The second drawer feels the same.
Third drawer, the deepest one. His fingers now move at lightning speed. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven layers —then he feels something solid. He digs his hand deeper and peers under the layers. A wooden box? He shifts his head aside to allow light in from the window. No, a shoe box. He lifts out the top layers of clothes and places them on the bed. He takes the box, fumbles for the lid, lifts it, and finds an assortment of things inside—hair clips, scrunchies, brooches, a pair of fake turquoise earrings he’d given her, bookmarks made with pressed flowers and silver glitter, a stack of letters held together with a rubber band. He takes the stack out, fans them and recognises his own handwriting on the envelopes. He rummages through the rest of the box: knitting needles, empty plastic containers, a fold of magazine- and junk-mail cut-outs held together with a paperclip. He flicks through them: kitchens, bedrooms, lounge suites, vases, glassware, candlesticks, outdoor settings. Jesus. Even a stranger would not have a hard time guessing her ambition in life. He returns the items to the box and shuts the lid.
Straightening up, he checks the door and scans the view through the window. All clear. She must be towelling herself dry by now.
His hands flick through the clothes hanging in the wardrobe, gliding through gaps between each garment. Then he locates her handbag, at the side of the bed. He drops it on the bed. Quickly checking again to see if the coast is clear, he empties the contents of the bag onto the bed. Alternating his gaze between the window and the bed, he scrutinises each item as he puts it back into the handbag: the powder compact, two lipsticks, tissues folded in a small plastic bag, keys dangling off the koala keyring he’d sent her while they were corresponding, fake pearl bracelet, receipts from the butcher shop, haberdashery shop, perfume samples, tea bags. Nothing of significance. A momentary surge of fondness overcomes him as he fingers the keyring.
He takes a deep breath, then snatches up the wallet last. Fingers trembling now, he opens it. Cash, more receipts, a note with directions to a caravan park, recipes scribbled on pieces of paper, pizza vouchers. He locates the zipped compartment, feels the slight contour of the fabric and unzips it.
Two items slide out. A voucher for a fifteen per cent discount off the next appointment at Hair-Tex 15. Jim slips this back in, picks up the other item—a card, a business card. The corporate logo Sungold Fruit Juices jumps out at him. His eyes are scanning the type below the logo when through the window he catches sight of Laila walking back. His eyes take in fragments of the words—Sean something…sales manager…—before he pushes the card frantically back into the compartment. Sweat drips down his forehead. He shoves the wallet into the handbag. Has just enough time to throw the bag back to its original position and race to his chair before the door creaks open.
Jim brings his empty coffee mug to his lips as Laila enters. His heart is beating madly.
‘Good shower?’
‘Yes.’
She doesn’t look at him. She puts her soiled clothes in the hamper, then she picks up Jim’s empty mug, takes it to the sink and starts doing the dishes.
‘Hey buddy, don’t mean to intrude in your private affairs, but thought I should tell you something,’ Rodney says.
It is especially noisy tonight in the pub. The day has unfolded like any other, thinning the apricots, picking nectarines, his output no more or less than normal. Jim leans forward, drinks his beer. His heart starts beating a tad faster but he keeps a straight face.
Looking uncomfortable, Rodney wipes the bar over and over even after all traces of spills are gone. His normal laid-back demeanour is absent.
‘Shoot,’ Jim says, keeping his voice cool.
‘It could be anything, I mean people hang out as they please. Doesn’t have to mean a thing,’ Rodney says.
‘Go on.’
‘In a place like Renmark, things get around, blown out of proportion, you know.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Rod, stop beating around the bush.’
‘Okay, okay, I saw something the other day I should tell you.’
‘Well, pra-a-a-y tell.’
‘She looked like your wife—long black hair, olive skin, small frame?’
‘There’s not too many around the place that fit that description.’
‘Yes. Your wife. I saw her getting into a car, with a bloke.’
‘A bloke?’
‘Yeah, but I mean he could be anyone.’
‘Do you know who he is?’
‘Nope. Can’t even say I’ve seen him in here. My guess is that he’s not local.’
Doomp, doomp, doomp. Jim’s heart starts raging inside his ribcage. He tries to keep his voice even.
‘So what were they doing?’
‘Nothing. Just getting into his car, as I said. A pretty smart car, have to admit…’
Jim isn’t hearing properly. The noise, the laughter, the chatter, glasses clanking, chair legs grating across the floor, all suddenly balloon.
‘…looked like one of those fancy European cars. Was in a bit of a hurry, mind you, so didn’t get time to check out the make, but from a distance it looked like a Saab or a Merc.’
‘So they were getting into the car?’
‘Yep. Was all, getting into the car. They weren’t doing nothing. Just getting into the car.’
‘Hmm. Where was this?’
‘Up Ral-Ral Avenue, in front of the pizza bar.
‘When?’
‘Four five days ago? And that was the only time. Never saw them again. So, there you go. Thought I should let you know.’
Were they holding hands? Was he touching her? Did he look rich? Was she smiling with her face slightly tilted to the left? Did she sweep her hair to one side and play with the ends the way she does when she feels amorous?
‘Yep. Thanks, buddy.’
Rodney’s words bubble in his head, like a cauldron. Jim pulls up at Sixty Foot, kills the engine. He stares ahead. The sting of jealousy gashes at his throat.
Prick. ‘Doing nothing’? No woman enters a fancy car—some Saab shit—of some rich prick and does nothing with them. Rodney must have been hallucinating. Saab or Merc!
Jim thumps the window with his fist. The ute wobbles. Empty cartons of Farmers Union Iced Coffee roll on the floor, and he looks at the rust collecting at the window frames, the food stains on the seats. He clenches his fist and hits again, this time the steering wheel. Dust puffs out of the dashboard.
Bet he’s got a big fat dick too. What’s his name again? Some Sam, Sean, Simon or something…he can’t remember. Yep, that would’ve been his business card. Prick!
The field of dumped navels sprawls orange in front of him. Laila had sobbed when he brought her here once. He’d stopped to make a U-ee. They were on their way to visit a friend and he’d driven too far off the track, he’d been daydreaming or something.
‘What are they?’ Laila had asked, pointing at the field.
‘Oranges. Dumped.’
‘Dumped? But why?’
‘Too many. Can’t sell ’em.’
‘What? And you throw them away?’ Horror had spread over her face.
‘Can’t help that. Look, I ain’t part of that, babe. It’s all above me, decisions those higher-ups make. I’m just a picker.’
‘Oh my God, oh my God, I can’t believe this. All these oranges. So many of them. What a waste. They could feed all the poor people in Sarawak.’ She’d started crying then. Shaking her head and crying. ‘I can’t believe anyone can do that. Surely they can think of something better than throwing them here like this.’
‘Yeah, I know, babe. But storage. No place to keep ’em.’ He rubbed her shoulder gently. ‘Sometimes I can’t understand it myself. Sometimes I think there’s many things in life I can’t understand. But that’s just the way it is.’
Jim remembers how touched he was by her compassion. That she cared enough about wastage to be brought to tears.
That sweet, compassionate woman can’t be the same one who�
��s gone and fucked another man behind her husband’s back. No, it’s not the same woman.
He pictures her taking his dick in her hands, her hair falling over his pubic area, bringing it into her mouth. He recalls the times when he wanted her to take him in her mouth and she’d muttered some excuse, about an ulcer in her mouth or some bullshit like that. Bitch. Bet he fucks arse too.
Mother-fucking, filthy, sleazy maggot!
23
HE SWITCHES OFF THE car engine, eases back into the seat. She tucks her hands under her thighs. The view of Lake Bonney spreads before them. The water is calm, a light bluey-aqua, deepening at the edges. Laila thinks it looks like the sea but says nothing. Words do not have a place.
They are in Barmera, about thirty kilometres from Renmark. Theirs is the only car parked here. No one is around, park benches are empty, the barbecue area near the rotunda deserted. Laila looks at the strip of lawn between the car park and the lake, then at the water’s edge. Perfectly still. Not a single ebb.
Her breathing booms amidst the silence of the afternoon. Somewhere in the distance comes a bird’s cry, then a creak here and a creak there. The massive expanse of water angles into the waterfront in an easy sweep.
Not a soul would catch them here.
Sean turns to face her. ‘Can’t believe I’m with you now, especially after the way you ran off so suddenly that first time.’
Laila looks out the window. How can she tell him what was going on inside her that day? The way she ached for his touch yet feared it. The way images of Jim exploded in her head while Sean’s hand travelled up her back. Even at their second meeting the week before, when they had lunch in a little café tucked away in a side alley in Renmark, the sparks racing between them, she still had second thoughts, guilt flaring up in her conscience.
Pushing the memories aside, Laila gives him a sidelong glance. She doesn’t look at his eyes. They would simply draw her in. She peers instead at his nose, at the gentle taper of his upper lip, the strong angle of his jawline.
Sean lifts his hand and strokes her chin. His fingers go to her hair; he plays with it. He parts the strands, then lets them tumble over her shoulders. Her tresses tickle her bare arms. That touch. Oh God, that touch. She wants to scream out loud.
He brings her face towards him. Again, his nearness, his scent. Her head swims, her breath escapes her. His fingers glide over her lips. She parts them. The soft ends of his fingertips find her teeth, her tongue, then his mouth covers hers.
Sunlight gushes into the caravan. Laila opens her eyes. The sleeping bag is empty, strewn across the back of the chair. Not a sound can be heard. The air in the caravan is hot and still.
Her hand goes to her neck, drenched in sweat. She runs her fingers over her arms, her shoulders, her breasts. She relives the sensations pulsing under her skin at his touch, their last visit to Barmera playing over and over in her mind.
Sean. Sean. Sean.
The overnight bag feels heavy in her hand. Laila clutches the handle as she lines up for the bus. Behind her a group of teenagers pushes up against her, screaming among themselves. A boy accidentally shoves his elbow into her back as he turns to talk to his friends. Laila quickens her step, enters the bus and slides into the first empty space. She shifts across to the window hoping no one will occupy the aisle seat. The group of teenagers troop past her to the back of the bus. Their noise echoes along the aisle like dust stirred up by a truck on a dirt track.
Outside, she sees the church with its steep corrugated-iron roof, sandstone wall and white arched window frames. She remembers the day two weeks ago when she’d been inside to pray. Seated on the wooden pew, hands clasped, she’d told Him she felt as if her heart was being chopped into pieces, that she was about to enter a dark tunnel she didn’t know the length of. She asked Him to show her how she could stop herself. And please, please, tell her what to do with the churning deep inside her. And with the guilt that would not go away.
Laila turns her face away. The hum and vibration of the big coach runs up the length of her arm. She pulls her bag close to her chest. Her gaze flits from one thing to another—the back of the driver’s head, patterns of the upholstered seat—but her eyes twitch and she doesn’t take in anything.
She checks her tank top, sleeveless, black, sitting over the top of her jeans, and the string of faux black pearls round her neck. Exactly the way they were put together on the mannequin in Zeenaz Fashions in town. She wants to match Sean in looks and grooming. She bites her lower lip to contain the excitement rippling inside her.
It was a lucky escape. She’d told Jim she was spending a couple of nights at a new girlfriend’s house in Adelaide. A girl Marietta had introduced her to last time they went to Adelaide, she lied. Fellow Filipino. So friendly and warm. They’d bonded immediately. Another Marietta! She was so grateful she’d found another friend. It gets lonely being a migrant, she told Jim. She needed to widen her social circle. Three days, she’d be back in no time. Jim had not said a word. While she packed, he’d just sat there, watching her. His eyes bored holes in her back.
This is just going to be an exploratory trip to Sean’s. Nothing concrete or definite. If things don’t work out, if she finds she doesn’t like Sean in his own environment, she’ll just hop on the next bus back to Renmark.
No, she’s not leaving Jim.
The bus eases out of Renmark, hits the Sturt Highway and passes through Berri, Barmera and Blanchetown. Summer landscape in the Riverland. Bales of hay dotting the spread of paddocks, sheep grazing. Hillocks rise in the distance, white silos sticking out of the monotony of mallee bushes, gum trees, reeds and bullrushes.
She’s only ever seen this scenery through the window of Jim’s ute. The elevated view from the bus helps her remove herself from what she’s embarking on. Cool air from the overhead air-conditioning vent brushes her face. When the bus passes the turn-off to Nuriootpa, her throat feels constricted, parched like the scenery around her. She wishes she’d brought a bottle of water. In her haste to leave the caravan, she’d forgotten.
She’s about to clock a year living in Australia. The last eleven months flick by—a jumbled picture in her head, irregular parts strewn about. Nothing fits together. Everything is out of sync. Thoughts of Jim force their way into her mind. His smile, his laughter, his clownish acts.
In three-quarters of an hour, she’ll be in Adelaide. Her wedding ring lacerates her left hand. Her thumb and index finger find the gold band, twist it round and round. She remembers the first time Jim slid the ring onto her finger at the church.
The priest had finished his speech. After exchanging vows, Jim placed the ring over her fingertip. The metal pushed against a joint but it wouldn’t slide right on. Jim tried again, struggling, twisting the band round and round. Laila could sense the audience holding their breath. She helped him squeeze the band round her finger, pushing this way and that. Finally the ring slid on. The crowd let out a breath, followed by a few giggles. Jim grinned. The priest said, ‘You may now kiss the bride.’
The bus passes a sign: Adelaide 16 km. Laila coolly pushes the memories aside. Without a moment’s hesitation, she slides the gold band off her left hand and drops it into the zipped compartment of her handbag.
A strange energy wells up inside her. She zips up the compartment and succumbs to it. She counts the minutes.
The sea is choppy. Waves gush in and out, in and out.
‘Unusual for a summer evening,’ Sean says.
He is explaining the workings of the land and ocean, and the effect of the sun on the currents at different times of the year. Laila listens but she only sees the way his collar hugs his neck, the perfect size and position of his eyes, the strong mouth, shaped like the ones carved on busts in famous museums that she’s seen in magazines.
After arriving at his house she’d showered and changed into the same blue linen dress she’d worn at the Christmas party. It’s the only dress she owns. She was embarrassed to think he might remember it. But when
she emerged from the room he gave her a smile and said she looked gorgeous.
Dinner at Estia, the Greek Restaurant at Henley Square, had been like a scene from a romance film. A musician had walked around the tables playing the violin. When he came to their table, he looked at them as if dedicating the music to them.
Now Sean laces his fingers through hers and pulls her closer to his side.
‘Is it the reflection of the moon on your hair or is it naturally this shiny and black?’ His voice is like warm honey slipping down her spine.
‘All Asians have black hair.’ It’s the only response she can manage.
‘Which never seems to turn grey.’
‘That’s not true. My father has lots of grey hair.’
‘Probably one in a thousand.’ He gazes up at the moon. ‘I was in Hong Kong last year for a conference. I didn’t see one person with grey hair.’
‘Hong Kong is not Sarawak.’
‘I must brush up on my geography. And stop thinking of you as Asian instead of Malaysian.’
‘Iban Malaysian.’
‘Iban? You never mentioned it before. You only said you were from Malaysia.’
‘I am from Sarawak, which is part of Malaysia but it is on the island of Borneo.’
‘Ahh. Capital Kuching, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve seen pictures of holiday packages to Kuching and they look terrific.’
‘Yes, Kuching is nice. It has a lot of history and old buildings. Kuching means cat in Bahasa Malaysia.’
‘Is that right?’ He laughs. ‘So, you’re my cat woman.’
She smiles. Hearing him say ‘my’ sends ripples through her.
From the beach they can see the lights of Henley Square, alive with Saturday night revelry. Cool weather doesn’t stop people from hanging out in the Square, sitting on benches, wine glasses in hand, smoking, laughing. Beautiful people, trendy designer clothes, teeth shining in the outdoor lights. Already the memory of what she ate, what they said at dinner is fading. The whole experience is like skating. The hiss of the skate wheels, air swishing in your face. The thrill and terror of slicing over the road.
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