Scarlet Stiletto - the First Cut

by Lindy Cameron

  Back to the Monday. It was a tad more stressy than usual because, as well as Mum and me getting ready for work and school respectively, Caitlin was banging on the door and screaming, “Out! Out!” to get to her sand pit.

  “Caitlin, bubs,” comforted Mum as she rushed by to answer yet another phone call.

  Trevor, not about to be torn from his paper a second before ‘clocking on’ (that’s Trevor-Speak for when we leave and his time looking after Caitlin begins), groaned and huffed.

  “This Monday morning mayhem! You should prepare for work on a Sunday.”

  Trevor’s perfected this pained voice. It’s like it’s a personal insult to him that Mum’s rushing around getting ready to go out and earn the money to keep him in the style to which, since he moved in with us, he’s become accustomed. You wouldn’t believe the unit he inhabited before he moved in with us. Sad. Very sad.

  Mum works in Equal Opportunities. When she got pregnant with Caitlin, she took a lower position so she wouldn’t have to do so much overtime (still not as lowly as Trevor’s when he worked there). But in a media crisis the department still treats her like the boss.

  On the way back from the phone, Mum kisses Trevor’s cheek.

  “Another crisis averted by Sarah-Solve-Everything. We’ll be heading for the car any second now, darl’. Ready, Reb?”

  I wasn’t but I could take a hint.

  “Sarah!” said Trevor flapping his newspaper. “That metallic, coffee-breath smell! Either clean your teeth or keep your distance.”

  I’d been wondering how long it would be before Mum’s supposed Equal Opportunities principles would kick in. She lectures me on equality between sexes, races, abilities. But on the personal front, she really lets herself down.

  Trevor’s at his worst when Mum’s about to leave for work, which makes me wonder how he really feels about being a stay-at-home dad. He’s into his ‘man with a pram’, politically correct position. He raves on about it to anyone and everyone who’ll listen.

  “My life has become very particular, very domestic,” he goes. “I’ve designed a small, precious life for my daughter and me. My life has reduced, like a good sauce.”

  I’ve been tempted, at more than one of the twenty occasions I’ve heard him spill this bilge before, to point out that, seeing as he didn’t have a life before, it’s no great sacrifice.

  But my stutter, which started just before Mum gave birth to Caitlin, means I no longer say what I’m thinking. It’s been an interesting transition. A year or so ago I was a person not afraid to voice her opinions. But that’s all changed. At first, I was lost. Now I’ve made use of my affliction. I’ve become introspective, a keen observer and have taken up shooting video. What I like most is editing. I’ve got a cool computer programme that lets me manipulate and juxtapose the images. Editing is like the debates I used to love having with Mum. Arranging the images and words is like organising my thoughts for a good argument.

  Mum disapproves of my new computer lifestyle: “It’s not healthy.” I showed her what I was doing and she was impressed plus it kept her off my back for a while.

  When Trevor first moved in he said, “I think it only fair to that you accommodate my domestic arrangements. I have to drink an entire pot of tea before I interact with another human being.”

  “That’s all very well when you’re living the bachelor life,” laughed Mum.

  Caitlin, like most kids, rises early and demands attention as soon as she wakes. Trevor protested about his peace being disturbed every morning for a year. After Caitlin’s first birthday, Mum must have had enough. She said, “Trevor. If you want time alone, stay up late.”

  But, like the true dinosaur he is, Trevor was unable to adapt. When he does stay up late he goes on the next morning about what a sacrifice family life is. To make up for all the compromises he’s made, he stays in bed until well after midday on weekends.

  Back at ‘mayhem Monday’, Trevor is spluttering out of the window at the rain.

  “You should have put a roof over the sandpit!”

  “It’s got a t-t-t-tarp,” I said.

  “Now you want to start another p-p-p-project!” sneered Trevor, imitating my stutter for the millionth time.

  He’d been waiting to get a dig in about Project Chooks ever since we’d been raving about it last night. I’d had such a good weekend working outside with Mum. I was over the moon when she suggested doing something else with me. But she hadn’t asked Trevor what he thought and he was furious.

  Mum grabbed Caitlin for a goodbye smooch and we all trouped out to the car. Our departure was accompanied by Trevor bleating on.

  “Chooks! Impractical, labour intensive, expensive! We need thorough research, a budget ...”

  “Research?’ Mum interrupted. “Right,” Mum turned over the engine. Trevor winced as usual.

  “Sarah! Listen to the engine!”

  “Reb, let’s go to the library on our way home tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Bye-bye, my poppet. Kiss for Mummy.”

  “Library? But ... what about dinner?” said Trevor, desperately.

  “You have a turn at cooking,” Mum closed her car door.

  Trevor, horrified, knocked on my window at her.

  “But what will I make?” he asked.

  “Check the fridge. Be inventive. If not, go shopping.”

  “But you’ve got the car!”

  “Walk to the deli.”

  “But ...’’Trevor’s panic was beginning to upset Caitlin. Personally I hadn’t had this much fun for ages “... I’m looking after Caitlin.”

  Trevor was so caught up he neglected to give the full daily lecture, which goes something like ... “Warm the car, Sarah. Ninety-eight per cent of engine damage occurs within the first five minutes of it starting.”

  As Mum drew away I had to stuff my hand in my mouth to stop my giggles. That is, until I realised she was laughing, too.

  At the end of our street, just before we rounded the corner, I turned and took a last look at Trevor holding onto Caitlin at the end of our drive. It was then I got a goose-bumpy feeling. Project Chooks was momentous. It would change everything. Finally, we had reached a fork, I had this profound feeling that Mum wasn’t going to have to keep taking everything Trevor slung anymore. I was right.

  Mum was seven months’ pregnant when Trevor moved in. A week after that I had cause to come home from school unexpectedly. I won’t go into detail, but suffice to say it’s not that bad every month. Thank goodness.

  I arrived home to find a little red sports car was parked in our driveway.

  I was in the bathroom getting a bottle of painkillers from the medicine cabinet when I heard Trevor’s voice. “Oh! Oh! Yes! Yes! YES!”

  Then I heard a female’s voice that wasn’t Mum’s, yelling, “Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, GOD!”

  I froze. Seconds later, Trevor, naked, flung open the bathroom door and headed for the toilet.

  “What the ... ? Rebecca? Hi.”

  I was like a kangaroo trapped in headlights.

  “Trev? I have to go! Trev?” sang out the woman.

  I ran to my bedroom, slammed the door.

  I peeped out and saw an older woman of about thirty pulling on red shoes.

  Then Trevor was at my door. I tried to close it but he had his foot wedged.

  “You breathe a word,” he hissed, “and I’ll make your life a living, breathing, hell. Got it?”

  The woman came up behind him.

  “Trevvie, kissy. See ya soon, big boy?”

  “You betcha.”

  I watched through a crack in the door as they pashed and groped.

  I kept the knowledge to myself for a week, but one night I couldn’t bear Trevor going on at Mum.

  “Jesus, Sarah. Who are you eating for? A couple of elephants?”

  Mum put her fork down and her eyes filled with tears.

  “It’s salad!” I said. Then I couldn’t help myself. “Mum ... Mum ... I-I-I came ho
me from school last Wednesday ...”

  Trevor kicked me hard under the table, but I didn’t care.

  “Wednesday?”Trevor said. “I was out Wednesday.”

  “I found Trevor and ... what’s her name?”

  “Who?” asked Trevor as if I was mad.

  “They were in your bedroom, Mum.”

  “For chrissakes, Rebecca! Sarah?”

  “It’s true, Mum.”

  “Who was where?” asked Mum.

  “You’re surely not going to believe ... ?”Trevor looked rattled.

  “She drives a red car, wears red shoes,” I continued.

  “In your fantasies!’’Trevor exploded.

  “And they were on your bed.”

  “I’m out of here.” Trevor got up. ‘‘You wanna bring up another kid on your own, Sarah? Be depressed for years? You believe this lying little ...”

  “Depressed?” I looked at Mum.

  “You want this child to have a Daddy?”Trevor continued.

  “This situation is really hard for you, Reb, but ...” said Mum.

  I couldn’t believe it! Mum thought I was making it up.

  “I’ve never ever lied to you, Mum.”

  I started for Trevor. “You arsehole!”

  “Arsehole! Sarah? I don’t have to stay.”

  “Rebecca, take back the ... ‘arsehole’.”

  “I wish I could. To the hovel he came from.”

  “You know what I mean! Apologise!”

  “Never.”

  “Go to your room, Rebecca. Now!”

  That night I woke up to find Trevor’s hand over my mouth.

  “I warned you.”

  I tried to bite him. He put his other hand under the covers.

  “You keep your mouth shut. Say, ‘Yes,Trevor,’ Rebecca. Say it!”

  He was hurting me so much I had no choice.

  Next morning I was fitting a huge bolt to my bedroom door when the phone rang. Trevor answered it and brought it to me. It was my friend Jazmyn and she was ropable. Apparently Trevor had just answered the phone by saying, “Jazmyn? Oh, you’re the one Rebecca refers to as ‘fatty’?”

  Mum wanted to know what I was doing with the lock?

  “A young woman needs her privacy,” said Trevor, quick as. “As do we. Come here, sexy.” Eyeing me, he gave Mum a huge pash.

  About a month later, and a week before Mum gave birth, she was ready to leave for her final check up. Trevor was still in his pyjamas.

  “What do you mean, you’re not coming?” Mum was saying.

  “Exactly that. You overbearing bovine .’’Trevor poured himself another cup of tea.

  “Don’t call me that!” Mum said.

  “You remind me of my Mother!”

  “I’ll come with you, Mum.”

  We had to sit in the driveway for ages, Mum was crying so much.

  Just as I suspected, the little red car was there when I came home at lunchtime. The sound effects were the same, too.

  That night I told Mum. Trevor did the same act—total disbelief—as before, only more so.

  “She’s jealous, Sarah. I’m about to be a Father. I’ve got my woman! What more could I want?”

  He put his arm around Mum. She couldn’t see, but he grinned at me like the full liar he is.

  Then he got serious.

  “Make a choice, Sarah.” he said. “It’s me and the baby. Or ... Rebecca.”

  “How about you go and stay with Auntie Charlene, Reb ...”

  “N-n-n-o!” I couldn’t believe she would send me away!

  “... Until I’ve had the baby?”

  “Before she goes, I want an apology,” said Trevor, loving every moment of it.

  “M-M-Mu ...”

  “Now she’s pretending to stutter.”

  “I’m n-n-n-n ...” I couldn’t stop the stuttering, nor the crying. Mum looked confused. Torn.

  “Sarah. My Sweet Sarah.” Trevor got on his knees, slid his hand up Mum’s skirt. You could see Mum wanting to believe him.

  Doesn’t take too much guessing as to the night my stutter began.

  After Caitlin was born, life was radically different at our house. That I loved Caitlin more than I hated Trevor saved me. Mum stayed at home for the first three months after Caitlin was born so Trevor wouldn’t have seen anything of Maria and the little red car. But it started up again as soon as Mum went back to work. I kept quiet out of fear, I’m ashamed to say.

  Back to the week where this whole family affair starts to heat up, the week Project Chooks; that Monday afternoon after school, Mum and I had serious fun at the library. We weren’t there long; Mum was desperate to see Caitlin. We got fish’n’chips on the way home. She made me stay in the car just in case Trevor had set a new record and had a meal on the table.

  That night me, Mum and an ecstatic Caitlin poured over the chicken books we’d got from the library. I’d no idea how beautiful and varied chickens were.

  “A G-g-g-golden Seabright.”

  “Sir John Seabright bred intensively for thirty years,” Mum read. “Imagine that. Your life’s work.”

  “W-w-w-wings like lace.”

  “Come and look, Trevor,” Mum called. “Stop sulking.”

  “Domestic animals, Sarah, are a financial burden.”

  “Trevor! How did we manage without you?”

  Very well, I thought.

  By Wednesday night that week we had the chicken breed we wanted, the hen house designed, and Mum was working on her chicken connections. We had the new gay liaison officer at Mum’s work lined up to come and help us build it on the weekend. Me, Mum and Caitlin were very excited, but Trevor was still vehemently opposed. He’d refused to join in discussions or be part of the preparations.

  After dinner, Trevor went to bed before Caitlin had her bath. Later I heard Mum knocking at the spare room door for a goodnight kiss, but he refused to let her in.

  I passed Mum on the way to the bathroom. It was obvious she’d been crying.

  “Are you okay, Mum?” I asked.

  “Fine. Night-night, darling.”

  “I love you, Mum,” I told her. I know she loves me, despite what Trevor says.

  We were late home on the Thursday night of the week of Project Chooks. Mum had had a rough day. If Trevor had taken the time, he would have noticed her shoulders were up by her ears.

  But he was ready with one of his lists and had started reading it even before she had put down her briefcase. He’d done this before in the face of a project. Previously Mum had always listened to him.

  “One,” he read. “You want three birds, that’s seventy-five dollars. It’s at least $300 for a basic chook shed set-up. Five dollars per month per bird for wheat, that’s $ 180 per annum. That’s $555. We spend five dollars per week on eggs, that’s $260 per annum.”

  “Stop right there,” said Mum.

  “This took me all day, Sarah,” he protested. “At least have the decency to listen.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your list, Trevor. We’re building a hen house this weekend.”

  “You don’t have the skills,” Trevor scoffed.

  “Rebecca’s not staring at a computer screen! We’re having chooks. End of story.”

  Mum called Gordon, the chicken contact, as soon as she took off her coat and set up a time to go and pick up three Rhode Island Reds. The breed is reputed to be one of the best layers and are fairly docile.

  Trevor didn’t speak for the rest of that night.

  Before Trevor, I used to love Friday nights. Mum and I would get a takeaway and discuss our plans for the weekend. When I got home from school that week it was just like old times. Mum and I poured over our list and agreed to get an early night in anticipation of the work ahead.