Drybread: A Novel

by Marshall, Owen

  'It's the numbness of trauma, I suppose,' said Theo.

  He and Ben had a short tug-of-war with a paper napkin, quite without words, but the boy smiled. Theo put his large hand over the small one, and was surprised by the warmth there. What is it that children take from the interaction with adults outside the family, and how accurate is their gauge of sincerity?

  'How long is it since your divorce?' she asked. It was one of the few personal things she had asked of him, and her voice had an unaccustomed gentleness.

  'We broke up a couple of years ago.'

  'Do you still see her?'

  'Oh, odd times,' said Theo. 'We don't stick pins into effigies — well, I don't anyway.'

  'Are you glad there are no kids?'

  Theo nodded. 'That's the best thing about it.'

  'And maybe the worst thing too,' she said. 'With a child there's always something wonderful left of the love you had.' She was right. How could that time together have been wasted, how could marriage be futile, when a life had been created as a result? 'The best thing that ever happened to me was having a baby,' she said.

  'Kids can suffer, though, can't they?'

  'Sure they can, but mine won't.'

  'Well, women have a natural love for children I suppose,' said Theo. 'Maybe men are different.'

  'Bullshit,' said Penny. 'I know some men who are wonderful fathers. Some guys are better parents than their wives. You learn that your own family situation isn't the norm, thank God.'

  'Well, what would I know?' said Theo. He was surprised by Penny's sudden vehemence, and assumed she was making a rare reference to her husband. He didn't want to destroy the easy mood of the day.

  They chose to return to the bay by way of the footbridge that led over the cutting and onto the tiered concrete seating facing the soundshell. Theo carried Ben down, and when released on the lawn the boy ran ahead and into the narrow pedestrian tunnel under the loop road. The tunnel was dim, its tiled sides alive with the swooping, stylised graffiti of taggers. Theo and Penny quickened their pace so Ben wouldn't be too far ahead in the carpark, but when they came out they saw a woman in jeans hustling him towards one of the vehicles.

  Instinctively realising the threat, Penny reacted more quickly than Theo: he was at first merely puzzled. How could a woman be a danger to a child? Penny started calling out. The woman didn't turn to face them, but pulled Ben on more urgently so that he began to cry. As both Theo and Penny ran to catch up, Theo recognised the car the woman was headed for: a maroon Civic in which a man sat who was surely the parson. Theo could see his round, balding head, his hands already on the wheel.

  Perhaps the woman had time to reach the car with Ben before she could be stopped, but the boy stumbled and spun from her grip just before the open door. His face hit the dry ground with a force that made his dark hair fly forward, and he began a long, quavering cry. The woman clambered into the front passenger seat and locked the door just as Theo reached it. Penny knelt to her son. There was a moment of anger and helplessness as Theo beat on the window and the parson put the car into gear. Neither the parson nor the woman would make eye contact with Theo, or register his shouts. They stared ahead as if willing the car to be already some way in the distance. It was just a moment, but one stretched out by the intensity of what it contained. Theo could see the woman clearly: she was young and good-looking, and wore a gold chain at her throat. He wanted to get a grip of her blonde hair and force her to look out at Penny and the fallen Ben. He wanted something long and solid in his hand with which to strike the parson. But in seething anger and frustration all he managed was a painful kick into the side panel of the car as it accelerated away. 'That bastard,' he said.

  'You know who it is?' said Penny sharply.

  'It's a guy who's followed me before.'

  'You stupid prick, Theo. You stupid, stupid prick.' Penny was yelling, down on her knees to comfort her son, who was still crying and had blood seeping from his nose. She carried him to her car and began to put him into his seat. Theo followed and stood close to her in the open door, tried to put his arms around her, told her how sorry he was, that there was no need to go right away, that the parson wouldn't hang around after that. 'You should've told me about him. You should've thought he might be following you. Christ,' she said. She was shaking, and resisted Theo's attempt to hold her around the shoulders. Ben stopped crying, and to placate him she began some lie about what had happened.

  'How could a girl do something like that?' said Theo.

  'Money, of course,' said Penny.

  All that was left of the day was for them to part. Penny no longer felt safe, and wanted to start back to Drybread. Despite everything she had said, it was a bolt-hole after all. Theo offered to follow her back to make sure the parson didn't do the same, but Penny refused. There was no kiss, no talk of the pleasures of the day, just a hurried goodbye, and some effort by Penny to mitigate her accusations. He watched them go; caught a second, brief glimpse of her car as it did the first loop of the angled road, and then was left alone in the carpark with the bright sun, a scented breeze from the sea and an elderly man in a hand-knitted cream cardigan with leather buttons who wished him good afternoon in passing.

  Theo's anger was turbulent and slow to subside. His attitude towards the parson had always been tinged with disdain, but the afternoon revealed him as someone sinister and determined. Ben's fall, his anguish, the bloodied nose, remained clearly with Theo on his return drive to Christchurch, and he was pissed off with himself for not taking care on the morning trip to ensure he was unobserved.

  He tried to express something of his feelings in an email to Penny the next morning, and a day later she rang from Alexandra when he was just home from work. 'It's been just the same here,' she said. 'Nobody's been poking around. The main thing is I've still got Ben and he's fine. Nothing else really matters.'

  'He's okay then?' said Theo.

  'He's been sleeping and eating fine. I told him the nice lady thought he was someone else.'

  'I'm sorry how it turned out. You were absolutely right — I should have been more careful.'

  'It's not your fault. I just had to let rip at someone.'

  'I feel like complaining to the police,' said Theo, 'but of course they're after you too. Bizarre isn't it. There we were having a quiet time together, and someone tries to kidnap Ben, and all the time we're the ones going against the law — officially, I mean. Jesus, though.'

  'Yeah, well, the whole thing's a mess until we can get some change in the court order.'

  'You hang in there. Okay?' said Theo. Through his living-room window he could see his garage, and realised that he'd left the side door open again. What did it matter? He didn't want to be standing there by himself: he didn't want to be in his own house. Better by far to be in Alexandra, in a phone booth with Penny, and then the three of them could go back to Drybread together.

  'There's no bloody choice any more, is there,' Penny said.

  14

  She seemed more hopeful when she rang again a few days later. Zack Heywood had been contacted by her husband with what the Virginian lawyer termed conciliatory approaches. Penny asked Theo if he could be a sort of gobetween as well. 'You're the only one who knows anything about how I feel,' she said.

  Theo was surprised by the pleasure the compliment gave him, but could only be prosaic in reply. 'What did your husband say about the parson trying to kidnap Ben?'

  'Parson?'

  'The guy with the woman,' said Theo.

  'You know he's a parson?'

  'It doesn't matter,' said Theo. 'You reckon your husband didn't know anything about it?'

  'I haven't talked to him — Zack Heywood did. I haven't said anything to anyone about Timaru, so how would they know?'

  'That's right, of course. You're in Alex?'

  'Yes, I'll take Ben to the park while I'm here and pick up groceries. I'll email Zack before I go back and tell him you're okay with being involved. I appreciate that.'

&
nbsp; 'I wish I was there with you,' said Theo.

  'Me too,' she said. 'My language is reverting to that of a three-year-old. My talk's all about tip-trucks and engines with faces. Thank God for books and sometimes a newspaper.' Theo hoped there were reasons for them being together unrelated to her vocabulary, but didn't get into that.

  Four days before the Easter break, Zack rang, wanting Theo to come in. When he asked him if it would cost money, Zack just gave his relaxed laugh, so Theo assumed that meant it wouldn't. The next afternoon he walked from his office to Zack's, and was kept waiting on the red buttoned leather of the foyer couch for less than twenty minutes. Not bad.

  'I liked your last piece,' Zack said. 'The background stuff about the Californian judge and his conservative stance. And the way you implied that judges here shouldn't just be rubber-stamping decisions when at least one of the parties has New Zealand nationality. Good angle about the little boy too. All that confusion's bad enough for an adult, isn't it? And I think you're right that the television appearances back there are irrelevant really — nothing to do with Penny Maine-King now.'

  Zack's suit coat was on a hanger in a neat alcove off his office. He wore a blue and white striped shirt with silver cufflinks. In the shops Theo knew, the shirts didn't have the holes for cufflinks any more. Zack must patronise exclusive boutiques that catered for guys who remained true to cufflinks and non-quartz watches.

  'So what's up?' Theo asked.

  'Erskine Maine-King has been in touch. He wants to work out a compromise that suits both of them and the boy. If that can be done, I think we could get a stay on the warrant, and a Family Court rehearing.'

  It was what Penny wanted: some way of reopening the issue and so creating the chance of at least equal custody. It gave Theo considerable satisfaction to know he might have played some part in it.

  'She won't meet him herself,' said Zack. 'She won't come out of hiding until the warrant's lifted. She wants you and me to talk to her husband on her behalf. God knows what she thinks he's going to do.'

  Theo, with knowledge of the parson and Timaru, could have told him. 'Well, being hidden, being unable to be found, that's her top card, and she won't jeopardise that,' he said. 'Sure, I'll do anything I can, but this is all legal stuff, isn't it?'

  'I know about the law,' said Zack, 'but she thinks you know what she wants from the situation. She's keen you be involved.'

  Again Theo felt pleasure that Penny put some trust in him. When they'd been together she'd sometimes seemed offhand, but now there was this sign of preference, despite what had happened. And in accepting that preference he allowed for greater possibility in their relationship. He took care, of course, that Zack was aware of none of that. He said he didn't see that he could contribute much, that he'd need to talk to Penny before any meeting, that he didn't feel he knew what it was she wanted.

  'You'll have time for all that before we leave,' Zack said.

  'Leave?' said Theo.

  'Erskine Maine-King wants to meet in Nice in a fortnight. He's got business in Europe.'

  That was a crunch point right there. It wasn't so much the issue of getting agreement from the paper, or taking so much time on it, or whether Theo could handle it. He needed to understand why Penny wanted him as part of something so important to her, and if his acceptance would mark a final commitment to the whirlpool of her life.

  When Theo said he needed to talk to Penny before making any decision, Zack said that was fine provided he had an answer soon after Easter. He offered Theo a mint from a lidded jar, tinted light blue, which sat on the client side of his desk. Maybe the sweets were for the infrequent children who accompanied their parents into Zack's office, but Theo took one anyway. So did the lawyer. They bulged their cheeks at each other because the mints were landmine size, but Zack didn't seem to feel incongruous even in his crisp, striped shirt with silver cufflinks. There's a lot said about the need for men to express their emotions, to talk more about how they feel, but the Virginian and Theo enjoyed the reassurance of reticence, and talked briefly about one of the paper's other stories before Theo left, the mint rattling against his teeth. Zack just nodded to him at the door.

  It was a long time since any woman had asked something significant of Theo. He found it both affirming and yet unsettling.

  15

  Theo finished the fourth article on Penny during the morning that preceded Good Friday, with Nicholas complaining of a sore throat and coughing often to prove it. When he took his copy through to Anna, she said it was easily the best story of the year. Theo thought it was just that other journalists were shut out because Penny dealt only with him, but he was pleased with it because he considered he had kept the tone from being mawkish, and built sympathy by mentioning the attempted kidnapping of Ben without giving too much away. 'Take some credit, Theo,' Anna said. 'You've given good legs to this story. That stunt in Timaru reads as bloody good drama. So much publicity in Penny Maine-King's favour must be putting pressure on the court.' Normally he wouldn't take his pieces to Anna, but she'd been supportive of the story all along, and he was preparing the way for his request to go to Nice with Zack Heywood.

  He didn't feel like turning to any other writing that afternoon, wanting to let his mind lie fallow for a time, so after lunch he went to visit his parents, who lived in a retirement village in New Brighton. It was a two bedroomed brick home of strict conformity sanctioned by the village ordinances, but they seemed quite happy with all the strictures of the place and the various service charges and community levies. Theo's recollection of his mother and father when they lived in small towns was that they were independent, with strong sources of individuality, but in retirement they had morphed into city lemmings, seeking security and the company of their own age group. Bridge and bowls were the two poles of their world, and television filled most of the space in between. His mother had the slightly greater enthusiasm for bridge; the order was reversed in regard to bowls.

  Sometimes Theo thought that his infrequent visits were an inconvenient interruption to their complacent routines, though they never said so. He called out of filial duty, and they received him with similar convention. He talked of sport and his outward life, asked after their health; they dutifully asked him about his work, and told anecdotes about Mandy and Tom, their grandchildren by Theo's sister, their only other child. The stories of infancy arose in Sydney, but fed into the life of Theo's parents by email, cards, phone calls, texts and small but uninhibited artistic favours from Mandy and Tom. It was one of the few aspects of a visit to the retirement compound that Theo enjoyed: the tales made loving and humorous by kinship, the unsteady kindergarten lions and hippos in thick crayon on the door of the fridge, the reassuring victories over croup and nappy rash.

  Stella was rarely a topic of conversation, nor was anything else from the time of Theo's marriage. His parents didn't have the experience, or language, to grapple with divorce at such close quarters. They would no more enquire about his emotional life than they would question his religious beliefs: probably thought both unnecessary, if they existed within their son at all.

  'Been reading your stuff about the Californian woman who's hiding out with her little boy,' said Theo's mother.

  'It's just so sad for everyone. Why can't they leave her alone? Surely they couldn't send her to prison with a child to look after.'

  'She could be imprisoned for contempt of court, though,' said Theo. 'She's actually a New Zealander who married in California.'

  Iris Esler was a spare woman with a long face. In the photographs of her youth it was softened by the skin's bloom and a frame of dark hair, but with age the heavy, slightly mulish bone structure was coming through. It gave her a disputatious appearance that was entirely false. 'Oh, poor thing,' she said. 'I'm sure it will all work out. The little boy must be about the age of our Tom.'

  She had turned down the television, but it still flickered across from the three of them in the small lounge, so that it was difficult not to observe t
he silent action while talking of other things. For Christ's sake, why couldn't people turn the set off and give attention to each other. It became an unacknowledged filler when conversation lapsed, sometimes even a substitute. When talk lagged, his parents' attention would be drawn back to the screen: sometimes his father would give a little grunt of inappropriate amusement during a conversation, because of some pratfall on the television. Bridge and bowls weren't so bad, all things considered. Direct experience at least, instead of hunched obeisance before the screen.

  Theo looked at his father carefully. Recently he'd had some difficulty in recalling his appearance when they weren't together. In memory Don Esler was small and strong, like a lightweight boxer, springing in and out of truck cabs, working twenty bales high on the haystack or urging steers up the inclined race into the stock crates. He had become even smaller, with a Punch face of oversized features and a waist so slender that his trousers were bunched there by the belt. Time exaggerated a certain unpromising individuality of looks in Theo's mother, but had worn his father to generic old age. In the street, or the supermarket, Theo might well pass his father without recognition. And if former appearance was lost, what else was there to act as link between father and son except memories to which the older man laid no claim.

  Theo made an effort when his mother was in the kitchen. 'So how are things?' he said.

  'Not so bad. Not so bad,' said his father.

  'How have the bowls been treating you?'

  'We've been doing okay actually. We played yesterday and it was that hot on the greens. There's this great bloody hedge all round and the place gets like an oven.'

  'Do you miss the business, the trucks and all that? You know, the farms you used to go to and the people you knew?'

  'Eh?' his father said. Was he glancing at the television?