* * *
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* * *
Though he looked far and wide—quite literally, there were thousands of women of all ages, creeds and colours, in countries and cities both near and far, ostensibly desperate to be supported by men such as himself—Duvall was only interested in one person’s profile. He glanced at Britney’s page because she had given him the moniker she used:
Brit4U
Age: 26
Asking: Email for details
Body Type: Slim
Height: 157cm
Ethnicity: Caucasian
Last Visit: 36 hours ago
But the one he went back to daily, if not hourly, belonged to SuperKittenBaby. Admittedly, there were six SuperKittenBabies listed, in locations as diverse as Stockholm, Alabama, Athens, Lucca, and Kenya, but the one he wanted was the local incarnation.
Age: 24
Asking: Help with school
Body Type: Athletic
Height: 170cm
Ethnicity: Caucasian
There was her picture, the face slightly blurred so that one wouldn’t quite recognise her in the street, or sitting next to you in a university lecture. She’d written a small introduction about herself, and though it was the standard sort of guff repeated in an infinite number of the profiles (‘I’m a friendly and positive girl who loves the outdoors, looking for a friend who can…’) she hadn’t told any lies either. Sandy described herself as practical, focussed, friendly and warm, and without demands. She made a thing of asking for someone who was kind, and, in general, all she wanted was help with paying her way through her degree, plus a little extra money to put towards her big adventure: a year’s backpacking the globe.
Last visit: ten months ago
Though he checked regularly, that information didn’t change. Ten months ago; that was probably soon before or soon after she’d come to him in her golden tan dress. Something about that squeezed his heart; plus the fact that the information remained the same. She hadn’t returned to the site, looking for another man.
* * *
Friday morning Duvall shaved carefully and showered, then he dressed into the powder-blue Italian two-piece suit he’d purchased for that late-in-life wedding the previous year. It had been, he recalled, one of the happiest weddings he’d ever been to. Duvall had already pressed his white shirt and polished his black leather shoes, and as he stood in front of the mirror making an expert Windsor knot of his woollen tie, he reflected that he was doing exactly what he’d promised himself he would never do. For Sandy, the world outside his front door had always been hers, but today he was entering it.
It had taken one short telephone call to find out where the graduation ceremony was being held; the receptionist who’d picked up the phone was even willing to email him an attachment containing the day’s running sheet, but he told her that wasn’t necessary. He knew the layout of the campus well enough, and in the shimmering midday heat he quickly found a spot to park on the third floor of the multi-storey car park. As he walked across the beautifully maintained grounds and gardens he wasn’t perspiring, despite the humidity. His temple thrummed a little but his belly was quiet.
Soon he was sitting toward the back of the great theatre and he enjoyed the choir that sang two hymns, the vice-chancellor’s address to the hundreds of friends and families gathered there, and the non-political and mercifully brief, if not out-and-out humorous, speech the premier of the state made, which was aimed at the graduands themselves. It took an eternity for each graduate to walk across the stage in their outrageous gown and hat, collect their rolled piece of certificate, shake the premier’s, then the vice-chancellor’s hand, and descend via the opposite stairs. All applause was to be held off until the end, and though there was an inappropriately enthusiastic smattering here and there, Duvall restrained himself when Sandy took the stage and demurely did as she was supposed to do. He felt tears prickle his eyes. A shudder went through him. Joy for her, sadness for him. Someone was pressed too close to him on the right, and as Sandy left the stage Duvall excused himself and made his way down the crowded row to the centre aisle—annoying many who had to get out of his way—and went and stood outside in a patch of shade, but near the main exit doors.
Within thirty minutes everyone had emptied the theatre. Discreet groups filled the grounds, taking photographs, shaking hands, hugging, plenty already leaving. Duvall had his eye on Sandy; she was with what he took to be her sisters and their husbands. There were several small children with them, a couple of younger girls too, and three or four male adolescents. No boyfriend that Duvall could discern. He moved on the periphery of these groups, not interacting with anyone, but when Sandy finally saw him, he noted the concern that came into her face and the way she quickly extinguished it, so much so that despite the smiles and laughter of those around her, she became something of a blank. Duvall gently eased through the crowd, politely made his way past the sisters and their children, then reached out and took both Sandy’s hands in his.
She simply stared at him.
He wanted to tell her, I’m sorry to break the boundaries we set, but it’s just the once, and despite what an old man like me wants, or tries to want, the human heart’s a little too treacherous, and boundaries are really things it refuses to understand.
Instead he caught his breath and said, ‘God bless you.’
* * *
By the time Sandy replied, Duvall had driven the Lexus all the way out to the stretch of land that used to be his childhood home, the once-upon-a-time countryside that was now variously labelled ‘Meadowlands’, ‘St Patrick’s Chase’, and ‘Summerland Heights’. He had his coat and tie off, and had unbuttoned his shirt collar. It was seasonably warm and, on this hilltop, as a sort of grace for anyone considering the purchase of a two and a half or three acre block, a cool and very sweet breeze from the distant forest made the long fronds and carpeting of wild grass sway and bow. Maybe he could buy one of these patches of land, he was thinking, right at the peak, and whenever he looked out a window he’d picture having once lived around here with his family, and all the years inbetween.
Duvall was taking a deep lungful of that sweet air when his mobile vibrated in his pocket. It was a text message, not a call. He squinted to read the screen in the bright daylight.
GodXU2, which he deciphered as ‘God bless you too’.
He contemplated the small screen a moment, then composed: Always meant to ask what WEG means?
It took her a heartbeat.
Wicked evil grin.
He had to smile of course; he would remember that grin. Wicked, sometimes. Evil, not that he could recall.
Remake a life here—or he could simply go back to his home, Duvall reflected, where he was already comfortable, because whether he fell or rose up didn’t have to do with this place, or any other.
Blossom
Lisa Walker
A Dalí print used to hang in the bathroom which David and I shared. Every morning and evening, the drooping clocks mesmerised me as I brushed my teeth. They hung off tree branches and walls like melting cheese on a hot summer day. If time was really as soft as a camembert cheese, would I bend it back and do things differently now?
It is 9 pm on New Year’s Eve when I shuffle onto the platform, hot and humid. Heavy clouds have hung over the town all day emitting sporadic drops of rain. A clay-like smell drifts towards my nostrils as rain drop splatters on the dirty concrete next to me.
Byron Bay has turned out to be not at all what I needed. Despite determined efforts to be cheerful, to smile at stran
gers, to exercise and swim, even to have a Reiki treatment, I have slid further and further over the line. I have always understood how people can come to believe they are Jesus or, worse, the other guy. I understood, but I didn’t go there. I stayed on the right side of sanity. Mainly.
But I seem to have lost my skin along with my marriage. Now the world just flows on in. My marriage. My divorce. The words drop like pebbles in my mind. Mea culpa. I strayed. I fell in love, or something like it, with another man. His wife found out. When the music stopped with only two chairs left, he and his wife were sitting in them. My husband and I wandered off in different directions.
Tonight’s fiasco was a last attempt to hold my ground. A year ago I never would have imagined that a group cuddle was a good idea. And a year ago I would have been right. Trapped in a roomful of strangers, all I could think of was one cuddle down, thirteen to go. ‘Sorry.’ I extracted myself from the rainbow-coloured beanbag. ‘I’ve got a train to catch.’
A raindrop self-destructs on my head. I check the battered timetable I have plucked from the drawer in my motel room. The train from Sydney arrives at 21.20. I do the figures again. Fifteen more minutes to wait. I tap my feet on the concrete, watch spots of rain decorate the rails, try to focus my mind, so I will be ready.
Why a train? Why not pills, drowning, or a blade? Perhaps I was thinking of Anna Karenina–the snow, the rushing wheels, the final jump. I always have been fond of trains.
On the streets, New Year’s Eve partying is in force, but here at the station, all is quiet. My feet are placed squarely on the white line beyond which you may not pass. Two steps and I will be over the edge. How did I come to this point? She was driven to her death by one cuddle too many. No, I can’t entirely blame the cuddle party. Carelessly losing my husband hasn’t helped, but it isn’t just that either. Perhaps it is as simple as a loss of pleasure. That’s how it seems. The world feels tuned to black and white.
‘Excuse me.’
The voice is an unwelcome distraction. I thought I was alone.
‘Would you like play bingo?’
I turn.
The girl is a strange figure in this setting–neatly cut hair, glasses, a short-sleeved collared shirt tucked into too-high jeans. A briefcase hangs from one hand. Most of the Japanese I’ve seen in Byron are hip. They have jagged-cut bleached hair and low-slung shorts. This girl shares one thing with them–a surfboard in a silver cover is tucked under her arm.
She doesn’t look like a surfer.
Bingo. I could almost laugh. Do I want to spend the last moments of my life playing bingo? With a girl who has unfortunate dress sense? Let me just think about that. Hm, no. I picture the irony. Did you hear? She was playing bingo. Before she jumped. Sad. She used to really be someone.
‘No thank you.’
The girl bows. ‘Sorry.’ She turns to go.
I feel bad. She seems lonely. She wants to play bingo. I don’t want to leave this life feeling selfish. Pretentious and delusional maybe, but not selfish. The gods are laughing at me–first the cuddle party, now bingo. Fate is a cruel tyrant.
‘Wait.’
She swivels back, her eyes apologetic behind her glasses.
‘How do you play bingo with two people?’
She smiles. ‘I show you.’ She beckons with her hand towards the back of the platform.
I’ll be back, I tell the white line. Don’t go anywhere.
We sit down on the bench, one at each end so there is room between us. Pulling a small box out of her briefcase she gives me a card with numbers marked on it.
‘We must be quick,’ she says.
‘Because the train is coming?’
She shakes her head, her silky hair swinging against her face. ‘Bingo starts at 21.12.’ The girl inspects her watch, then hands me a pencil. ‘Thirty second. Then we start.’ She pulls out some cards and places them on the bench between us. ‘We take turns to turn over.’ Her eyes follow the hand of her watch. ‘Now.’ Her tone implies great urgency.
I want to ask her why the rush, but there doesn’t seem to be enough time.
‘Twenty-one.’ She giggles, crossing the number off her card.
I flip up the next one. ‘Two.’ One for me.
‘Sixteen.’
‘Thirty-six.’
The pile of cards diminishes between us.
‘Nine,’ says the girl.
‘Bingo.’ I wave my card with mock excitement. Now I can get back to it. I start to rise.
‘You win.’ The girl opens her briefcase and hands me a parcel. ‘Your prize.’
It is a face-cloth, sealed in plastic and decorated with pink flowers.
‘Sakura.’ The girl points. ‘Cherry blossom.’
‘Did you bring this with you from Japan?’
She nods.
‘Just for bingo?’
‘Yes.’ She taps her briefcase. ‘I am ready.’
‘Thank you.’ I turn it in my hands. Wonder what they’ll make of it. After.
She smiles. ‘You are welcome. I am Iida. Miss Iida.’
‘I’m Arkie. Ms Arkie.’ I exhale, lower myself to the seat again; stick out my hand. Going through the motions. A good hostess.
Miss Iida looks at my hand, then puts hers out and clasps it briefly. ‘Misaki? This is Japanese name.’
I don’t bother to correct her. Misaki. I quite like it. I glance at my watch.
‘Train almost here,’ says Miss Iida.
I nod. I am resigned to being stuck with her now. I hope she’s not squeamish. I edge to the furthest point of the bench in preparation, measure the distance with my eyes. Five steps.
‘Beautiful blossom,’ says Miss Iida.
‘Pardon?’
‘Your name–beautiful blossom.’
‘Oh.’ That almost makes me smile. Misaki. Beautiful blossom.
‘On the train, we will have soba noodles,’ says Miss Iida. ‘At 22.12.’
I can’t let this pass. ‘Why the timing? Why soba noodles?’
‘Twelve minutes past the hour, because we are going to 2012. It is…’ She pauses.
‘Lucky?’
‘Yes, lucky. And we have soba noodles, because it is traditional.’ She gives a quick bow. ‘And they are delicious. It is optional, of course. You don’t need to have, if you don’t want.’
I glance at her slim briefcase. ‘You have them in there?’
She nods.
‘What else have you got?’
‘A prayer. That is for 23.12. And a present. For 24.12. I think we will be in Brisbane then.’
I’ll never get to see them. I brush the thought away. It will take more than a prayer and a present to deflect me. I think of telling her that, according to my timetable, the train only goes to Murwillumbah, but it seems too hard.
Miss Iida looks at her watch again. ‘Train is late.’
‘Not really.’ It is only nine twenty-five. ‘In Japan they run on time, right?’
Miss Iida nods. ‘Five twenty-two train comes at five twenty-two. Not five twenty-one or five twenty-three.’ There is something hesitant about her voice.
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
She nods in an indeterminate way. ‘Sometimes I wish…’
I wait.
‘Sometimes I wish it is less perfect.’
My eyes meet hers for a moment. She has nice eyes; dark brown behind her glasses. ‘Sometimes I wish it was more perfect here.’
She smiles. ‘We like to organise. In Japan.’
She is distracting me. I drum my fingers on the bench, tap my feet, tense my muscles so I will be ready. I twist my hair back from my face and secure it with a clasp. I need to be able to see what I’m doing. Five steps, then a jump.
David used to say that my hair was the colour of autumn. Now it is like autumn leaves chewed by caterpillars. Autumn leaves with flecks of snow. Stress has not only ruined my hair, it has made me lose weight. Once, I would have killed for the hips I’ve got, but now I miss my curves.
&
nbsp; On the positive side, my clothes sit better on my body. Tonight I am wearing my cloudy night outfit–a floaty black top over floaty black pants with flashes of silver. Stars glimpsed through curtains. Such things will be noted. By those who care.
‘In Japan, sometimes train is late.’ Miss Iida gazes out at the platform. ‘When it hit people.’
I catch my breath, stare at her face, but there is nothing to see. I cough. ‘Does that happen much?’
‘Yes.’ Her gaze doesn’t shift from the rails.
I am expecting her to say more, but she doesn’t. ‘So, what happens after the prayer and the present?’ I hadn’t even known I was going to speak.
She turns to me. ‘After present, is bed time.’
I like the precision, the direction given. Outside the train station drunken revellers crowd the street. ‘We don’t do it like that here. We drink. We kiss at midnight. Everything else is…’
Miss Iida waits politely.
Everything else is so bloody complex, so fraught with possibilities that will never be fulfilled. ‘Negotiable.’ I look down the tracks. Where is that train?
‘On New Year’s Eve we make fresh start. Leave old troubles behind.’
Ha. It is a nice idea, but it never works. We are silent for a while. ‘You’re surfing?’ I nod at the surfboard, now under her knees. Will I still be making small-talk as I jump?
‘I have been surfing. For one week. Now I go home.’
‘One week? You came all the way from Japan for one week?’
She nods. ‘I have one week holiday only.’
‘Only one week a year?’
‘Yes. And I am finding surfing so enjoyable. I am exciting every day. I surf from nine until five. No stopping for lunch.’
‘Nine until five? No stopping?’
‘Sometimes I have cup of coffee only. Then I am surfing again. It is too much pleasure.’ Her eyes light up with excitement.
Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 2, Issue 5 Page 6