A Change of Texture

by Paul Maxwell Taylor

  I heard my words reverberate down the hall behind me. They bounced off the bathroom door as I slammed it. They were on the mirror, and I saw, through clouded eyes, them trying to unjumble themselves. My head ached, my blood boiled. I tried to urinate but I was shaking. I couldn’t even get myself out of my trousers. I sat on the toilet seat and tore off paper to wipe my eyes. Eventually, I stopped sobbing.

  I returned to the lounge room via the kitchen, got two glasses of water, handed one Stephanie. She blew her nose. I looked into her red eyes. ‘You know, we should drink water, especially when we’re drinking booze…and we need to replace the tears, it’s a fact.’

  I appreciated her smile. The tears I shed in the bathroom had washed away my anger. ‘Hey, Steph, maybe the fate argument is for another time, if that’s all right with you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I should have called him: Warwick, I mean, he gave me his number. I was going to phone him; maybe he just wanted someone to talk to,’ I said.

  ‘Warwick had friends, there were lots of his old mates at the funeral. Don’t beat yourself up over that, you’ve had enough devils to dance with. As I said, I hadn’t seen much of him, you know, not since Max’s funeral, and a year or so before that.’

  The room had a different feel, as if it was exhausted and slowing down. Not quite calm but starting to accept what it had heard.

  ‘Have you any idea of what you’ve done to me tonight? I came here thinking, I dunno, you maybe just wanted to catch up and toss around a few memories. I really thought maybe you’d just found some old photos or something, and instead you totally blow my fucking mind. Jesus, you are a total arsehole. No wonder I don’t like men.’

  The paradox of her emotions, from one extreme to the other in one sentence, the absurdity of the obvious, left us laughing for a long time.

  We embraced on my front doorstep. Just days ago, I had been doing the same with Geraldine. Tonight, there were still things left unsaid but they would wait.

  ‘Now, next time we talk, will it just be, like, normal stuff?’

  I smiled, ‘Probably not.’

  She leant back to look at me. ‘Really?’

  I shrugged my shoulders and hugged her again. I watched her walk heavily to her small car and bend her tall frame into it; then she was gone.

  CHAPTER 44

  I just kept going, one foot in front of the other, even though my left knee yelled at me, told me to give up, begged me to understand it shouldn’t bear the brunt of my deceptions – ‘Oh, good idea, Carter, you need to clear your jumbled head, so you decide self-flagellation is the answer, yes, splendid idea, dickhead, push yourself until I swell and ache for the next two days’ – and the lungs agreed, forming a coalition. But this was important, and if I was talking to my aching parts, then I wasn’t thinking about things that hurt even more. And, importantly, I didn’t look around, didn’t look for others. Not that it would have mattered who I saw. The spitting image of me could have jogged right past and I would ignore it, simply refuse to believe what I saw. ‘Didn’t see a soul, Your Honour, blind as a bat.’

  I’d slept well because I’d been exhausted by the time I hit the sack. But when I awoke, Warwick’s suicide was front and centre, it was pushing and shoving and leaving no room for other thoughts. I knew it wasn’t about me, but couldn’t help wondering if there was nothing I could have said or done …? I needed a release, I had to jog.

  Then I got there, the place I wanted, the top of the hill, that place where up meets down, where breath comes easier, where you lean backwards instead of forwards. All hills have another side. Hey, you, all you whingeing sore bits, get stuffed; told you we’d be all right, got you to the peak, now enjoy the slide.

  I wanted life to be like this. l wanted to see the top, suck up the achievement and enjoy the other side. But there’s always another hill. Maybe we aren’t supposed to enjoy the easy bits, or maybe I didn’t want the downhill. I was too young to be passed my peak, I had some achieving to do. I liked the place where breathing was easier and the air good. One hill at a time.

  The warm arrows of water in the shower massaged me and took some more doubts with them as they exited, via the drain at my feet. Twenty minutes later, I had devoured some muesli with banana. I made tea and placed the mug carefully on my desk. I arched my back and watched the screen blink at me; its casual response annoyed me, I had momentum. I moved my torso slightly forward, as if preparing to enter the computer. I breathed deeply.

  OK, so I’ll call you Curtis; no, that’s too much like Carter. Maybe Brian. No, not Brian…Callum? That’s Welsh, isn’t it?

  Callum asks his family but no one knows the recently departed professor.

  And you can be Antoinette.

  Is that too awkward? Too corny? Callum and Antoinette. It’ll do.

  Antoinette likewise gets nowhere with her relatives.

  The two protagonists try to rationalise, they’re still asking themselves, why choose me?

  I’ll need to expand on this later, but first I need action, dialogue, narrative.

  These two, who are improbably brother and sister, know the whole thing is absurd.

  What a good word, ‘absurd’, starts with the first two letters of the alphabet.

  Callum is concerned, he likes her, the way she talks, her expressions, the way her tight red skirt clung to her as she walked away.

  I now needed one of them to get somewhere, discover something.

  He decides to phone her, reaches for his mobile. It rings before he can make the call.

  ‘Callum, it’s Antoinette.

  ‘Wow, that’s weird… I was just about to phone you.. just about to …

  She interrupts him. ‘Any news at your end?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Well, I found something, but it doesn’t make sense. I googled Professor Dalton. He was born in Wangaratta, and my mother was born in Wangaratta. They went to the same high school, same years, but she said she doesn’t remember him. She’s lying, she’s a lousy liar. Something’s really weird.’

  ‘Shit, you’re right, that’s weird … I don’t want to seem rude, but do you know your mother well? I mean…’

  ‘Of course, I know my mother. She’s been there all my life. Well, I guess we can all ask how well do we know anyone … what sort of a question is that.’

  ‘So, why would she lie?

  ‘How would I fucking know? But she is, I can tell. My husband thinks I’m mad.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t going to tell him.’

  ‘I didn’t tell him about you, just about being drawn to the funeral and about asking my mum. Look, don’t worry about him. But this business, this dead Professor… Gordon Dalton and my mum, something isn’t right. We should meet again.’

  At four the next day, she walked into the café. He thought maybe he should hug her, but resisted.

  She started to smile, then stopped. It was if she suddenly remembered that it wasn’t appropriate, so she shrugged, raised her eyebrows.

  She wore a tight grey roll neck sweater.

  His roll neck was brown.

  She spoke first.

  ‘Hi, how are you?’

  ‘Not bad I guess, you?’

  ‘I don’t know; confused, frustrated.’

  She seemed different, anxious, distracted, but she continued, ‘As I said, it’s my mother, it doesn’t add up. I reckon I might be adopted.’

  ‘Adopted?’

  He began to laugh.

  ‘What so funny, I don’t think it’s funny. Shit, how would you feel if you’d been lied to all your life?’

  ‘No, no, sorry, of course.’

  She looked down, examined her hands as if they’d just appeared.

  His turn.

  ‘You know, I’ve wondered about that stuff; I mean, with my family. I had this girlfri
end, we were together for a fair while, over six months, we broke up last year. Her name was Melissa and she was always saying my family was weird and I was so different to the rest of them. She always reckoned that my mum must have had an affair and I was the result of it. Maybe she was right, maybe we’re both adopted.’

  He stopped talking and then felt silly. He should be trying to help her, not talking about himself.

  She looked at him. He thought she was annoyed, but she remained silent. She looked like she was trying to keep calm, to keep thinking clearly.

  ‘Well, do you know, have you ever tried to check it out?’

  ‘No, never, up until now I had no reason. Melissa was an emotional person, always had some weird scenario for everything.’

  He waved at the waiter, who nodded and smiled insincerely, and put up one finger, as if to indicate he’d be right there.

  ‘Do you look like your family?’ she asked, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Well, I’m taller than my brother and he’s losing his hair, but I just figured he took after my mum’s family and me after my dad’s.’

  ‘Can I help you?’ the skinny young man asked. He looked as if he didn’t want to be there, his eyes staring vacantly through thick glasses.

  ‘Two flat whites, please, one strong.’

  ‘No worries, right away.

  ‘Antoinette, I have to ask you something. Do you think we look alike?’

  ‘You and me? No…no way…do you?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, sort of. It’s just that when we had coffee the other day, the woman who served us thought you were my sister.’

  ‘No, we don’t, not at all. Oh shit, this is too weird…look, I’m going. Let’s not meet again, this is stupid.’ Her voice was higher with each word.

  She sniffed, blinked, and then her cheeks twitched. She assumed a stoic face and stood up quickly. He could tell she felt scared, and he thought it would be better if she did cry, let it out. She knew she was reacting badly but kept going.

  ‘Look, don’t call me anymore.’

  He watched her walk away, with quick, short steps. She swayed slightly, and he wondered if she would look back. Then she was gone. He glanced around, no one else was taking any notice. Where would he go from here.

  He muttered, ‘Fucking idiot.’

  CHAPTER 45

  I picked up the mug, put it to my lips and realised the tea had gone cold. I strode to the kitchen, and watched the cold tea swirl around the sink and splash over the edge, I didn’t need to have thrown it so aggressively. I put the kettle on again and asked, aloud, why I was angry. No one answered. The refrigerator went quiet, and I couldn’t even hear the tick of the old white Bakelite clock.

  ‘Have I got you all scared, you pricks?’ I tossed my arms in the air: ‘Why do I get like this?’

  I kicked the kitchen bench, pretended it didn’t hurt. Moods swung in this house like skipping ropes. What was bugging me? Was it my novel? Trying to write was frustrating: searching for a few words to say so much. Was that it? I’d got a fair bit done today, I’d been at it for three hours.

  More likely, it was the painting. There should be some sort of a Genuineness Meter. You hold it up to the painting and it tells you, like that computer application where your phone hears a song and tells you what it is. Now, that would cost the Alley Cat his job, but it would still be a cool invention. Hell, why not just keep the painting, accept it for what it is, don’t bother about whether it is or isn’t?

  No, it’s not the painting.

  Is it grief? Time defrags memory. There’s a place for all seasons, and some days are not so bad.

  There’s something else … loneliness? I have friends, I’m lucky. I could call a number of people and catch up with them, but do they offer me real intimacy? I’d enjoyed the frankness and emotion that had come from sharing my story with Stephanie, and slept well.

  I walked to the backyard, emptied the tea leaves on the lawn. I walked further, and grass wrapped around my shoes, as if to tell me it needed cutting. The couch grass was insidiously commandeering the lawn we planted five years ago.

  The camellia needed pruning. Max loved that tree.

  The door stuck as I closed it. Sandpaper would fix that.

  I must paint this place, all of it.

  Suddenly I felt anxious about all the things I should do…’should’, now, there’s a word I hated. ‘Lonely’… ‘should’. Don’t like either.

  Back at the computer, I rested my fingers on the keys, but the engine had stalled. I had to work out when the best time was to write. No, that’s crap; the best time is when you know what to say.

  Now I could hear the clock. The phone rang.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Shit, I’m exhausted. Don’t invite me over again, you bugger.’

  I laughed.

  ‘All right, all right, you’re off the list.’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that. I really appreciated your telling me the whole story, it was amazing stuff. I was so exhausted and yet I lay awake until about three, trying to make sense of it.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. Did you make sense of it? Because if you did, please tell me.’

  ‘Oh, some of it. I mean, the stuff about the painting is all really exciting; I so hope it’s a real Tyson. And the stuff about Warwick; well, that’s too weird. But I decided one thing.’

  ‘All right, I’ll bite, what?’

  ‘I really want to thank you for letting me in on it. You didn’t have to.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that was easy. Your best mate made me do that.’

  ‘I know, I know. I thought she loved me more than anybody and now I know that I came second, but I’m not complaining. I guess I’m no expert on men but listening to you speak so personally made me seriously impressed with you, Carter. If I was into men, you would be on the top of my list.’

  ‘Well, I enjoyed your company too. You let me know when you want to come over to the other side. Until then, I hope your thing with your new friend works out. Please bring her over, so I can check her out, see if she’s good enough for you.’

  ‘Thanks, mate. If things go well, you will meet her, and, thanks again, let’s catch up soon.’

  ‘You’ll hear from me, Steph. You stay well.’

  CHAPTER 46

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t come either night, Carter. I have a theatre booking tonight and a dinner tomorrow night, and I have only three weeks before I need to be back in London. Besides, I believe we discussed all we need to.’

  ‘As I said, there’s something I need you to see, something new. It’s important.’

  ‘Does Leonard know?’

  I didn’t want him quizzing the Alley Cat without me. I wanted to keep driving, even if Alexander got to control the brakes.

  ‘He’ll be attending. Have you any time during the next day or two?’

  ‘Oh look, I don’t know, my dinner starts at seven thirty tomorrow evening so I could be at your place at about six, if I must. But I cannot stay long; is that clear?’

  I wanted to tell him to get stuffed. ‘That should be fine, thank you Alexander, see you then.’

  I made another call.

  ‘Good, excellent. Five-thirty on Wednesdays is my weekly squash game, but that can be postponed, this is more important. I will be there, my boy, well done. Will Geraldine be attending?’

  ‘I hope so. I have to confirm the time with her.’

  ‘Good, very good. I’ll be there at about five forty-five, so we can prepare our approach, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I do, Leonard. See you then.’

  Geraldine was as unenthusiastic as her brother about attending but she agreed.

  A resolution was needed, and resolution was becoming like jogging: a necessary habit.

  I walked to the bedroom, where dirty clothes lay scat
tered like discarded rubbish. How had I managed not to see them? I gathered them and suggested that they’d feel better after a good wash. Then to the bathroom and got the towels, and went to the laundry, then remembered the sheets must be due for a wash, so hurled the blankets to parts of the floor that had only just been revealed again and dragged the sheets off the bed.

  Shit…I was nearly out of laundry detergent.

  Bloody hell… there was too much to fit into the washing machine.

  I leant on the laundry trough, and angrily tossed clothes and towels and sheets around as I tried to make sense of what I had to do. Right, sheets first; I stuffed them in the machine and heard my own ironic laughter. Here I was, the guy who wanted some normality, wanted things to go back to everydayness. Is this what that means? You idiot... yesterday I promised myself I’d vacuum the house today.

  It can wait.

  CHAPTER 47

  As the Alley Cat followed me into the lounge room, I said, ‘I’m afraid I have no champagne, Leonard, but I do have a decent Chardonnay, if you’d like a glass?’

  ‘No… I had a few last night. I mean, any other time, Carter...’ As the last words were uttered, he moved to hugging distance of the canvas, and stared affectionately at it for a moment. Then he turned quickly and moved to the couch, where he removed his small blue velvet shoulder bag.

  ‘Mirror, torch, magnifying glass.’ Each appeared in his right hand as he said the words. ‘I came prepared, young man.’

  The torch’s light was strong. He shone it directly on the already much examined area, then juggled the mirror up close. He moved one way and the next, then stood upright and held the mirror up for me to see.

  ‘Just an idea, the mirror, I mean, but it doesn’t really add anything new.’ He shrugged, then picked up the magnifying glass and went through a new set of examinations, using all the possible angles that physics allowed him. ‘Don’t want Alexander coming up with some view that I haven’t noticed.’