Perfect Skin

by Nick Earls

  Or maybe a tie wouldn’t have been such a bad thing, Ash says as she comes out of her room in overalls that have the bagginess and colour of a sack. I’m sure this wasn’t the pair I tried on. What do you think?

  Well, they’re very gender-neutral.

  That’s good to know. At least they’re not expecting me to use sex to sell bagels. They’re practically species-neutral. She picks up her keys from the kitchen bench and says, Let’s go. Let’s listen to that Lemonheads album one more time, shall we?

  You’ve got a problem with the Lemonheads album?

  As soon as the engine’s running, she cues up track two – ‘Into Your Arms’ – and she sings along quite loudly and not very well.

  I do this, don’t I? I ask her. I sing when you’re in the car.

  Sometimes. Sometimes you just hum.

  I don’t hum.

  You hum.

  Humming is such a grandpa thing to do. Don’t tell me I hum. Okay, I have a book, a baby book, that recommends singing. And humming. Some humming, I think it says, as well as the singing. Or there’s no way the child gets to Erikson Two intact.

  Poor Bean. Wouldn’t want her to be sorting out that basic trust stuff forever.

  Exactly. So now you understand. On occasions, there must be humming. Particularly since we’re having bouts of teething at the moment and mistrust has therefore, for the first time, reared its ugly head.

  We pull up at traffic lights. I look around to the back seat and Lily’s asleep in the capsule.

  I haven’t told you everything, I find myself saying, as I turn back to the front.

  It was a thought in my head, but now it’s coming out. I was thinking of how much I haven’t said, wondering again about how to say it, and now I am saying it. Starting to say some of it, anyway.

  I haven’t told you about Lily’s mother.

  That’s okay. I figured she had one.

  Yeah. Here’s what happened. It’s a complicated situation, and I won’t try to get into the whole thing right now, but. . .

  The lights change. We drive off.

  This is her car, actually. MLB, the number plates, they were her number plates. Melissa Brand.

  Yeah . . .

  Okay. It’s complicated. I’m giving the car back when the lease runs out.

  To Lily’s mother?

  No, to the company, the leasing company. There’s an amazing amount of stuff you have to sort out, so it’s easiest if I just keep it till the lease is up. It’s her phone that I’ve got too. She was a dermatologist. She was one of the other partners in the practice. We met at uni. But she died when Lily was born.

  It falls into a silence, that last sentence. It doesn’t follow the rest in the way I thought it might. It was an explanation that I was attempting, me hurling myself at the shortest possible way of telling Ash everything, setting things straight. I just want them straight. So I needed her to know. The problem started with the introduction of the past tense. She was a dermatologist. I was committed at that point, and I had to get it over with. But that’s not the problem. There was no other way.

  And now we’ve driven two blocks since, and we’re both staring straight ahead.

  Oh, she says, then takes a breath in. I didn’t think that was what you were going to say.

  Yeah. It was unexpected.

  I’m feeling sick now, and my mouth is dry. In the back, Lily poos loudly.

  I just changed her at uni, I say, thinking aloud again. But I knew there’d be more. Sometimes you can tell.

  Ash rubs her eyes and sniffs. I don’t know what to say. That’s so awful.

  Um, yeah. But it happens, you know? There are a few days there that’ll probably never make sense to me, but I’m on top of things now, I think. It’s different, of course.

  Yeah.

  I’m okay now, really. I’m doing okay.

  Yeah. Oh god, I thought you just broke up, or something. Sorry.

  I didn’t tell you. It’s not an easy thing to tell, you know? So you don’t tell people, in case they can’t get past it. It’s like, the last few weeks, running together and things, that’s been good. Because you didn’t know. Because you didn’t spend the whole time being careful, or treating me like I was abnormal. So, if it’s okay, please don’t change that now.

  All right.

  But the immediate issue is that poo smell, which will kill us if we don’t put all the windows down.

  It will. She smiles. How do they make those smells? What are you feeding her?

  The blandest diet in the world. And somehow it gets incredibly putragenic in there. Not all the time, though. That’s what I don’t get. Sometimes it’s okay, sometimes it’s disgusting.

  The windows whir and slide down and the air comes in, hot and smelling of cars and cut grass as we go past a school sports ground.

  I won’t he careful, Ash tells me. I won’t change things.

  We get to Indooroopilly and find a space in the car park. I carry the Bean, since no-one else should have to when she’s in this state, and Ash walks on the other side of me carrying the baby bag.

  And no debate about disposables versus cloth nappies, I say, when we’re in the change room. I’ve got to do this four thousand times.

  Plus, whatever she’s done in that nappy really needs to be disposed of, and I’m talking toxic waste facility, a long way out of town.

  Ash stands well back, I accomplish most of the job with one long, held breath.

  Now, lunch?

  I’ll get there. Give me a few minutes, but I’ll get there.

  The car still smells badly of poo when I get back to it after we’ve eaten, so I put the windows down again for the drive to Toowong. Ash is now with her overalled co-workers, though looking more baggy than most of them.

  I’ll see you, she said, when I left her at Bagelos in the food court. My four-to-six Tuesday tutes haven’t started yet, so call me if you want to do something tomorrow.

  Sylvia takes the Bean from me as I walk into work.

  Hello, you lovely thing, she says. Let’s get you away from that daddy of yours. Bad, late daddy. You two have been out playing, haven’t you?

  We have. And she’s got practically no concept of time. You get her started on one of her favourite topics and there’s no stopping her. There we were playing with a seed pod and suddenly she said, ‘Do you think all disease occurs at a biomolecular level?’ and we were off. First, of course, I argued that it was a bit of a reductionist approach, but I have to say she was talking me round towards the end.

  It’s a shame she can’t do laser surgery, too. There’s a bit of that here this afternoon for anyone who wants it.

  I work hard, but I’m behind for the rest of the day.

  Between patients three and four I take a look at this morning’s emails. Wendy’s left them sitting on my screen, and for three patients I’ve been trying not to be distracted by the one sent by ktnflag. Waiting there, benignly untitled.

  It’s worse when I read it. Text buffers nothing, softens no edges, gives it right to you. And the part that Wendy quickly etceterad away on the phone this morning is no better than the I’m developing strong feelings for you and there’s no denying it part that precedes it.

  At least I’ve been straight with Ash now. And I think I’ve known her long enough, or at least seen her often enough, that that’ll be okay. We’ve talked about too many other things, surely, to get stuck on this one. I think that’s been my worry, why Mel has been on my mind lately. I haven’t been meeting new people, and I haven’t told this enough yet that I know how to tell it. Eventually, enough time will have passed that it won’t hit people the same way – won’t whack into them like an airbag, the way it did with Ash – but we’re not there yet. But she had to know some normal things first, before I tossed in the big abnormal one.

  14

  Now, how do I fix things up with Katie? How do I make it clear, but look after the dignity issues too? I don’t want to do that ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ li
ne. I could do it. It is partly me, but she’d make assumptions straight away. Tell me she was prepared to wait. That’s my guess. And I don’t want her waiting for something that’s not going to happen.

  So, what’s the right way for Katie? It’ll take a gesture. Katie went the ice bucket and the fancy hors d’oeuvres when she made dinner, so gestures work for her. Flowers. How about flowers? Flowers and a card. And some smart way of saying you’re fine, but it’s not happening and I’m sorry, it’s just not happening, it’s not how I feel, but being friends would be good. Because you’re fine.

  What sort of message do you want to send? the florist asks me at six o’clock, when I’ve finished my paperwork, persuaded Sylvia to give Lily back to me and gone down into the shopping centre as the last of today’s flowers are being rationalised into as few buckets as possible for overnight storage. Who are you giving them to? Is there an occasion? Some flowers are better for some things than others. Like love, or an anniversary, or sympathy, or what? What kind of message have you got in mind?

  Um, it’s just a sort of friendly thing, I tell her, thinking that, on the scale of options available, my message probably falls somewhere between ‘sympathy’ and ‘what’.

  Flowers seemed like a good idea, but as I stand here going through the buckets to make my choice I realise that I don’t know a thing about buying them. The ‘I don’t want you’ flowers – would it have been too inappropriate to ask for those? Or did they go earlier in the day? ‘I don’t want you’ flowers turning up on doorsteps all over Toowong. With nice, affirming, you’re-fine, thanks-but-no-thanks cards.

  I’ve never bought flowers before, other than a corsage for a school formal in 1981, and I wasn’t even brave enough to pin that on. In case it would take me slightly too close to my intended victim’s breast in front of her mother. I think that was the reason. Not that I ever got any closer. The evening ended outside a nightclub when we were both refused admission because of our age, and she told me her cab home would cost about ten dollars. And I handed the cash over, and that was that. Life’s so much better, being twice that old.

  Once I’ve bought a non-committal but friendly, medium-sized bunch of something multi-coloured, I sit in the car to write the card. The card itself is excellently non-committal. A black-and-white photo of three ducks on a seat. It’s the words that are the problem. I do really want to get this right. Katie, though she might be painfully shy and, ultimately, not my type, deserves a better run than she’s been having.

  But can you ever say that? Can you ever say the type thing? Do people believe you? What does it mean, anyway? I’m simply not attracted to her.

  So I open with an apology. First for that awkward Flag issue again, then for sending out the wrong signals, if that’s what I’ve done. And I tell her she matters to me as a friend, but I don’t think it’d work any other way. And I don’t want to complicate things and risk the friendship. So . . .

  Then we drive across town, the Bean gurgling in the back in a way that sounds contented, the flowers and card next to me on the passenger seat.

  Why do I feel like such a bastard? I say out loud, but no-one answers. Such a gutless bastard, for that matter.

  We turn off the freeway, and it’s dark now. I don’t feel like playing music at the moment. I want to get this over with. And I’m not feeling proud about doing it this way, but it’s a conversation I couldn’t handle. I don’t think Katie would want to deal with it face-to-face, either.

  Does that sound too much like a rationalisation?

  I park outside her house. Her car’s underneath and there’s a light on down the side, the kitchen light, probably.

  Back soon, I tell the Bean. Then home for dinner.

  I shut the car door as quietly as I can. In the light from the next-door units I can make out a hose across Katie’s path, and I step over it carefully. As I get closer to the house I can hear her TV, an ad break during the news. I sneak up the front steps, my guilt at this commando approach increasing with each one, I set the flowers down at the top and rest the card against them.

  What if she always uses the back door? I’m thinking, as I sneak down again. What if she doesn’t find this for days, and thinks I’m rude for not responding to her email, then thinks I’ve left a bunch of dead flowers as some horrible fuck-right-off gesture? Should I have put the date on the card? It’s too late to change the plan now. I’m halfway to the car, stepping over the hose again.

  And that’s when the plan goes wrong.

  Flag flies out from under a bush, ready for play. First I don’t even know it’s him. It’s too dark. There’s noise on the grass, and a blur, and I don’t know what’s happening. Then my foot comes down, and little animal ribs crunch like a box of pencils. He squirms away and I fall over, trying so hard to take the weight off him that I forget to stand at all. I hit the path, land on my knees and skin my hands, and Flag stumbles off to the right, out of the dim light, and slumps heavily onto some tan bark.

  I go after him. I can hear him struggling under a bush, trying to get away, then I see him on the other side. Just as he falls into a hole not far over the boundary line, where someone’s been gardening at the front of the block of units. There’s a spade in the hole and he hits it with a soft clunk, probably with his head. He no longer has the capacity to land like a cat.

  I get over there as quickly as I can, still madly hoping that he might be all right. I kneel down beside the hole, and it’s hard to see him in there.

  It’s okay, Flag, I tell him. It’ll be okay.

  There are sounds of difficult breathing coming from the hole, and I try to tell myself it’s just the exertion from his run across the garden. I reach down. He tries to bite me, but he doesn’t have the breath for it. He’s lying against the shovel, lying with one side on the blade of the shovel.

  I’m going to lift you out now, I tell him, in my calmest possible don’t-worry-I-haven’t-killed-you voice. And I’m going to lift you out on the shovel to protect your spine. And then we’re going to work out what the hell to do.

  Retrieve the flowers, leave him by the roadside, flee. Go straight to the door, confess all. This is such a morality test. Flee. Flee is good. No, I have to face it. I can’t duck it. Can I?

  No, I can’t.

  Katie’s outside light goes on, illuminating us with an alarming brightness. Her front door opens. She doesn’t notice the flowers, but she does see me, kneeling next door. Next to a cat-sized hole, with Flag slumped semiconscious across a shovel. And she screams.

  No, no, it’s fine, I shout out to her, using my calmest possible voice again. I’m just protecting his spine.

  Flag, of course, is fucked, something that the bright light makes horribly apparent, but that I choose to disregard completely as I run towards her front door, hoping to fix this. Showing her Flag on a spade, as though it’s a great first step. As he wheezily exhales blood through his nostrils, his head bobbing like a rear-window gonk until I put my other hand there to support it.

  Katie screams and screams, slams the door. Through the window next to it, I can see her go for the phone, and she’s got to be calling Wendy.

  I shovel Flag down next to the flowers and I grab my mobile from my belt. I punch Wendy’s number in as quickly as possible, but Katie’s obviously got her on speed dial. Through the window I can see her talking, hear the screeching. And I’m getting put through to voice mail.

  She sets the phone down, disappears for a second, comes back with the biggest knife I’ve seen come out of a kitchen. And she holds it in both hands and looks along the blade at me, as though she’s lining me up in a gun sight. What does she do in there? Slaughter buffalo?

  And I don’t want to know what sick thing you’ve done with my towels, you bastard, she screams. She’s distracted by her phone again, someone saying something, and she picks it up. Yeah, he’s still here. Shall I call the police? . . . Okay . . . But I’m keeping the knife.

  She hangs up, glares at me along the knife again.r />
  I can explain, I tell her pathetically, as I hit Redial. I get Wendy in her car.

  Jon, hi, she says. How’s it going? In just the soothing voice you’d use to chat to a slathering cat murderer. Might be seeing you shortly . . .

  Wendy, let me explain. I know Katie will have sounded pretty stressed on the phone. Fuck, I can tell from the enormous knife that she’s not the best, but this is a total accident. You have to understand that. Let me explain.

  I’m listening.

  Okay. I just dropped over here, I was visiting, in a totally normal way, and Flag ran out of the bushes and under my feet. You know that cat game where they tag you? Flag does that, when he likes people, doesn’t he?

  Yeah . . .

  But unfortunately he’s not as gifted at it as Katie thinks. And maybe the dark confused him. So he sort of got under my feet. And I stepped on him. A bit.

  So you were just dropping over there?

  Yeah.

  To see Katie?

  Well, yeah, kind of.

  And you happen to have killed her cat? Accidentally. She tries not to laugh, I can hear it. She thinks you’ve killed him.

  Possibly. I have to admit that. He’s certainly not well.

  That’s pretty bad luck, Jon.

  Well, it’s worse luck for Flag.

  I look down at the floppy Flag, gurgling short breaths in and out at my feet. Inside, I hear Katie moving furniture against the door.

  He could do with a chest tube, I suspect.

  Katie thinks you went over there to kill him.

  Yeah, well that was kind of unfortunate. What happened was, after I stepped on him, he ran off and fell into a hole, just outside the units next door. You know how there’s some work being done in the garden there? Well, there is. And there was a hole. With a shovel in it. And Flag fell onto the shovel, so I lifted him out. Still on the shovel. Protect the spine, you know? And that’s when Katie came out.