by Ron Elliott
Brian shook his head. He got into his car and drove away.
Two weeks before, Daniel had a thriving business, a happy family and a friend’s wedding. It seemed impossible that it could go so quickly to nothing. He wondered whether Brian might have done something desperate in order to pick up Hearth & Home for a bargain price. Or maybe make quick money. Was there more to him visiting Helen? Was there a deal in the room upstairs before he’d arrived?
Daniel was metres away from his ute when the four uniformed police stepped out from their hiding places. Two had their tasers drawn. One said, ‘Danilo Longo?’
They took him to a hospital in a paddy-wagon that smelled of disinfectant. Orderlies in t-shirts and black pants stood alert, like athletes waiting for the whistle to blow. A nurse took papers at reception.
Daniel kept trying to reason with them. ‘If I’m not under arrest, you’ve got no right to hold me.’
‘We do, Danilo. Under section thirty of the Mental Health Act.’
‘Mental health?’
A young Indian orderly, not much older than the apprentice Nadif, said, ‘It’s okay man, it’s just some tests.’
‘Just go with Aziz, Mr Longo.’
The orderlies stepped forward which made Daniel back away.
‘You can’t grab someone off the streets, no matter what section you’ve got.’
‘Calm down,’ said the older orderly.
‘No one’s taking me anywhere.’
They reached for him and he slapped their hands away. ‘Wait a minute.’ A cop hit him from the side and another pushed him. They grabbed his wrist and twisted it in a way that forced Daniel face down onto the dirty lino floor. Daniel tried to wriggle out from under the cops.
One of them said in his ear. ‘You quieten down now. We don’t grab people from the street for no reason. Your wife signed you in here. And she’s bloody right, if you ask me.’
***
Teddy had friends. The crematorium is full. Amis stands at the back. Sharon and Trent sit near the front. There’s Teddy. Teddy’s box anyway, with a framed photo of the man, smiling confidently. On the conveyor belt ready for the fire. No open casket for this one.
An old minister, portly, balding. Church of England collar, possibly dandruff flecked. ‘A man does not take his own life. The vicissitudes of life can wear slowly. We are frail. People can break. Although I knew Teddy only slightly, it seems to me that he was broken.’ Dandruff takes a theatrical breath. Bows his head.
A little nativity scene by the door. Little doll wise men with little toy camels. They have farm yard animal toys gathered round the tiny baby in the manger. Wee wee baby toy things.
Sharon’s head is bowed.
Dandruff starts up again. ‘Some of us do seem stronger than others. But we are all weak. None of us is strong enough. On our own.’
Amis turns Teddy’s gold lighter in his pocket. Thinks he might have to go back to Hearth & Home. Get a keepsake from Danny boy.
‘On our own, we may try, but we fail. God knew this. God knows our frailty. The trials life puts before us. That’s why He sent His son.’
Time to go. The advertisements have started. Teddy’s brother looks at his notes. Ready for Edward Borthwick’s life story. The organist plays ‘Abide with Me’. Amis rests his hand on the nativity scene. Plucks the baby Jesus from the manger like a grape.
Taking down Daniel’s business had been easy. Easier than Teddy’s. Young bull ripe for cutting from the herd. But the coup de grâce was the committal. The signed letter from Helen, fearful wife of. His father was the gift. The spark of the idea. The JP in his pyjamas. Amis in weak-arse home-knitted jumper, earnest and sleepless, ‘She doesn’t want to be seen to betray him in his fragile state. My brother has been under strain. Has done things. Our father committed ... committed – ended his own life. We merely want him to be looked at by the doctors. It’s an emergency, your Honour.’ That smug look. ‘I’m not a judge.’ Too right, you’re not.
The paperweight? He recalls a paperweight in Daniel’s office shaped like a fireplace. A wonky amateur thing full of cute. One of the wife’s drawings? Yes. A Helen sketch. Amis smiles at that thought. Would Danilo ever trust her again?
They are coming out of the crematorium. Not many dark suits. Mostly office clothes. Kids in their dancing gear. Amis waits amidst the roses and low hedges lining the walks, brass plates on the ground next to every plant.
‘Dad!’ Trent smiles. Good boy.
Sharon stops on the path, her arms folding, her hands scratching at the other arm in her nervous way.
Amis forward. Hand on her shoulder, feeling her collarbone. ‘My thoughts are with you in your time of need. Anything I can do?’
She doesn’t look at him. She knows.
Amis turns to Trent. Flicks a casino chip up in the air. Trent catches it. Turns it, not understanding what it is or where it came from.
Amis whispers to Sharon, ‘You make me hornier than hell when I see you dressed in black, Shaz.’
Trent. ‘Another man came to our house, Dad.’
‘Another man?’
‘No, I didn’t, Amis. I didn’t.’ She’s looking at him now.
Trent. ‘He was looking for you. He wanted your address.’
‘I didn’t tell him anything. I didn’t even open the door.’
Amis knows she’s telling the truth. He puts his arm around her shoulders. She quakes ever so slightly. ‘Who was it, Shaz?’
‘I don’t know. We didn’t open the door. Trent, tell him.’
Trent smiles. She’s stupid. He says, ‘His name was Daniel.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Amis, you’re hurting.’
He’s squeezing her. He loosens his grip. Daniel. He opens his free arm to Trent who steps in, unsure. Amis hugs them both to him, letting them feel his strength.
Daniel underestimated. Loose ends now. ‘It was my fault. I got too cute. He won’t bother you again.’ He steps back. ‘I got to take a raincheck on our reunion.’
***
He parks up the street in the white Statesman and waits for them to come home from swimming lessons. The thing is on the back seat. Perhaps Helen will wear the loose dress again. Bright African colours. A kind of billowing thing that makes you think about what’s under there. Maybe a cheesecloth thing that lets you see the smudge of the bikinis.
The Volvo comes late.
Amis walks up the drive unseen and stands to the side of the garage door, cradling the thing.
Helen in mother mode. ‘If you don’t start knuckling under, Mister, you are going to spend the holidays in your bedroom.’
Rustling plastic bags. Silence. Good boy.
‘Why did we have to put things back?’ The little spitfire. Amis’s favourite.
‘Because we didn’t have enough money.’ Helen.
‘Cos our credit cards bounced.’ The boy, bitter?
Amis steps around.
Helen has bags of shopping. She turns and drops a bag, spilling packets of chips and cheeses.
‘Sorry, Helen. Didn’t mean to scare you.’ Big smile. He holds up the thing and it wriggles.
Helen bends to pick up the bags. Thigh-hugging skirt. Loose blouse with buttons undone.
‘Let me help you with those.’ He hugs the wriggling puppy to his chest one-handed and bends to pick up food items. Party food.
Samuel stands at a plaster-of-Paris object on the bench. He’s watching the dog. Frances glares, still in the car. Helen is flustered, trying to gather things. Her knees point at him from her skirt. Amis puts a plastic container of pate into Helen’s bag and catches sight of flesh above her bra. She looks up catching him look away. She’s standing. The tight skirt is better than the loose dress. She’s embarrassed.
Amis up too. ‘I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here.’
‘I do assume you don’t wander the neighbourhood doing good deeds, Mr, ah ... Armstrong.’ Getting it back together. Taking char
ge.
He holds up the puppy. ‘I couldn’t get Haggis out of my mind. So, unless Daniel has already got another puppy.’ He holds the thing up.
Sam comes forward. Amis tosses the puppy half a metre. The boy frantically catches it.
Amis is already looking at Helen. He’s downcast. ‘I’ve overstepped the mark.’
On the back foot again, she says, ‘We’ll have to ask Dad.’
‘Quite right too.’
The little girl with big eyes. Amis reaches into his coat pocket and pulls it out. A cheap plastic marionette. He gets the strings untangled and makes it jiggle. It is fun, the broken dance. He holds it out towards her. She wants it. But she won’t take it. She knows about the gingerbread house.
‘Mr Armstrong, this is really too much. We can’t.’
Shut up, Helen, I’m working here. He turns to her. Smiles. ‘With my kids, I know, you can’t give one without the other getting something too.’
‘We really can’t.’ Closed. Her defences are up. Suspicious now. No one’s this nice.
Nice boring answers, Amis. Always walk to the door carrying your plausibles. ‘Confession. My neighbours were giving puppies away. And I would like you to let me try to sell you a very good insurance deal. I did do the spade work. Sorry. Poor joke.’ But it wasn’t. It was rather good.
She smiles.
Amis looks down at the marionette, hanging limp. The little one is watching it.
Helen says, ‘This is the most complicated sales pitch I’ve ever seen.’
‘I’m a complicated fellow.’ He smiles the truth at her. He gives her Amis. It surprises her.
The marionette is snatched from Amis’s hand. She’s taken it. Amis is almost disappointed. Thought maybe she was a tougher diamond.
‘Friends?’ he says, demanding his blood price.
She doesn’t smile. She shakes her head. No. I’ll take your present but I won’t like you.
Pure uncomplicated amorality. And hair smelling like apples.
Helen asks Amis to help with the Christmas tree. It lies in the centre of their loungeroom as if chopped there. Three days until Christmas and no tree.
Amis takes charge. Like the dad. Sam, bricks. Frances, keep the puppy safe. Helen, you take that side. They lift, easy does it. The crown bends at the ceiling.
Helen pants. ‘Put in the bricks.’ A branch twists at her chest, pushing back more blouse.
Sam races in to plop bricks into the bucket surrounding the base of the tree.
Amis is jovial. ‘You are making me work for this. Any wood needs chopping? Painting? Any other thing needs attention?’ He makes sure he isn’t looking at her. No lascivious smile to give away the innuendo. He feels her check though. He says, ‘And on the other side, Sam – to balance it.’
He heads for the bricks. Stops to scraggle the puppy’s ears. Eager beaver, dying to help.
Helen smiles at the boy, bursting with maternals. She turns to catch Amis watching. He doesn’t avoid it. He wants the Daniel gossip. To feed on the crisis and feed it too. ‘It must be very difficult. Having to hold this shower, right now.’
‘What do you mean?’ She’s gone hard again.
Amis swerves. ‘So close to Christmas.’
She relaxes slightly. But she’s not panicked. Not like Amis expected. She says, ‘Samuel, before we collapse here.’
Is she tough or doesn’t she know where he is. He watches her. ‘Shame Daniel can’t be here.’
She looks back, shaking her head. Not getting it.
Amis says, ‘So I can lay things out for both of you. Given your success in life, you might want to consider Life Assurance too.’
The boy puts the last brick in. It feels like enough. She lets go of the tree. ‘He’s very busy, Mr Armstrong.’
The boy takes the puppy. ‘I’ll show you outside.’
The girl jumps to follow but turns back and says, ‘Don’t you hurt Mummy.’
‘Frances!’ Mum aghast.
Apples runs off.
Helen is stuck in the corner of the fake bay window, trying to push branches. Amis steps to cut off her movement. Says, ‘Let me help,’ as he pulls branches aside, and starts to move back.
She steps forward and Amis moves back into her path. ‘Oh.’
They stop. Sweat on her chest. Full breasts, panting slightly. Tiny beads of blood where the pine needles have jabbed her chest. Just a little prick.
‘Sorry.’ Amis steps back.
‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’
She is only half out. She hasn’t stepped away. Amis looks at her face. Her lips. Quite close and stopped for him. Then she steps through and goes to the centre of the room. She takes a deep breath with her back to him and then turns, bright and innocent, and looks back at the tree. But she’s flushed.
Amis risks. He says, ‘I hope he takes care of you, Helen.’
‘He does.’ She answers too quickly.
He meets her gaze. It’s all sympathy, calling the lie a lie.
‘He does.’ Weak. And she doesn’t even know where he is. ‘Look, I won’t stay.’ He steps to her and lays his hand on her shoulder, his thumb touching where her pectoral starts to become breast. The tiniest innocent squeeze and he’s past her and in the hall. ‘Can I leave you my card?’
‘Yes.’ She hasn’t come out. She’s getting herself together.
He lays one of his fake business cards on the dresser by the front door. ‘I am going to sell you some insurance one day, Mrs Longo.’
He opens the front door and turns back. He looks down the hall where he can see all the way out to the children playing in the garden with the puppy. He could live here.
***
The doctors didn’t believe Daniel. With three of them working in a tag team Daniel had also begun to doubt.
‘In what way are they persecuting you?’
Daniel was on his side of the interview desk. ‘Not persecuting. Except for Blyte. The bank, Sheridan, Brian...’ Daniel didn’t even want to consider the next person on the list. Found he couldn’t say her name, so he skipped it. ‘I think that’s more ... a loss of faith.’
‘And Amis Blyte?’ asked the kindly lady doctor or psychiatrist or whatever they were. None of them wore white coats. They looked more like high school teachers. State school teachers, nearing retirement. When Daniel didn’t reply, she repeated it. ‘Why is he persecuting you, Danilo?’
Daniel looked away again, shaking his head. Every time they called him Danilo, he knew he wasn’t among friends. He smiled. He needed to get out of here. He said, ‘Maybe he’s not.’
‘And you haven’t met him?’ said the skinny one. He reminded Daniel of his first metalwork teacher.
Daniel said, ‘Maybe he doesn’t exist.’
They had moved on quickly from do you know what day it is, which he’d done reasonably badly at: ‘Very close to Christmas.’ And who is the current prime minister of Australia. ‘Julia. Her husband used to be a hairdresser.’ When he asked if they could steer away from Geography as it wasn’t his best subject, they’d asked more specific questions about why he thought he was here and he had tried to calmly list the pressure he was under and the actions he’d taken that might make it look to outsiders (and his wife) as though he were crazed. He was sane enough to give the answers that would get him out.
The third doctor, whom Daniel was having trouble placing in his imaginary teacher common room, asked, ‘Have you ever conjured up, in your own mind, what he might look like?’
As opposed to conjuring it up in someone else’s mind?
She went on. ‘Does he look anything at all like your father?’
‘No.’
‘No, he doesn’t look like him?’
‘This is not about that. No.’
They nodded at the last doctor. She’d impressed them. The man on the end looked at his watch.
The kindly one, maybe home ec. or drama, said, ‘Let’s have another discussion later, Danilo.’
‘I’d like to talk more about your father next time,’ said number three, the deputy principal perhaps. ‘Would you think about that?’
Daniel nodded. He didn’t want to think about that. He thought he should have answered yes. The unseen Blyte looks like my dead father. They might have been pleased and let him go. You’re damaged, son, but like the rest of us. Go and pay a psychologist and talk about it for a few hours every week.
An orderly led Daniel along a corridor. There were shifts of orderlies with lots of keys.
Daniel had trouble walking. They’d taken his shoelaces and his tie and belt. He had to hold up his pants with his good hand and shuffle along the corridor like one of the zombies out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
They got to one of the heavy doors with the big glass viewing panels. It was like a medium-sized hospital ward with beds and men lying and milling about.
The orderly said, ‘Listen, you’re not gunna hurt yourself anymore, are you?’ He was looking at Daniel’s various wounds. He’d picked up a few extra scrapes from the police that morning.
‘No. I’d rather not.’
‘I can get the nurse to give you something. And I can put you by yourself or with the other blokes in the ward.’
Daniel shrugged. He wondered whether they’d already given him something that made him feel flat. He had a headache.
The orderly unlocked the door and the men looked up mostly with a vague hope which turned to disappointment when they saw it was another inmate. The orderly said, ‘You want, I can make a call for you. Only cost you ten bucks.’
‘No, I think I’m all talked out.’
It was nothing like One Flew Over. It was more like a late night at casualty. As an experienced inmate explained many of them had voluntarily come in for assessment, sometimes prompted by parents or partners and sometimes when they recognised the signs that the Black Dog was taking over and they needed their medication upped.
Daniel thought he might be starting to relate to that. He sensed the bottom of the well and not knowing where to find the light. Action had kept such thoughts away. Daniel was an emotional shark. He needed to keep moving, not brooding. He’d picked that trick up from his dad.