by Penny Tangey
Campbell looks exactly as he did the night he came over. The night we slept together, when everything was different. I catch my breath in a way that sends a jolt of pain through my ribs. He is so lovely. I know my face looks awful.
‘Those are nice,’ says Campbell, gesturing at a bunch of lilies on the hallstand.
‘They’re from the Women’s Centre,’ I say. He hasn’t brought anything.
Campbell sits on one of the armchairs and I limp to the couch and stretch out, pulling the blanket over my lap.
‘You look comfortable,’ he says.
‘Yeah, well I’m not actually,’ I snap, my anger returning.
‘Clara, I wanted to say that I’m sorry I wasn’t at the park. I thought we were meeting at the cafe. I was waiting for you there.’
‘I told you the plan changed.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘I called and left a message with Eric.’
There’s a pause. ‘He must have forgotten to pass it on.’
‘Actually, I heard him tell you.’
‘Maybe I didn’t hear.’
I roll my eyes. I knew Campbell would do this. ‘I am so sick of you making excuses for Eric. He did this deliberately because he hates me.’ My voice breaks and there’s a lump in my throat.
Campbell is agitated. He starts running his hands along his jeans. ‘Don’t say that about him. It’s not fair.’
‘It is fair. From the moment I met him he’s been incredibly mean to me and you’ve never cared. Even when we were . . .’ I pause. I nearly said ‘going out’ but then I’m not sure if we ever were. Maybe I was just hoping he was my boyfriend, but he never really was.
Campbell stands up. ‘It’s not that simple. Eric and I, our relationship is special.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s more than a friend.’
At first I don’t know what he’s talking about. Then I realise. ‘He’s your boyfriend?’
‘We don’t need a name for our relationship.’
He hasn’t said no. ‘So you’re an anarchist without labels in a relationship without labels?’
I intend this to be cutting but Campbell smiles and nods. ‘Yeah, I guess I am.’
‘What about you and me?’ I say. ‘Do you have a label for that?’
‘No.’
‘So it meant nothing to you?’
‘Not nothing. I mean it was fun, wasn’t it? And you were always going back to Australia, so . . .’
‘Right. I see.’ I’m so angry. I want to jump up and storm out of the room. But I can’t. I would look pathetic trying to storm and only managing to shuffle.
‘Actually, I wanted to thank you,’ says Campbell.
‘What for?’
‘For what you told me about you and Liam. That’s what made me decide to finally tell Eric how I felt. I thought if Clara can do it, so can I. And it turned out that Eric felt the same way.’ He looks at me earnestly. He’s waiting for me to be happy for him.
‘It’s a dream come true!’ I say, hysterical with sarcasm.
Campbell looks hurt. He stands up slowly. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have come. Clearly, you don’t want to be an adult about this.’ He’s not hurt, he’s angry. As if I’m the one who’s being unfair.
Campbell walks over to the door and pulls his gloves on. He’s standing there calmly as though he’s done nothing wrong. I am furious.
‘Anarchism’s shit,’ I say. ‘You want to change the world but you can’t even organise a protest.’
Campbell speaks slowly, as though I’m an idiot. ‘There were a lot of reasons why the protest didn’t happen. Anyway, I’m more interested in discussing ideas than administration.’
‘Well, I like administration. I like complaining through the proper channels. I like filling in forms!’ I’m talking louder and it hurts.
‘I thought you were learning to think for yourself,’ says Campbell. He shakes his head as though deeply disappointed and walks out.
He’s had the last word. I can’t stand it. ‘Proudhon was a sexist pig!’ I yell as the door clicks shut.
My head is whirling and I hold up my hand and see that it’s shaking. I can’t believe it’s happened again. I thought it was different with Campbell. But I’ll always be second best. Eric isn’t incredibly attractive like Lana. But maybe that makes it worse. It must be me that’s the problem.
Mum comes in. She drops the bag of pastries on the hallstand and kneels beside my chair. She tries to hug me but it hurts. So she pats my head.
It takes me twenty minutes to walk to the centre, almost twice as long as usual. I can’t serve meals but Tiffany asked me if I’d be interested in working in the craft room. It sounded nice so I said yes.
On the walk to the centre I regretted agreeing to go. I kept turning every ten steps or so to check behind me. But they can’t open the craft room without a volunteer and I’d promised to come, so I’m here.
I’m not sure what to do now. Apparently I don’t have to lead the group, I’m just supposed to supervise while everyone works on their projects.
There are only three of us in the craft room: me, Hilda and a heavily made-up lady called Daisy who is wearing a distractingly low-cut blouse. I take out some felt and start cutting out finger puppets.
Hilda asks, ‘What are you making?’
‘Finger puppets,’ I say. ‘You glue the two pieces together and then decorate them.’
‘Can I make one?’ she asks.
‘Sure, you can use these pieces if you want.’ I hand her some purple felt.
‘My fingers won’t fit into those dainty ones!’ Hilda laughs. ‘I’ll make my own.’
We go back to work then Hilda says, ‘What happened to your face?’
I instinctively raise my hand to my cheek where I have a scab the size of a mini Mars Bar.
‘I was mugged,’ I say.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ says Hilda. ‘I hate it when that happens.’
For the next ten minutes Hilda and Daisy trade stories of muggings and attacks that make mine seem like a skinned knee. I glue sequins onto my felt finger puppet, listening to their horrible stories of blood and violence and self-administered surgery. I’m starting to feel dizzy and a little faint when Tiffany pokes her head around the door. ‘Ladies, perhaps Clara would appreciate talking about something else now.’
‘Can I talk about politics?’ asks Hilda.
‘Is that okay with everyone else?’ asks Tiffany.
Daisy rolls her eyes but nods and I shrug.
‘I’m so proud about electing Obama,’ says Hilda. ‘I thank God for that.’ Hilda talks about Obama for the rest of the session.
When we’ve packed up all the craft materials and I’m about to leave Hilda shakes my hand and says, ‘I just want to thank you for coming in today after all your problems recently.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I say.
It’s 3pm and I haven’t been out of the house all day. I’m starting to get cabin fever so I decide to go to the deli for coffee. I’m still scared of going outside. I jump at loud noises and I find myself watching people thinking they might attack me. I don’t know what my attackers looked like and now I’m suspicious of everyone. At least I’m not bigoted about it anymore. I’ve been to see a counsellor and he says it’s natural for me to feel cautious but that I need to look for the ‘safe’ signals as well as the ‘danger’ signals.
In the deli I sit in the window, eat a Danish, drink a disgusting dripolator coffee and look out at the street. People are scurrying past with only their nose and eyes visible from behind their winter scarves and beanies. A man puts his hand in his pocket and I feel myself tense. But I notice his nose is glistening and red. He pulls out a handkerchief and blows his nose.
&n
bsp; Snow starts to fall lightly, clinging briefly to the pavement before it melts away.
I remember my first days in DC when I went insane if I spent more than four hours on my own. I don’t feel that way anymore.
I get out my book and read a couple of chapters. I buy a postcard of the Washington Monument and write to Yingmei.
When I get home I check the letterbox. There’s a letter for me. It’s an American letter. I never get mail from America. In the top right-hand corner of the envelope is Campbell’s name.
I received this today. It will probably make you hate Eric more, but he was just trying to make you think. It’s not such a bad thing.
Campbell
In the envelope there’s an extremely thin, almost transparent piece of paper. It’s a letter from Dave. The handwriting is completely different from the other letter that I received.
Dear Clara,
Thank you so much for your letter.
I’m studying law because I have to. I was imprisoned for a mistake I made ten years ago. My sentence was extended when I was framed for starting a brawl. I didn’t do it and I want to get my sentence reduced.
I don’t know if you should go to law school. You’re lucky because you’ve got a choice.
I read the book by Peter Carey. I really liked it. I’ll have to read more Australian authors now.
Best wishes,
Dave
I read the letter again in the lift, trying to work it all out. Eric must have opened the parcel and read my letter to Dave, then written me that horrible letter in reply. Why can’t Campbell see how evil he is?
I take a piece of paper out of the drawer in the hallway stand. I sit down at the table and write:
Dear Campbell,
Thanks for passing on the letter. Dave sounds like a nice guy. Fake Dave (or Eric) does not.
I think that if Americans paid more taxes you could have libraries in the prisons. This would have a lot more benefits than running an incredibly inefficient book distribution organisation that requires vast amounts of manpower, spends most of its money on postage and can only reach a fraction of a percent of prisoners.
Of course the coordination of the libraries would have to be centralised. And the money for the libraries would have to be taken through involuntary taxes.
I’ve thought about it and I think it’s a good idea.
Best wishes,
Clara
PS I’m very happy that Obama got elected. And I think he will make a difference.
PPS I want to study law at university next year.
I wrote that last PPS without thinking but once it’s down on paper I realise that it’s true. I want to study law. It’s not just because I want people to think I’m smart. I’m really interested in the legal system, I always have been it’s just that lately I haven’t wanted to admit it. And If I’m a lawyer I might be able to help people. I won’t be an evil lawyer who helps big businesses avoid paying tax. I don’t care about earning lots of money I just want to feel like I’m changing things for the better.
But what if my score isn’t high enough?
I don’t have time to think about it now though. I have to get to the post office before it shuts.
I’m distributing condiments this morning at the centre. It still hurts a little when I lean forward to hand over the plate, but I wanted to come. This might be my last morning serving breakfast. I concentrate on smiling cheerfully and try to remember as many names as I can.
Brad and Emily are very sympathetic about the mugging, which is hard because when people are nice to me I feel like crying.
At the end of the shift, Emily and I take the trolley downstairs to put it away.
There’s something I want to say to Emily. ‘I think you were right.’
‘About what?’
‘I do ask for approval too much. I always want other people’s reassurance because I’m scared I’m going to do the wrong thing.’
Emily waves her hand. ‘We all worry about that sometimes.’
‘Anyway, thanks for helping me so much.’
‘You’re welcome.’
I’m slightly teary as I leave the centre, knowing that I might never go back again. Brad and Emily want to come to Australia, and they say they’ll visit me, but it won’t be the same if we’re not dishing out oatmeal together. I will miss the oatmeal.
My phone beeps. For a second, I hope the message is from Campbell. It’s a hope that I squash down quickly but I can’t pretend it wasn’t there. Maybe one day it won’t be.
The message is from a number I don’t recognise. It says: I heard about what happened, that really sucks. Do you want to meet at Teaism today? 10 okay? Belle.
I text back, Sure, sounds good.
Instead of walking home I make my way, slowly, to the train station to go to Dupont Circle to meet Belle. I’m not sure why she wants to meet me. I hope it’s not to lecture me on how special Campbell and Eric’s relationship is, and how I shouldn’t get in the way, or be so judgemental.
But when I get there, it’s not like that at all. Belle is full of sympathy when she hears about my injuries. After that we talk about normal things, the weather, what tea we like, what books we’ve read (I don’t mention What is Property?).
Eventually Belle says, ‘I was sorry to hear about what happened with you and Campbell too.’
There’s a pause. I pour some more tea, but it’s pretty stewed by now.
‘Sorry, but not surprised?’ I say finally.
‘I guess not.’
‘What did Campbell say?’ I ask. But then I add quickly, ‘No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’
She shrugs and I know I was right not to insist on an answer.
‘It’s okay, you know,’ I say. ‘I mean, I don’t think he was very nice to me, but I probably always knew it wasn’t going to last.’ And at least I tried. At least I let him close to me. One day I’ll feel the same way about someone who likes me back. I’m going to believe that that’s true. I can feel a lump in my throat. I force myself to move the conversation on.
‘What are you doing for the rest of today?’ I ask.
‘Rearranging the food co-op.’
‘Did you get the new storage system?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, the racks and jars arrived yesterday.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ I say. ‘Bernard will be pumped.’
‘He’s pretty stressed about it actually. That’s why I’m going to help him out. Did you want to come?’
I hesitate because I definitely don’t want to see Campbell or Eric.
‘Don’t worry, they won’t be there,’ she says. She rolls her eyes. ‘It’s too much like actual work.’
‘I don’t know how much help I’ll be,’ I say. ‘I can’t lift anything or even move around very much.’
‘Could you do labels?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘That’d be great.’
The food co-op is only a couple of blocks away so we walk. I’ve never really understood what the point of the food co-op is, and why it’s any different from a supermarket.
Belle explains that they only stock organic Fair Trade produce, preferably locally grown, and they don’t sell any packaging, so everyone has to bring their own jars or bags. People pay as much as they can afford, and the co-op just tries to cover its costs. I’m surprised they don’t go bankrupt, but Belle says it all works out because there’re a few rich people who shop there. Belle says that the best thing about the co-op is that you know you’re not eating evil. It does sound like a good system. When I get back to Melbourne I’ll find out if we have anything like it.
When we arrive Bernard is standing in the middle of the storage room. Empty shelves line each wall. The shelves are empty because all
of the massive jars and containers have been placed in the middle of the floor.
His hair and orange beard are messed up and he is clearly very stressed.
‘I’ll never get these to fit!’
I look around the shop. It is a bit overwhelming but I can see what needs to be done. ‘Why don’t you sort the jars into categories, like legumes, dried fruit, spices. Then we can see how much there is of everything, and decide where it should go on the shelves.’
‘That’s a good idea, Clara,’ says Belle.
Bernard is visibly calming down, maybe because he now has a plan, or maybe because he has reinforcements.
We work out what categories we need and mark out the spaces where we’ll put those items.
‘We can label it as we go,’ I say, taking a seat at the counter and picking up a black texta to write. ‘Just sing out what label you need, and I’ll write it down.’
This works well until Bernard yells, ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what this is.’
‘Start a “don’t know” pile,’ I say.
‘Oh, okay.’
By the end of the day the room is looking much better. There is a very small pile of don’t-knows, which are mainly spices of dubious use-by date. Everything else is on the shelves. Looking at the orderly rows I have a sense of satisfaction and achievement that I haven’t felt in months.
As I’m leaving Bernard keeps thanking me and saying they couldn’t have done it without me. It’s a bit embarrassing, particularly because Belle did a lot more work than I did.
Belle asks me if I want to come in every week. Apparently if you help in the shop you get credits for food.
‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘I’m going to New York next week, and then I’m going home. But I hope it goes really well.’
Mum comes to the train station with me. I suggested I could catch one of the Chinatown buses to New York, but Mum wouldn’t let me and said I had to take the train. I told Mum she can drop me off at the station, but she insists on parking and coming to the platform with me.
‘Are you sure you’ll be okay?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’ I try to sound dismissive and confident, although I’m actually feeling sick with nerves. ‘Anyway, it’s not like I’ll be on my own.’