Handpicked

by Siew Siang Tay

  She starts to mumble something, her eyes darting here and there, her hands flying in awkward directions, but he is already slipping his card into her hand. His fingers brush hers lightly.

  ‘Actually, call me any time you like.’

  18

  THE TV BLARES. JIM drinks his coffee, leans back in his seat. It doesn’t feel like a Sunday at all. He’s dog tired, had a dreadful night’s sleep. Greg, their neighbour, had a party last night. What a racket! Laughter, jeering, music, chairs being dragged in and out, beer cans being opened. People didn’t start leaving till at least one in the morning. He really could have done with another hour’s sleep, but Laila was up at eight, climbing over him, the whole bed rocking. Then clinks, clanks and rustling sounds.

  She comes in from the shower. Puts her soiled clothes in the hamper, hangs up her towel and reaches for her cosmetics bag. She walks back and forth in the caravan, doing her face, washing the breakfast dishes. At last she wipes the last of the plates, and turns to Jim.

  ‘What time are we leaving?’

  Jim tears his gaze from the TV, rubs his eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘What time are we going?’

  ‘Going where?’

  ‘Don’t you remember?’

  ‘Remember what?’

  Laila throws her handbag on the floor, sits on the bed and looks out the window. Her chest heaves, her shoulders move up and down.

  ‘What, honey?’ Jim says.

  She goes to the wardrobe, opens the door and pokes around for something. Then she shuts the doors with a thump. ‘Rushton’s Rose Garden. You were going to take me to look at the roses.’

  Jim sits up, scratches his head. ‘Shit, I forgot.’

  Laila throws her hands up in the air. ‘Again. Forgot. Again. We discussed this on Thursday and you said we would go today.’

  Jim drinks up his coffee. ‘Let’s go then. Let’s go, okay?’

  She looks him up and down, points at his body. ‘Like that?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll get dressed.’

  He is wearing only his underpants.

  ‘You haven’t even showered.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll just put something on.’

  ‘You can’t go out without showering.’

  ‘Sure I can.’ Jim gets up and pulls out a T-shirt from a drawer.

  ‘No, we are not going with you like this.’

  ‘Oh for crying out loud, it’s only bloody Rushton’s. It’s not like it’s the Queen’s palace.’

  Laila stares at him in disgust. ‘I don’t want to go anymore.’ She takes his mug, throws it in the sink and storms out the door.

  He looks at his watch. Nine forty-five. He hadn’t expected to stay that long at the pub. But Tom had rocked up out of the blue (back from Mildura early) and was telling everyone about the new motorbike he’d bought there and ridden back on. Then Rodney joined them. The next thing, five people were bunched together, talking about horse racing and organising a trip to the Outback Racing Carnival. That’s how it always is at the pub. He goes with the intention of drinking for an hour, an hour and a half tops, and then winds up staying for much longer.

  Jim turns the key in the lock and opens the door. Laila is seated on the bench, facing the TV. She doesn’t look up at him.

  ‘Hi there…’ he mumbles.

  No reply. The TV hisses—she has muted the volume. He senses trouble, he can almost smell it in the air. But the alcohol has dulled his senses. His stomach growls.

  Tea, where is his tea? He stumbles to the oven where she usually puts it to keep it warm. He bends down and opens the door. He peers inside. Nothing. He looks again, dives his hand in and feels around as if it might mysteriously appear from a corner.

  ‘I threw it away. No point keeping it,’ Laila says.

  He pauses for a moment, scratches his stomach. Beside him Laila sits completely still, her eyes burrowing into the TV. He hears her breathing, imagines fumes of anger surging out of her nostrils. He looks away. He suddenly feels breathless. The place is suffocating.

  There may be some leftover food in the fridge. He struggles to remember, tries to visualise the inside of the fridge from the last time he opened it, which was last night. He decides against looking. The clinking and clanking of plates and cutlery would only stir things up more. Times like this, he should minimise any movement in the caravan. Lie low, as they say in the battlefield. In the brittleness of the night, the slightest movement will be amplified, turn into an incident.

  A beer. He could use another beer. That would fill him up at least. He opens the fridge quickly, grabs a can of beer. He staggers towards the bed, places the beer on the bedside table. After removing his shoes, he lies back and pulls the ring tab. The creak of metal thunders in the small space. Laila shoots him a look then turns back to face the TV. Jim brings the can to his mouth.

  ‘You’ve had enough to drink,’ she says, still looking at the TV.

  He raises his eyebrows, then ignores her. The alcohol spins in his head. He folds his legs, takes another gulp. Suddenly a funny remark Rodney made at the pub comes tumbling into his head. He laughs.

  ‘Enough, Jim.’

  ‘Hey?’ he says, feigning ignorance and laughs some more.

  ‘I’m sick of making you tea and you don’t come home.’

  ‘I’m home now, aren’t I?’

  ‘Look at the time, it is ten-thirty.’

  ‘Oh, is it?’

  ‘Yes, ten-thirty. I’m sick of you coming home late.’

  He continues drinking, purses his mouth into an ‘o’ as if whistling.

  ‘Do you know what it is like? Cooking for you, then waiting and waiting?’

  It’s the same old story. Nag. That’s all they do. Nag, nag, nag. He says nothing.

  ‘Jim!’ Laila screams. ‘Why don’t you answer me?’

  ‘Fine. Answer you, yeah, sure I’ll answer you.’ He sits up. ‘I’ve had it with your pouting, your whines. You want to know why I don’t come home? You know why? So I don’t have to look at the sour puss in front of the TV.’

  An agonised look creeps over Laila’s face. She brings her hand to her cheek as if she has been struck.

  ‘How dare you? How dare you? Whose fault is it I’m so miserable? This stupid caravan, this shit box. How can you expect me to live in this shit?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, here we go again.’ Jim lifts his hand and rolls his eyes.

  Laila gets up and lunges across at him. She grabs the can of beer from his hand and throws it against the wall. The liquid foams out, splatters all over the bed.

  ‘All you do is drink! You think you can solve your problems by drinking? You promised me a happy life. Look at this, look at this dump I’m living in!’

  Somewhere inside of himself Jim feels his soul receding. He just wants to continue lying on the bed. He doesn’t care that the mattress is soaking up beer. He doesn’t care that the bed will be cold to sleep on. Laila walks up and down the small space, as she does when she’s angry. Thump. Thump. Thump. Her feet stomp the floor.

  ‘I hate this caravan, do you hear me? I hate this stupid caravan!’ Her voice is shrill.

  Jim sits up. ‘Yeah, right, yeah, so damned right. You know what? Had I known you were going to be such a princess, I wouldn’t even have considered going through with the whole thing.’

  ‘Damn you. You’ve cheated me, you’ve deceived me!’ She prances around the caravan, then slumps into a corner and hits her head against the wall, crying.

  ‘Dramas. Bloody dramas. I don’t need this, you know, I really don’t need this.’

  She cries louder and continues yelling at him. ‘Damn you! Damn you!’

  He puts on his shoes, grabs his jacket and goes out the door.

  Nearly tea time, and darkness in the caravan. Two evenings in a row.

  Last night the caravan was empty when he got home too. Fear had gripped him. He’d immediately hopped back into the car. He drove around the caravan park, and the streets nearby. He refused to speculate,
ponder on why she might be gone. She could be anywhere. After fifteen minutes of not locating her anywhere, he returned to the caravan. At the boom gate, he fumbled for his swipe card, dropped it twice on the ground. As he got out of the car to retrieve the card, he fought to steady himself and calm his mind. It was only when he spotted the light on in the caravan that his heartbeat started to stabilise.

  Laila was cutting vegetables when he stepped inside. She muttered hello to him and continued cutting. He was so relieved at the sight of her that he decided against asking where she’d been.

  Now, opening the door to the empty caravan, fear pulses through his veins again. What if she’s gone, packed up, left for good? Would she run off just because of a fight? Where could she go? She doesn’t know anyone except Marietta and Peter. He might be able to track her down at their caravan anyway. He immediately drives there.

  ‘Nope, haven’t seen her,’ Peter says at the door. ‘But let me check with Marietta. Honey, did you catch up with Laila today?’

  Marietta pops her head over Peter’s shoulder. ‘No, Jim, we were going to catch up but I had to go to town to do some errands. In fact, I’ve only seen her once since we came back from the Flinders.’

  ‘Did you check the caravan park? Maybe she’s gone walkabout,’ Peter says.

  ‘No, not yet,’ Jim says.

  ‘We’ll let you know if she does show up here, okay?’ Marietta says.

  ‘Everything alright?’ Peter asks.

  ‘Yep, yep,’ he says, avoiding their eyes.

  Panic seizes him as he drives home. He pictures her run over by a car, lost in the bush, maybe drowned in the river. Images swirl in his head. He doesn’t like this one bit. If it’s a game she’s playing, he’ll soon show her it isn’t working.

  His heart sinks when he arrives back and finds the caravan still dim. He flicks on the TV and sits down. The evening news comes on. The Palestinians have planted another bomb. Silent pandemonium, bloodstained bodies being rushed away on stretchers, soundless cries of women. He flicks through the channels, looks at his watch, flicks through the channels again.

  Which direction should he head? He has no idea. In fact, he has little knowledge of what Laila does in the daytime while he’s at work. In the beginning, she used to tell him what she did every day. Checked out the butcher shop; saw four white puppies in the pet shop; went to the movies with Marietta. He can’t remember when she stopped telling him about her day, and vice versa; the accounts just became shorter and shorter until they fizzled out. He thinks back on the last couple of months and struggles to recall a decent conversation, apart from exchanges about chores, grocery shopping—and the escalating fights.

  He follows the course of the river. Laila loves the Murray. That much he knows about his wife. The river is awash with colours of dusk. In no time it will be completely dark. He makes a turn and heads back the other way, via the caravan to get a torch. The furrow of light from the torch zigzags in front of him as he walks. The waterway is now a long pitch-black presence. Scents of earth and ripening fruit surround him. He shines the torch at clumps and shrubs.

  After about fifteen minutes he’s approaching Lennie’s Landing. From a distance he can see the outline of the weir joining the opposite banks of the river, straddling its full width, a large expanse of water held back by it. Further down is the outline of the pumphouse.

  When Jim reaches the pumphouse, he turns off his torch. This is as far as he will search. He looks up at the sky and back at the water, a black mass. A last look at the jagged shapes in the distance and he decides to call it a night.

  He’s about to head off when he hears a stirring. It’s coming from the pumphouse. He switches on the torch again and follows the direction of the sound—steps over pipes and pumps, and walks towards the shed. He can make out faint shuffling sounds. He shines his torch at the shed. A black figure stirs, the blur of a human form. He directs the torch at the form and recognises Laila immediately. Long black hair obvious even in the dark. She’s leaning against the wall of the pumphouse, side-on to him.

  ‘Laila, that you there?’

  Laila shields her face from the light with her hands.

  Jim hurries towards her. Her body is trembling and her cheeks wet.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing here?’ he says.

  Laila wipes her face with the back of her hand. She takes a deep breath, tries to stifle her cries but fails. She bends, brings both hands to her face and sobs.

  ‘Oh, babe.’ Jim pulls her towards him and enfolds her in his arms.

  She sinks into his chest, her body shaking. Then she raises her hands and pounds his chest repeatedly, her cries high-pitched and sharp.

  19

  ‘JIM CAME LOOKING FOR you the other night,’ Marietta says.

  ‘I know,’ Laila says.

  Marietta looks at Laila, waiting. Her eyes are intent. Laila avoids her gaze. She lowers her head, studies the floral motifs on her skirt, the blades of grass flattened by the weight of her legs.

  She recalls the day Marietta returned from her holiday. She was sitting at this same spot when she caught sight of Marietta appearing from out of the blue, hands flying in the air. She’d leapt up at once and almost tripped as she ran towards Marietta. The words spilled out of her mouth when they hugged: ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re back.’ They couldn’t stop talking. Marietta rattled on about Wilpena Pound, the Flinders Ranges being really blue, the stunning views, the bush walks, the people they met and how relaxed Peter was the whole time. It was enough for her to just let Marietta’s voice, absent for so long, drench her like syrup over waffle.

  Now the happiness of their reunion seems so distant. The chaos of her thoughts, momentarily lifted with Marietta’s return, revisits her.

  Shadows of leaves flicker on her face. The water ebbs and flows. Laila listens to the swishing sounds, wishes the ebbing waters could unclog all that’s going on inside her. Her jumbled thoughts remind her of things piled up in messy heaps in people’s backyard sheds. Walking past, she’s caught quick glimpses: crates, tools, instruments, boxes, bottles, jars, containers, ladders, wheelbarrows, things jammed up against each other.

  She turns to Marietta. ‘Sing me that song, please.’

  Marietta runs her fingers over Laila’s cheek. ‘Sure.’

  Marietta takes a deep breath and sings:

  ‘Usahay magadamgo ako,

  Nga ikaw ug ako nagkahigug-maay

  Nganong damguhon ko ikaw,

  Damguhon sa karunay sa akong kamingaw…’

  Laila lies back. Marietta’s notes float above her, resonating with the movement of the shadows. At the chorus, Laila hums along, having memorised the tune, if not the words, meaningless to her in Visayan. She watches Marietta, notices the calmness with which she delivers the notes, the contentment radiating from her eyes. Would anything ever faze her friend? Laila closes her eyes. Perhaps just being in Marietta’s fold will help her to centre. Sunlight dazzling the back of her eyelids, she wills Marietta’s inner peace to flow into her.

  Back in the longhouse, long before she met Jim, she used to think that somewhere out there was the perfect man waiting for her. He wouldn’t have a particular appearance or face. He’d just be there for her, to care for her when things got rough. Ensure she would not go hungry, that she was comfortable and not lacking for anything she needed. Their paths would cross, she was positive. She’d fall for him and he for her, and he’d come to rescue her from the longhouse.

  ‘Okay, your turn now,’ Marietta says.

  Laila looks up. ‘Another day?’

  ‘That’s not fair. We always take turns to sing.’

  ‘My throat’s a bit sore.’

  ‘Okay, next time you have to sing twice as long.’

  Laila is silent.

  Marietta removes her shoes and lies down beside Laila. ‘Tell me what’s really bothering you.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Marietta gives her a look. ‘I know something’s bothering you
, Laila.’

  Laila doesn’t reply.

  ‘Okay, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t feel like it.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to tell you. It just seems pointless.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘We’ve talked about it before. So many times. Same old story, Marietta.’

  ‘The caravan?’

  ‘Yes, it’s so miserable.’

  ‘Laila, look at me.’ Marietta forces Laila to hold eye contact with her. ‘You are unhappy. Terribly unhappy. Is it just about wanting to move into a house?’

  ‘Marietta! How can you stand living in a caravan?’

  ‘I know the caravan is small and cramped, but compared to the suffering I went through in Jogjakarta, my life here is a haven.’

  Laila sighs. ‘God, I can’t believe you sometimes.’

  Marietta places her palm on Laila’s hand. ‘It’s hard for you to understand. If Peter could afford it, we would be living in a better place. But he can’t just yet. He’s still recovering from his divorce. Lost his home to his ex-wife.’

  ‘How can you be so patient?’

  ‘He loves me and treats me well. That is enough for me.’

  ‘That’s where we are different, Marietta. If Jim truly loves me, he’ll try to make me happy—and he knows a house would make me happy.’

  ‘You are testing his love. It never works.’

  Laila looks away. ‘Anyway, I don’t know him anymore. He has changed. He is no more the loving man I know.’ ‘Have you tried talking to him?’

  ‘We end up fighting. All the time.’

  ‘Marriage takes work. I know you probably think things are easy and perfect between Peter and me. They aren’t.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Peter has this arrogant side that used to annoy me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, he has a way of never admitting he’s wrong, no matter how obvious it is. And then he will turn things around so the problem becomes mine, not his.’

  ‘So you argue with him too?’