Loving Ways

by Gee, Maurice

  ‘Dad, it’s May. Can you talk?’

  His colour had been red – the red of self-esteem – and his prominences round: cannonball chest, full bulging eye. Now he was faded and his hardness had collapsed.

  ‘Saw you,’ he said. ‘Saw you come in. You’re too late.’

  ‘What for, Dad?’

  ‘Whatever you’ve come for. Too late.’

  A ‘real’ daughter would kiss him and hold his hand. She knew the distaste it would cause. It would wrench them on to a wrong angle and, almost, be unnatural.

  ‘Have you had the doctor?’

  ‘He comes.’

  ‘What does he say? You’ve lost all your colour, Dad. You’ve lost a lot of weight.’

  ‘You know what it’s called, don’t you? Dying.’

  ‘Is that what he said?’

  ‘It’s what I say. I don’t need doctors to tell me what I know.’

  ‘All the same, what is it? Has it got a name?’

  ‘Stomach won’t digest anything. Whole digestive system’s shot to hell. My blood’s like water. I can’t even lift my hand.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like anything I’ve heard of.’

  ‘Lung cancer. If you want a name. I didn’t get you over here to talk about myself. Did that girl tell you what I want?’

  ‘She didn’t say you wanted anything.’ Lung cancer. It did not shock her, although it was a name supposed to weaken the knees and bring a blur on consciousness as one apprehended – what? She touched her father’s hand and said, ‘Do you get any pain?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle. Get that book. That notebook. Give it here.’

  She took a small address book, zebra-patterned, from the bedside table and put it in his hand.

  ‘I want you to make a phone call for me.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘I would have got her but she’s too busy. That’s one good thing you’ve done: that girl. I don’t know how you managed.’

  ‘Her name’s Heather, not “that girl”. And she should be hiring you a nurse instead of being out there counting apples. Do you want me to get a nurse for you?’

  ‘No. No nurses.’

  ‘You can afford one.’

  ‘No nurses. I don’t want any nurses messing me.’

  ‘A male nurse. You can get them.’

  ‘Nancy boys. Stop fussing.’

  ‘So, Dad, you want to die alone?’

  ‘What other way is there? You can come, if you want. As long as you don’t start weeping and wailing.’

  ‘No. Not me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not coming. I’ll visit you but I’m not coming back here to live. I left in 1965 and that was it.’

  Another shifting had occurred and she would have to find out what it meant when she had time. Her father wanted her at last. It was like the slipping of a waterlogged bank to block a path she had learned to walk on easily. No, she thought, I don’t need this, I won’t take any notice. I live with Evan at Inlet Arts.

  Robert Macpherson had closed his eyes and brought his lips together, making his face thinner, minimal. She wondered if it was a trick he’d learned; or learned the trembling in his hands. But he would never make himself small, or ask by pretending to be weak, not even when dying.

  ‘Dad, are you all right?’ The address book had slipped from his fingers. She put it on the table and leaned close, smelling his desiccated skin. ‘What’s wrong? What can I do?’

  ‘Get her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That girl.’

  May went out of the sunroom, out of the house. She ran through the trees to the packing shed. Heather was directing a new bin of apples into the tank.

  ‘Heather, he wants you.’

  ‘I’m busy. I can’t come.’

  ‘He’s had some sort of turn. He’s asking for you.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Heather said, ‘he’s your father, not mine.’

  ‘So I’ll tell him you’re too busy then, shall I?’

  ‘Useless. Everyone’s useless,’ Heather said. She shouted something at the tractor driver – to May it seemed no more than a cry of rage – and set off through the trees to the house, going direct, pushing branches. She tore off her head scarf and crushed it in her palm. Her bare heavy thighs slapped each other as they crossed. There’s no softness in this family, not an ounce, May thought. Natural affections turn to stone, we bang against each other and make sparks. She was a part of it, she’d let herself harden and now, faced with Heather or David or her father, could only glance off them and make ugly sounds. She longed for some softness, the touch of someone’s hand, but it was like asking for a change in nature now. They were like this, the Macphersons, from choice and then long habit – they had evolved.

  She started for the house, taking the road, but had gone only a few steps when she heard her name called. It was an enormous relief – a voice from outside the family.

  ‘Freda,’ she said, and put out an arm – could not manage two. Freda came into it and kissed her.

  ‘I saw your car come in. I didn’t think you’d show up over here.’

  ‘Dad’s sick.’

  ‘Yes, I heard. How bad is he?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’ She did not want this sort of talk with Freda, or talk of David, but had to say, ‘Did he go past?’

  ‘He must have. I didn’t see. I phoned the Pecks. My tenants. He went in there yesterday, throwing his weight around.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Smashed the letter box. They told him I’ve gone back to Prentiss.’

  ‘Did they call the police?’

  ‘No, they didn’t want trouble. I think they smoke dope. God, can’t I pick ’em.’ A new hardness in her, Macpherson hardness. May was guilty to see it, for she had brought her friend and her brother together – but oh it was an accident and not by design. And Freda had never been soft; she had pushed people about – pushed May – but had shown no self in it, rather a need to reduce their pain and make them easy. At school May, lonely and sullen, had found herself plucked by the sleeve into Freda’s group – to the dismay of most of its members. And in Wellington it had been like that. Now look at Freda – restless, twitchy, reduced in her awareness to things that touched herself. Her face was thinned and somehow adolescent. Changing to Macpherson had done this and changing back to Prentiss would not set it in reverse.

  ‘What are all those marks?’

  ‘Oh, a rash.’ Freda raised her arms. ‘Look, it’s all over. It’s those bloody Galas, the spray on them. It didn’t happen in the Coxes. I’ll sue Heather.’

  ‘Does it itch?’

  ‘Yes, it does. I was going up to the house to see if she’s got anything. Some cream or block or something.’

  ‘You’ll have to stop.’

  ‘I don’t want to stop. I like picking. And this is one place David won’t look.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  They walked to the house and went into the living room. From the sunroom Heather’s voice murmured, surprising May with its gentleness.

  ‘I suppose I can look in the bathroom? I’m part of the family,’ Freda said.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ May watched in the mirror as Freda washed her hands, and saw that her prettiness remained; but it was intense and inward-looking and not available to other people any more. She wanted to put her hand out, as Freda had once done, and pull her into safety, out of that absorption with herself.

  ‘Here,’ she said, ‘this might do. Skin Balm.’

  Freda squirted it in her palm and rubbed her arms and hands. ‘God, it stings.’

  ‘It’s worse than a rash, Freda. It’s come up in welts. You can’t go back.’

  ‘So what do I do? I’ve got to earn money.’

  ‘You could nurse Dad.’

  ‘I don’t want to nurse him. I’ve finished with nursing. Anyway, he doesn’t like me.’

  ‘He doesn’t like anyone,’ May said. Looking in the mirror, she saw Heather appear in the
door. ‘Look at Freda’s arms. Look what the spray’s doing to her.’

  ‘Who said it’s spray? And that’s my Skin Balm you’re using.’

  ‘Of course it’s spray,’ Freda said. ‘What else could it be?’

  ‘It looks like an allergy. I’m not responsible for allergies.’

  May left them arguing and went to the living room. Freda had taught Heather how to wash her hair once and, leaning, had kissed her on the nape of her neck. Then she’d chased her with the blowdrier, blowing warm air in her armpits. The pair had ended up rolling in each other’s arms, squealing with laughter. That had been a long time ago. Listen to them now.

  She looked into the sunroom. Robert Macpherson was rearranged. It was hard to think of Heather plumping pillows and slicking hair. Did she use spit the way a mother would? Who had taught her that?

  ‘Dad, you look better now.’

  ‘Where is she? Has she gone?’

  ‘Back to the apples,’ May lied.

  ‘She looks just like your mother. Same legs.’

  May was surprised. He had never mentioned her mother in any but an aggressive or a spiteful way; had punished May with her, when he could be bothered.

  ‘Fay wasn’t a patch on that girl though.’

  That was more like it. There was much to be said for the settled state of things, it did not disturb.

  ‘Who did you want me to telephone?’

  ‘Here. Give me that book.’

  She put it in his hand again and watched him find a page. ‘This one. Him. Tell him I want to see him.’

  May turned the book to read. Again she felt a sudden lurch of weight away from her centre, and felt a hollow open there. She looked at her father and he showed his yellow teeth – perhaps to grin. He knew how the name would affect her: Alan Macpherson.

  The brother she had not seen for thirty-five years.

  ALAN

  His last job before driving south was to deliver the cat to the cattery. It meant approaching her softly and stroking her a moment, before the betrayal of the box. He would not have thought it unfair if she’d scratched him at that point, but all she did was set up a wailing as he fastened the lid.

  ‘Sorry, cat.’

  He kept her for companionship, not affection. A house with only one occupant was not properly filled; and he might never hear his own voice. He put her in the footwell on the passenger side of the car. ‘It’s a good place you’re going to,’ he said as he drove. ‘And damned expensive. So stop complaining.’

  He did not wait to see her released into the pen, but found the motorway and settled in the inside lane, letting fast cars whistle by. He was in no hurry and had nothing to prove. Crossing the bridge he looked downharbour where the Waiheke ferry was sliding on its skates. A school of sailboats stood off Mission Bay. He had meant to be on the water himself today, not heading off into a situation he could get no handle on. There was no way he could plan for it, or even prepare. He simply had to go there, drop down into it and then do some kind of appreciation. This must be, he thought, the way paratroopers feel. But he carried no equipment, unless somehow the years were equipment and all his acquired skills of management a weapon, or at least an instrument he might use. He did not expect to find his feelings engaged, and felt some regret for it as he drove south.

  The woman had said, ‘He’d like to see you. I don’t know why,’ and he had said, ‘Did you say May? Are you my sister?’

  ‘Half sister,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, half. So how is Dad?’

  ‘He thinks he’s got lung cancer but the doctor says it’s not. He’s ninety-one. It’s his heart. Can you come? I’ve got to tell him something.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll come.’ He would have liked, ‘How are you?’, and would have liked to say it himself, but she left no opening. He saw that he should not have needed one; should have said what he had wanted to and forced something out from behind her reserve. She must at least feel curiosity. He was, himself, more than curious, he was afraid. He had felt a dogged force in the woman – in May – and recognised it across the years, in the sullen barefoot girl pegging shirts on the line. He had felt his father’s force too, without even speaking to him.

  At midday, on the Desert Road, with the mountains turning on his right, he came up on a convoy of army trucks and sat behind them happily as far as Waiouru, where they turned into the camp. He was tempted to follow and find people he knew, and look at places, but rejected it as softness. May and his father were the objective and following the convoy a mistake. It blurred his focus. He would look in on the way back.

  At Taihape he ate a salad sandwich in his car and drank bottled water; then he made what he thought of as the downward half of the journey, through Bulls and Levin to Wellington. That city moved him to a feeling of loss. He turned out of the gorge on to the harbour and saw the curve of Oriental Bay and the shoebox buildings and back across the water the Orongorongo hills, and names and shapes, space and contour had a familiarity that quickly became bogus. You could not claim your past except through tricks of omission.

  On the ferry, moving out, he tried to find the house he had rented in Wadestown but it was hidden in the fold of the hill. Stop looking sideways, he told himself, get ready for Dad and May, and maybe David too. Was David there? She hadn’t mentioned him, but had said something about a daughter, Heather. So, she had married and had children; he had no idea what her name was now. Mrs who? His life had been ordered and sensible but that piece of ignorance called it in question. Where had he been for thirty-five years?

  The ferry made a rocking-horse movement in the strait. He stood on deck, holding the rail; controlled his nausea by breathing deep and watching for the channel into the hills. The sunset was bloody with smoke from across the Tasman, and he thought of Australia too, and places he had once seemed to possess – Duntroon, Queenscliff – and knew he could not have them again. It bewildered him, this sense of possessing and not possessing. He had thought of the past as an easy thing and no more to be questioned than breathing. A phone call, he thought, and it’s all gone. It was like Phoebe, whom he had loved and wanted to marry – a little conversation, a dozen words, and that was gone. It had been like someone taking him by the shoulders and jerking him round from the window he was looking out to an entirely different view. The configuration of the world was changed. Was he going to find that again, in Nelson, after the call from the child with unwashed hair and crooked teeth?

  The channel was a danger, an exhilaration – jagged rocks, bursting waves, seabirds whirling away, and the ferry leaning on its magnetic curve from the broken water into the still. It brought back his confidence and made him feel able and controlled. A week’s leave from his job was all he had taken, but it should be enough to hear his father and hear May, and David too, and set himself in position vis-à-vis. He need not worry what that position might be. There had been, in leaving the orchard, an imperative, and then there had been circumstances, over the years, and here he was and there they were, and nothing important was to be expected now. The situation first, he thought, and then I list my tasks, and it shouldn’t take too long. I’ll be back in Auckland by this time next week. It would take the cat two or three days to settle down. He would give her more attention in that time but not let any new habits form. Their present relationship was the way he liked it.

  He booked into a motel in Picton and watched television for an hour – picked up the news – then went to bed, where he cleared his mind of the day and tried, his nightly discipline, for the sense of communion he sometimes reached with God. Even when he failed he believed himself rewarded: movement out of will, out of self, was curative. He failed on that night, with the motion of the car and boat rocking in his mind and the day hanging on, but was not unhappy. He prayed for his father and his sister and his brother, then lay a while enjoying the strange room and distant unfamiliar sounds. It was like being in the jungle. It was like being surrounded, but alone, in the turning world. There was danger and no dang
er, for that was how He had laid it down.

  Sleeping, dreaming, he found himself in a car rushing down a road with broken edges and a huge drop to a foaming creek. There were pools of green water and children swimming and families on tartan rugs eating sausages, and he cried at them, ‘When will you know God?’ A man and a woman copulated on a shingle bank. The woman had no face and would not be named; the man was him – close, close, on the point of coming, but would not until she had a face.

  He woke and was disgusted with himself. He took his water glass from the bedside table and drank until it was empty, then padded to the kitchen for more. These dreams filled him with anger and dismay. He would not be out of control. It was, he thought, the motion of the car and ten hours sitting: they irritated parts and pooled the blood, conjuring up an incubus – or was it succubus, he did not know. An evil spirit. That was why she did not have a face. Many times, years ago, she had worn Phoebe’s face.

  He lay down and calmed his mind and prayed again: that he might find peace, and that, if it pleased God, he might find a woman to love with his mind and heart, and body too, in the full communion he believed was possible. A bar of light from a car on a nearby hill moved slowly across the room and passed out through a wall. He got up again and used the toilet, then went back to bed and went to sleep, and did not dream again until morning, when images of yesterday and tomorrow appeared, making him mumble and turn. That shallow dreaming angered him, but was easily put aside for shaving and showering and breakfast and the news on the radio. It was only in the car again, driving by the swamp on the Blenheim road, that he thought of what he might be called upon to do. One of those morning images had been of him kissing a strange lank-haired woman on the brow. Her ankles were flea-bitten. There was mud between her toes.

  On the by-pass he saw stalls selling vegetables and fruit, and wineries with restaurants attached, and he thought that he should not go empty-handed. A bottle or two after so many years – so much neglect? – would signal goodwill. He could not be certain that wine was appropriate for a deathbed, but it seemed right enough for ninety-one years. The woman – May – had not been certain that their father was dying. He bought Chardonnay because it was recommended, although he preferred red wine himself. When the road began to wind and climb the bottles played a tune on the back seat. He stopped and separated them, and stopped again in Nelson to work out the streets. You used the cathedral as a sighter in this town. The main street ran north from it towards the boulder bank. He was pleased with his mapping and his mind’s delivery of information, and he found the inland route with no trouble and drove slowly, looking at his school and the football field where he had scored his try in the quadrangular final against Christ’s, and then, on the other side, the hospital where his stepmother had been taken to die in the same week he had left for Duntroon. Did she die? How long had it taken? It shamed him that he did not know. He could not understand how things had been.