The Trivia Man

by Deborah O'Brien

  When his father arrived home, Patrick heard his parents talking in low voices in the kitchen. That usually meant they were discussing him. He crept to the kitchen door and listened. It didn’t take him long to grasp the reason for his mother’s silence in the car.

  ‘You make it sound like a disease, Lizzie,’ he heard his dad saying.

  ‘It would be better if it was. Not something serious, but an illness you could treat.’

  ‘Is there any medication he can take?’

  ‘Nothing. If it was ADHD I could give him a pill every day. But there’s nothing they can give him for this. No medication. No cures.’

  Patrick’s heart was racing. No cures. That sounded bad. Did he have some horrible illness? Was he going to die like the little boy he’d seen on TV, the one who had a brain tumour? Was that why his mum had been so quiet in the car today?

  ‘How serious is it?’ his dad asked.

  Patrick held his breath.

  ‘The psychologist said he’s borderline.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that something positive to hold onto?’

  ‘Borderline! On the cusp of normal. On the edge of who knows what? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Aren’t we all on the edge of something, Lizzie? Everyone has their quirks. Where does normal end and problematic begin? Isn’t there a grey area? If Patrick had seen another psychologist, they might have offered a different opinion altogether.’

  ‘Are you suggesting we get a second opinion?’

  ‘Not necessarily, I’m just saying it’s subjective. “Borderline” means just that. There’s an element of doubt. It’s not as though he can have a blood test, and they can tell us unequivocally that he’s got it. Anyway, I had asthma when I was a child. In my teens I grew out of it. I haven’t had an attack in thirty years. Maybe it will be the same for Patrick.’

  ‘You don’t just grow out of something like this, Steve. It’s a life sentence. All they can do is try to intervene. The psychologist’s given me a pamphlet about a parents’ support group and some programs he offers on weekends. And there’s something else. He said it can run in families.’

  ‘You mean it’s hereditary?’ He paused for a moment before continuing, ‘I know you’re a bit inclined to be pernickety, Lizzie, but so are a lot of people. I wouldn’t call it a problem.’

  ‘I wasn’t referring to myself,’ came an angry voice. ‘I’m a perfectionist, not an obsessive. It’s Kevin who’s the link. He’s always been weird. An eccentric. An oddball. Now I realise he’s had this thing all along. And none of us knew it. They hadn’t even given it a name back then.’

  Nobody spoke for a long time, and then Patrick heard sobs.

  ‘It’ll be all right, Lizzie. The bottom line is we have a smart, healthy son, whatever label this psychologist wants to put on him.’

  After a while the sobbing eased and Patrick’s mother blew her nose.

  ‘I’m scared he’ll turn out like Kevin.’

  ‘Kevin’s not that bad.’

  ‘You didn’t have to grow up with him as your brother. He was such a dork. And he used to have quite a temper when he was a teenager.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you did anything to provoke him, did you?’

  ‘Never! Anyway, I’ll have to tell him about this. He’ll need to go to a doctor and get his own diagnosis. And I’d rather he didn’t see Patrick for a while. He’s not a good influence. Patrick needs positive role models in his life right now. Not someone whose sole interests are writing lists and playing trivia.’

  ‘Sleep on it, Liz. I think you’ll feel differently in the morning.’

  ‘No, I’m going around to his flat right now. He needs to know.’

  Patrick heard footsteps and the jangling of car keys.

  ‘Please, don’t do it tonight,’ his father begged. ‘I agree that we should tell Kevin, but wait until you’re calmer.’

  ‘I’m perfectly calm.’

  ‘Well, I’m coming with you.’

  ‘You can’t, Steve. You need to mind Patrick.’

  Patrick tiptoed back to his room, closed the door and took his weather notebook from the shelf. Leafing through the pages, looking at the regular columns of numbers that he had written so neatly, he was able to soothe the sickly feeling rising in his stomach.

  Kevin

  Kevin was just finishing the pizza he had picked up on the way home from work when he heard a knock at the door. Wasn’t it a little late for those Jehovah’s Witness people? He peered through the peephole. It was his sister. Oh dear. Had she found out about Danni? Was she here to tell him off? His face was already flushing with embarrassment. Slowly he opened the door.

  ‘Hi, Beth.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Do you want to come in?’

  ‘Why else would I be knocking on your door?’

  ‘It’s about Danni, isn’t it?’ Kevin said.

  ‘Why would I be here about Danni? You haven’t upset her, have you?

  He didn’t offer an answer.

  ‘I don’t know what an attractive girl like that sees in someone like you,’ she sighed.

  Kevin felt a rush of relief – it was obvious Danni hadn’t confided in Beth about the disastrous end to last week’s dinner. Not yet anyway. ‘Do you want a cup of tea, Beth? Or a glass of water?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ She moved towards the bookcase and ran her hand over a row of his leather-bound notebooks. ‘I received some news about Patrick today.’

  Panic gripped Kevin’s chest. ‘Nothing’s happened to him, has it? He’s not ill?’

  ‘No, he’s not ill. He’s at home right now with his father.’ She paused, removing one of Kevin’s notebooks from the shelf, opening it at random and browsing the page.

  ‘Why the hell would anyone need to know the names of Anglo-Indian musicians born before 1945?’ she asked. ‘Is this the kind of rubbish they ask you at trivia nights?’

  ‘Actually, that list proved very helpful in week six.’

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘Look, Kevin, there’s something you need to know. Patrick has a problem. A collection of them, in fact. A syndrome. A disorder.’

  Then she told him what the psychologist had said.

  For a moment Kevin couldn’t move. He’d heard the term before but knew little about it – much like medical matters, those things made him decidedly queasy. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked haltingly. ‘I’ve never noticed anything wrong with Patrick.’

  Elizabeth exploded. ‘Of course you wouldn’t! You wear blinkers.’

  Kevin swallowed hard. ‘But Patrick’s doing well at school.’

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes. ‘Academically, perhaps. In terms of his social skills, he’s just like you. Awkward, withdrawn, no friends …’

  ‘But what about all those children at his birthday party?’

  ‘I asked his entire class from school. They’re not his friends. They came for the jumping castle and the magic show.’

  Tears were spilling down her face. Kevin passed her a tissue from the box he always kept on the coffee table.

  ‘Don’t cry, Beth.’

  He stood helplessly in front of her, shifting from one foot to the other, while she sobbed loudly.

  Finally she blew her nose and looked up at him. ‘It’s painfully obvious there’s a family connection – or should I say, a family curse. Do you remember Grandpa Dwyer? He died when I was little. But Nanna used to say he was difficult to live with.’

  ‘I don’t remember much about him,’ said Kevin hoarsely, ‘except that he used to make model cars in his shed. He was always out there, working on them. He knew everything about those cars. He even kept scrapbooks with all the specifications.’

  ‘Just like your notebooks, Kevin. And now you’re encouraging the same obsessive behaviour in Patrick.’

  ‘I’ve never thought it was obsessive.’

  Elizabeth pointed to the bookcase full of ledger books. ‘Then what would you call that?’

  ‘A hobby,’ he said in a whi
sper.

  ‘That’s why I think it would be best if you don’t see Patrick for a while. I want to keep his life as normal as possible. I hope you understand.’

  ‘Normal?’ Kevin slumped onto the sofa.

  ‘I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you this. I suppose it’s been a double blow. If I were you, I’d go and have the tests done. Not that there’s any doubt. But maybe it isn’t too late for them to do something with you.’

  She was heading towards the door. His legs were numb – he couldn’t even stand up to see her out.

  At the threshold she turned and pulled something out of her handbag.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Here’s a brochure for you.’ She dropped it on the phone table. ‘There’s a number on the back if you have any queries.’

  After Beth left, Kevin sat in the chair for a long time, before retrieving the brochure from the table and reading it through tear-filled eyes. As the tears dropped onto his shirt, he realised he hadn’t cried in years. He must have read that pamphlet twenty times. The bullet list of symptoms it contained was now indelibly burnt onto his brain. He examined each one, trying to come up with a way to counter it. But the harder he tried, the more he seemed to fit the bill.

  After a while he went into the kitchen, wiped his face on a piece of paper towel and took a swathe of black plastic garbage bags from the drawer. Then he returned to the living room and began removing the notebooks and folders from the bookcase and piling them into the bags. When it came to the trophies, he used a cardboard box, stuffing the cups and medals inside. Once the shelves were empty, he carried the bags down to the garage. It took him four trips, but finally they were all downstairs, awaiting the next council clean-up. There was a problem with the trophies, though – they were inscribed with his name and he didn’t want to dispose of them in the garbage. Finally he decided to store the carton in the bottom of the linen cupboard, where he wouldn’t have to look at it.

  The sight of the empty shelves made him feel calmer. Thank goodness the evidence of his so-called obsession had gone. And if he were to fill those shelves with bestsellers and family photos, the apartment would look as though it belonged to a normal person. Not someone who had been called at various times a freak, a nerd, a dork, a ratbag, a geek, a brainbox, a weirdo, not to mention the latest label conferred on him by his sister earlier this evening.

  By now it was almost midnight. Kevin lay on his bed but couldn’t sleep. When the clock struck half past twelve he got up, put on a coat and walked down to the beach, where he watched the waves pounding relentlessly on the shore. A cold wind was blowing from the south and he didn’t stay there long. Instead, he wandered back to the shopping strip and lingered in the empty mall, its gutters clogged with discarded packets and polystyrene cups. A police car cruised past and returned a few minutes later. The driver’s window rolled down.

  ‘Have you got a home to go to, mate?’ the policeman asked.

  Kevin nodded.

  ‘Well, you’d better get going. Quick smart. You don’t want to be taken in for vagrancy.’

  ‘You mean under the Law Enforcement Act of 2002, Section 197?’

  ‘Are you a lawyer?’ the other policeman asked, leaning across from the passenger seat.

  Kevin nodded. What would they think if he told them he was a trivia buff?

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. Have a good night,’ the driver said, and the policemen continued on their way.

  It was dawn when Kevin trudged up the front path of the apartment building and climbed the stairs to his flat. He had never felt so tired. He texted the office to say he wasn’t coming in – his first sickie in five years. Then he lay on the sofa, staring at the vermiculite ceiling. He’d never really noticed the texture before. If you looked at it long enough, it could turn into a moonscape. He must have slept all day because when he woke it was dark. He could smell something musty and sour and wondered if it was his own body. But he couldn’t bring himself to have a shower. There would be food in the fridge, yet he couldn’t be bothered eating. He dozed again, a restless dream-filled sleep in which policemen were chasing him and he hid in a garbage bin.

  A ping woke him from the nightmare, just at the point where the police were surrounding the bin. The room was in darkness, but on the coffee table his phone had lit up with a message:

  Kevin, are you okay? Call me or I’ll worry. Maggie

  Damn. It was trivia night.

  Trivia Night

  Maggie

  ‘Only two weeks of quiz questions left before prize-giving night,’ the Professor announced from the stage. ‘And there’s still a chance for everyone. Don’t forget about those bonus points for attendance. They could make all the difference.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ said Edward, ‘where the hell is Kevin?’

  ‘He’s not answering his phone,’ said Maggie, ‘so I sent him a text.’

  ‘What about his landline?’ Carole asked.

  ‘I don’t have the number. And we have to turn off our phones now, anyway.’

  ‘It’s not like him at all,’ said Mei Zhen. ‘He’s always here early. You don’t think he’s had an accident, do you, Maggie?’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder.’

  ‘Maybe he’s decided to reclaim his status as a one-man band by going to another venue,’ Edward said. ‘Then he wouldn’t have to share the prizes with other people.’

  ‘Kevin wouldn’t let us down like that,’ Maggie said.

  ‘Mr Smarty-pants has never been a team player,’ Edward retorted.

  The Professor had finished his opening spiel and Miss Kitty was singing ‘Food, Glorious Food’, which happened to be the theme of the night.

  ‘Where’s that song from?’ asked Edward. ‘Is it Gilbert and Sullivan?’

  ‘No, it’s Lionel Bart,’ Mei Zhen replied.

  ‘The opening song of Oliver!,’ Ash added.

  ‘Thank goodness the Professor didn’t ask us to come in costume,’ Mei Zhen giggled.

  ‘Remember Lady Gaga and the meat dress,’ said Ash.

  ‘Or Carmen Miranda with her fruit hat,’ said Maggie.

  The others gave her puzzled looks. It was at times like this that she missed Kevin. He would have known who Carmen Miranda was. Kevin knew everything about everything, except for music post-1990. That was his bête noire.

  At interval Maggie went outside and turned on her phone. Nothing. She tried his number yet again and reached his message bank. ‘Kevin, I’m sorry to be a pest,’ she said, ‘but I’m worried about you. When you have a chance, could you please call me back so I know you’re all right. I’m at trivia and my phone will be turned off, but I’ll check it at the end of the night. Thanks.’

  ‘Still no reply?’ asked Carole when Maggie returned to the table for round six.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’m sure he’s fine, Maggie. He’s probably gone out on the town and forgotten all about trivia.’

  Kevin? Out on the town? Unlikely. Besides, he’d never forget about trivia night.

  When the evening was over and the Professor and Miss Kitty were starting to pack up, Maggie went up to them and asked if they had Kevin’s address on file.

  ‘I’m worried about him not turning up tonight.’

  ‘Have you phoned him?’ asked Miss Kitty.

  ‘There’s no answer.’

  ‘Well, we really shouldn’t give out that kind of information, but as you’re a fellow team member, I suppose it’s okay.’

  ‘I would have thought you’d already have his address,’ said the Professor. ‘Under the circumstances.’

  ‘What circumstances?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘You know, the fact that you’re …’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘We thought there might be a little romance going on between the two of you,’ Miss Kitty ventured.

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Because the One-Man Band joined your team. And you both disappear e
very week during the karaoke,’ the Professor said.

  Maggie blushed. Did everyone think the same thing? ‘I can assure you,’ she said haughtily, ‘that Kevin and I are trivia partners, nothing more. I don’t even know where he lives, for heaven’s sake.’

  Miss Kitty smiled. ‘Pity. You looked so perfect together on the movie night – Jean Harlow and Eliot Ness.’

  Maggie didn’t bother to correct her. ‘Anyway, Miss Kitty, would you mind looking up his address for me? Or maybe there’s a landline I could call.’

  Miss Kitty sat down in front of her laptop.

  ‘How do you spell his surname?’

  ‘D-W-Y-E-R.’

  Using the tips of her perfectly manicured nails, she typed the letters.

  ‘He’s only given us a mobile number, I’m afraid. No home address either.’

  Maggie sighed. ‘Thanks, anyway.’

  She would have to look him up in the phone book. How many ‘K. Dwyers’ could there be in the directory?

  As soon as she was in her car, Maggie searched the White Pages on her phone. There was no listing for a K. Dwyer, not within an hour’s drive of Clifton Heights. Damn. Then she tried to convince herself that Carole had been right. Maybe Kevin was indeed otherwise engaged. Probably with that young woman he’d been seeing. Perhaps they were having a romantic reunion following her return from holidays. That would explain it. Yet no matter how hard she wanted to believe he was safe and well, deep in her heart Maggie continued to worry.

  WEEK

  ELEVEN

  Maggie

  On Wednesday Maggie was so busy at school that she barely had time to think about Kevin, let alone phone him. At lunchtime she rushed to the ladies’ room and ran into Mei Zhen, who was washing her hands.

  ‘Have you heard from Kevin?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet. I’ll call him again at the end of the day.’

  ‘You really like him, don’t you, Maggie?’

  Not Mei Zhen too? What was wrong with everyone? How could they possibly think she felt romantically inclined towards Kevin? When Maggie didn’t answer, Mei Zhen said, ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Maggie, but Ash and I think you’d make a great couple.’