by Scot Gardner
It wasn’t the still body that unmanned me. It wasn’t the flowers or the solemnity of the occasion. It was the people. The seething sea of emotion that filled the room to the rafters. The reddened eyes and the quiet sniffles, the hands held tight. They were each marked with the disease –. the unmistakable symptoms of grief – and the very air I breathed was infecting me.
I hung there like a tortured animal through the whole service, shivering when it got the better of me, feeling faint and waiting for the final blow.
It came from a lady in the front row. It came as John Barton discreetly pressed a button in the wall beside me and the coffin sank out of sight. The woman sobbed. I felt the wall of the dam breaking and I ran. I hit the door on the way out. I ran onto the street. I didn’t stop running.
8
IT WAS THE DREAM. It was as if that room full of people were all tearing at the sheet in my nightmare. They were going to uncover the foot, the leg, the body hidden there, and I didn’t want to know, didn’t want to think about any of it. I wanted to tuck it all back down and get on with my life. Perhaps I could concentrate my efforts in the coolroom? John Barton could teach me to dress the bodies and I could be his man behind the scenes.
I ran all the way back to the van.
The annex smelled burnt. There was blood on the floor. Slick, dark blood, its colour distorted by the green light from the fibreglass panel in the ceiling.
‘Mam?’
No answer.
More blood on the floor of the van. I sprinted to the shower block, straight into the women’s toilets.
‘Mam?’
‘Aaron?’
She was in a cubicle. The door was locked. The air was rank.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. I had a little accident.’
‘Open the door.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Please open the door.’
The latch clicked.
She sat with her underwear pulled tight between her knees. She was scrubbing at a smudge of brown with a fistful of toilet paper. In the harsh white light of the toilets the blood on her hands was purple.
‘What happened?’
‘Little accident, that’s all.’
‘What’s that on your hands?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘The purple.’
‘Oh, beetroot juice. I couldn’t find the . . . thingy. I used something else. Can’t a person have a bit of privacy these days?’
‘What the hell’s going on in here?’ came a harsh woman’s voice.
I spun to see the toothless woman from van 57 standing in the doorway of the women’s toilets, armed with a towel and pink cosmetics bag.
‘Mam’s had an accident. I was just —’
‘You were just getting the hell out of here, you pervert.’
I ran back to the van. Smoke now billowed from the annex door. I ducked in and found a frypan on high heat, the contents smoking and blackened beyond recognition. I flung it on the gravel outside, opened all the windows and turned on the fan.
I stumped out to wait for the smoke to clear. The frypan had warped. I could see purple in the half-moon of food that wasn’t carbonized. Fried beetroot.
I sat on my bunk in the annex until the air in the van was breathable. There was beetroot juice splashed everywhere. The butchered can sat in the sink next to the hammer and screwdriver she’d used to punch it open.
The can-opener was in the top drawer, where it had lived since before I could remember.
I hung my jacket on the back of Mam’s armchair and rolled up my sleeves. The cloth cleaned up the beetroot but the sense that I’d narrowly averted disaster remained. I couldn’t wipe out the knowledge that Mam was a danger to herself and that I wouldn’t be able to keep a job if I couldn’t leave her alone. She’d seemed so composed that morning. She’d been in her right mind; I’d been the one acting a little crazy.
‘Oh hello, Aaron. Dinner’s almost ready.’
‘How can you say that?’
She blinked. ‘Say what?’
‘Dinner’s not nearly ready. Dinner’s in the rubbish bin outside.’
‘What’s it doing out there?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does matter. What’s it doing out there?’
‘I threw it out there. It was burning. Burnt beetroot.’
She sat slowly, held her mouth. ‘What’s happening, Aaron? I feel as though I’m losing my mind.’
It wasn’t until she said those words that I realized how far she’d gone. Those words were the real Mam. It had been so long since I’d heard her that I’d forgotten what she sounded like. She shook. She buried her face in her hands.
I stood and hugged her head. ‘You’re okay, Mam. We’re okay. Just having a bit of a rough time, that’s all. It’ll pass. It always passes.’
She nodded against my chest.
I wanted to say more – now that her radio was finally tuned in, I needed to make the most of it – but the words fizzed and burned before they were free. I could smell her. She smelled like Mr Neville Cooper.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We’ll get your things together so you can have a shower.’
‘I’ll be okay.’
‘Yes. Even better after a shower. Come on.’
She held my hand and I hoisted her up.
I hid in the laundry beside the toilets while she showered. I could hear the water going. I heard her soaping up noisily. I heard her blow her nose. The water eventually stopped.
‘How you feeling, Mam?’
‘Hey? Fine. Who’s that?’
‘It’s Aaron.’
‘Fine, Aaron.’
‘I have to go.’
‘Okay. Will you be back for dinner?’
‘Yes. It’s my turn to cook.’
‘Oh, that’s right. That’ll be great. What are we having again?’
‘Surprise.’
‘You devil.’
*
I couldn’t let John Barton down. I didn’t know if I’d be able to find words to explain what had happened in the chapel, but returning to the scene would have to count for something.
I could hear voices in his office. I knocked on the door.
‘Come in,’ John Barton said.
The three seats in the office were occupied. All eyes turned on me.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘No, Aaron, that’s fine. Won’t be long. Could you wait in the house, please? Mrs Barton has gone shopping but you’re welcome to make yourself a cup of tea. I’ll be in shortly.’
I nodded, closed the door quietly and did as I was told.
The cat mewed. I couldn’t see it at first – it was tucked behind the curtain in the lounge. It stood and stretched and rubbed itself on my suit pants. I dusted the fluff off, then scruffed its head as John Barton had done. It dribbled and purred like a motor. The house was eerily empty without the TV blaring. I made tea and boldly switched the television on. I sat on the edge of the couch and transferred my cup from hand to hand as it got too hot to bear.
The back door clattered.
I slopped my tea but didn’t leave my seat.
Skye. She dropped her bag and flashed her teeth as greeting.
I flashed my teeth in reply.
We both looked to the cat.
‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Shopping.’
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘In with people. He’ll be back soon.’
‘Why do you sound like a robot?’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes, you sound like the remote-control robot I had when I was seven.’
I shrugged.
‘Where do you keep your batteries?’
I smiled.
‘Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.’
I sipped my tea, burnt my lip and slopped some more.
‘I know where you live,’ Skye said.
‘Oh?’
She nodded curtly. ‘C
aravan park.’
I feigned nonchalance.
‘My friend Steevie lives on the corner and I saw you going home last night when we were picking her up for basketball training. Why do you live in a caravan park? Can’t you afford a house? Don’t your mum and dad work or something? Are you a drug user? Steevie says heaps of drug users live in the caravan park. You look like a drug user.’
She came closer and patted the cat, then grabbed the remote and cranked up the volume. She flicked stations.
‘You don’t talk much. Why don’t you talk? Are you shy? Say something.’
I stared at my cup. ‘Say something. Go on, dare you. Say um . . . say ABC Kids. No, say Sony television remote control. Go.’
I blew on the tea. My breath made a shallow dent in the liquid.
‘See! See, you can’t even say that. You’re shy. And you’re on drugs. I can tell by those dark circles around your eyes. That’s from smoking cocaine. Do you make your own? Do you have a drug-making place at the caravan park? You know, with the little flame thing and the glass bottles and coloured bubble stuff? I take drugs. I do! Here, I’ll show you.’
She took a strip of plastic-wrapped pills from her shorts. She opened her hand in front of my face, then stuffed them back in her pocket.
‘See. Told you. How much? How much are you going to pay? They’re real drugs. They’re strong. Really strong. They hardly work on me because my body is used to them. One hundred bucks. Each pill. Come on. Pay up.’
If Skye’s intrusiveness was designed to get a reaction, it worked. I took a breath. ‘I live in the caravan park because that’s where Mam and I have always lived. Mam was a university professor but she’s retired now. Some of the people who live in the park use drugs. Some of the people who live in this street use drugs. I’m shy sometimes but mostly I don’t like to waste words. I don’t make or take drugs and I cer--tainly won’t be buying any of your period-pain medication.’
Blood filled her cheeks. She stomped past and slammed her bedroom door. She shouted something. It was almost a squeal and completely unintelligible.
John Barton arrived laden with plastic shopping bags.
I hurried into the kitchen and emptied my cup in the sink.
‘Could you give Mrs Barton a hand please, Aaron?’ He pointed outside. ‘Then I think we need to have a chat.’
Mrs Barton was at the back of the silver sedan. I took the bags from her.
‘Oh, it’s you. Thank you, Aaron.’
I put the bags on the kitchen bench with the others.
‘Right,’ John Barton said. ‘Office.’
I followed him, feeling more than a little uneasy. He ordered me into a chair and stared at me questioningly. There was no accusation or ill will in his eyes.
‘What happened?’
‘I wish I knew.’
He took a sharp breath.
‘I . . . I wish I knew exactly. All the people . . .’
‘The people? What about the people?’ ‘The people. It was overwhelming. Somehow. When you pressed the button and the coffin sank into the bench, I wanted to . . .’
‘You wanted to what?’
‘I had to leave.’
He rested his chin on his palm and contemplated the diary on his desk. I felt that he was weighing up my future. I wanted to say more. I wanted him to know that caring for the dead fitted me like old leather gloves. I wanted to thank him for rescuing me from school, but the thoughts never flowered and my mouth stayed shut.
‘There’s no shame,’ John Barton said quietly. ‘Funerals are the place for letting it out. They’re the last free-for-all in our society. Without them we would all turn to stone from unexpressed emotion.’
He looked me in the eye. ‘If it happens again, you can retreat in here or the viewing room. Coolroom. Store. Take a minute, compose yourself then do what you can. It does get easier, at some level, the more you do it. It gets easier when you’ve met and dealt with your own grief. It gets easier but it’ll probably never be easy.’
After a moment, when all that had sunk in, I nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No need to apologize,’ he said. ‘You’re not the first and you won’t be the last to leave early from one of my funerals!’
I smiled, but he was staring at me again.
‘If you need to talk, Aaron, I have two good ears.’
I nodded.
He glanced at his watch. ‘Give me a hand to place Mrs Gray and her flowers and we’ll call it a day. Okay?’
We lifted the coffin from the gurney onto the ornate bench in the chapel.
‘This,’ he said, patting the bench, ‘is a catafalque and the button up the back starts the part of the ceremony called the committal. The final goodbye. Dry eyes are rare at that part of the ceremony.’
Mam had cut an onion into rings. I saw it on the table and on the floor and I could still smell it on her fingers as she cradled my face in her hands. She held me as if I’d been away to war.
‘Are you staying for tea, Aaron?’
‘Yes, Mam. My turn to cook.’
‘That’s very kind of you but I’ve already made dinner.’
The burnt and buckled frypan was back. She picked it off the cold cooker by the handle then put it down again, puzzled.
‘Ah, I know that music,’ I said. ‘Sounds like your favourite show is on. Why don’t you put your feet up while I get dinner organized?’
Her eyes lit up. ‘You’re a good son. Your wife is a lucky woman.’
Hold on, don’t skip all the good bits, I thought. Don’t dream me a life without the romance. Let me do the colouring in myself.
9
The toenail belongs to a body bunched beneath the sheet. The shade of the polish – somewhere between saffron and sunset –, infects the rest of the image, taking it from monochrome to lurid colour. The sheet is pink. The stains on the linen and the marks on the wall are red. The spots are teardrops and they are crawling for the floor.
I woke mid-flinch in the flat, pre-dawn light. I sat up. I was on a rough wooden table. Seconds passed as I struggled to get breath in my body and identify my surroundings.
The camp kitchen.
Some time during the night I’d relocated one hundred metres to the hard, oily bench where itinerants ate barbecued sausages. The cold had drilled right through me. I could barely feel my feet on the concrete, the damp grass, the gravel, the smooth tiles of the bathroom. I turned the shower on hard and stepped into the steam still dressed in my T-shirt and underwear.
Why now? Why had the dream found its claws now? Was it the proximity to death that had brought it to life? Was Mam’s madness infecting me, or was this a new insanity of my own design?
Men came and went, and fouled the air with their ablutions and their perfume. I stayed there until my skin glowed and the daylight struggling through the frosted windows won the battle with the fluorescent tubes on the ceiling. Until the images and rabid chatter in my head had grown soft and wrinkled. Until the hot water was all gone.
A father with his sleepy-eyed son in his arms was entering as I was leaving.
‘You’re wet,’ the boy said.
The man chuckled. ‘Sorry.’
‘You’re right,’ I said, and shook my hair, spraying them both.
The man laughed properly and hurried inside. ‘We don’t need a shower now, do we, Sam?’
Mam was still asleep. I dried and dressed but both work shirts smelled sweaty. I used the last of the change from the piggy bank to put them through the washing machine and the dryer. I ironed one of them and put it on. I hung the other in the annex.
‘Hello, David,’ Mam croaked.
‘Aaron.’
‘Hello, Aaron,’ Mam croaked.
I made us an egg on toast each, kissed her tousled curls and scurried off to work.
*
John Barton wore his shirt open-necked and his hair was combed but damp.
‘Had a pick-up very early this morning. I slept in,’ he said, and my fluster
suddenly didn’t seem so out of place. Perhaps everybody had had a strange night?
I handed him my tie but he handed it straight back.
‘Do as I do.’
I stood beside him and copied like a monkey. I butchered it on the first try but the second – with a bit of friendly yanking and twisting by John Barton – looked passable.
John Barton opened the coolroom door and recoiled at the smell. Toilet stink.
Mr Neville Cooper had soiled himself. We donned our protective gear and undressed him. His shirt, pants and underwear had been caught in the evil tide. Only his jacket could be saved.
I lost my breakfast into the sink. John Barton was there with his hand between my shoulderblades.
‘Go and wait outside, Aaron. I’ll finish here.’
I took three steps towards the door; then the nurse’s words were there in my head: Show a bit of stomach.
I hung Mr Neville Cooper’s jacket behind the door and collected the rank mess of other clothes, trying desperately not to breathe.
‘In the sink,’ John Barton wheezed. ‘Pink disinfectant.’
I used the nailbrush and retched some more but eventually the steel of the disinfectant won over.
‘When you can stand to be in the same room as them, put them in a bag and run them down to Mrs Anderson at the drycleaners three doors down. Let her know the viewing is this morning. She’ll know what to do.’
I did as I was told. The air inside the drycleaners was heavy with solvent and, thankfully, Mrs Anderson did know what to do.
‘Come back in an hour,’ she said, a little too brightly. She pinched the bag between two fingers and carried it to the rear of the shop.
John Barton’s night pick-up had arrived in a black zippered bag.
‘From the coroner,’ he explained, as he tugged the zip.
The air grew still as he revealed the body.
Her body: a woman in her twenties with the sort of airbrushed perfection that I thought existed only in magazines. Her lips were barely parted, as in the moment before a kiss. Her face was so clean and tanned that I caught myself staring and had to look away. There were scratches and small cuts around her shoulders. A black-stitched scar ran from between her breasts to the soft curve of her stomach. I stared at John Barton as we lifted her clear of the bag onto a new gurney, and kept watching him until he’d covered her with a clean white towel.