Kitchen Sink Drama

by Paul Connolly

  The Shed

  SHORTLY after her fiftieth, Amelia started spending time in the backyard shed. At first it was just a half hour or so after work. By her fifty-first birthday, however, Amelia was in there every night. ‘I’m working on something big,’ she’d say when questioned. ‘A surprise.’ But Brett and the kids noted there were never any sounds of industry coming from the shed, let alone finished pieces of god knows what. Instead, all that escaped through the cracks around the bolted wooden door were jazz tunes, cigar smoke, and a warm orange light that was both inviting and exclusionary.

  Funeral

  AS a boy, Richard imagined his funeral taking place in a packed football stadium where the only person crying harder than his family and friends was his beautiful but aloof classmate Becky, regretting the error of her ways. As Richard grew, he nurtured the fantasy, and the mourners came to include world leaders and women he worked with, their barely contained pneumatic breasts surging with every sob. Lately, however, middle age upon him, his funereal reveries were trespassed upon by real life: namely, his wife, Jacinta. Richard had some imagination, but even he couldn’t bring tears to her eyes.

  Back in the Groove

  THE kids were long gone, the dog was sleeping more and more, and the television was always on. Ray and Fiona harboured fears they were slipping into old age without a fight. Fiona brought it up over their regular mid-morning Nescafé on the porch. ‘Ray, darling, I’m worried. We need some sparkle back in our lives,’ she said. ‘You’re right, love. A bit of twinkle wouldn’t go astray. But what?’ They tried bushwalking, caravanning and Tantric sex. But only after Fiona hung a huge disco ball in the living room did they begin to get their groove back.

  To Be or Not To Be

  TURNING off his bedside lamp, David lay his head on his pillow and decided that tomorrow he’d ask Isabella out. Tomorrow, he vowed, he’d stop dithering about like that Hamlet loser they’d been studying, and approach her after class. ‘Hey,’ he’d say, as casually as he could, ‘you want to hang out some time?’ Numerous things could happen after that, he reasoned, but there, in the dark, he became fixated on just two. One, she’d give him a withering up-and-down and say, ‘As if!’ Two, she’d blush and say, ‘Yes.’ He wasn’t sure which scenario scared him most.

  New York City

  IT was years since the kids left home, but Paul hardly felt liberated. On days when his loss was keenest, he sought refuge in an old memory: a trip to New York when they’d woken to a dreamscape of snow settling by inches. As they anticipated the day, Paul went for bagels, first stopping across the street from where, through the falling snow, he could see Leanne and their pyjama-clad girls staring down at him from their apartment window. He raised his hand, they waved back deliriously, and joy stole up on him, warming him from the inside out.

  Rebellion

  DELIA was sixteen when she left home to live with her lover; Heather was seventeen when she was expelled from grammar school for selling weed. So the couple expected some drama during their daughter’s teenage years. But this? It began when Siouxsie devoured Atlas Shrugged. Soon she was wearing vintage Laura Ashley dresses and listening to Christian rock. Then one shocking night, Siouxsie—after marching into their backyard art studio to extoll the benefits of trickle-down economics—landed the killer blow: ‘I’m joining the Young Liberals!’ Were Delia and Heather pearl-wearing types, they would have clutched them.

  Silverback

  TERESKA had always loved Hamid’s carousing, his mighty stomach, his lustrous hair. And not only on his head. Fields of it covered his chest, shoulders, back and bum. ‘My beautiful silverback,’ she cooed on their wedding night. He beat his chest. They laughed and made love. Years later, for Christmas, his brother bought him a magazine subscription. Men’s Health. It triggered a mid-life crisis. Within a year Hamid had rock-hard abs, pecs, lats, delts and quads. And his body was hairless. He’d even started going to bed early. Tereska didn’t know how much more she could take.

  Oh, Baby

  GABY used to roll her eyes at her sister Suzie’s preposterous methods of settling her baby. Birdsong CDs! Radio static! Baby hammocks! Weeks after her own baby was born, Gaby was again awakened by Tommy’s cries. Drugged by fatigue, she changed him, fed him, hummed arias, but only when she traced tickly circles on his chest would he calm. So, half asleep, she kneeled down and, sticking her raised arm through the bars of the cot, drew circle after circle. When he finally fell asleep, she tentatively withdrew her hand and, entirely reasonably, commando-crawled out of his room.

  The Hat

  EVEN as a teenager Trevor had been conservative, playing it safe with Billy Joel, polo shirts and light beer. In his twenty-eighth year, however, he saw a trilby in a shop window and his desire to have it astonished him. It was a classic hat, common in its time, but now terribly fashionable. Could he wear it? What would it say about him? Would it change the way people viewed him, the way he saw himself? Five months later, butterflies careering about his stomach, he left the shop, the hat in a bag and the world at his feet.

  Going Home

  FRIDA visited her parents once a month, usually staying a night or two. On this latest occasion, they hugged her at the door, twinkle-eyed, absurdly delighted to see her, as usual. After a cup of tea and a chat that skirted the usual pressure points—‘Seeing anyone, love?’, ‘Remember Janelle? Pregnant again!’—she ended up in her old room, surrounded by the artefacts of her youth. If only it created a cocoon of comfort. Instead, Frida saw the stuffed toys, the Sweet Valley High books, the Nirvana posters, even her parents’ enduring love, as a rebuke for the life she wasn’t living.

  Superman

  WHEN her parents left, Jason and Samantha went to her room to watch Superman. By the time Christopher Reeve was rescuing Margot Kidder from the teetering helicopter, the bedroom windows had fogged up. As it dawned on Jason that this was no drill, that he was about to lose his virginity, he realised with delight that he’d now think of this moment whenever he saw the film again. But then, mere moments after encountering Samantha’s wondrous fortress of solitude, it was over. As John Williams’ score soared, and Samantha sighed mysteriously, Jason lay back and wondered about the definition of irony.

  An Uncanny Resemblance

  THE first time Alberto noticed it, he didn’t say anything. Just a trick of the light. Weeks later, at a barbecue, he watched his young daughter’s passage across the lawn and he saw it again. It was undeniable. Ashen-faced he nudged his mate, Silvio, and tried to sound blasé: ‘Look. Jilly. Her face. You see it, don’t you?’ Silvio fell apart. ‘Oh god, Berto! I’m so sorry. We were drunk. Shelly said she’d abort. We didn’t mean to hurt you.’ Alberto barely took it in: ‘I was thinking she looked like Danny de Vito.’ ‘The actor?’ ‘That’s the one.’ ‘Oh.’

  The Power of Wuv

  THOUGH both in their thirties, Dale and Shannon wore matching pyjamas, held hands constantly, rode a tandem bike, and called each other ‘Hunnybunny’ and ‘Schnookywooky’. Their coupled-up friends mocked them for it—gently if they were there, with more sting when they weren’t: ‘It’s just so infantile, right? So evasive of reality!’ Dale and Shannon interpreted the jibes as jealousy, an impression given weight when, over time, these couples bickered, separated and, with sizzling rancour, dragged each other through court. ‘Poor things,’ they agreed one evening while flossing each other’s teeth, ‘they don’t know how lucky we are.’

  The Trauma Cleaner

  JASMINE had truly enjoyed Omar’s latest culinary masterpiece—and on a Monday night too! But now, while he convalesced from his artistic endeavours, she faced a kitchen that resembled a crime scene. Had the bastard used every pot, pan and spoon in the house? Just once couldn’t he make beans on toast? Contemplating the mess, she wondered if it would be ungrateful of her to suggest a new house rule: that in future whoever cooks does the dishes. A test of one’s resolve is surely the making of any budding Blumenthal, she told herself, while scouring a pot.

/>   Walden

  GAVIN had a dog-eared Thoreau in his jacket when, on a dinner date, he told Libby of his determination to live in the wild for a year. When he asked for a lift home and requested she boost the heating Libby doubted Gavin’s resolve. But Gavin was a good man—good enough to marry, even—and while he never gathered the nerve to do a Walden, he sometimes slept in a tent in their backyard. It would have been easy to mock him, but Libby found it easier still to bring him out hot chocolate on especially cold nights.

  The Hobby

  CLEM spent too much time accommodating her family’s hobbies to ever have one of her own. But after being transported by the breezy melodies of a ukulele player outside the supermarket Clem decided, with uncustomary certainty, to take up the uke herself. Following considerable research, she purchased a curvaceous beauty and self-consciously began learning chords and strumming techniques. How quickly it took her out of herself! How giddy a successful chord progression made her! Though startled by her sudden passion and annoyed by her reduced availability, Clem’s family agreed things could have been worse. It could have been a recorder.

  The Lemon Tree

  A day after Gabriella complained about the cost of lemons, Theo came home with a lemon tree. ‘Here,’ he offered. ‘Lemons on tap!’ ‘Oh, Theo! That’s sweet,’ she replied, touched. A week later he broke up with her. He must have known when he bought the tree, Gabriella thought later. Considering that, she should have thrown the tree out. But the afternoon he moved out the last of his stuff—leaving behind eddies of dust and melancholic pockets of empty space—she planted it. The lemons would soon be worth it, she figured. And she’d enjoy pruning it, thinking of him.

  In the Red

  NICK and Alex had long stopped opening bills. No point. Instead, they tossed them into a shoebox and then, later, a fruit box. Eventually they spilled over its sides, too. Days after their power was cut off, the evening temperature dropped to near freezing. Seeing his daughter Abbie’s breath emerge as tiny clouds, Nick left their small kitchen suddenly. He returned with the boxes of bills and fed the contents into a huge pasta pot. Before long, it contained a roaring fire around which the three of them huddled. The more bills Nick added, the more colour returned to their cheeks.

  Bonding 101

  THEIR mother had always hidden things around the house for safekeeping, but usually forgot where. At the reading of her will, Brendan and Monica—long estranged, much to their mother’s distress—became aware of a chest of cash which, due to her mistrust of banks, their mother claimed to have buried in the yard. Somewhere. So, on random (though always moonless) nights, Brendan and Monica met at their old family home and, putting aside their differences, dug for treasure, hoping the new occupants wouldn’t be awakened by the sounds of their shovel strikes and growing bonhomie.

  A Walk on the Beach

  WITH the kids at her parents’ and dinner under their belts, Rob and Penny strolled barefoot along the beach. Conscious that romance was appreciated on such occasions, Rob volunteered a memory: the first time he knew he loved her. He recalled a group picnic at Scarborough Beach, the way the afternoon sun kissed her perfect complexion and teasingly shot through her linen shirt, and her leading him away from the group to the seclusion of the dunes. ‘Jesus Christ, Rob! That wasn’t even me!’ she said, withdrawing. His redundant ‘Are you sure?’ was lost in the crashing of the waves.

  Coup d’état

  THE kids were happy, Tamara was oblivious, but Aidan simply couldn’t filter out the Wiggles’ ‘Hot Potato’ pumping out of the car speakers like radon gas. Squeezing the steering wheel Aidan recalled his youth when his father had uncompromisingly monopolised the car stereo. When little Aidan groaned at yet another Glen Campbell number, his father would say that he could choose the bloody music the day he settled the damn car repayments. When his time came, however, Aidan meekly ceded his rights. Okay, he thought, contemplating the off button and the pending meltdowns, time to wear the damn pants.

  Up, Up & Away

  CLUTCHING her daughter and hollowed out by impending loss, Lana blamed herself. Her first mistake, eighteen years earlier, had been putting a world globe in Ada’s room, its warm light drawing the eye, irradiating Earth in an inviting glow. After that, well, where to begin—with her romanticised retellings of youthful adventures overseas? With the listing yellow towers of National Geographic magazines in the study? With bookshelves brimming with Newbys, Chatwins, Brysons? With a radio hard-wired to the BBC World Service? God, she’d all but dragged Ada here, to this ugly departures lounge. What a fool she’d been.

  Into the Wild

  MORGAN and Kim longed for a house with a garden. When they finally secured one, they spent every weekend outdoors, weeding, pruning, mulching, mowing. Eventually, however, pride in their garden gave way to fatigue and resentfulness. ‘It’s like painting the Harbour Bridge,’ complained Morgan. ‘It’s never done.’ So they decided to let nature take its course. It took a different kind of discipline to adjust to the creeping wildness—and to the written complaints from their neigh-bours. In time, however, they dropped deckchairs into the wheat-long grass and, while sipping cocktails, marvelled at nature’s untameable beauty.

  The Time Capsule

  LUCAS went back to work two weeks later. Natasha, suffocating in a morass of grief and barely able to function, couldn’t comprehend it. She still couldn’t, three years on. She knew Lucas had to cope in his own way, and they certainly needed the money. But how could he resume his life so quickly? She envied his ability to shut off, but loathed him for it, too. Especially on the days she couldn’t get out of bed or could only make it as far as Ruby’s room, now a time capsule to a long-lost world.

  High-school Reunion

  LURKING on the Facebook pages of his former schoolmates, Jonathan saw the news he’d been anticipating—preparing for—for fifteen years: Class of ’99 Reunion! Finally, he’d get his chance to show them all up. Like Mark, the sadistic bastard, now fat and bald. Like Pietro, unemployed and feckless. Like Mandy, a frump with three ugly kids. How he’d imagined the moment to come...Him, the start-up millionaire with his high-end toys and high-end girlfriends. Them, nothing more than suburban chaff. It was time to show them just how far he’d left them, and his schooldays, behind.

  Quality Time

  THEY hadn’t spent any meaningful time together for ages and it was Deb’s idea—though why did it always have to be her idea?—that the four of them go on a picnic. Although she’d made them mark their calendars five weeks earlier, it was picnic eve when both kids disclosed, with theatrical lamentations, their sudden unavailability. Deb went to bed early, crushed. In the morning, Rich announced from their echo chamber of an en suite that he was crook in the guts. ‘Sorry, sweetheart, go on without me.’ Surprising them all, she did that and more, her Noosa postcard beating her home.

  Incurable Pedantic

  THEIR relationship was two months old by the time Liz received her first written correspondence (text messages aside) from Marty. In hindsight, that was fortunate, for Liz had enjoyed a time of blissful ignorance before the arrival of that birthday card, which opened with ‘Your to wonderful for words, Liz’. Naturally, Liz gave him the benefit of the doubt. However, as she read on (‘I don’t want to loose you, L, you make the star’s shine brighter than ever’), she was overcome with a sinking feeling, one given expression by her marking Marty’s card with the reddest of pens.

  Road Less Travelled

  BEFORE he’d even finished Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Jared decided to become a Buddhist. And a motorcyclist. He told his family over dinner. Immediately his dad began singing ‘Everybody was kung fu fighting!’, with his two brothers joining in when they saw that Jared was not only perplexed, but annoyed. ‘What’s kung fu got to do with anything?’ he said. But on they sang, ‘...fast as lightning!’, chopping the air theatrically. When he saw his mum giggle he nearly exploded. But he doused his fire and walked away. He was on the path to enlight
enment. Unlike those fuckers.

  Leaving the Nest

  HIS spoken desire for independence—and his unspoken desire to entertain ‘the ladies’ without his mum hovering—saw Mitch move into a damp, inner-city share house with a musician named Deano. As Mitch had hoped, loads of desirable young women dropped by; Mitch even got to greet them as Deano ushered them upstairs of a typical post-gig evening. By the time Mitch had slipped under his doona, Deano’s bed frame would be rhythmically beating the walls above. Echoing through the darkness was just the kind of moaning Mitch had envisaged before embarking on this thrilling new stage of his life.

  Deathbed Regrets

  THE sun blazed through the window of Harriet’s palliative-care room, engulfing her face, and no one thought to draw the curtains. Not her son, Max, who sat reading in a chair. Nor her eldest, Joan, who bickered with her husband on her mobile. Not even her youngest, Tamara, the one she’d almost got right, who busied herself arranging the blanket on the bed instead of tilting Harriet’s head away from the light. God knows she couldn’t do it herself. What she’d sacrificed for this lot. Her death imminent, eyes streaming, Harriet wished she’d spent more time at the office.