Tremble

by Tobsha Learner

  He stares at my belly, running his hands across its curve. I watch him, smiling. All is as it should be: Robert won’t die, he will leave his wife, move in with me, we will have the baby in five months, it will be a boy.

  The afternoon he was getting his result I was also in a hospital room, by myself, shivering as they ran that cold slippery thing across my skin and staring at the fuzzy outline of life floating defiantly on the ultrasound screen. An undeniable manifestation of our love. Thinking: whatever happens I will mother this child.

  I prop myself up. We’ve just made love and he was gentle, too careful, as if he was frightened of hurting the baby. It’s ironic: of the two of us I have the power now. No more waiting around for the phone to ring; no more clandestine meetings stolen between work and home.

  “When are you going to tell her?”

  “Today, as soon as I leave here. I mean it this time. I’ve made a pledge to God and that is my decision. I will be a good father.”

  A pledge to God? I’ve never heard Robert talk like this before. I stare at him, unsure he isn’t being sardonic.

  “A pledge to God, Robert? Don’t you just love me?”

  “Of course I do. It’s just that I feel I’ve been given a gift, the gift of life, and I mean to do something constructive with it.”

  For a moment I wonder whether his dermatologist has put him on antidepressants as he stands naked from the waist down in the middle of my bedroom, wearing a T-shirt advertising an ancient AC/DC tour, his flaccid penis dangling comically under his belly, his face aflame with a fervor that would make even a Scientologist nervous.

  “Robert, you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’ve never been clearer. Maddy, this is going to be a whole new start, for both of us. I’ll buy Georgina out, get us a small townhouse with an extra bedroom—only what if it’s twins?”

  “It’s not twins, don’t worry.”

  “You’ve had an ultrasound?”

  I nod, feeling a little guilty about being so manipulative.

  “And?”

  “It’s a boy.”

  “A boy.” He gazes at my womb again, enraptured. He loves the idea that it will be a little clone of himself, I think, slightly resentfully, but adore him for his excitement anyway. A flash of the future shoots through me: Robert pushing a stroller wearing board shorts and T-shirt, looking fatter and older, me walking next to him, pregnant with our second child, his hand in mine.

  “What’s that?”

  He walks over to the chair and picks up the hair shirt. For one terrible second I’m scared he’ll recognize his own hair, his own smell. But no, he’s examining it like it’s just another shirt. Funny how we’re so oblivious to our own debris, the pieces we leave behind, the emotional chaos that erupts when the door closes behind us.

  “Just a top I had made.”

  “It’s beautiful, a really good weight. What’s the fabric?”

  “Oh, this new goat’s hair that’s become fashionable. I was thinking of giving it to you for your birthday.”

  “That’s so sweet.”

  He holds it up against him. Naturally the color of the hair shirt suits his eyes and skin tone perfectly. He stares at himself in the mirror as if he is seeing himself for the first time. A shiver runs through me; he’s displaying an intense narcissism I’ve never seen in him before. It’s almost as if the shirt has possessed him.

  “Madeleine,” he murmurs in a low formal tone.

  I stiffen. I hate it when he uses my full name, it usually means he’s going to announce something portentous—like he’s changed his mind and is going back to Georgina. But instead he takes my hands and kisses them.

  “It’s been a ride, the last few weeks, but I really feel like I’ve come out on the other side. This—us, you, the baby, the cancer—has forced me to a new level of maturity. Of responsibility. At forty-seven I feel like I’m really becoming a man.”

  Well, fuck, what do you say to that? Naturally I’m touched and naturally I’m suspicious. This is the man who wasn’t answering my calls three weeks ago. Besides this isn’t the streetwise, emotionally burned-out Robert I’ve known and loved for the past three years. The best I can hope for is that once he’s got over the shock of surviving cancer and becoming a father he’ll settle back into the cryptic pessimist I love sparring with intellectually as well as fucking.

  “It’s like I’m reborn,” he announces, his eyes wandering back to his own reflection as he smooths down the hair shirt, almost as if he’s caressing himself.

  “Can I take the shirt today? As a memento.”

  “Sure, babe. Now, you are going to ring me the second you tell her? I’ve got the study ready for your things if you want to move out immediately.”

  “Absolutely.”

  He kisses me briefly on the lips, throws off his T-shirt, slips the hair shirt over his head, then pulls on his trousers. A second later his pager goes off and he’s out of there, leaving me glowing with post-coital victory.

  Madeleine’s shirt is kind of silky with a slight edge to it. It feels great on the skin, like someone’s hugging me. The ideal weight for wool, whatever fucking old goat it was made from, perfect for a Sydney spring day. Walking away from her apartment I feel younger than I have in years. Like a great burden has been lifted off my shoulders and everything is possible. Daddy, Papa, Da, Father. The image of a miniature version of myself snuggling up to my bare chest plays pleasantly across the back of my eyes. My son. Aged two, aged four, aged nine, playing soccer as I stand on the sideline screaming support. First girlfriend, first rock concert, first car, wedding speeches, grandchildren, christening. Genetic infinity.

  Suddenly nothing else seems important. So what if the next band makes platinum? So what if Play 360 signs to Sony US? What am I planning to become—a name on a plaque in the reception room of some recording agency? A footnote in some outdated history of Australian rock, total print run: ten thousand. Was that going to be my legacy? Not now. Now my life’s taken a sharp left, is running off the tracks and heading for the forest, the deep impenetrable forest, and, my God, does it feel great.

  As soon as I opened the door I knew. He had a blissed-out look in his eyes and yet, for the first time in our marriage, he was shut off. An invisible veil drawn between us. I’ll remember that moment until the day I die. Tragedy is like that: it dresses down, hides itself in an arbitrary moment that suddenly spirals out into a drama that will haunt you for life.

  He stood there dressed in that thing, that monstrous piece of theft, unable to look me in the eye.

  “Georgina,” he stammered, “I’m leaving you for Madeleine. I have to, she’s having our baby.”

  “Robert, for Christ’s sake, come in,” I said, “and have a cup of tea.”

  We sat opposite each other, the kitchen table running between us like a no-man’s land between enemy trenches. My grandmother’s Victorian teapot stood in the middle like an aberrant watchtower, the sugar bowl a stationary tank that promised to take no prisoners. I kept sneaking glimpses at the shirt, that shimmering travesty that smelled of profound betrayal, of blood.

  The gray-gunmetal tint gave it away immediately. I knew; how could I not? I’ve slept with him for sixteen years, saturated in his juices, breathing the shifting nuances of his pheromones as he matured beside me. How many times has his hair fallen across me as he held himself over me making love? How many times have I shut my eyes beneath that gray tent? How many times have I plucked a stray hair from the pillow, out of the plug-hole, from his shoulder as he left for work? Of course I knew.

  I couldn’t tell you what we said that afternoon. I vaguely remember talking about splitting the mortgage, sorting out the bank accounts, the stock portfolios. I remember him trying not to weep, his shoulders wrestling with painfully silent tears. But most of all I remember thinking that whatever I did I had to get my hands on that hair shirt.

  This morning I put on my pearls, the strand he gave me for our wedding anniversary. It must have
been a premonition, as if all the ghosts of all the abandoned wives of my family were guiding my hands to the necklace. Or was I inspired by Vermeer’s blue lady, also on the brink of receiving very bad news?

  Whatever, the gesture crystallized into this moment, when I embrace my soon-to-be ex-husband. We move together, and as we do the catch on my pearl necklace snags on the hair shirt. As I step away, that tiny thread pulls a ladder down the fine weave—an innocent little descent into hell.

  “Oops,” I say, smiling slightly.

  The spasm is sudden, violent and excruciating. Like the worst period pain you could ever imagine. I’m on the balcony, watching the bats streaming across from the Botanical Gardens like they always do, umbrellas of black beating their way heroically against the fading light. I am thinking about Robert, the joy of trust, of being able to plan holidays together, of introducing him to my friends, being Mrs. Tetherhook—when the pain strikes.

  I double over immediately, grasping the rail to stop myself from falling over. The contraction passes but before I can catch my breath another sharp jolt shoots through my body. I hobble to the bathroom; already I can feel the sticky gush between my legs. Out of my mind with agony I pull my pants down and place myself on the toilet, just as another heaving pain rips through my abdomen.

  Ten minutes later, with tears streaming down my face, somehow I find the courage to stare down between my thighs. There it is: the shiny dome of its forehead showing through the mucus and blood, the tiny arms curled up toward its closed eyes. A perfectly formed male fetus.

  Life’s strange. Rephrase that: life’s fucking out there. I used to think we had some control, that things happened for a reason, even the weirdest things, as if a sequence of events created a pattern that made sense. Now, looking back over the past few months, I think that’s total bullshit. We know nothing. All we can hope for is that we survive this terrible getting of wisdom called life.

  I still manage bands. Actually Pear Records got voted most innovative Australian record company last week, not that there was that much competition given that there are only two real players in the race. I guess what’s really changed is that I’ve fallen in love for the second time in my life.

  It’s different this time around. At our age there’s so much baggage that sometimes you have to be prepared to shove it all into an attic, throw away the key, and then look for a new bed in which to hold, kiss, and rediscover each other all over again. Just ask Georgina—I know she’ll agree with me, she does that a lot these days. And we’ve started to laugh at ourselves. Fuck, it’s good. Almost as good as the kissing.

  As for Madeleine, I had to let her go. Don’t get me wrong: I felt bad about it, really bad. I even went into therapy. But she’ll bounce back; smart girls like her always do. It wasn’t like I abandoned her. After the miscarriage I helped her get a new job, bought her a new car, even gave her money for a mortgage. Then I went out and got myself a haircut.

  Custodian

  To look at him, you would think him an average elderly gentleman: that is to say, a seasoned individual of some two score and ten, with a generous but not ostentatious income of one hundred guineas or so per annum. A man of sound disposition.

  His hat is tall and of French origin, a trifle youthful perhaps for his age; his suit is elegant, his pumps well-polished. His face is typical of a gentleman in his fifties: jowly, worn, with remnants of beauty still visible beneath the ruin. His hair is gray with streaks of silver, full tresses he wears to his shoulders—again, the affectation of a far younger man. Something of the cynic plays around his lips; it is a mouth that looks as if it might once have been given to humor, but has been tempered by some past humiliation. He is an upstanding citizen who exudes an air of casual indifference, but if you were to examine him closer you might notice that under the shiny hat rim his eyes are bright with suspicion. They dart about the fashionable teahouse as if he is frightened…of what? Of recognition perhaps? Of somehow being exposed?

  A young woman in a striped dress and bonnet enters, a parasol swinging off her belt. Her beau, a handsome swain, obviously a local merchant from the Haymarket, walks beside her, laughing. Except unto themselves they are not interesting, but the sight of the maiden with her air of joie de vivre, the very embodiment of youth, causes our gentleman’s hand to suddenly tremble, spilling his coffee across the glass table and into the lap of his immaculate trousers.

  A waiter immediately appears to sponge away the offending fluid but his customer pays no heed to his ministrations. He cannot tear his eyes away from the exuberant couple. Suddenly he grasps the sleeve of the waiter.

  “How old do you take me for, boy?” he asks in a low gravelly bass.

  “A mature gentleman, sir. A man of some standing, around five and fifty, I’d wager, sir.” The waiter hopes to receive a larger tip by dropping ten years off his honest estimation.

  A great weariness settles upon our protagonist, melting his features into despondency.

  “I was born in 1824, boy, which makes me, as of today, twenty-six years old—no older than the gentleman over there,” he states, pointing to the swain.

  The waiter looks at him for a moment, his head cocked as if to question the man’s sanity. “In that case, a happy birthday to you, sir,” he replies a little too cheerfully then, bowing, rushes away to share the gentleman’s eccentricities with the kitchen. The gentleman slumps back in his chair, tea forgotten, as he recalls the beginning of his strange story. Three years before in the year of our Lord 1851 on a wintry January afternoon in that bastion of English colonialism, the British Museum.

  In a dreary office located in the bowels of the department of Greek and Roman antiquities a youth bent over a crumbling clay pot. With gloved hands, he carefully examined its markings through a magnifying glass. At twenty-three Alistair Sizzlehorn was of a delicate mien: his long wavy blond hair, his blue eyes and narrow face spoke of an aristocratic heritage, enhanced by his soft white hands and long fingers, all suggestive of a consumptive nature. In actuality, the archaeologist was of a far more robust disposition. The son of a Presbyterian minister and his dour unsentimental older wife, Alistair had grown up in the harsh Yorkshire dales. Isolated as a child and left to his own devices, he had developed a fascination for the primitive ruins the valleys held and his overactive imagination quickly plunged him into a mythical world of mysterious burial mounds and rings of archaic stones.

  A scholarship to Cambridge cemented his interest in the past and, much to his father’s chagrin (he had wanted his son to follow him into the church) Alistair immediately took up an offer from the British Museum on graduation—an apprenticeship to the legendary Dr. Edward McPhee.

  McPhee had been in the department of Roman and Greek antiquities since the turn of the nineteenth century, when he himself had started at the museum as a twenty-year-old. It was rumored that the venerable archaeologist actually lived in one of the department’s vast storage cupboards for it was certain that no one had ever seen him outside the building. Since his engagement, Alistair had never once managed to arrive before McPhee nor leave after him.

  The aged professor of archaeology was a diminutive wizened man whose dress seemed not to have changed (nor been laundered) since the early 1800s, which gave him a somewhat foppish appearance in keeping with the dandies who flourished under King George IV. This demeanor was misleading, however: there was nothing the slightest bit decadent about the young archaeologist’s employer; on the contrary McPhee was a puritan—a self-righteous zealot who reveled in the denial of other people’s pleasures. In short: the most disagreeable and misanthropic individual Alistair Sizzlehorn had thus far encountered.

  Alistair detested him. He found McPhee’s constant lectures about the immorality of Ancient Greece and Rome entirely devoid of a sensual or even aesthetic understanding of the periods. Sometimes he wondered whether McPhee was human at all. He had certainly arrived at the conclusion that the man lacked a penis; he was an asexual creature who reminded Alistair (in
his more generous moments) of some lesser species of mollusk.

  In Alistair’s darkest reveries—when the London fog encased the high windows of the museum in an impenetrable cloud, when time dripped down the walls like a creeping damp, when McPhee scuttled around him like a scaly louse, muttering in that nasal high-pitched squeak about how Roman hedonism led to decay then atrophy, and how England with its greedy colonists and now, horror of horrors, its worship of science over the high arts, was degenerating in the same way (“The triumph of Darwin!” he would exclaim)—the young archaeologist would suddenly find himself plunged into an abyss of despair for fear he too, in fifty years’ time, would be transformed into such a desiccated miserable creature. For, to Alistair’s profound embarrassment, he was still a virgin.

  It was a difficult predicament. He had insufficient income to procure the services of some generous street girl (of which there were many, and many of them quite lovely). Besides, being of a romantic nature, he found the application of commerce to love abhorrent. To add to his chagrin, his paltry wage from the museum was not enough to entice any educated young lady of standing to consider him as a marriage prospect. The hope of any kind of sexual congress seemed to be floating farther away from him by the day. He was frequently distracted from his work by the delicious vision of his thin but well-proportioned limbs wrapped around a buxom wench resembling the voluptuous marble Venuses who adorned many of the artifacts in his care. The vision would hover tantalizingly before him, yet every time Alistair racked his mind for a practical solution it ascended a few more feet out of his reach.

  He was immersed in this particular quandary when McPhee burst into the room like a small but noisy explosion. “Master Sizzlehorn!” he barked, in his harsh Glaswegian accent. “Ye are needed in ma office on a matter o’ the most confidential and private nature. And look smart, boy, a lady of aristocratic bearing is involved.”