CHAPTER 43
For some time, having the painting both gave to and took from me: the fact that I owned it should have given me some sort of satisfaction but the reason I owned it caused me pain. But now, every time I stopped in front of the canvas, it seemed to offer something new, and these last couple of days, now that I knew she might be there, behind a layer of paint, it was even more remarkable to me. And the fact that we didn’t know why it was painted over or who did it simply added intrigue.
I turned away, walked back to the kitchen, refilled my wineglass, and started to think about the planned meeting between Geraldine, Gloria and Virginia. It should work, we all had the same aim, but doubt was always near, and the best laid plans are often smudged. I recalled the day I collected the painting in Kyneton and, in that moment, realised that I had inadvertently neglected someone; someone who deserved more.
The last time I had spoken to Stephanie was when she had come to help pack up Maxine’s things and she hadn’t seen the painting that day. She deserved to know more, especially as she was with me when I got it. If I was driving this bus, then she should get to be a passenger.
‘Carter, how nice to hear from you! How are you? What’s news?’
Pleasantries were exchanged. Then I asked her, ‘What are you doing?’
‘Well, right now, I’m at work, but I knock off in about an hour. Why?’
‘Why don’t you spin past on your way home? I need to talk to you about something.’
Ninety minutes later, I opened the door to a smiling Stephanie. She looked well. It seemed that the shade of grief that had tinted her complexion had been replaced by the colour of living. I wondered about my complexion. We hugged.
‘You look good. You’ve had your hair cut; I’ve never seen it so short.’
‘Yeah, it’s short, but it has been before. There’s a school photo of Max and me with short hair in second grade. It was the only time our hair was the same. We used to laugh about it, because after that, it never was.
She giggled, but it was all right. The knives were blunter.
‘I’ve got a good Riesling in the fridge?’
‘Sounds perfect.’
In the kitchen, we raised our glasses. ‘Here’s to you know who.’
‘Yep, to her.’
‘Now, bring your glass and follow me.’
I switched on the light that highlighted the painting
‘Oh, wow, that’s nice, you’ve had it reframed and it’s a nice job. Really nice. I know I said this before, but the minute I saw it, I knew why she liked it.’
I recalled those words. This time I needed to know. ‘Why?’
‘Well…um, how do I say it,’ she paused. ‘It’s calm and serene, but mostly it’s to do with the sea. You and me, we knew her just about better than anyone else, and while she could rise up – you know, be sort of stormy – you knew it would soon pass. So, somehow, it makes sense. She was a bit like that scene: mainly serene and contemplative. The sea in the background completes the picture. She could get so absorbed in some things, and that’s the sort of place she would get lost in; you know, just take her time.’
I nodded as I recalled Maxine getting lost in some moment, some image, some visible, or invisible, charm. She would go quiet, just look. I was usually appreciative of what fascinated her, but usually less charmed. I could still hear myself: ‘Darling, we should be going…’.
‘In fact, I could see her on that swing.’
I returned to the moment, and looked at Stephanie. ‘On the swing? Is that what you said, on that swing?’
Stephanie stared at me with her eyebrows raised, head back.
‘That’s a weird laugh, Carter.’
‘Weird, yeah; good word, Steph. Weird as in amazing. You see, she probably is on that swing.’
She stood awhile, looking at the painting, then walked to me, gently put her hand on my arm and rubbed it. ‘Yeah, that’s nice. I think I get your meaning, it’s nice….’ She smiled tenderly.
I laughed again. ‘Sorry, Steph, I mean she might really be there.’
She kept smiling as she looked at me, a hint of concern in her eyes as she rubbed my arm again.
Now I took her hand in mine, led her to the couch and asked her to sit. ‘The reason I asked you here tonight is to tell you about this painting. It’s not what it seems; in fact, this painting changes quite a lot of things. Where do I start? OK, it started when I had it reframed, and a signature was discovered on the painting, hidden under the old frame. It was Elaine Tyson, she’s quite…’
‘Bull- sshiitt.’ She sat upright in the chair, and nearly spilt her wine. ‘Elaine Tyson, bullshit, you mean that it…don’t shit me, Carter, this…’ She jumped up from the couch, and moved quickly to a position in which her nose was only inches from the canvas. ‘You’re not telling me this is a genuine… it is, by god, it’s her signature, bull-sshiittt.’
‘Well, I guess I don’t have to explain who she is.’
‘No way, you don’t have to tell me who she is. Don’t you remember when I went to Melbourne Uni to do a year of fine art studies…until I discovered I had no talent? Well, no, of course, you wouldn’t, it was before you were on the scene…but, forget that, you’re not telling me that this is a real, no way...oh bull-sshhiittt.’
‘Steph, shut up,’ I took her arm and tried to lead her back to the couch, but she escaped, returning to licking distance from the canvas. I sat down, gave her about thirty seconds, then returned to her side again, once more taking her arm. ‘Steph, please, you need to come and sit down. I reckon I better start at the beginning. Are you ready to hear all about this?’
She took a large mouthful of Riesling, and her eyes showed her impatience, but her curiosity was clearly winning against her frustration. ‘OK, come on, come on, give it to me.’
The story took longer than I expected. Three times, I told her to stop interrupting; the third time, loudly. Loud worked, as at least she stayed on the couch, but she still wriggled and groaned, and released a variety of exclamations, of which ‘bull-shhiiit’ was the most common. She was like a cat unsure of the person patting it, whether to purr or scratch. Like a cat, though, she was all about instinct and hers was on alert. I could tell that she wanted it to be true, that she loved the idea, but was almost too scared to believe it. She was battling herself, or reality. Or my story.
I got to a part where it might have been appropriate to tell her that Geraldine was Maxine’s birth mother but the timing was not right. She was working hard to come to grips with what I told her, no need to go beyond the painting for now. ‘So, what more can I say? The Alley Cat reckons it’s real, I reckon it’s real, but the person who has the loudest say is yet to give his nod.’
‘No fucking way, amazing, just … amazing.’ Her voice quivered. She again went to the painting, her eyes fixed on the swing. ‘Max, are you there?’ The words were quiet, and she moved her head as if she was hoping something would appear. What she wanted was more than her eyes could give her but her imagination was her own; it was her moment. If Maxine was on that swing, her friend’s breath warmed her.
Stephanie eventually returned to my side, tears in her eyes. ‘Carter I am…I am, flabbergasted. I mean, how can it be…? And you say you have an X-ray done? ‘
I told her again about the X-ray results. She asked old and new questions, and I gave her all the answers that I could. It was sometime later, as she finished her second glass of Riesling, that I felt she was in control of herself, that she understood, so I continued. ‘Now, Steph, this is important. I need you to promise, and I mean seriously promise, that this all stays with us. I don’t want you to discuss it with Gloria and Virginia, they know some things about the painting but I haven’t told them about the X-ray, so, besides them, it’s you and me, the Alley Cat and Elaine Tyson’s two children. It will be decided soon and then, well, the story won’t be s
ecret. But, until then, you have to stay cool and tell no one. I’m telling you because you were so invested in it all from the start, you were there, and I reckon your best mate would have wanted you to know.’
Stephanie did what she was good at: the unexpected. I had hardly finished the sentence before her arms were around my neck, her embrace tight. ‘I miss her so much, so much, all the time. Oh, fuck, it’s not fair, I’ve only had one great friend in my whole life and now she’s gone. Fuck… fuck…so unfair.’
I gulped, avoided her eyes and hugged her hard for as long as she wanted. In her sobs, I heard young girls singing nursery rhymes, laughing loudly; saw them holding hands and skipping. I heard teenagers giggling, telling secrets, dancing, sharing things. Some things might be lost but they can’t be taken away.
Minutes passed, and she stopped crying, and blew her nose in a long C-sharp wail. We both laughed.
‘Sorry, Carter, I didn’t mean to get all mushy, it’s just…’
‘Don’t you dare apologise. It is what it is, promise me you won’t stop feeling.’
She shifted, turned, hugged me again. ‘I promise.’
I waited while she went to the bathroom. Familiar emotions flew around the room like birds, sang their song and settled back on me. They felt fine. Soon Stephanie was back, and I could hear her breathing deeply, trying to hold on to her composure. I refilled her glass, and she smiled at me and sipped her wine. The cat seemed to be relaxing, to accept its company, almost purring. I suggested a pizza.
‘As long as it’s got anchovies,’ she replied.
‘Oh no, I should’ve known...the number of times I’ve picked anchovies off pizza in this house. And here I go again. All right, all right, we’ll get two small ones, you have what you want…bloody anchovies.’
Her laugh was so loud, it echoed, and I joined in. Small talk ensued, and we caught up on other news. She had met someone.
‘Met her in a bookshop. I was looking at a book, the cover said it was a love story about women and this voice says, “That’s a great book, really tells the story.” So, we chatted.’
‘And?’
‘And, so far so good. I mean, nothing’s happened, except for a kiss on the cheek. I’m not much good at relationships, but…who knows?’
I watched her bony shoulders hunch in an exaggerated way. I had never seen Stephanie with a partner. Max told me long ago that her friend had been unlucky in love.
‘I’ve got my fingers crossed for you, you deserve it.’
She gave me a coy smile. ‘Thanks, mate.’ She sipped, inhaled deeply again, and said, ‘You know, this is a weird week. I went to a funeral yesterday, which was upsetting. I found myself thinking a lot about Max, and now this.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘I don’t think so. It was awful. Just awful, one of our mates from years ago; in fact, Max went out with him. He was at Max’s funeral but stayed in the background. His name was Warwick Gardiner. He was a sweet guy, we were all part of a gang. He was only thirty-nine years old and he committed suicide. Such a surprise. I mean, none of us…are you all right, Carter?’
I don’t remember much of what I did or said in the next few minutes. Stephanie told me later that I spent a lot of time trying try to wipe off the Riesling I spilt on my shirt front, using the grubby handkerchief I’d dragged from my pocket. She had taken the glass with the remaining wine from my right hand and placed it on the coffee table, and then took the handkerchief from me. I resisted.
‘Carter, you can stop now. The wine’s gone or it’s soaked in, you can stop. It’s all right. Don’t worry about the spilt wine.’
The surprise that had been in her eyes was back, but now it was different. ‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’
‘Tell you? I suppose so. Fuck, this is a weird one.’
‘How so?
‘I know Warwick, or, rather, knew him. Shit, this is unbelievable. I’ve met him twice since Max’s funeral…and both times, you’d say, were unusual, I mean, really unusual, and now a third chorus – no, make it a third act, it’s a fucking odyssey.’ A wall grew around me as I talked. My skin prickled as I found my own words almost too strange to believe, but somehow it seemed that if I talked long enough, it would all make sense.
I saw Shelagh’s eyes as I told Stephanie. I stopped, even more disconcerted. Why Shelagh? Maybe it was because she was the last person I’d told about Warwick; she knew about both my meetings with him. Why, I wondered, had I bothered to tell her? Stop, stop now. I shook my head. Forget Shelagh, come back to the moment, concentrate, Warwick killed himself.
‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t…
‘No, no, it’s a bit embarrassing. You see, I thought he was me, so I chased him.’
‘You chased him?’ Her brow was furrowed, and she looked concerned.
‘Yes, I saw him jogging and thought he was me, so I chased him, in fact it was the second time, no, the third time I had seen him. I chased him once before but it was the third time that I caught him and thought “Who is this bloke?” and he recognised me from the funeral and we… I actually thought I saw myself jogging, I mean, how insane is that…it was Warwick. Did you say he committed suicide?’
‘Yes, Carter. I’m so sorry, if I’d known, I wouldn’t have just come out with it, you know. Oh, I’m sorry. It was awful. He hanged himself.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I don’t know the full story, but evidently it had to do with some discovery he recently made about his family. I’m not sure – you know, there were lots of mutual friends there and lots of theories, but someone said he was in love with someone he couldn’t have and he was broken hearted. Then someone else said that he’d had some sort of anxiety attack, and just couldn’t face life. His brother was there, and some other relatives, but no one wanted to ask them.’
‘I know what it was.’
‘You…how?’
‘Warwick had just found out he was a twin.’
‘What?’ Her eyes were wide now. It seemed every time I opened my mouth, I challenged and confused her.
‘He’d just discovered he was a twin. He had a twin sister and, through her, he found the mother he never had.’
‘How could that be?’
‘I told you I met him twice, and the second time was as weird as the first.’
I listened to someone tell a story about how he went to an art show and bumped into a man he wasn’t really keen to see, and that man told him things that were too weird. I glanced at the painting. I was sure that Maxine had turned around and was looking over her shoulder at me. Maybe it made sense to her. Slowly, I returned to the me on the couch, the one with the wet shirt, he who had to try to explain.
Stephanie was being uncharacteristically patient as she watched me like a mother watching over her brood: alert, cautious, caring. I wondered how I sounded, what she thought of me at that moment. Then, as if disturbed from uneasy sleep, we both jumped and swore in unison. It was the doorbell.
The pizzas had arrived. I jumped up, raced to my bedroom, found my wallet and ran back, but she’d already paid. ‘Hey, that worked well, I always pretend I can’t find my wallet.’ My mumbling effort at humour dragged a weak smile from her. Somehow, there were plates and cutlery in front of us, even napkins. I was confused again but then remembered she knew this house well. She was a regular here on those Saturdays when the umpire’s whistle called me to the football. Max didn’t enjoy the game, and resisted my efforts to convert her; she liked a day with her buddy. This memory was good, and I liked the distraction it offered. I looked down, and realised there was a slice of pizza in my hand. It tasted was salty and cheesy, with lots of olives. I ate fast.
‘So, you didn’t talk to him again?’ Stephanie asked.
‘What?’
‘Warwick; it was just the two times?’
‘Oh, yeah, just
twice, but I thought a lot about his story. I’m still trying to write, you know – well, maybe you don’t – the great Australian novel. It’s probably crap but…. anyway, weirdly, it’s sort of linked, the plot in my story, I mean. It has similarities to what he told me, it’s all just too weird…I’m going to open another bottle of wine.’
‘Why would he tell you, Carter, if he only just met you? Why would he? Why were you at an art show?’
I extended my arm to its full length, aimed it at the painting. ‘You remember I told you that there was another painting like this one, L’enfant Perdu? Well, I saw that at this art show in East Melbourne, and that’s where I met Warwick the second time, purely by accident, and he started talking.’
I told Stephanie the story and heard myself saying, …‘the next thing, only a few days later, I think, she contacted him again, and told him that she’d found their mother, who had died at the exact moment they both cut themselves.’ My hands were in the air, pizza in one, wine in the other. Cheese dangled from the slice and threatened my already stained shirt.
‘Jesus, it’s amazing. Are you sure? Sorry, I don’t mean to…’
‘Steph, I don’t remember every detail, but that’s about it.’
‘No way, that’s so amazing. I mean, that’s fate, they were meant to meet, it was all planned.’
‘Bullshit. Don’t give me that fate crap.’
‘What, do you mean? Are you joking? After all that’s happened, Carter, you must believe. Look there. How about that?’
My eyes followed her skinny arm as she flung it towards the painting like it was a spear. ‘You’re not trying to tell me all this, Max in the painting, and Warwick, and your story and everything… is all coincidence.’
‘Yes, I am. I mean, of course, it’s all bloody weird, but that’s all it is. It’s grief that’s done this to me, that makes me see things and…don’t you try to tell me it’s fate. What…like there’s some grand fucking plan, some being, some omnipotence, up there, deciding that Warwick should top himself, and that same fucker is the one that decided that Maxine deserved to go? No fucking way, it’s a hand of cards, that’s what it is, a fucking hand of cards, you get dealt them every day…there’s no grand plan. Sometimes you get a good hand and sometimes not, it’s random, it has to be, there’s no logic, no justice. Fate, my arse. It’s just all been a lousy hand of rotten, stinking cards.’
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