by Gigi Fenster
Stop grinning. Say something nice. About her eyes.
‘I like your eyes.’
She didn’t like her eyes and she didn’t like her nose so he thought he’d better look at her T-shirt, but that was too ugly. He had to get it off her.
She was beautiful.
When Morris told Joan he’d gone to a party with Sadie there flickered across her face something like disappointment. Morris drew himself tall, ready to defend himself for dating a waitress, but Joan wasn’t disappointed at their dating. She was thrilled about it. Thrilled! Such a lovely girl and Jewish too. And so far from home. Her parents were in England, weren’t they? Were they planning on coming over? Was Sadie planning on settling here for good? Oh Morris, I’m so happy for you. Wow.
Why then, Morris wondered, the flicker of disappoint-ment? Had Joan realised that Sadie wasn’t beautiful?
Oh, don’t you see, Morris, she was disappointed at having no part in it. She wanted to be the one to set us up. She wanted to do that for you.
Why? Why should she?
Well, she set up your first date, didn’t she? Your first time with a girl. What about her? That Natalie? Did you tell her she was beautiful? Her of the acne? Did you gaze at her over the billy and tell her she was beautiful? Did you?
It wasn’t necessary to take a billy on a day hike, but it was nice.
When they made love he brushed her fringe from her forehead.
Rewind. Rewind.
Rewind?
Yes, rewind. Give me more details on what came before. Who leaned in first? How did it feel, that first time? Did you tell her she was beautiful?
I can’t remember. That’s all I remember.
The tuawhatsit biscuits and the billy you remember, but how it felt to make love for the first time—forgotten. Do me a favour.
Why didn’t you ask Joan? She seemed to know everything.
Tell me something, Morris.
What now?
Did your father tell your mother she was beautiful? Did they touch each other? Were they intimate together?
I was six years old when my father died and you want me to describe their sex life.
Not sex, Morris, touching. How many times do I have to tell you?
I was six years old. I don’t remember.
Are you sure you don’t remember? Don’t remember Joe coming crashing into the house with a bunch of flowers for the most beautiful woman in the whole wide world, and an angel on top of it. Don’t remember him pulling Pearl up and twirling her around in the kitchen, singing, ‘Lawdy Lawdy Miss Clawdy … you sure look good to me’?
Don’t remember her holding on to the table and telling him to slow down, it’s dinner time and the boy is in the room? Don’t remember her smoothing down her skirt, smoothing down the tablecloth which got snagged in his cuff link? Her hanging up the tablecloth, wet from the vase which toppled with flowers too heavy? You don’t remember any of that?
What about the slow times? When his mother, fetching him from school, would bend down to straighten his jacket and say, ‘Your father’s at home today. I want you to keep quiet. He’s not feeling well.’ And he would want to fall into her, for who knew how long the slow time would last?
Does Morris remember none of this?
There is one memory. Morris’s marble memory—the marble he kept in the pocket of his shorts, the one with the fire-red filament that shone when held up to the light.
Morris is four years old. All three of them have gone camping. Morris is in the tent, swaddled in his sleeping bag. His parents are still at the fire. Morris wants to shine his torch over the ceiling of the tent but his mother has already come in once to tell him not to waste the batteries. He can hear insects and water. He thinks about the boy at kindergarten who is collected every day by his father, not his mother.
That afternoon Joe collected Morris from school, but that was because they were going camping and his mother was waiting in the car. Joe had lifted him up on to his shoulders, there in the classroom, and Morris had looked down on the children as if to say, See here. This is my father. He has an axe in his backpack.
Morris considers putting the torch on again, just for a second in his sleeping bag, so that he can look at the new marble his father has given him. The marble came in a bag with nineteen others. Morris and Joe counted them out together. Three steelies, three oilies, four spiders and ten cats’ eyes.
‘One, two, three … Good boy … four, five, six … Clever thing … seven, eight, nine … that’s right … twenty. There you go. Counting up to twenty. Nineteen, twenty my plate is empty.’
Morris had assumed that the marbles would be coming camping with him, but when his mother found the bag on top of his pile of camping clothes she put it back on his shelf. Morris appealed to his father. Joe said the marbles must stay behind, and turned back to fiddle with the billy. He must not have noticed that his son was almost in tears.
Why did his father even buy the marbles if they couldn’t come camping? Joe was unfair and Pearl was unfair. What was the point if the marbles had to stay at home? Morris eyed the bag. If he pushed it in amongst his clothes no one would know he’d taken it. It would serve them right.
He felt the bag in his hand. It was heavy. He put it down quickly. They’d find a big bag like that. But they wouldn’t find one marble. No one would know if he took just one.
He chose the cat’s eye with the reddish-orange centre. It looked like fire.
Perhaps if he digs right down to the bottom of his sleeping bag, his mother won’t see the torch and he can look at his marble. But if he does that he might get stuck. He might suffocate. No one would hear him die. And when they found him they’d see the marble in his hand.
He lifts the flap of the tent just an inch and peers out.
The fire is oranger than his marble. His mother is bent towards it. She has her arms reaching forwards, open palms towards the fire. Morris can see her profile as she turns slightly to his father who has taken her hands and is pulling her to her feet. Joe’s face is orange, glowing. Is he smiling? Yes, yes, he’s smiling. He’s smiling and pulling her up.
She stands, dusts down her skirt, puts her arms around his waist and leans into him.
Morris watches as his mother rests her head on his father’s shoulder.
They sway around the fire as if on a dance floor.
That was the last time she went camping with you, wasn’t it?
Because she got sick. She went to hospital.
Ah yes. Pearl got sick and Norman made scrambled eggs.
Norman’s scrambled eggs were brilliant, like he said they’d be. They ate directly from the pan, because Norman said that was the best way to eat scrambled eggs. And there was less washing up.
After breakfast they went in the tram to visit Pearl at the hospital. Norman told Morris he was going to ask Joan to marry him. He said, ‘I feel sure she’ll say yes,’ then he leaned in close and whispered into Morris’s ear, ‘After all, she’s crazy about animals,’ and he growled and tickled, and then they were at the hospital and it was time to be quiet.
Pearl was in a big room with lots of beds in rows. She started crying when she saw them and she kept saying, ‘I’ve lost. I’ve lost …’ till Norman took Morris out and left him with a nurse. The nurse gave him a crayon and paper, and said, ‘You’ll be a comfort to your mother. Such a nice quiet boy as you. At least she has you.’
When Norman came back, the nurse said, ‘Your wife will be fine. I’m sorry for your loss,’ and Norman explained that he wasn’t Pearl’s husband. Pearl’s husband was unavoidably out of town.
‘Well, at least they have the boy,’ said the nurse. ‘That’s something.’
It was all over when Joe came back.
Pearl was home from the hospital. Norman had left.
Joe phoned Norman, and when he put the phone down he started whistling a squeaky tune.
Pearl asked him to stop whistling. It was giving her a headache. She put her hands over her ears a
nd said that he’d be the death of her.
He kept on whistling—whistling and shaking and jiggling his keys in his pocket. Hopping and dancing. Spilling all over the house. He couldn’t keep himself together. His threads were too thin. He was fraying at the edges, coming apart at the seams.
There were creases in Morris’s father’s face, and for all his smiling and whistling and spilling they keep getting deeper, like starched linen that’s been folded so often in the same place that no amount of smoothing can remove the scars left by the folds.
Your father’s friends had creases too, and cracks in their faces. You remember your father’s friends, don’t you? You remember them, Morris.
Uncle Jack and Owen with one hand, and that man who always wore a hat. Talking too loud and tossing him too high and sometimes sitting silent at the kitchen table while Joe fussed with the kettle.
Pearl was seldom there to make tea for her husband’s friends. She’d disappear into her bedroom and emerge only when they’d all left for the pub. Joe let her know they were going by calling loud farewells. His friends shouted their thanks down the passage.
Sometimes when Morris woke up in the morning he’d find an empty bottle on the kitchen table, a full ashtray beside it, and he’d know that one of them had visited, that his father would still be asleep when he left for kindergarten, might still be asleep when he came home, that his mother would be grumpy and muttering when she saw the ashtray.
Once he tried emptying the ashtray before his mother saw it, but it was too full and he spilled ash on the tablecloth. The harder he tried to rub it off the bigger the smudge became. He put the bread bin on top of it.
Pearl must have lifted the bread bin and seen the mess he’d made, because she hardly helped him get dressed that day and she hardly spoke to him all the way to kindergarten. When he looked out of the window he saw her coat whipping about behind her, still cross with him.
Those stains never come out, I guess. Like the creases on a soldier’s pants.
After the hospital, Joe stopped going up north to visit Uncle Jack and Owen with one hand, and that man who always wore a hat. They started coming south to visit him.
Joe said, ‘Are you never satisfied?’
Pearl said, ‘Who’s looking after their wives while they’re in Wellington, while you’re all out drinking?’ She said, ‘What if one of their wives loses her baby? Who’s with her? Who’s looking after their children? What if one of their wives ends up in hospital and there’s blood everywhere?’
Joe said, ‘Pearl Pearl Pearl.’
Pearl said, ‘I’m exhausted,’ and she started crying.
Joe said, ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll take Morris tramping. Only the two of us. You can have some time on your own. To relax. I’ll take Morris.’
‘Listen to you—promising to take him tramping like you promised to take him last time. But did you take him? No, you did not. You upped and changed your mind and left me to deal with his disappointment.’
Joe said nothing. He lifted his fists, held them up for a moment, then dropped them flapping at his side. When he turned, he saw Morris standing at the door. ‘We’ll go tramping together, you and me. Father and son.’
So it was to be only the two of you going tramping. Only the boys. This time he’s not going to leave you behind. He’s taken you shopping for shorts and he’s packed your gear and you’re leaving tomorrow morning. You’re leaving early. Only you can’t sleep and your new shorts are uncomfortable.
Leave it alone. Please, Sadie. I was six years old.
And something’s gotta give. Something’s gotta give. Something’s gotta give.
III
There’s something soft rubbing against Morris’s face.
He’s lying on David’s sofa. There’s a pink blanket pulled up over his chin. The blanket makes him feel sad, as if he’s playing a part in one of the European movies Sadie used to like. Old man asleep on a sofa. A kind family member comes in, covers him with a child’s blanket and leaves. He doesn’t stir but later, when the kind person has gone, he feels something soft against his face and he gazes about as though looking for someone.
On the table next to him is a telephone. The old man looks at it before bringing it to his ear to check for messages. He receives only a dull dial tone.
He picks up a flier that has fallen to the floor beside him.
If Morris were the old man in the movie he’d slip the flier under his pillow. The camera would come closer, focus on his eyes as they shut. Or perhaps the movie would cut then, to Rachel alone. Behind her would be … would be … just sky. There’s only sky behind her because she’s on a mountain top. She’s on high ground, far removed from the raging rivers. She’s put up her tent and she’s wrapped up in her sleeping bag. Outside might be cold and dark and sliding land, but Rachel is safe on her mountain top. She has good gear. A billy and a mug of something sweet and hot. She has made wise decisions.
They’d never show that in a movie, thinks Morris. Not unless it was at the very end or they had something horrible coming next. If they did show Rachel, it would be ambiguous, unclear, impossible to place. Maybe they’d just show her face. Let her be sleeping, Morris thinks. If you show her face, let her be sleeping.
Then they’d cut back to the old man and you’d see, from the way he lets the flier fall to the ground, that he is blaming himself.
It’s his fault for having insisted on wearing the shorts.
It’s ridiculous to sleep in tramping clothes. Ridiculous to think that his father will go without him. He is six years old and should know better. He shouldn’t have nagged his mother. He shouldn’t have slept in the shorts. They’re scratchy. Maybe he should go to his parents and tell them he’s sorry. His father will ruffle his head and tell him that he wouldn’t dream of going without him, and his mother will take him back to bed and tuck him in and tomorrow he’ll go tramping with his father. Only the two of them. Man and man.
He climbs out of bed. Goes down the passage. To his parents’ door which is closed.
He knocks on the door.
His father opens the door. ‘Hello, young man. Awake, are you? And tomorrow’s our big day. Come along, I’ll take you back to bed. Quietly, don’t disturb your mother.’
He takes Morris’s hand and leads him down the passage, whispering about what fun they’ll have, what fun.
Then Joe starts whistling—cheerfully at first, but still Morris wants him to stop. The whistling will wake his mother and give her a headache, and it’s getting louder and louder, less cheerful, more jarring. Morris tries to pull his hand from his father’s. Because after whistling comes grabbing Morris and spinning him round, faster and faster, laughing and whistling till everything’s a blur.
‘Dad?’
Morris sits up.
‘Are you awake?’
‘Yes, yes. I am. Awake.’
David is standing in the doorway. He’s wearing boxer shorts with pictures of Bart Simpson on them. Morris averts his eyes from his son’s bare torso.
David says, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I thought I heard you talking. I thought maybe there’d been a call.’
Morris apologises and David doesn’t ask what for. He says, ‘I’ll just …’ and is gone before Morris can ask whether it was he who brought the blanket.
Pink blankets. Why are you thinking about that blanket? The blanket is not what you should be asking David about. You need to ask him your Miss Robson Question.
My Miss Robson Question. But I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be asking.
Oh, I think you do.
David is back in the room. He’s pulling a sweater over his head and his voice is muffled. ‘Since I’m awake now, I thought I’d check the weather.’
Morris glances towards the window.
‘On the internet,’ David says.
‘On the internet. I know.’
David is heading out of the room.
&nbs
p; Bart’s grin is mocking, shifting, a cartoon figure that can’t tell Morris anything.
For God’s sake, Morris. You need to ask David. Ask him.
Ask him what?
Come on, Morris. This is important.
‘David?’
David almost trips over the carpet when he turns. He puts a hand on the back of the sofa to steady himself.
‘Yes, Dad?’
‘Why don’t you sit for a minute?’
The hand moves along the sofa to his father’s shoulder.
‘Sure, Dad. Just for a minute, then I’ll check the weather.’
He pushes the pink blanket aside to sit next to Morris, not opposite him. Together they stare at the dark television.
He won’t sit there for ever, Morris. Jesus Christ, ask him before I do.
Before you do?
Just ask.
‘David, I want to ask you something.’
David turns to look at his father. Is that eagerness on his face? ‘Sure, Dad, anything.’
‘Well, um, I haven’t seen Rachel for a while, you know? At least a week or two.’
‘You’re busy. And she’s not exactly easy to pin down. We’d never get to see her if Debbie hadn’t signed up at that gym.’
‘But you … you see her sometimes. You saw her shortly before she left.’
‘Wednesday night last week. Debbie bumped into her at the gym and convinced her to come for dinner. See what I mean about only seeing her because Debbie joined the gym?’
‘How was she? How did you find her?
‘How I found her? She was fine. She seemed fine.’
‘Fine.’
‘Fine. Like I told Wendy, even keel.’
‘Not upset or anything?’
‘The thing is, Dad, we didn’t know about Strobe … about Stewart then. Debs only found out after—’
‘Fine. Not tired? It must be tiring for her teaching all those classes. And being, I don’t know …’