The Family Men

by Catherine Harris

  He checks his shins for new bruises. Nothing.

  The limbs are covered in scars. Long-faded evidence of kicked and torn, ripped and shredded skin. The wounds stitched, iced, massaged, salt-bathed, Dencorubbed, each mark separate and unique, its message as plain as any gang-affiliation tattoo.

  *

  The dancers filled the green room, collapsing on the stackable plastic chairs and kicking off their high heels, subdued, tired, sitting quietly as in any workplace break room, massaging their toes, some lighting cigarettes as the music continued to thump outside, footballers having an endless capacity for beer and noise and crappy stand-up comedians. The girl was probably tired too, but the thrill of having got this far without any major cock-ups had left her bright-eyed and chatty. “Was it good? Was it good?” she demanded as Greta brandished a large bag of soft jubes, sugar to keep up their energy.

  “Yes, it was good,” said Greta, as her young protégé helped herself to a fistful of lollies, the excited flush of her cheeks visible beneath the powder blush. “Very good. You’re doing really well. The fellas really like you. I’ve even had a couple of offers for you to do a solo performance. What do you think about that? Do you want to make some more money? I could pay you nearly double.”

  Four hundred dollars. The girl’s eyes lit up.

  It was more than she could have hoped for, the whole evening was, but she’d earned it, she deserved it, all those sessions, twirling herself this way and that, flirting with her reflection in the mirror, the slippers and dirty underwear being kicked to the corners of her bedroom as she stumbled through the routines, trying to remember to perform with pep and punch, maintaining her poise and attitude, until finally her body came to fit with the music, a rivulet finding the stream, as though it was meant to have been all along, her hips mirroring Beyoncé’s womanly hips, her teenage eyes flashing come hither, just like in the music videos.

  When she’d first started the lessons, Greta had said that it was all about building rapport. Yes, it was good to get the steps right, but that wasn’t as important as making a connection with the audience. Studying Rihanna together, the Pussycat Dolls, the way they maintained their line of sight even though the show was televised, not a live performance. But that was what she was going for, that sense of concentration, focus, of keeping it between her and each individual in the room. “Lock your eyes on them and they’ll be yours for the night,” Greta told her. “Eye contact is the cornerstone of intimacy. Men want to feel wanted.”

  The girl knew what she meant. Practising intensely for hours – she wanted to feel wanted too.

  *

  Harry has prepared himself for morose Dad, for sorry Dad, for tail-between-the-legs Dad, but not for this, the Dustbuster set up on the potting table along with a bottle of Nifti, a Chux wipe and the cable grease, everything sparkling and smelling of chemical cleaning fluid, his father having returned from Queensland with a renewed mission to save Harry from himself, to deliver him from the jaws of indecision into the arms of Jesus. The bruised skin around his eye has turned from red to pale yellow, barely noticeable now against his sallow complexion. Harry is midway though his third set at the bench press, Alan looming above him, spotting, extending an invitation to Midnight Mass. “It would mean a lot if you came along,” he says (the implicit threat of a fumbling hand). Plus, he doesn’t want to go alone, or is it just that he’s reached that age where he doesn’t like driving at night?

  Harry doesn’t want to go at all; he doesn’t want to see Father Murphy for one thing (having promised to return and then not), and also because he is starting to palpably resent the place, his father’s renewed faith provoking in him associations of betrayal and loss, the early stirrings of a reckoning, wanting some explanation for God’s absence when he was growing up, or more particularly the absence of the church and all its charity (as he is coming to understand it) back when it might have had some measurable effect. But his dad has that tone in his voice – his way of saying please without saying it. It would mean a lot. Harry finally acceding as long as his father agrees to sit up the back of the church. He is not going to make that long march up the aisle, the trembling virgin. He’d rather feign injury than feel the heat of all those eyes burning a hole in the back of his head.

  Christmas Eve is typically so hot it isn’t unheard of for people to roll up in shorts and thongs, the relative cool of the church no answer for the persistent heat. Not this night though. This night it is like the middle of winter, everyone in jumpers and scarves. Harry hugs his arms to his chest throughout the service, crosses his legs to maximise his body heat.

  The church is full. Mostly families doing the Christmas thing, bored children and crying babies, harried parents trying to keep them all in line. Behind them though the men are drunk, two fathers, deliberately mucking up the hymns, encouraging their kids to outdo each other, belching, the general stink of barbecue, loudly singing invented lyrics while their wives feign disinterest:

  O come, all ye unfaithful …

  Dirty looks exchanged all round but there is nothing to be done, other than to sing a little louder, eyes fixed dead ahead. Love thy neighbour …

  Is this what it had been like for his mother, a stepped-down version of the detachment – impassively shivering on the couch after they’d got home, trying to come to terms with the disaster of her marriage as the old man ran through his paces, periodically vomiting and convulsing spastically on the bathroom floor – Harry and Matt being hurried back to bed, “Daddy’s sick,” until she couldn’t take it anymore?

  Bless me, Father, for our lives have become unmanageable.

  Dodging questions about his father’s hospitalisation. They still called them steroids then.

  When Harry and Alan get back to the car the window is all frosted up. Senior’s teeth chatter (Hark! The herald angels …) as they slowly creep through the dark streets; the sound of wind whistling through the gum trees so incongruous with the formality of the hymns. He wonders what they’d be singing about if Christmas had been an Antipodean invention. An ode to kangaroos? Hard to believe it is winter in Europe. One day, he promises himself, he’ll visit the northern snow.

  As he opens the front door, a small gold-foil-wrapped gift drops out from behind the fly wire. Merry Christmas from Rosie, the tag says. So typical. He got her nothing. He quickly explains it away as the offering of an overly zealous fan, embarrassed to tell his dad the truth. My lay, mother of my child, my future wife? I don’t think so. Scrag, more like it. He opens it reluctantly, finds two intertwined pink and white crocheted hearts.

  Damn Rosie. Damn the girl. He lies in bed trying not to think about either of them as his mind fights harder and harder to join the women together, the hearts the conduit, the tails like the tails on the girl’s corset, his hands clammy as he seeks to press away the memory but there he is again, Sportsman’s Night, the Club calendar’s night of nights.

  “SexyBack” was on, the women marching out in single file, lining up across the stage. Marty surveyed them like a drill instructor, winking at the crowd as he commanded one to stand up straight. “Yes, sir,” she replied. And then he expertly unsnibbed another’s top button. “That’s better, isn’t it?” he said to the room, though he could barely be heard above the din, a guttural rumble akin to an approaching freight train.

  It was a fuckability draft, pure and simple. The women standing in line, all identically clad in tight-fitting military style jackets, as Marty directed, progressively encouraging each one to step forward while inviting the lads to clap for their favourite. Marty extracted a pen and pad from his jacket, making an elaborate show of keeping tally while the boys clapped and whistled for each performer. When the blonde girl stepped forward the room went berserk. “Yeah, she’s the one,” said Eddy, as though stating a fact. Then he repeated it, so deeply and low most people would have strained to hear.

  This was the real show, what the veterans had been waiting to see. Marty heralded the next act with a nod to the se
lection process. “I’ve surveyed the results and she’s your top pick by far. So without further ado, back by popular demand, please put your hands together and …”

  And back she came through the curtain. The girl. The young one. The one he couldn’t seem to ignore. Wearing a distinctive twenty-six. His number.

  The noise was deafening as she approached the front of the stage, her gait slow, slightly unsteady, gingerly walking the line like a drunk in a field test (no, officer, I haven’t been drinking – much!), the stage now black but for one spotlight aimed at a low banquette that had been placed in the middle. Dead centre. The military jacket was gone, replaced by a blue and gold satin negligee, a diamante-studded blue collar tied around her neck. Marty gestured to the bench and she took a seat. He then slowly removed the cravat from his neck and waved it about as he spoke. “So gentlemen, do we have any volunteers?”

  He was addressing Harry, of course. Their dedicated rookie. It was his number on her back so she was “his” girl. His duty to do the honours.

  The mantelpiece is lined with Christmas cards, mostly from people Harry doesn’t know:

  A little reminder of God’s love for you.

  For unto us a child is born; unto us a son is given.

  Peace!

  Dean calls Alan’s place “the commune”, regularly sticking his nose in, making jokes about whose turn it is to scratch the other’s back. “You’ve got to move out, get your own digs. It’s not natural. You’re starting to act like a married couple.”

  “You’re just jealous,” says Harry, wishing his friend would shut up, because he realises that it has suited him for the moment, this living arrangement. Making up for lost time perhaps, sharing a home with a father who (for the most part) keeps regular hours, who (when he’s sober) insists on making his bed each morning and preparing meals for dinner each night. This man, once cautioned for tormenting his neighbours with midweek fireworks parties, has become the epitome of quiet enjoyment – a person who keeps a tidy house, never leaving it without straightening the embroidered throw pillow on his three-seater couch: This is the day that the Lord has made: rejoice and be joyful in it.

  Their Christmas Day traditions aren’t much. Over breakfast, he and his father exchange token presents, a Saint Christopher medal on a chain for Harry, a shirt for his dad. Harry has bought a tea-light burner for his mum that he will give her later at their family lunch.

  The plan is to eat at around half twelve, early, so that Matt and Kate can then visit her family in the afternoon. Harry and Alan arrive with orange juice and a packet of Barbecue Shapes to find the lovebirds already there, seated on the sofa in front of the tinsel-decorated fish tank, the coffee table set with dishes of cashews and salted peanuts. “Are you here as a private citizen or is this a Club-sanctioned media event?” asks Matt, then nudges his girlfriend. “Careful what you say, princess. The walls have ears.”

  “Shut up, dickhead,” says Harry. “I told you, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Don’t start,” says Diana, aiming to distract them with a bowl of potato chips. “It’s Christmas. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” says Harry.

  “All you men, it’s always ‘nothing’.”

  It is meant to be relaxing, fun family time, just the five of them, but they haven’t been there ten minutes before Alan and Diana are bickering. “What’s that hairstyle called?” Senior asks his ex-wife. “Are you trying to look like that Rebecca Twigley?” There is plum pudding ice-cream for dessert, though it is freezing cold outside. Diana calls Alan an arsehole. “There,” she says, taking out the bobby pins. “Are you happy now?”

  His parents give him a headache. Or maybe it is the ice-cream. Matt strokes Kate’s cheek and Harry experiences that singular distortion, glancing between his parents and his brother and his girlfriend, as though they are the same couple at different points along the continuum of time. Picturing his parents as they might have been when they’d first met, his mum a pretty debutante, his dad a major catch – each younger than he is now, with no idea what they were getting themselves into.

  As soon as the television goes on, Harry announces that he is going to lie down. He retreats to his former bedroom, pushes the oilcloth up against the wall and shuts his eyes, the back and forth of their sniping quietly flattening out to a background hum, an empty patter, the soothing hush of the familiar. He thinks back as far as he can remember, as far as he has ever known, to early days with his mum and dad still playing house under the same roof and it is all still here, in this room, in this house, vestiges of what they’d all been; the ceaseless yelling, accusations and counter accusations, who is she, tell me her name, their mother forever threatening to pack it all in and leave if his father didn’t sort himself out, if he didn’t get his shit together, if he didn’t stop.

  Playing kick-to-kick at the park, trading footy cards and X-Men comics in the bus terminal, hours on end, anything to avoid coming home. The world flat and locked, cracked concrete footpaths stretched along the baking streets all leading to this place.

  Harry’s world circles and repeats, catching back up to itself faster than he can outrun it. Round and round he goes in an elliptical whirl of decisions, options, paths, until there is no point trying to outpace it, feeling like he is spinning in place, the scope of possibilities cradled in this very spot.

  His bed is his boat in safe harbour. He moors there, lashes himself to the rigging as the winds of circumstance howl about his errant conjugations. His father keeps saying be part of the solution, that God helps those who help themselves, but these are calculations he can’t make by himself, sums he can’t solve on his own.

  He knows he doesn’t give a shit about Rosie but he keeps thinking about the baby. Rock a bye baby. The image of the child and the girl bookending his anxieties, closing a loop as though they also are one and the same person, before and after, a cautionary tale of sorts, and he is responsible for it all.

  Laurie passes a message via Matt that if Harry renews his contract for another year, Laurie will see to it that he only plays eight or so games, give or take injuries. The board is very keen to keep him onside. They like the image of the brothers playing together. Jack and Eddy. Matt and Harry. Blood and water. The family club. It is a story they are keen to promote, with or without his permission, the importance of stability, tradition, legacy, their eyes all dollar signs, weaving him into their kin as surely as the cheer squad stitches together the banner week after week, its sole purpose to be torn down, ripped and snarled, then reconceived, reborn and resurrected.

  Matt’s Jeep idles in the driveway, Evermore blaring as he checks his messages, while Harry fiddles with the wonky latch on the letterbox, flicking it up and down, trying to get it to catch. “Go on, Harry. You should do it,” says Kate from the passenger seat, “it’ll be fun, both of you playing in the finals again,” as though the decision is as uncomplicated as hers was to purchase her skinny iced latte that morning (a beverage to match the weather like her shoes to match her dress), her fuchsia lipstick visible on the takeaway cup which she holds aloft as she speaks.

  “Perhaps you should pray on it,” says Matt, all sarcasm. “See if Dad can pull some strings for you upstairs.”

  “Yes. That’s an excellent suggestion. I’ll run it by him, see what he has to say.”

  Harry could push back harder, conjure some demands, make it seem like he has something personal on the line, but what for? He understands his value to the organisation, his role in their story, he can see that. Much the same as it is for Matt, his brother’s insouciance an expression of that allegiance, the Club as family, his future anchored to that dock (any connection with the Furey family heritage only of interest in so far as it advances that purpose, now his purpose), Kate inserting herself into the conversation as surely as a close relative might, having now made his business her business, his future part of her purview.

  Rosie has hardly spent any time at his place but she too has done her best
to weave herself in there, leaving remnants of her efforts, seemingly innocuous traces littered amongst his things. A tube of lip gloss on his bookcase. Under the bed, a scrunched-up receipt for disposable razors, a button. One of her pens wedged next to the seat in his car. And the intertwined hearts, now supporting a couple of waxy ear cleaners in his dustbin.

  Why are women always leaving him with things, his mum and Grandad’s cufflinks, Margo and her notes, Rosie and her woollen keepsakes? The signed photographs, the keys, the underwear. What do they think he is going to do with all their shit? Treasure it? Cradle it? Worship it at some kind of private altar?

  His dad still has a ton of stuff given to him by Diana. Mostly practical items, a belt she bought him when they were courting, a watch he never wears. But they aren’t gifts so much as relics, flotsam bobbing about the wreckage of their marriage.

  Rosie’s deposits are the opposite, miniature down payments, an advance on a future life, slipped in so he won’t notice (might overlook the next fifty years). In which case he might as well simply renew his contract and be done with it.

  There are worse things in life than loveless marriages, he supposes. His parents are testament to that.

  Most of Harry’s clothes are still hanging in his wardrobe at his mother’s. He sorts through a couple of things while Diana prepares lunch, leftover-chicken sandwiches with lettuce and mayonnaise, which they eat on their laps on the back steps. He inhales it. “How come it tastes so much better than mine?”