important, nothing that required action. I remembered holding my breath, trying to be detached, telling myself what I was doing was necessary. It was a short and painful. The wardrobe doors had remained closed until two weeks ago. As I touched her clothes, I could hear ‘Should I wear this?….How does this look?…I bought this today...Is this too formal…? The wardrobe smelt of her; so familiar and yet so foreign. I soon lost myself in the bouquet of her favourite roll neck jumper, in the softness of her blue cashmere scarf and the crunch of her black leather jacket. I dropped tears on her well-worn New York T-shirt.

  I had also invited Stephanie. I answered the call of the doorbell to find she and Virginia embracing; they had come separately but arrived at the same time. Virginia was the first to disentangle herself. ‘Hi, Carter, ignore us. We’re all right, just haven’t seen each other since the funeral.’ She sniffed, and tried hard to smile. She hugged me, then vanished down the hallway.

  Stephanie looked at me, shook her head and stood with her arms extended. I moved into her embrace. We gave ourselves time, her emotion was irresistible.

  ‘So, how are you doing, Carter; still being brave?’

  ‘You know what a tough bloke I am. How about you, handling life all right?’

  ‘Yeah, piece of cake.’ She put her arm through mine. ‘Come on, Tiger, let’s go get em.’ We arrived at the kitchen and she moved towards Gloria. When I’d phoned Stephanie to invite her, I’d asked her if there was anything she wanted. She’d said no, then, five minutes later, she’d phoned back.

  ‘Carter, it’s me. There’s something of Maxie’s I love, I just feel that… I don’t know, it’s a lot to ask …’

  ‘The leather jacket?’

  ‘Yeah…shit, how did you know?’

  ‘Oh, come on, I heard you guys talk about it more than once. About how she bought it when you and her went to New York.’

  ‘The jacket seemed so expensive but she looked so great in it, and the guy that served us was this gorgeous black guy and…’

  ‘Yeah, I remember, he asked Max out, and she said no and regretted it for the rest of the trip. Hey, Steph, how many times do you reckon I heard you guys tell that story after a few glasses of wine?’ I’d laughed, then realised there was silence at the other end of the phone. I quickly told her that Max would want her to have it. She eventually said thanks but I knew she was struggling. I said goodbye. I loved that leather jacket but Steph was the person to have it.

  I had hoped Francesca, who, with Stephanie, had been Max’s closest friend, might also attend. Steph was emotional but Francesca left her for dead. She didn’t know when to stop talking about herself but she loved Maxine. She’d decided it would be too painful to help sort out Max’s things and pulled out at the last minute. She broke down whenever I spoke to her on the phone, so I was nervous about meeting her in public. But I had to, because of Collette, Francesca’s thirteen-year-old daughter. Max was her godmother and loved her. I would never forget seeing Collette at the funeral. She looked so lost, so confused, as if she was still trying not to believe what she had to believe. The look on her face at the funeral came back to me in the oddest places: once in a casual sideways glance into a half-lit shop window, another time during the blandness of some happy-family television show. One day, somewhere in a future that I can hardly perceive, I will talk to her.

  Collette loved a nineteen sixties purple velvet jacket that Max had bought at a retro shop. Stephanie worked hard to keep herself together as she packed it along with some other items for Collette, including a photo of her at about five years old dancing with her Aunt Maxie. It looked like it was taken at a birthday party.

  I moved in and out of my bedroom in short bursts, like some first-year medical student watching an autopsy, not sure if he could stomach what he saw but telling himself he would get used to it. I still slept in that bedroom, in the same bed; at first it was as a punishment I deserved, a reminder of the guilt I had to bear. But now it was also a reminder that I had survived. The bedroom was just that: the place where I slept. I no longer trusted it; I would offer it no more secrets. There was a second wardrobe there, with my clothes, and that door I opened. But today the room felt even more foreign. It seemed to have a shimmer to it, a haze, the air was heavy. It felt like a scene from a movie that, somehow, had been borrowed and placed in our house for a few hours on this day.

  I knew I should have been in there. But I invented things that required my attention, managed to make a big job out of looking for boxes and bags to pack things in. I had previously put the New York T-shirt and cashmere scarf in a drawer in my wardrobe. I had made that decision carefully, knowing I would see them whenever I opened that drawer. The unwanted clothes were going to the charity shop. I took Gloria’s car keys, and carried Max’s old red and blue suitcase, full of clothes, to the car. I turned, slammed the boot. No more goodbyes.

  Then I put the kettle on again and didn’t realise when Gloria entered the kitchen.

  ‘These leather gloves; I think Virgi
nia would like them but she’s not sure if she should ask.’ She spoke in a businesslike voice, a distant look in her eyes.

  ‘Then she must have them.’ There was no need to say more.

  ‘And there are a few old handbags. The girls don’t want them, so are you all right with me taking them to the op shop?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine.’ I had never thought of her as brave before; it was my oversight. ‘Now I’m going to make tea. I reckon it’s time we tried your cake. Actually, I’m about to start on it, and if anyone else wants to get a slice, they better come soon.’ I liked the warm smile she gave me.

  ‘All right. You let us know when the tea’s ready and we’ll join you.’

  She turned to leave but I said, ‘Before you go back, Gloria, please come into the lounge room with me and check out the painting Max bought in Kyneton. I had it framed and I’d really like you to see it.’

  Gloria knew the story of the painting but had never asked any more about it, I guess because it wouldn’t change anything. The story I told most people was that I had an appointment and had to use our car, so Maxine hired one; no need to spell out the pettiness of the ‘appointment.’ It was as close to a lie as I could justify to myself, knowing I could abuse myself better than anyone.

  I left the tea brewing and followed her to the lounge room. I removed the bubble wrap, propped the painting on a chair, took a step back and tried to watch Gloria from the corner of my eye. She stood motionless; it was an unnatural pose, as if she had been stopped mid step. I couldn’t understand the look on her face, but then, I didn’t know Gloria well. She blinked several times, and her head moved very slightly backwards and forwards as if seeking focus. Then she gave a small shake of the head. Eventually she turned, smiled and then casually examined the rest of the room.