Handpicked

by Siew Siang Tay

  She busies herself in the kitchen, drying the dishes and putting them away. Plates and bowls back in the cupboard, knives back in the block, ladle and spatula back in the utensils jar, dessert spoons back in the cutlery drawer, face down, so dust doesn’t collect in the depression of the spoons.

  The rangehood filter is the last item on the rack. She’d taken out the filter and washed it earlier, though it was a struggle trying to remove it. There was a catch she’d had difficulty undoing, to release the filter. After fiddling with it for ten minutes, she finally managed to get it off. And yes—the filter was covered with a thick film of grease.

  Now she takes the clean filter and gives it a once-over with the tea towel, shaking it to get rid of all traces of water. Then she tries to insert the filter back up into the rangehood. She pushes, slides and pulls but the filter refuses to fit into the cavity, the same way it refused to come undone this afternoon. She knows that once it slides in past the catches, it will stay in place.

  Click, clack. She struggles for a good fifteen minutes. In between she peers over at Sean, sunk back in the sofa. He puffs away, throwing his head back. The TV blares, police inspectors are now pulling a white cloth over a dead body, a woman, face and arms splattered with fresh blood. The conversations boom over the sounds in the kitchen.

  Sweat is beading on her neck. She tries to remember the movement of the filter as it slid out earlier and to replicate it in reverse. She places the filter in what she’s sure is the right position and gives it a firm push with the base of her palm. Finally the filter slides in—but the pressure from the push dislocates the glass panel above it. The piece of glass tumbles down, hits the floor and shatters.

  Shards of glass shoot in all directions.

  Laila stands there shocked, looking at the mess on the floor. Sean jumps up from the sofa and flies to the kitchen.

  ‘What the…!’ Shock creeps into his face too, followed by a frown. Then a look of disgust. ‘Stupid woman! What do you think you’re doing? You’ve wrecked my kitchen!’

  The words hit Laila like bullets from a machine gun. She places her hands on her face, mouth open.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,’ she says.

  ‘Can’t rely on you to do anything right!’ He turns and stomps back to the sofa.

  The air stirs from his movements. Sweat drips down Laila’s temples as she stares at the shattered pieces of glass strewn around her feet.

  28

  CRADLING THE RECEIVER BETWEEN his ear and shoulder, Jim flattens the spine of the White Pages. His index finger locates the name of the company. He punches in the number. The ringing tone pulsates in his ear.

  ‘Sungold Fruit Juices, good afternoon, can I help you?’

  ‘Oh, hi. I was wanting to speak to someone by the name of Sam or Sean?’

  ‘What’s the surname please?’

  ‘Er, I’m not sure. Well, I don’t know actually.’

  ‘We have over a thousand staff here and it would be quite hard to identify who you want to speak to without a surname. Do you know which department he’s in?’

  Jim scratches his head. That morning months ago, him hunched over the bed, racing through the small print on the business card, comes back to him. He tries his best to recollect details of the surname and position on the card, but they are a blur.

  ‘Well, no, I don’t.’

  ‘That’s going to be a bit hard.’

  ‘How about looking up anyone with the name Sam or Sean?’

  ‘Okay, I can try. Can you hold please?’

  ‘Yep.’

  A pause.

  ‘Hello, you there? Okay, we have Sam Anderson, Sam Poteralski and Sam Reid.’

  Jim winces. ‘How about trying Sean?’

  ‘Mmm…okay. Please hold.’

  After about ten seconds, she comes on again. ‘You there? I have a Sean Goldsworthy, a Sean Taylor, a Sean Timmerman and a Sean Nardelli.’

  The phone booth shrinks. Jim drops his head against the glass, looks ahead. Across the road, children are playing in their front yard, throwing a ball, mouths opening in silent laughs.

  It could be any of those seven or so fucking arseholes.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, I’ll call back again.’ He thumps his fist on the receiver hook.

  A large crowd has gathered by the water. Unusual for autumn. People are rugged up in parkas and thick jackets.

  Jim finds a park on the Esplanade and walks towards the shore. The cold sea air cuts into his skin. He pulls up his collar and scrutinises everyone like a hawk. He hones in on women with dark hair, dismissing the blondes and brunettes. That much he will give her; her Asian looks make his task of searching ten times easier. He casts his eyes like a net over the throngs of people heading out to the end of the jetty, then joins them.

  Midway, a mane of long black hair catches his attention. Seemingly by herself, she’s walking a few paces ahead of him. Slight in build, blue jeans, mock suede jacket. She’s walking fast. The wind whips her hair. Jim increases his pace and trails her.

  Finally he catches up with the woman. He keeps pace with her, glancing sideways to get a look at her face. It is a Caucasian woman with dyed black hair, a nose ring and three eyebrow rings. Jim sighs, then walks ahead.

  After checking out everyone on the jetty, he returns to his car. This is his last destination. All day he has been driving around Adelaide in search of her. Last week it was Renmark, Berri, Monash, Barmera and Loxton. Driving around the streets at different times of the day, checking out the crowds, keeping an eye out for petite-looking women with dark hair. He checked the little streets as well, went on foot as far as his energy could take him.

  Earlier today he’d covered the Central Market and Chinatown. That was challenging, as every other woman had black hair. He’d bought a coffee and sat at a table in the atrium outside the Central Market Shopping Arcade, placing himself strategically so as to have a commanding view of the crowds flowing past. He’d nursed his coffee for an hour and a half. But no luck.

  Though the jetty was no good either, Jim knows she likes the sea, so there’s still a chance he might find her somewhere around here. He cruises the little streets at a snail’s pace and then rolls along the Esplanade, craning his neck, checking out everyone. Cars toot behind him, flashing their lights, the drivers mouthing obscenities. As soon as the road is clear, they overtake him, revving their engines loudly, their tyres screeching. When they make hand signs at him while overtaking, he sticks his arm out the window and returns the gesture.

  ‘Same to you, arsehole.’

  Across the sea front, the sun blazes into his windscreen. Blinding orange light. In an hour or so it will be dusk. He flaps down his visor, toys with the idea of checking into a cheap hotel and continuing his search into the evening. He thinks about tactics police officers and private investigators use to find someone. Sniffer dogs, newspaper reports, interviews. What else? He could hire a private investigator but he doesn’t have the money. He punches his steering wheel.

  Shit. Everything ultimately comes down to money.

  Fatigue suddenly hits him at the thought of looking for her in the darkness and the neon-lit streets, fatigue accumulated from days, weeks, months of poor or no sleep. He knows he should grab a bite to eat but his stomach feels bloated. All day, he’s eaten nothing but a hamburger, but the thought of food repulses him.

  Another fruitless trip.

  It’s been nine weeks since Laila left. Practically the whole town knows by now. He goes through the moments when he could have turned things around, points in the marriage where he could have made it good. Like the time Laila asked if he would let her work in the blocks. Or the day she was writing to her folks back home, and asked if there was going to be good news to announce to them. The moments reel over and over in his head. He tries to push them away but like tiny plastic sheets stuck to your finger by static, they stick with him. It’s like a sickness. When night falls, the symptoms worsen and won’t let up.

&nbs
p; He looks at his watch. Five-fifty. If he hits the Sturt Highway in the next half-hour, he should be back in Renmark by nine. He could grab something from the pub then. At the traffic lights, he makes a right turn to head in a northerly direction. A continuous stream of traffic grinds on the three-lane Main North Road. He passes Pooraka, Parafield, Brahma Lodge, Salisbury, Elizabeth, Smithfield.

  A few kilometres after he glimpses the Elizabeth Shopping Centre tower, he starts to question his reason for the trip to Adelaide. But suddenly the floodgates open. Her almond-shaped eyes, the black tresses framing her face, the tiny round tips of her fingers—his vision kaleidoscopes. He blinks, shakes his head, hits his forehead, but the images are relentless.

  Shit.

  Emotions well up in him and he slips fast into a physical aching for her. On the left of the road, he spots the yellow and blue neon lights of the Munno Para Hotel sign, blinking away. He slams on his brakes, veers the car into the left lane, signals and pulls into the car park.

  He steps blindly into the pub. Several groups of men are hovering around the open fire, some standing, some sitting on stools. They turn to look at him, then go back to their talk.

  The first gulp of beer gives him instant relief. By the time he’s on his third, the alcohol is quelling the hollow ache inside him. Below the mantelpiece, the flames flicker. Jim watches the fire curl around the wood, hears the mini-explosions underneath the logs as they crackle.

  In the darkness he stumbles to his car. Once inside, he realises the time: the display on the dashboard says nine-thirty. He can’t remember how many drinks he’s had, who he chatted with (he does remember there were three men, one of them wearing a maroon jumper), what they talked about, what the pub looked like. His mind numb, he starts the engine.

  About ten minutes after he leaves Munno Para Hotel, it starts to rain. Showers give way to a steady downpour. His wipers screech from side to side, spewing out water. The darkness of the large open spaces zooms past, the black forms of hillocks, trees and paddocks barely discernible. With the rain pouring down, Jim drives and the drone of the car engine feeds the steady humming in his head.

  The car eases into Truro. With difficulty, Jim brings the speed down to sixty, cruises through the one-street town. The alcohol feels embedded under his skin. Outside, everything is dark and hazy, a place gone to sleep. He can barely make out the dimly lit shops, a sign that reads something like community centre. When he sees the road signs for 80 and then 110, he steps on the accelerator. A little way from the town, the road starts to descend Truro Hill.

  In the darkness, wind whistling in through gaps in the window, thoughts of Laila creep up on him again. He tries to push them out of his mind but, like fireworks, they keep exploding into his vision. He pictures her lover, sees a big expensive house, the two of them having an elaborate meal in his plush dining room. He imagines them having sex and he winces as if a knife is twisting in his stomach. Images of this man kissing Laila’s lips, her neck, her breasts, the hollow of her pelvic area, flood his mind. He’s thinking of him touching her sex, the precise contours and feel of which he knows like the back of his hand—when a flash of something appears in front of him. It looks like a small animal, a possum or some other marsupial. Its movement is swift and it is jetting across the road.

  Jim slams on his brakes. The car swerves and skids, and the tyres screech. The road is at its steepest, the dark outline of the scrubland fanning out below. He manoeuvres the steering wheel to stop the car from skidding but it continues veering wildly. One, two, three. The car spins like a top. Headlights flash in mad circles. The ute reels, lurches then grinds over gravel at the side of the road, speeding towards a blackish form.

  He can’t make out what it is. He squints and it suddenly occurs to him: a huge tree. His feet hit the brakes, he wrenches the steering wheel to the left, but it’s too late. The side of the car collides with the tree. The impact throws Jim forward. His head hits the steering wheel. He passes out.

  29

  ‘SO THERE WE WERE trying the shiraz. Mind you it was a good drop, but the girl kept talking to the other customer as if we didn’t exist,’ Sean is saying.

  They are having dinner at Amarin Thai Restaurant in North Adelaide, with Sean’s friends, Mark and Donna. The restaurant is full. Waiters are pacing up and down, balancing plates on their forearms, uncorking wine bottles. The coffee machine behind the bar grinds.

  ‘So what did you do?’ Mark asks.

  ‘Nothing at first. I mean, look, if the bottles had been within my reach, I would’ve poured myself some. Was interested in the cab-merlot, had won some award or something. But the bottles are always at the back of the bar.’

  Mark and Donna shake their heads. Laila sits quietly and listens to the conversation. She doesn’t contribute. She remembers the incident clearly. It was one of their Sunday outings, a visit to McLaren Vale wineries.

  ‘Now where has customer service gone to?’ Sean cocks his head, opens both palms up in the air.

  ‘Was it Eden Creek again?’ Donna asks.

  ‘Yep,’ Sean says. ‘Call themselves a boutique winery!’

  ‘Sounds like they were cutting costs, hiring just one sales girl for wine tasting,’ Donna says.

  ‘And on a Sunday, Jesus. Sounds like el cheapo, if you ask me,’ Sean says.

  Laila prays Sean doesn’t go into the details.

  ‘The problem was,’ Sean says, spooning rice noodle salad onto his plate, ‘the wine was really good. So after standing there and not getting served, we walked off with the display bottle out the front.’

  ‘Blimey!’ Mark says, laughing.

  ‘Only the shiraz, mind you. I was waiting to taste the cab-merlot, remember, which the stupid girl wouldn’t serve me because she was busy gasbagging. I would have been happy to buy both.’

  Donna covers her mouth, eyebrows arched. ‘And no one stopped you?’

  ‘Nah,’ Sean says smugly.

  Laila looks down at her plate, hoping no one is looking at her.

  ‘Except little Goody Two Shoes here.’ Sean looks to his side, angles his eyes towards her.

  Laila feels blood drain from her body. She hears the thud-thud of her heart. The restaurant, with the white walls and embroidered wall hangings, swallows her.

  ‘She starts telling me I can’t do something like that. Causes a bloody stir. And of course,’ Sean says, eyes piercing, throwing his hands up in the air, ‘guess what happens? Everyone turns to look at us. That’s when the stupid sales girl comes out and pulls the rug from under our feet.’ He rolls his eyes.

  Mark and Donna wince.

  ‘No. What did she do?’

  ‘She insisted we pay for the bottle.’

  Laila wants to get up, go to the ladies, anywhere, but she stays glued to her seat. She imagines herself liquefying and seeping away.

  ‘Asian superstition or what, God knows,’ Sean presses on.

  ‘Oh, poor Laila.’ Donna looks at her. ‘I’m sure she was only thinking about what would happen had they found out.’

  ‘Had they found out? Hello? They wouldn’t have found out had Goody Two Shoes here just kept her mouth shut.’ Sean rolls his eyes again, makes a face, shifts his gaze from Donna to Mark to Laila, then back to Donna.

  Laila bites back her tears.

  ‘Let’s eat, shall we? Food’s getting cold,’ Mark says.

  Before the door is closed, Sean grabs Laila from behind. He pulls her towards him, leans back. The door clicks shut. His fingers grope her skirt. He pulls up the hem, gathering the folds, wildly searching for flesh. He licks the lobes of her ear, diving his tongue in. His breath reeks of alcohol.

  ‘Go get me some port and come to bed.’

  Laila brings the port to the doorway of the bedroom. Sean is lying in bed, his eyes glued to the TV. Laila follows his line of vision. On the screen, limbs, torsos and hair are tangled together. In the foreground, a naked woman is sitting on the floor, her legs spread. Fingers dig into her dark triangular area.
A man approaches, straddles her and feeds his stiff penis into her mouth. She sucks it with an animal-like intensity.

  Laila stands still. The starkness of the scene makes her dizzy. Sean turns, motioning for her to join him. She goes to the side of the bed.

  ‘Only one glass?’ Sean says.

  ‘I’m not drinking any more.’

  ‘Okay, suit yourself.’

  Laila stares at the screen. She swallows her saliva, stands still.

  ‘Hey, come on, life gets boring otherwise, huh?’ Sean says.

  Laila remains quiet but discomfort shows on her face.

  ‘A bit of entertainment, that’s all. Alright, how about something a bit more tame?’ He gets up, switches videos, presses buttons on the remote control. A soft-focus scene plays. A couple is kissing and the man is lowering himself into her. Pink roses cover the curtain behind them.

  ‘Now, that’s not so bad, is it?’

  Laila doesn’t answer him. She changes into her pyjamas and gets into bed. She turns to her side, pulls the covers up to her neck. Light from the screen flickers on the wall.

  She hears buttons clicking, the sound of the tape fast forwarding, music, more moans, then silence. The TV clicks off. Moments later she feels Sean’s hand on her buttocks. The sensation makes her want to throw up. In her mind, she’s playing back the evening, the caustic tone of his voice, his head cocked sideways, pity in Donna’s eyes. She pushes his hand away.

  ‘Whoa, sulking, are we?’ Sean says.

  Laila remains silent. Outside a car swishes past, rock music blasting out, bass thumping. She turns to face him.

  ‘Why did you embarrass me at the restaurant?’

  Sean looks surprised, then his expression changes. ‘For crying out loud, I was just relating the story.’ He takes a sip of his port.

  She turns her face away. With her back towards him, she says, ‘You were making fun of me.’