by Nōnen Títi
“I don’t know, baby. I just don’t know. Do you think you can stay home together for ten minutes while I quickly get some groceries so nobody will see us on the street later?”
Doreen closed the curtains so nobody could see that the TV was on and convinced both kids to be in their pyjamas, so if somebody came they could tell them they were ill.
“But no lying, right Mum? Lying is wrong,” Becky said.
“You have to choose between school and lying,” Josh told his sister.
Becky had no problem choosing. “This is good, right? It’s good being home and happy.”
“Yes, being happy is good. Now if you behave I’ll bring you back some lollies.”
Afraid of meeting anybody she knew, Doreen quickly drove the car to the shops, loaded her trolley with two days’ worth of shopping so she could stay home tomorrow, and hurried back, half-expecting a fire or a flood, but they were both watching TV when she came in. She gave them the lollies. At least, if those made them sick their staying home would be legitimate.
She closed the blinds in the kitchen before putting the groceries away and then suddenly wondered if maybe Beth was also hiding behind closed curtains.
A moment later the phone made her jump. Suppose it was Odette again? But it was worse. The school principal explained that she was aware of the problems Doreen was having taking care of her kids, but she insisted that there was no need to keep Josh home for his wetting the bed. She would make sure none of the kids teased him about it anymore, but that it was the duty of the school to report unauthorized absences for mental problems.
Stunned, Doreen repeated they were physically ill but would be back tomorrow.
“You stupid child! Did you talk about Josh wetting the bed?” she shouted at Becky the moment she put down the phone. “How is your brother going to go back to school now?”
“I did not!” Becky yelled with such anger that Doreen had to believe she was telling the truth.
“But then how…?”
“Glenn, of course,” Becky said.
Doreen looked at Josh. It was a plausible answer. That was why the kids at school knew, but there was no way the principal could stop them from teasing Josh and Doreen would never be able to convince Martin to find a different school. He would say what the teachers said, that Josh would have to get tough, but how could Doreen possibly send her child back there knowing they would torment him? The look on Josh’s face told her that this question could not be answered. Maybe those new tablets would stop it from hurting so much. “Here, try this.”
“Can I have a happy tablet too?”
“But these are for Josh.”
“But I’m not happy, cause I didn’t get to play outside.”
“I can’t give you tablets the doctor didn’t prescribe for you.”
“I want one!” She stamped her foot.
“Okay! What do I care if it kills you?” Doreen gave Becky a tablet to make her happy. Maybe she should get some herself…
That evening at dinner, Doreen cautiously raised the problem of the school and the pressure the principal put her under, while the kids were simply still ill and couldn’t go.
“Of course they can go. There is nothing wrong with them. I will bring them to school tomorrow.”
“But nobody wants to play with us anymore,” Becky said.
“What do you mean nobody wants to play with you?”
When Becky didn’t answer, Martin looked at Doreen.
“Because there are rumours that it’s our fault that Will was charged and they’re taking it out on the kids.”
“That’s ridiculous. If Will broke the law then he should be charged, but the kids don’t have to suffer over this. We’ll show them that we can have fun too. Let’s go out and play ball in the street.”
“But I don’t want to play. I want to go to the shops,” Becky said.
“Come on, Josh. Get your shoes on.”
Josh shook his head. “I can’t. I’m sick.”
“You are not sick. If you’d just behave like a boy for a change we wouldn’t have these problems. Get your shoes!”
“No, Martin. Don’t make him go out there if he doesn’t want to,” Doreen said. “Dinner is ready.”
“Dinner can wait. I’ll show that abuser how real fathers are supposed to behave.”
“But Will isn’t even home anymore. They’ve left town.”
Doreen pleaded and begged on Josh’s behalf, but to no avail. Martin had found the ball and turned to Josh. “Get your shoes on. We are going to play outside.”
From below the chair where Josh was sitting, a puddle of water started trickling down.
“You bastard!” Doreen shouted, suddenly unable to contain her tears. “It’s you he’s afraid of. That’s why he…” she gestured to the floor. “Leave him alone!”
Martin gaped at her and dropped the ball. Then he suddenly turned around and walked out the door, slamming it closed. Moments later the wheels of the car squealed when he backed out of the driveway and around the corner.
Becky watched him go from the window. “He’ll never come back, right Mum?”
It was as if something snapped. Doreen’s pulse started beating in her ears so hard that it drowned all noises while the world became blurry and her chest tight and it felt as if she was choking and it was their fault – her life was draining away into those two people in front of her. Her hands searching for something to hold onto, Doreen reached for the body under the big brown eyes and shook him. Forward and backward, crying as she went, while the boy’s head kept hitting the wall behind him, until at last she became aware of Becky shouting at her. “Stop, Mummy! Stop!”
Doreen’s eyes found the pale face, hanging sideways in front of her, expressionless and silent.
“Mummy? Mummy!” Becky cried.
Doreen let herself sink onto the floor and hugged Josh’s motionless body “Oh God, help me.”
“Mummy?”
“Martin?” Where was Martin when you needed him? “Go find somebody,” Doreen whispered to Becky. “Go!”
“Why couldn’t they leave us alone, Josh? Why do people have to be so mean? Why do they throw bricks and why does everybody always take it out on you? Why always you, Josh?”
LIVING WITH HE AND HER
Odette left her editor’s office on Tuesday afternoon, satisfied with the assignment but also a little curious. Why would somebody call a magazine instead of youth services with a suspicion of child neglect? And why had this anonymous caller indicated the very street in which Odette used to live and which had already been the focus of an abuse case one too many times? And why had the editor asked Odette to follow up on the human story behind that report in the daily papers yesterday – ‘Father Questioned About Assault on Son’ – that was the latest of those in that very street?
It was already nearly four o’clock when she came home, so Odette changed her clothes and left the boys a note saying they’d eat at his house tonight before walking the fifteen minutes to her old neighbourhood.
The first thing she noticed was the glazier truck in front of number twenty-one; it looked like the kitchen window had been hit by something. That wouldn’t have been an accident. Odette would like to find out the who and what, but she resisted the urge to stop and ask for details; better to try and get non-censored information first.
At number seventeen the curtains were closed and both cars absent, while the mini in Brent’s driveway indicated that he was home. Though she still had a key somewhere, Odette rang the bell.
“Surprise, surprise,” Brent greeted her. “The vultures always appear when there’s a man on the cross. Your kids will be waiting for you.”
“I left them a note saying I’d be here. We’ll order take-out. My treat.”
“No way! We’re not a family anymore. In case you’d forgotten, I wasn’t suited to care for your kids. I was a… what was the word you used… ‘predator’?”
“That’s a long time ago, Brent.”
“It was yesterday for me. The kids were yours when it suited you and now you can have them! I’m getting tired of them appearing every few days with some excuse. I don’t care anymore and you’re not eating here!”
“Come on, Brent. I told you I was sorry and the kids like living with you.”
“They don’t live with me. I’m a shelter for when their mother can’t be bothered. I won’t let them in anymore.”
“Okay, fine.” Odette put her foot in the door when he threatened to close it, aware that he might do so anyway. “But give me five minutes for some questions?”
He laughed sarcastically. “See, you didn’t come here to make up for past mistakes at all, nor for the sake of the boys. You need me for one of the gossip columns of the feminist revue.”
“Voice is not a gender-preferred magazine and if the only contact you allow is through work then you give me no choice.”
“Don’t be so incredibly transparent, Odette. You haven’t been in this street for two years and now that you need something you pretend I am unwilling. That’s victim-blaming.”
But Odette was a journalist; ignoring rejections was in her blood. “I’ll leave as soon as you tell me what you saw, I promise. It shocked me, I have to admit. Who’d have thought Will was stupid enough to do that, and in public? I always thought he was a decent bloke.”
Brent gave up pushing the door and once Odette was inside he kicked it shut. “You don’t see decent blokes in men, Odette, not even in your own sons. Don’t forget that they do talk to me when you dump them.”
“So what happened?” Odette asked, dropping herself onto the couch.
“You know what happened. His wife wanted to come out the winner in the divorce so she accused him of abuse and now she can have the kids, the house and alimony and he loses his job, his friends and his family, and ends up not giving a damn anymore.”
“I told you I was sorry and I wasn’t the one to accuse you.”
“And I am telling you, Odette, that you can stop nosing around because you won’t get me to corroborate to the man’s destruction. Besides, if you had any sense you’d know that abuse takes place behind closed doors, not in the middle of the street, and as for the kids, I won’t have them here anymore. You can stick them in a home with the rest of the unwanted from now on. Let the state take care of them if it’s so sure it knows best; let them create a new Sparta, another Lost Generation, this time with the consent of the parents, another Third Reich, because the masses vote for what is popular without being able to see what that means in the long run.”
“You’re exaggerating, as usual, Brent. Besides, the boys are old enough to stay home alone. Now tell me what happened next door.”
“None of your business. You don’t live here!”
“Get over it, Brent. I said sorry a gazillion times. What more can I do?”
“Get lost.”
Odette sighed and looked around the room. She couldn’t blame him for being sore, but it was two years ago now. She’d suffered a pre-midlife crisis at the time and she’d been angry about her wasted marriage. The words had only been meant as insurance to get her fair share of the kids, since he’d been so happy to tell his lawyer that her demanding job and lack of cooking skills had resulted in feeding them junk food and TV meals every day. That wasn’t true. She’d always cooked something on Sundays and besides, he had hands too; he could have done the cooking.
But Kevin had been a bit chubby then – in retrospect it had been due to stress eating; as soon as the divorce came through he’d stopped – and the paediatrician had suggested as much as having an overweight child was a sign of bad parenting, so she’d had no choice but to defend herself.
Besides, the damage had been done already when that schoolgirl indicated him as the father of her child. Odette had merely turned the situation to her own advantage; who could blame her? In a society where people were back at being prey among hunters, afraid of their own kind, the only way to survive was to protect their own. At any rate, in the end the kids had been better off these last two years, having two peaceful homes instead of one war zone, and she had been the one to find a flat and move out.
Brent was in his old orange armchair. It was probably an antique, frayed around the edges, but the most comfortable thing Odette had ever sat in. They’d nearly had a similar battle over the chair as they’d had over the kids, but she’d given in and left it. Him sitting there now was no accident, for sure, but he looked lost – vulnerable, almost. He was unable to cope with her invasion, yet he would die rather than admit it, like he couldn’t admit caring about the kids. That silent determination gave her the shivers. It gave her the desire to get close, to share his warmth. It had been so long and… so cold.
Odette didn’t act on her sudden impulse. She would have to sit it out. The kids would have arrived home by now. Duncan first, because he biked to school. He’d wait for his brother and together they’d walk here. Another twenty minutes and they’d ring the bell.
It was more than half an hour and it was beginning to drive her mad. He just sat and stared at her. She attempted to lay out the article in her head. She’d start with some general introduction and a reference to the incident. Next she’d add the statistics, because they needed to be out of the way quickly to avoid boring people. Then some examples of serious abuse to pull the readers back in, like that case of a man beating his child to death with a bicycle chain.
No doubt Brent would attack her for suggesting that had been legal until now, but most readers wouldn’t notice the subtle implication. Besides, the editor was prone to fits if articles were presented that didn’t back up the public opinion. In the end it had to sell, preferably with a good front cover picture of a crying child or something.
Last she’d make the link to the other incidents and report on the interviews she was intending to do. Maybe she could ask one of the paediatricians at the children’s hospital; they were always eager to repeat the popular message and most people didn’t question what a person with a title told them. To be fair, she’d get some stories from the other side as well. There were always a few religious fundamentalists who shamelessly admitted that they beat their children, and they were good subjects for this purpose because most people didn’t take them seriously anyhow. She’d end on a positive note, assuring the readers that kids were being saved.
Odette glanced sideways out the window. Still no sign of the boys. Maybe they thought it was a joke.
“Maybe they went to the Salvation Army. They must be in need of a good meal,” Brent said.
Odette bit her lip to avoid responding.
“Or maybe they went to a meeting of your humanitarian friends to join the protests against the war in Iraq – a protest I believe you said I was ridiculous to make just a few years earlier, before it was popular to do so.”
“I know I said that then, but things have changed.”
“No, Odette, the only thing that has changed is that the mob has suddenly caught on and now they’re all busy protesting what they previously supported, the press included. Yet what your narrow-minded friends don’t realise is that what they protest against abroad is what they’re supporting at home.”
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe. Certainly. And it’s people like you who feed the masses the food the state provides to keep them supporting a law that is taking away individual rights in the name of security.”
“I don’t support any law that compromises rights.”
“Don’t you? Isn’t it a fact that most journalists get their best stories from calling the police themselves, that it doesn’t have to be true as long as it sells? Isn’t that why you got to the top so quickly?”
“That’s a lie. I never used those tactics.”
“You should read this manuscript,” he said, lifting a folder from the dresser beside him. “This little fairy tale is shorter than the gossip columns you write and yet it foretells the future. The future for your children and grandchildren, who will never
know democracy because some moron who can’t see past the end of his nose wants to make parenting illegal and the whole brainwashed mob follows suit. Hurray for human intelligence.”
Irritated, Odette looked at the road again. Maybe she should just go home. He wouldn’t give in. He may never get over the divorce. As she moved to get up, she spotted the boys at the end of the street. She leaned back down but her changed pose gave her away and Brent looked around. “Well, wonder of wonders: They actually believed you.”
He didn’t get up to open the door. The reason for that became clear when Odette heard the key in the lock. “Seems they’re welcome here after all,” she couldn’t help saying.
“I had no choice or I’d be called out of bed in the middle of the night.”
“That’s a lie, Brent. I occasionally have to work evenings and they always know by dinner time.”
“What dinner time? You don’t even know what that means.”
“Mum? What are you doing here?” Kevin asked, throwing his bag into the corner as if he came home here every day.
“Your mother couldn’t wait for the gossip to reach the school and come home with you,” Brent answered.
“You mean about Cathy’s dad?”
“Are they talking about it at school?” Odette asked. It may be a good idea to question the children. She could pick Kevin up tomorrow.
“Yesterday the kids were teasing Glenn and Meghan about their father going to prison. Cathy didn’t really believe that, of course, but Glenn was really upset and now they’ve left school.”
“You see?” Brent said to Odette. “Hurray for the media. Gossip spreads like wildfire and burns everything it comes in contact with.”
“Can you stop your melodrama? Cathy’s dad does not have to go to prison,” Odette assured Kevin.
“No, they’ll be prisoners in their own home from now on,” Brent answered.
“Serves Martin right that he smashed their window,” Duncan said.
“You mean Will? How do you know it was him?” Brent asked.
“You don’t have to be a woman to understand who did that, Brent,” Odette said.