Troy’s Possibilities

by Rodney Strong

  ‘I have never learned to ride a bike,’ I said flippantly.

  ‘Not even a tricycle?’

  ‘I’ll never keep a secret from you, Cat,’ I lied.

  She looked for truth in my face and seemed satisfied.

  ‘Unless it’s a surprise birthday party. Then I’ll have to.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ she replied.

  I felt bad for lying to her, but I’d feel worse if she ran away screaming. We sat in comfortable silence a little longer, occasionally breaking it to make observations on passers-by. When I reluctantly conceded it was time to go I walked her back to her car, parked in a little side street off Customhouse Quay. Cars circled the block like waiting sharks, looking for empty spots, but there wasn’t much foot traffic and for a moment we had the footpath to ourselves.

  ‘What’s the appropriate resolution to a second pre-date?’ I asked with a mixture of hope and nerves.

  Her expression mirrored my feelings. ‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted.

  ‘A hug?’ I suggested.

  She shook her head. ‘Too generic.’

  ‘A kiss?’

  Again her head shook. ‘Too intimate.’

  ‘On the cheek?’ I offered as an alternative.

  She considered this for a moment, then nodded. I leaned forward, and after a micro-hesitation so did she. Gently I placed my lips on her soft cheek, felt her lips on my skin. Then they were gone, leaving a warm impression, a source of heat that slowly spread across my face and down my neck. She winked at me and we both laughed, maybe from relief, maybe from something else.

  After she got in her car and started the engine I waited for her to put it into reverse and pull out of the park, but she sat there. Through the glass I could see her studying me. Finally she wound the window down.

  Puzzled I walked around the side of the car and she looked at me nervously.

  ‘Tomorrow night, 6.30, dinner, you and me.’

  ‘Okay,’ I replied calmly, as if my insides weren’t jumping around.

  ‘I’d rather do it tonight but I’ve got this family thing, and I think we should do it sooner rather than later, before I change my mind again – don’t you think?’

  ‘Sure,’ I agreed.

  ‘Right, tomorrow, 6.30, dinner, you and me. It’s a date.’

  ‘An actual date?’ I wanted to be clear.

  ‘A real-life date,’ she replied. ‘Watch your feet.’ She put the car in reverse and I stepped back on the footpath and watched her disappear around the corner. Suddenly tomorrow seemed like more than a lifetime away.

  I wanted to skip down the road in giddy joy, but settled for grinning like an idiot. As I turned the corner into our road I could see the old couple once more at their gate. The old woman made to grab my arm but I’d already stopped.

  ‘You there, wipe that stupid smile off your face and tell me which one you prefer.’ She held up two photos of puppies. One was a Dalmatian, the other a Terrier.

  My smile widened. ‘Neither. My friend volunteers at the SPCA and she can find the perfect dog for both of you.’

  ‘I don’t want a mongrel,’ the woman said primly.

  ‘We’re all mongrels,’ I replied with a wink at her husband.

  The smile didn’t leave my face until I walked up the path to my front door.

  My phone rang; it was Kelvin. ‘Could you swing by, if you’re not too busy?’

  ‘I just got home.’

  ‘Great, then I’ll see you in half an hour,’ he replied, hanging up before I could answer.

  With a sigh I turned around and made my way back into the city. Kelvin was sitting in the front pew when I entered the church doors. He didn’t react to my arrival, and for a moment I wondered if he was asleep, or worse.

  I sat down next to him. His eyes were closed but his beard trembled as air went in and out of his mouth.

  ‘Do you believe in God, Troy?’

  It was an uncomfortable question. How do you tell a priest you don’t believe in something that is at the core of who they are?

  ‘There is no right or wrong answer,’ he added, sensing my hesitation.

  ‘Really? So it’s okay to say I don’t believe God exists?’

  He opened his eyes, turning them towards me. ‘God knows you exist,’ he said with a wink.

  ‘Did you ask me here for a theological discussion?’

  He shook his head. ‘Your father rang me. He’s concerned about you.’ He saw the flash of anger cross my face and held up his hand. ‘He rang me as a friend, and because he loves you.’

  ‘So did he tell you he thinks I’m crazy,’ I replied bitterly.

  ‘He has concerns,’ Kelvin admitted.

  I stood up, fists clenched in frustration. Kelvin placed his hand on my arm. ‘Sit down, Troy. I’m too old to come after you if you storm out dramatically.’

  I slumped back onto the seat, and he patted my arm encouragingly. ‘Your father doesn’t think you’re crazy. But he’s worried about you and asked if I would talk to you.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’ Bitterness twisted my words.

  Kelvin paused, weighing his words carefully. ‘He told me that you seem confused sometimes about what’s real.’ He held his hand up again as I opened my mouth to retort. ‘These are his words. He’s worried you’re running away from something. Are you, Troy?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m not confused.’

  ‘But you are running,’ he replied.

  I shook my head again. ‘I’m not running from anything; it’s running from me.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The world.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow,’ he admitted.

  ‘Tell me something, Kelvin. Is everything we talk about confidential?’ When he nodded I checked. ‘Even from my parents?’

  ‘No one will know what we speak of except me and God.’

  So I told him everything. At the end I waited expectantly for the look of sympathy, or fear that a completely bat-shit crazy man was sitting next to him.

  Instead he appeared thoughtful. ‘I’m sorry, Troy,’ he said. ‘That sounds like a very lonely existence.’

  ‘That’s it? You believe me?’ I asked, stunned.

  ‘I believe that you believe it.’ It was more than I’d hoped for. ‘So what’s it like, living with these … what did you call them? Possibilities?

  I looked around the empty church, picturing it full of people, waiting to celebrate their faith, to rejoice in their belief that there was a higher power, that something was waiting for them when they moved on from this world. I felt more disconnected from them than ever. Kelvin was waiting for an answer and I said to him the most honest thing I could think of. ‘It’s like the whole world has amnesia.’

  ‘How does that make you feel?’

  ‘Tired,’ I replied.

  He studied my face, and I turned away from his gaze. ‘You say some of the things that you live in these Possibilities actually happen. Have you considered the possibility you’re psychic?’

  I had, but the research I’d done didn’t back it up. Psychics are generally vague about things, sensing someone is near water, that sort of thing. I’d scoured the internet, searching for anything that would point to others who suffered the same thing as me, and always came up blank. I shook my head.

  ‘I’m sure God has a reason for this, but I’m not privy to his innermost thoughts so I can’t determine what it is. What I will say is this. If these things are happening to you, there are two ways you can go. You can let them isolate you – strip you of friends and family and everything that matters so you can protect yourself. Or you can embrace it, treat it as a gift to be used to make this world a better place.’

  ‘It’s more like a curse,’ I said angrily.

  ‘Sometimes things are both. It can appear a curse to you, because you’ve been given this burden. But if you can use it to help just one person, then it’s something wonderful as well.’

  Further conversation was halted when a gr
oup of parishioners came into the church, looking to steal Kelvin away for tea and absolution.

  ‘What are you going to tell my parents?’

  ‘What I always tell them. That their son loves them very much, and to be patient.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief as he was swept away in a sea of cardigans and perms. The silence that fell was disconcerting, the words Kelvin said troubling. I stared at the altar and tried to will away the frustration building inside me.

  ‘Is this you?’ I said quietly, my voice lost amongst the wooden pews. ‘Is this you?’ I repeated louder. ‘Did you do this to me?’

  I stood up, fists clenched. ‘Why? Why would you do this? What could I possibly have done to deserve this thing?’

  The only sound was my own voice echoing back at me.

  ‘WHY?’ I screamed.

  It may have been God’s house, but it seemed he wasn’t taking questions.

  ‘Fuck you,’ I said bitterly and left, vowing never to return.

  The one where I ran

  The waitress delivered our drinks. His was in a takeaway cup and I revised my assumptions about the purpose of the meeting. The musty smell of wet clothes mingled with roasted beans, while conversations mingled into an unintelligible heavy cloud of noise above us, waiting to burst and deluge words onto damp heads.

  ‘I never had a chance to properly thank you,’ Cat’s dad said. He’d summoned me here via phone call the night before.

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘I disagree. My children are extremely important to me. One of them was in trouble and you helped. It was rude of me and I apologise.’

  My body relaxed and the breath I’d been holding eased out into the world. ‘You’re welcome,’ seemed a lame response, and his smile acknowledged the awkwardness of the situation.

  ‘Elissa is doing well. She’s very strong.’ His voice was tinged with pride. ‘But she’s not back to her true self, not yet. It would be a shame to have progress halted.’

  My mouth went dry. ‘Why would it do that?’

  He shrugged. ‘Any number of things, I expect. Ill-timed words, opportunists, misplaced intentions.’

  ‘This is about our date,’ I realised, wondering why it hadn’t clicked sooner.

  ‘This is about the timing of your date,’ he replied.

  I looked around the café, searching for the right words.

  ‘Good,’ he nodded. ‘You’re not protesting. People who protest too quickly and too loudly lack sincerity, don’t you think? I work in parliament, and I’m around insincerity every day. It’s very troubling.’ He emphasised the final word.

  ‘No doubt,’ I responded. ‘But I’m not a politician, and I genuinely like your daughter.’

  He searched my face, poking at my words for suggestions of duplicity, and seemed satisfied with the results. ‘I believe you though I can’t speak for whether those feelings are reciprocated. But liking someone doesn’t negate the possibility of something going wrong. In fact, it’s likely to increase the odds in my experience.’ He sipped his drink.

  ‘Saying the wrong thing can happen any time, regardless of the situation.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I have a little more experience in these matters.’

  ‘Age and experience don’t always go hand in hand,’ I shot back.

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But age usually brings clarity about your actions.’

  ‘My head is clear,’ I told him.

  ‘Are you saying you won’t hurt my daughter?’

  ‘I’m saying I like your daughter, and have no desire to hurt her in any way, ever.’

  ‘Then I should return to work.’ He stood, shrugged his coat on, and picked up his umbrella. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing Troy. And I hope you know why you’re doing it. And I hope this doesn’t end badly for her – and worse for you.’ Without waiting for a response, he wove through the tables and out into the winter’s day.

  After he left certainty slipped away with him, and as my coffee cooled my brain heated up. I had become singularly focused on the assumption I was the one to fix Cat, or at least make her Cat again. But maybe I wasn’t. Maybe all I would do was make it worse for her. Be a constant reminder of what she went through. What if she never became Cat again because of me? Worse, what if her feelings were a result of me saving her from the attack, and not genuine?

  After finishing my drink I returned to work, and spent the rest of the day distracted by disturbing thoughts. Several times my colleagues asked if I was all right, and I pleaded ill health. Around lunchtime Cat texted and suggested a restaurant – Italian – or as an alternative, a Malaysian joint off Courtney Place. I said sure to the Italian, and offered to pick her up. Several messages went back and forth with the details, and all the time my mind was looking at the issue from different angles. Was it even a problem? I hadn’t decided by the time I left work.

  I got home about 5.30pm. Emily was at the gym and I was glad for the silence, although she did text a few minutes later to say good luck, and not to screw it up. Sometimes the feeling of love is overwhelming.

  I wanted a shower, but decided against it – our antiquated system would have taken too long. So I settled for splashing water on my face, reapplying deodorant, and for good measure a couple of squirts of cologne. That done, I checked my face in the mirror – first looking directly forward, then slowly moving my head from one side to the other, changing from full to half, to crescent. It left me unsatisfied, and with more doubts. All excitement about the date was gone, all the energy from the day before submerged in molasses-like uncertainties.

  Disturbed, I turned away from the reflection and went into my room, wondered what I’d gone in there for, then walked out again. Meandered into the kitchen, once around the dining table, then out into the hallway again. I realised I was procrastinating, delaying my departure even though time moved forward, creeping towards the moment between being on time and being late. I checked my phone, even though it hadn’t signalled a message. I was hoping she would cancel, that she would resolve the turmoil for me. Abruptly I grabbed the car keys off the table next to the front door, went outside and shut the door behind me. The click of the lock seemed to calm the doubts. I strode more confidently to Emily’s car, gunned the engine and screeched away from the curb in a fuck-you to the uncertainties.

  My newfound buoyancy dripped away the closer the car got to her house. Each turn, each traffic light sapped my confidence.

  I pulled up and put the car in park, but left the engine idling. Behind her front door she would be waiting patiently, maybe excitedly, maybe nervously. I turned my attention to the rear-vision mirror, twisting it around to see my face. The eyes of the moon stared back at me, dark and shadowed. Did I want those eyes, that face, and the problems resting behind it, to infect Cat with their shadows?

  Disgusted, I put the car into drive, pulled away again, and drove straight to the closest pub, turned my phone off, and drank myself into oblivion.

  The next morning I woke up in my own bed, fully dressed and still drunk. Squinting through blurry eyes at my watch revealed it was midmorning. I’d slept through my alarm, and Emily leaving for work, neither of which was usually quiet. My phone lay on the table next to the bed, but the screen remained stubbornly blank when I pushed buttons. A vague memory of turning it off filtered through the haze.

  When it powered up there were eight messages and four missed calls. All from Emily and Cat. I deleted them without looking, guilt overpowering the alcohol. As if she somehow knew I was back in touch with the world, Emily called. I let it go to voicemail, then drifted back to sleep.

  The next thing I knew something hit me in the face. Jolted awake, I felt as if the world swam in and out of focus for a moment before something rushed at my head and my face received another battering. I raised two hands as a shield, then realised Emily was standing next to the bed, pillow in hand. Her expression was disgust mixed with disappointment. She’d never looked at me that way before, and it hurt worse th
an a pillow to a hungover head.

  ‘Kitchen, now,’ she ordered.

  Getting vertical took longer than expected. The first attempt induced a wave of nausea so strong it took all my willpower not to spill my guts on the bedroom floor. When it passed I took a hesitant step to the door, immediately followed by a stumble, then another step. After what seemed an age I managed to get to the kitchen and collapse onto a dining chair. The room stopped spinning after a minute. In time to see Emily put a glass of water down in front of me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I croaked.

  ‘It’s not out of sympathy. I want you awake enough to hear what I have to say.’

  I took a couple of sips, the water sluicing away the taste of bile and alcohol and possibly cigarettes. ‘I know what you’re going to say. I fucked up.’ My voice still cracked but was at least recognisable.

  ‘You left fucked up way behind on this one.’

  ‘Is she mad?’

  ‘That’s between you and her.’

  ‘Then why are we talking now?’ I asked sullenly, wishing the world wasn’t so loud.

  ‘Because I’m mad.’

  Something in her voice made me raise my head. Her face rippled with barely controlled anger, her cold eyes penetrating my skin and tearing at my soul. I wilted under the look and slunk back to staring at the glass of water.

  ‘What were you thinking? Scratch that, you weren’t thinking. Of all the selfish…’ She stopped, rage evident in her expression. She paced the room behind me, then walked around the other side of the table and sat down. ‘Look at me, Troy.’

  I raised my bloodshot eyes and met her gaze. Her hands were placed flat on the table, knuckles white as she pushed them down, possibly to stop herself from reaching across and slapping me.

  ‘We’ve known each other for a long time, and I’ve gone through every emotion during that friendship – happy, sad, worried. I’ve been proud of some of the things you’ve done, and concerned about things you haven’t done. But today…’ She looked away, struggling to continue, then turned back. ‘Today is the first time I’ve been disappointed in you.’ Those ten words tore me to shreds, and the tone they were said in burnt the pieces and scattered the ashes to the wind.