Being Anti-Social

by Leigh K. Cunningham

Gabby turned to Lauren next to ask, “What do you do?” and Lauren explained briefly before rushing inside to the refrigerator. She returned a short while later with champagne to celebrate her news: she will be showcasing her designs at Melbourne Fashion Week in September, which would lead to great success, fame and fortune, according to Lauren. Mother suggested she not count her chickens before they had hatched, but Oscar says that people who count chickens before they hatch act very wisely because chickens run about so absurdly that it is impossible to count them accurately. I moved closer to partake of the champagne and to congratulate Lauren on her pending fame, knowing that the move into the knitting corner was a risky one and soon enough, mother asked about Rudy, “Whatever happened to that charming boy you were dating?”

  Lauren snorted champagne through her nose while I explained to mother that the relationship had suffered a terminal decline because of Rudy’s abnormal hours working as a bricklayer. Lauren hid a menacing smile behind the gold rim of her glass as mother embarked on a range of solutions to resurrect the doomed relationship. I wanted to retreat to my half-way chair, and this is why I stay on the perimeter and do not ask questions. I sculled the first glass of sparkling and poured a second under mother’s watchful eye, wondering why she did not monitor Lauren in this way, or the blue corner.

  The atmosphere in the blue corner was, as usual, light and hearty with much mirth. Men can get along even when it appears they are not reconcilable individuals because they are simple beings, able to drop into an innocent sleep seconds after contact with a pillow. Their minds are programmed for unthinking while women are haunted by persistent thoughts on innumerate matters of varying importance simultaneously. I wish I could not think and long for a respite from my mind, just for one day.

  I filled my glass for a third time to ready myself for the much anticipated birthday treasure hunt. Whatever I find on these hunts, I always keep in blatant contravention of the hand-over rule for I love chocolate as much as the next kid. Mother was watching my glass like an eagle on prey, and so it was time to think about leaving, as soon as the hunt was done.

  I have guidelines on when to leave, for example, I will not be the first to leave, or the second, and I will not leave before the clean-up, obliged as I am to contribute as much as this irritates me—not because I am a sloth, but because mother and Shannon organize these shindigs and do not have to work the next day or any day thereafter for that matter.

  I wagered with myself as to who would leave first, at which time, and with which excuse (or reason for those honestly inclined). I wished it would be Shannon, and for reasons I should not put in writing, but Oscar says it best anyway: “Some cause happiness wherever they go; others whenever they go.”

  Mother shook her head as I unwrapped another Fantale from my treasure hunt stash, and washed it down with champagne since mother does not keep merlot in the house, not even for parties. I smiled bleakly because I do not have the courage to smile with vengeance, not at mother.

  I am always conscious of the fact, even when drunk at family gatherings, that once a minute of my life has passed I cannot have it back—it has gone forever into the abyss. I counted the minutes as I wiped plates washed by Shannon during the clean-up. “There goes another one,” I whispered not softly enough as Shannon looked at me as if I was a crazy woman, which made it worse, for then I was annoyed that I had lost another minute with her looking at me—that is not how I want to spend my minutes.

  The end came eventually, but I saved a few minutes with fast plate wiping, which Shannon described as shoddy workmanship. Free at last, my minutes were free at last.

  Chapter Eight

  POPPY was only five months in Kimba’s womb when she made a move for an early exit, and suffered for it. Kimba was inconsolable.

  We all gathered for moral support, just as everyone had done for me after Ben died. But there is nothing one can say other than the obvious question of life (why?) and no one ventured there. We talked instead about irrelevant things.

  Despite her anguish, Kimba still asked Amber about her latest love interest, and asked Erin about the children. She asked Sophie about work, and asked me about my bronchitis and the family. Kimba is sunlight even in the darkness, and even through the film of sorrow that now covered her eyes, you can still see her inner peace. She is a perfect life model and clearly shows the way, yet still I do not follow. Why, I do not know.

  Kenneth was distraught too of course, but his sole focus was on loving Kimba. As I watched him and the gentle way he kept her afloat, I remembered the poem Kenneth had sent to Kimba—the one Rudy had quoted in his noxious article—and more poignant words do not exist. Kenneth loves Kimba to the very depths of his heart, to its expansive breadth, and to the great height it soars. Kenneth loves Kimba utterly, and nothing on this Earth is more evident. I was overcome with envy. I want this for myself. I had it. I threw it away. And Kimba in her grief has Kenneth for all of the day. After Ben died, I was alone in the middle of the night when the blade pierces most deeply without mercy.

  I was overcome then with remorse for being envious and so self-absorbed at this time, and overwhelmed with sadness for Poppy who would have been the luckiest child ever born.

  On my way home that day I stopped by the cemetery. I had not been to Ben’s grave for the longest while having accepted the truth that Ben was not there—it is just marble, bones, teeth and fading fabric.

  As I sat cross-legged on the lush lawn, tears surged and I wondered if I might be a grief-aholic since at every pivotal moment this is where I go for solace. Perhaps it also proves that I am not yet an alcoholic, as mother and Shannon suggest, as I do not resort firstly to merlot, although I will stop by the bottle shop on my way home.

  I stared at the shiny grey granite etched by the hands of a stone mason, and wondered how three names, two dates and an epitaph could wrap up a life. It was a relief at least that the in-laws had not added the words, ‘Here lies Benjamin’ for he is not merely lying down for a while, he is dead, and my life is contaminated because he died, or because I betrayed him then he died.

  On my way back to the cemetery carpark, I passed by a flower vendor. I lifted a bunch of red poppies from the bucket, inspected them thoughtfully then replaced them—they might only cause Kimba more pain especially as they withered and died. I was powerless to help my friend. I hoped there might be another baby soon, one who might live much longer than a few hours.

  It was past four by the time I arrived home and a wintry dusk had settled on the day like smoke in a bar—perfect weather for a solitary night in with merlot. After an eco-unfriendly shower, I covered my skin with flannelette and settled on the sofa wishing I had not bet Erin that I could live without cable. Gratefully, Amber arrived soon after with pizza and chocolate. “Let’s get smashed,” she said.

  I didn’t bother to nod in agreement; it was not necessary.

  “Does it bother you, Mace, that we are unmarried and childless, and about to turn forty?”

  This question is asked often between us, and with each airing, it is dealt with as if the reflection had arisen for the first time.

  “At least you have a man,” I offered.

  “Had,” she said.

  “You had him this morning.”

  “Just broke up,” she said with an unfamiliar sigh.

  “Is there a reason this time?”

  “Kenneth. I want a man just like Kenneth.”

  “Me too,” I said. “But I think if we wait for a Kenneth, we’ll die lonely, bitter old hags.”

  “So we should settle for second best then. There’s plenty of that about.”

  “I think we have to accept that true love doesn’t happen for everyone, and if you have it once, that’s it. I’m not expecting to find it again. I had my chance.”

  “Good grief, Mace. When are you going to get over Ben? You’re driving everyone insane with your self-pity.”

  “You talk about me behind my back?”

  “Of course. Just like we b
itch about Erin and Sophie behind their backs. It’s what friends do.”

  “Anyway, Amber, how can someone who looks like you, not have the man of your dreams? You can have anyone you want.”

  “I seem to attract a certain kind of man.”

  “The successful, handsome type,” I reminded her.

  “What I want, I think, is an ugly man with a great sense of humor.”

  “Ugly? You want an ugly man?”

  “Ugly to average looking—they’re more likely to be faithful, and appreciate me.”

  “You’ve had plenty of men appreciate you,” I said and Amber glared back. “You know what I mean, and funny that you’re suddenly concerned about someone being faithful to you when you’re the biggest cheater of all time.”

  “We have to make a decision about babies, Mace. It’s now or never. The eggs are on the boil. What do you say?”

  “As far as I know, Amber, we would need at least one man. And anyway, you said you didn’t want kids. It’s just the wine talking. You’ll be over it tomorrow.”

  “What about you, Mace?”

  “I think I’ll give the whole motherhood thing a miss, especially now with what Kimba is going through. I can’t see myself with anyone anyway.”

  “What about Kipper?”

  “That lying son of a bitch.”

  “You have to admit he is quite perfect, and it was just that one little deception.”

  “One? Little?”

  “You should give him a call.”

  I laughed demonically. “When hell freezes over!”

  We drank in silence for a while as we dozed, waking intermittently to sip again, and whisper, “Poor Kimba.”

  Life is death and Oscar had nothing to offer on the subject—no words of wisdom to explain how a little baby could die in such a way to people who did not deserve to know such pain.

  Chapter Nine

  KENNETH bought Kimba a mini dog from the shelter and it helped her a lot, but the thing scares the life from me. It knows I’m afraid of it, and barks and scowls at me and no one else. Admittedly, it is a high-pitched puppy-like yelp, but it is enough to make me scream, and when I am not screaming, the anticipation of another yelp or nip at my feet keeps me shuddering involuntarily at the slightest noise. I am being ridiculous, so say my purported friends, but then they do not understand fear like I do, and dogs—I understand dogs.

  We did not have real pets growing up—just guinea pigs and fish, and yabbies, but there was a German Shepherd in residence next door, and for some inexplicable reason, that dog did not like me. It paid no attention to David and Jason, or to Shannon either surprisingly, and Lauren was never in the yard anyway. It was just me and him, and I knew it was a ‘him’ not a ‘her’ because Jason had pointed out the sagging testicles under its tail. This was the first I learned of such things.

  Perhaps it thought I was a calf or lamb that needed herding as it would run up and down the fence whenever I was close to the boundary, which was quite often as I too liked to run up and down the boundary fence, stopping from time to time to poke a stick through the mere filament of woven metal that separated me from a most frightening adversary. Occasionally I would turn on the garden hose and spray a rocket of water into its face, which it did not like. I lived in fear, despite my gallantry, that one day it would know to hurdle the wire barricade and shred me like corn husk. I imagined dad would find me on the lawn with it poised above my lifeless body in triumph.

  But my dog-phobia runs deeper than a mere contempt for the mangy mutt from next door, and it flourished each time I had to throw away still-newish running shoes when the honeycomb soles filled with foul-smelling fecal matter picked up down the park. I have also observed that these creatures dribble, bark, fight, stink, have bad breath, lose hair, have worms and fleas, and fornicate all over the place, often with inanimate objects flaunting the laws of nature. I cannot see the attraction. And it all came to a peak a couple of years ago while I was on ‘holiday’ in Brazil with Amber, Kimba and Kenneth.

  Kimba and Kenneth had encouraged me and Amber to join them on a mission to rescue and save the millions of children who live on the streets. I was not that keen at the outset, and Amber even less so, but we were shamed into it by vivid stories from Kimba and Kenneth of little children left dismembered on the streets, and others who had to worry about where their next meal would come from and where they might sleep safe from harm. Only the strongest would make it to adulthood while the rest would die of starvation, disease, unspeakable torture or extreme brutality. By the time Kimba and Kenneth had finished with their rather convincing pitch, Amber and I had no way to avoid a trip to Brazil without appearing insensitive to the suffering of others.

  It rained for the first few days and so on the fourth day, with the Brazilian sun finally exposed, I thought to take a solitary morning walk along a quiet stretch of beach before another day as savior to the world. I arrived at the beachfront, looked left then right, took in a deep ‘this is the life’ breath, and set off on the sand to my right. That was my first mistake (of the morning, not of life).

  The biscuit-colored grains were still thick and heavy with rainwater as I started out. I marveled at the added benefit of this to my workout, picturing rock-hard calf muscles Amber would admire. Up ahead, three dogs appeared out of the scrub tearing across the sand in my direction, on their way to frolic in the ocean, I figured. I dropped my head in earnest and pumped my arms to drive myself across the soft sand as it gave way beneath my soles with each step. However, they did not run past me into the ocean, and instead, formed a beastly arch in front of me with incisors poised. I figured then that I was in a spot of bother, and thoughts of rock-hard calf muscles vanished in favor of gnawed flesh exposing my tibia and fibula to the daylight. I did not panic, having assumed the mongrels were merely playing at best or at worst, asserting their territorial rights and I was more than willing to surrender my position and hightail it back to my origins. I turned around slowly to face the general direction of the resort and took just one step before pain gushed upwards from my calf to my central nervous system, which switched on the fight or flight mode. I swung around with the orange mutt still fastened to my leg flailing it through the air like a paratrooper, and yelled into the demonic eyes of my aggressors while vaguely recalling some rule about not doing so, or doing so, I could not remember the detail. I faced them head on, whirled my trusty water bottle into a weapon and went on the attack stepping into the semi-circle with my poker in much the same way I had dealt with the German Shepherd from next door all those years ago. I could not have known then that I was in warfare training for a future life and death situation in a foreign country. I yelled and screamed for help, drawing on my vast vocabulary of expletives, some in Spanish, aimed at a deserted landscape. I did not run as instinct proposed as I knew they would hunt me like wolves, and knock me down onto a sandy deathbed to chew on my jugular. Death would be quick.

  My bloodcurdling calls for help did not cause them to run off, as I might have hoped, but did manage to alert three men who emerged from the same scrub. Sadly, they left their valor in the bushes as they tugged at a straggling, still green, tree branch in a futile attempt to dislodge it from the trunk. At least my demise would have witnesses who could tell the story of my bravery while in the jaws of death to my parents. As I prepared to make peace with God in the hope of a last minute entry into Heaven, the dogs took off like greyhounds after another frightened rabbit. My body pulsated adrenalin to every extremity, turning my legs into jelly, and for the longest while I dared not move. Then I saw him running towards me, my savior, a hotel security guard with his gun still poised (unfortunately in my direction) as he struggled in the sand with his portly frame.

  Under escort, I made my way back to the hotel. I was handed over to an array of hotel employees including a nurse and general manager who inspected my leg and frowned at the broken skin. My friends were notably absent.

  I sipped on a jasmine tea while the wound was
cleaned, as calm as a cyclone’s eye, and I could tell the lack of justifiable hysterics had impressed all and sundry. As requested, a telephone appeared on my lap, and I called Amber to tell her about my pending trip to the hospital. She would be mortified by my misadventure, and would rush to reception to accompany me, still in her bedclothes most likely. There was no answer. I called Kimba and Kenneth with the same outcome, and pictured them at the buffet with Amber loading up on pancakes and coffee while disease rampaged through my stoic frame.

  My valiance continued at the hospital as I regaled the nurses with the story of my survival. I still knew nothing of rabies at that time, that it was fatal, or that a gruesome death would arrive within days of symptoms appearing—fever, headache and general malaise, followed by insomnia, anxiety, confusion, excitation, hallucinations, agitation, paralysis, hyper-salivation, difficulty swallowing, and a fear of water. Diagnosis in any event would have been difficult as I live with many of these symptoms on a daily basis. Ignorance is bliss as they say, and I attest that this is true, for had I known then what I know now about rabies, my bravado would have melted faster than an ice cube in Cloncurry.

  Back at the hotel, I shared my amazing story with Amber, Kenneth and Kimba who finally exhibited signs of caring and concern albeit somewhat overdue. My calf assisted in this regard as it had turned purple and looked all the more dramatic with a deep row of fang punctures above and below the mulberry mass. Kenneth drowned me in medical questions about the vaccine—whether it had been refrigerated and administered in the arm or butt. I was confused, but apparently it was all quite pertinent.

  “I’m sure it will be okay,” he said after awhile, which is what mother had said to Aunty Jan just before she died, and as Oscar says, “The basis of optimism is sheer terror.”

  I was not able to save the street children that day as an unhealthy dose of shock settled over me. I prepared to die with a lemongrass soaked washer placed firmly on my forehead to chill the rising fever that Kenneth claimed I did not have, but I felt warm and had a headache (two symptoms). Amber volunteered to stay behind to monitor my condition—a genuine friend I thought—but then she stole away the minute I fell into a rabid sleep leaving me to wake at intervals, alone.