A Change of Texture

by Paul Maxwell Taylor

  She looked at the Alley Cat for a long time. I held my breath. Then she shook her head and I exhaled. Her eyes returned to the photo and then quickly to me.

  The Alley Cat kept questioning Alexander but it was obvious he was not about to change his mind. The person who mattered most, the person who was the copyright holder, the person who would have the final say, was not willing to give the answer we wanted. He admitted things might come to light to change his mind, and that only a fool would declare it was definitely not his mother’s work, but said that, at this stage, there was too much doubt to say that it was.

  I turned to Geraldine, who looked at the canvas. I thought that maybe she should talk, let it all out, but it was her call, and I would keep my hand over my mouth. I’d had months to try to come to grips with the sort of grief that had only just assaulted her. Then I heard my voice again.

  ‘Alexander, I don’t know much about art – to be honest, I hadn’t heard of your mother before I came across this work – so I have to ask the obvious. You’ve acknowledged that the scene in this painting is your mother’s garden, and that it’s painted in a style like your mother’s and the signature appears to be your mother’s, but you don’t believe it’s her work. So, you are saying this is a forgery.’

  Alexander gulped. He shuffled nervously and looked at the other two in the room. ‘I’m afraid I have to say yes. I can only say someone has gone to great trouble to paint something that is highly relevant to my mother’s work and then forge her signature on the canvas, so, yes, I believe it’s a fake. I’m sorry to tell you that. Believe it or not, it’s as big a disappointment to me as it is to you.’

  Frustration and confusion were replaced by a hollow feeling, which sucked up optimism and left us standing in an arid place. I knew I needed to keep some perspective, and had a sudden recollection that I was the host. I was about to offer refreshments when Alexander spoke.

  ‘I feel we have taken up enough of your time. You’ve been hospitable, but I’m afraid I am suffering from jet lag, so we will depart. Please believe me when I say I take no pleasure in my negative assessment. I am sure we all hoped it would be otherwise.’

  He was soon in the hallway, with me following him. Sincere thanks were shared, and the men exchanged warm handshakes as they bid their farewells. Geraldine kissed my cheek and our eyes met, no words needing to be exchanged. I closed the door behind the three of them.

  I walked past the lounge room and down the hallway to my kitchen. A cork made its familiar noise. I walked slowly back, not wanting to spill the large glass, and parked myself on the couch opposite the painting. I raised my glass to it and nodded. We were now friends, that canvas and I, or maybe allies would be a better word; a liaison forged in emotion.

  Maxine had a fondness for the wines of Italy after going there in her early twenties, and tonight chianti seemed the appropriate drink. I took a second large gulp; it was dry, savoury, but a little closed and unforgiving. I had drunk it in the past, though, and knew that a little time and air would do us both good.

  I tried to go back over Alexander’s words. Art seemed such an imprecise world, and there had to be room for doubt. But I’d had enough; things might become obvious in tomorrow’s light but, now, clear thinking and I didn’t want to dance.

  I picked up the framed photograph and looked at it hard. Somehow, Maxine’s eyes seemed sadder, as if for Geraldine. I smiled, returned the photo to its place and walked to the painting. I held up my glass and toasted lost love. Sometime later, I poured the last of the chianti into my glass, stood and walked away. The room was dark, not my favourite shade.

  CHAPTER 36

  She didn’t really smile. She just turned her cheek and let me kiss it, then told me to enjoy myself. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said. It was sarcastic but not nasty. She wasn’t angry. I knew her…she wasn’t angry.

  Maxine and I used the words ‘I love you’ – we’d look at each other when we said it. I said it to eyes I want to see, eyes that look no more. We didn’t say it every day, just when it seemed right. I know we meant it; I had to believe it, I had to. But I didn’t tell her that day. Then, as the months passed, I worried that I was a fraud, that I only said it because she did, because I should, or when I wanted something, for her to forgive me, or sex…did I mean it?

  A million times, I had these conversations with the man I saw in the wineglass, with the angry guy in my head, the one who often hated me. The one who didn’t go to sleep, who fermented memories into tears.

  I didn’t say it that day… then I went jogging.

  The recollections were hands around my throat that had squeezed tighter and tighter each day for those first months. Each finger pushing into my soul, ignoring my pleas. The fingers aren’t there every day now, but I know they’re nearby.

  I was having a bad night, my bedroom ceiling replaying scenes I didn’t want to see. In the light of morning, I looked up at a different roof, just painted plaster, dull and inconsequential. It took me a long time to get out of bed, to shower, to move into the new day.

  At eleven twenty-one, my mobile sang.

  ‘Hi.’

  I recognised the voice. Geraldine asked me how I was.

  ‘Yeah, not too bad, I guess. Yourself?’

  ‘Not bad… well, not great, really. You probably know why I’m calling.’

  ‘I think I do.’

  ‘I need to know… I need to know it all. I need to see photos, to learn about her. Can you tell me all of it, how she was, who she was?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll tell you all I can, which is a lot, but remember there were thirty-four years and I was only with her for the last eight.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘It’ll be tough. I’m still, you know…I sometimes can’t get the words out…It’ll be hard for both of us.’

  ‘Yes, of course, you poor man. I gave birth to her and gave her away, and yet I know nothing.’ She was quiet but I could hear pain. Eventually, she spoke again. ‘My tears are so heavy…I’m lost.’

  ‘Take your time. You’re welcome here, or we can meet elsewhere? Whatever is easiest.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t care. I guess it’s better if I come there. It’s where she lived, right?’

  ‘Yeah, this place is her; she’s here. When?’

  ‘Tomorrow, about this time. Is that all right, Carter?’

  ‘It’s a date.’

  I was about to hang up when I heard, ‘Oh, and I would appreciate if this is just between us.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s just between us.’

  I felt uneasy. Is it guilt? Should I be worried about who I owe loyalty to? Is there some sort of hierarchy for this stuff? I could use some advice but from who? Should I tell Gloria that I’m seeing Geraldine? Do I tell Geraldine that Gloria knows? One’s the mother by birth but the other’s the person Maxine loved as a mother. Both women know the other exists; we’re all in the same band, but I’m not sure who’s the lead singer.

  CHAPTER 37

  I thought I might have been able to explain to someone how grief tastes but I was wrong. I’d forgotten about the other Carter, the one who usually comes to an agreement with me, so I can function and take control, be practical, reasonable. Sometimes the other one doesn’t play ball, holds the secrets, pushes me out of the way. I try to be tough, I need to function to survive. Now I had to sit and watch the birth mother try to discover what she lost so long ago.

  Each page of the photo album was a foreign place to Geraldine. Watching her was disconcerting, surreal. How does your life get to a place where all that once made sense is questioned again and again? I shook my head, kept the question alive, moved it around, tried to rationalise it. My eyes widened, and I felt surprised and satisfied when it occurred to me my feelings were primarily about my concern for others, Maxine and Geraldine, and Gloria and Virginia.

  Geraldine had arrived early. I wasn
’t ready for her but I wouldn’t have been even if she’d been hours late. I ushered her in and sat her down, and told her I had loved her daughter for eight years. Told her how Maxine and I met, how she was not that impressed with me at first but I won her over somehow. I pointed out that the photos had an order but if it had been left up to me, there would be a few random photo albums and lots in boxes and I would be saying, ‘Oh that one, yeah, let me think. I think that’s at Mount Macedon on a Sunday drive, and there’s more of those somewhere…and that’s when we went to Alice Springs…don’t remember who that is, think it was an English girl we met, from Somerset, greatest accent, like Pam Ayres, Max just smiled every time this girl spoke...’ But the photos were in order because Maxine lived her life that way, her lines were parallel.

  It was just another of her assets. She was kind and caring and organised. She enjoyed it, told me it was a talent she had. I said, ‘Bullshit, it’s just you can be bothered. I mean, it’s good, I’m pleased, but you’ll excuse me, sweetie, if I have something more important to do.’ I’d called her anal. ‘What would you know?’ she asked as she punched me in the arm. My temples pulsed with anger at having called her anal. She’d been right …what would I know?

  I had planned to add some light-hearted bits: some anecdotes about Max, her habits, her quirks, anything that would help Geraldine make unreality real. Things I hoped might alter the moment or change the thickness of the air around us. She needed to know our relationship had been durable, that we laughed like everyone else, that we had faced reality.

  Then it caught up with me. I sniffed, blinked hard and told Geraldine I needed a break. I could see the trees in the front yard bowing to the wind, but the lounge room was motionless. I walked to the kitchen, started to fill the blue kettle Maxine had insisted on buying, despite my objections that there was nothing wrong with the old one.

  I’d neglected to ask Geraldine if she wanted tea or coffee. I returned to my lounge room, where she sat on the couch, photo album on her lap, her eyes lost, confused and damp. Somehow it was worst for her. Gloria, Virginia, me, we lost Maxine, but we’d had her. Geraldine missed out in every way. I turned away. Coffee could wait. I busied myself with nothing and eventually made a noisy entry to the lounge room, asking her what she wanted to drink. Soon I was back with tea.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  It was a stupid question. She shrugged, wearily, she looked at me from a long way away.

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s…I don’t know…But I came here not knowing. I sort of feel like a voyeur, or, or, like an audience. Yes, like I’m at the theatre, watching someone else’s story, someone I don’t know. It’s just that, in this play, I gave birth to the lead character.’ The unconvincing smile stayed, just hanging on to the edges of her mouth. ‘Tell me more, what she was really like, her heart, her passions.’

  I spoke for thirty minutes and tried to encapsulate the real person. I talked about the accident, about me not letting her take the car, about my guilt. I didn’t look at Geraldine as I told her, I tried to sound like a passer-by, casually observing and telling. Sometimes the words came easily, with the fluency of pleasant memories; other times, they grated and scratched, and needed to be coaxed. My eyes hurt but I didn’t cry. She asked no questions, just sat motionless as if nailed to the chair by the force of the unknown. Occasionally, she nodded hard, as if she wanted to let me know she was listening. The story was as frank and unemotional as I could manage, but the texture of the room was grainy, the words often feeling like they were coming from the passer-by.

  She maintained a dignified composure and smiled gently when appropriate. Eventually, she said, ‘Thank you, Carter. I really do appreciate it, I know it’s been hard for you…thank you.’ She stood up.

  ‘You realise I’ve only told you about our years together. There’s so much you don’t know, so many years of Maxine’s life you could hear about if you want. I could tell you things she told me about her childhood but it would be better coming from her mot… from Gloria and Virginia.’

  ‘You can use the word “mother”, Carter. She brought Maxine up, gave her love and a home, all the things she needed. She is the real mother. I merely gave birth.’ She tried to smile again but her eyes didn’t play the game.

  ‘Merely gave birth! You gave her life.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, but I only gave her the nine months. Gloria, she was there for the long haul; from Maxine’s view, she was her mum. That’s all that counts. We both know that.’

  The words were full of sadness. It was not a time for bullshit. I wanted the right response, something that might offer a small relief to her gaping wound. ‘Yes, of course you’re right, but it’s not an exclusive club. You’re real, you’re Maxine’s flesh and blood, and you can’t be removed from the equation. From now on, I’ll always feel some sort of a bond with you, and I reckon I knew the adult Maxine better than anyone did and she wouldn’t have cut you out of her life. Yeah, she would have taken some time, it would have sent her into a spin to know you existed, but I can tell you with certainty, she wouldn’t want me to tell you to go away. It’s simple; I’m under her direction, so you are officially in our lives!’

  I smiled and, without hesitation, we embraced. She folded herself into my arms, seeming light, fragile. I felt the slight shudder of a sob. I looked over her head at the canvas on the wall, and it seemed to be reflecting our togetherness. I wondered how many yesterdays there are in an embrace; how many what-ifs in a memory.

  Geraldine declined my invitation to stay longer and said, ‘I think that’s enough for one day. I need to be alone.’

  I nodded, hugged her again at the door. ‘Please think about whether you want me to talk to Gloria and Virginia. They may say no, but I don’t think so. I’ll wait to hear from you.’

  She nodded, and said a faint ‘Thanks again.’

  My last words weren’t quite true. Gloria and Virginia had already offered to meet Geraldine, but I had to see Geraldine’s responses, to try to gauge her courage and measure her ability to face the past. I wanted none of the three to feel pressured. I would tell Gloria and Virginia about her visit, and consider the next move; it was my job now.

  I watched her car move slowly away, then moved back inside. I breathed in the new evening, feeling like something that needed to happen was happening. And I had a date with Lawrence and Red Eric. I had four hours to kill. I felt relaxed and motivated, which was a pleasant surprise, so I moved into my study, pulled the old grey office chair out, sat down with purpose, pushed the ‘on’ button and stared at the screen. It’s funny how your eyes can be in one spot and your mind so completely elsewhere.

  ‘Strong flat white?’ The cup was at the end of a skinny tattooed arm.

  She pointed at the table in front of her and the young waiter carefully put it down.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, picked up the spoon and stirred absent-mindedly. ‘So, let’s analyse what we know: we were drawn to a funeral and we don’t know why. No one else seemed to be suffering from this confusion. I mean, there was lots of grief on display but no one I could see had that lost look you had and I’m sure I had.’

  He nodded, put his coffee to his lips and blew into it.

  She thought it odd; such a gentle blow, surely it couldn’t cool coffee? She was the sort of person who would do it properly.

  ‘Yes, you’re right, and I’m sure I don’t – or, rather, didn’t – know Professor Dalton. How about you? Are you sure he’s no relation of yours? You never had him as a teacher, a neighbour...?’

  She sipped her coffee and shook her head. ‘No, no idea. They said he was at Melbourne University but I never went there. He was a professor of politics, and I never studied politics anywhere.’

  ‘Hey, do you reckon he might have been one of the political commentators they interview on television or radio; you know, one of those people who gets asked by journalists about current issues?
/>   ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think I’ve ever heard his name. I’m going to ask my mother. Maybe he’s got something to do with my family.’

  He nodded. He was hungry but was afraid to suggest they order some food. She seemed obsessed with the moment and he was sure she would see it as trivial. They talked a bit about their jobs, pasts, neighbourhoods; anything that might establish a link. They got nowhere.

  She stood. ‘Anyway, I better get home, I’ve got to collect my kids from school.’ She hesitated, turned and sat down again. ‘My husband is going to think I’m fucking mad if I tell him about all this.’ She grimaced, unsure what to do next.

  This surprised him because he’d figured her as a person who was in control. But how could he have thought that? This thing, this absurdity, they were sharing surely placed both of them in a situation they couldn’t control? He wanted to ask why her husband would think she was mad, but he knew why and, anyway, it was not his place to interfere.

  Now they both stood, and he grabbed the white plastic chair when she almost knocked it over and placed it where it belonged under the table. ‘Your idea about family is good. I’m going to talk to my sister. She knows all the aunts and uncles and in-laws, and maybe there’s something I missed.’

  She opened her bag, and, after a moment of fumbling, her left hand reappeared with a fat red-and-white-striped pen. She turned over a paper napkin and wrote on it. Then she straightened up and stared hard at him, and he noticed that she blinked a lot. ‘Here’s my email address.’

  ‘Oh yeah, good idea; can I borrow your pen?’ He used another napkin and reciprocated.

  They shook hands on the footpath. He watched her walk away, liking the rear view of her tight red skirt, then turned, taking a moment to remember where he parked. He was about to leave when he remembered he was hungry. He moved to the sandwich counter, where a woman asked him what he wanted.