Contrition

by Sheldon, Deborah;

  “When are you coming home?” Meredith said.

  “Later.”

  She pulled the iron’s plug from the power point.

  “Aw, shit, put it back,” John said. “I haven’t finished yet.”

  Glaring, she held the plug tight to her stomach.

  That’s when he noticed the blood. It jolted him. He stepped back. The laundry was a small room. Meredith blocked the doorway.

  “Merry, there’s blood all over you.”

  She failed to react.

  “Did you leave the house last night?” he continued. “When I was asleep?”

  (no, drunk)

  The blood had dried in rivulets along both of her forearms, yet her hands were clean, as if she had washed them.

  (licked them)

  There were dark spatters on her windcheater. Twice a week, Tuesday and Saturday, John ran a load of washing, and sometimes, he had to pre-soak her clothes to remove bloodstains. For their first few months of living together, he had dismissed the stains as menstruation, and had not mentioned anything out of embarrassment. However, as time dragged on, he had become less sure. And now? Well, now he assumed she killed animals, but for what purpose, he didn’t know and didn’t like to think about.

  “Stay home,” Meredith said.

  “I won’t be long,” he said, and pushed past her.

  He checked his watch: 7.54 p.m. In the en suite he combed his hair; still a full head of it, thank Christ, but the black was turning silver, particularly around his sideburns. Back in the day, he’d been easy on the eye, so a few women had told him. At nearly fifty, his jaw-line was too soft, his lips too thin, nose and cheeks crisscrossed in thread veins. For a moment, he lost his nerve. Then he recalled the unmistakeable look that Donna had given him, and he put on his shirt. The sleeves were creased, but he could always roll them up.

  As he started to fasten the buttons, Meredith appeared in the shaving mirror.

  He spun around. “Hey,” he said, “this is my part of the house.”

  She slitted her ice-blue eyes and drifted away. A few seconds later, he heard the click of her bedroom door closing. He leaned against the sink, blew out a breath. What would it be like to be free of Merry? As the pounding of his heart settled, he splashed on some aftershave.

  “Good to see you,” Donna said, face flushed, a glass of white in one hand. “Mi casa su casa, or however it goes, right?”

  John stepped over the threshold. The house smelled like lamb chops, and redgum smoke from a fireplace. He watched the twitch of Donna’s hips in tight blue jeans as he followed her deeper inside. The tiled entrance hall led to the kitchen, an original 1970s build, white laminate with brown cupboards. The window framed scrubby grass, a barbecue, and queen-sized sheets revolving lazily on a Hills Hoist. Clean linen must be on her bed. That was a good sign.

  Donna opened the refrigerator. Her movements were a little delib­erate, a little expansive, as if she’d already had a few. “Pop your stubbies in here,” she said.

  “I’ll grab one first.”

  “You want a glass?”

  “It’s already in a glass,” he said, and they both laughed.

  He followed her into the lounge. The room held a lit fireplace, prints on the walls, a bookcase with more photographs than books, two corduroy sofas arranged at right angles around a table, and a TV. He sat down. She took a seat on the other sofa.

  Drumming his fingers on the armrest, he said, “Thanks for the invite.”

  “No worries. So how was breakfast at the café? Did you like the baked beans?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, they were good.”

  “I prefer the canned ones, myself.”

  “All right,” he said. “I confess: me too.”

  Smiling, Donna leaned back against the sofa. The posture lifted her breasts. She wore an orange top with a deep, round neckline that showed a glimpse of cleavage. John wanted to run a finger, no, his tongue, all the way down that cleft.

  Oh shit, he’d been staring at her chest for too long.

  “I like your necklace,” he suggested.

  She touched a hand to the base of her throat, just as she had this morning at the café (Donna. From across the road?), and said, “It’s costume jewellery. Cassie bought it for me at her school’s Mother’s Day sale.”

  “Cassie’s your daughter?”

  “Oh, yeah, hang on a second.” Donna sat up and yelled, “Cassandra!”

  After a few seconds, John heard the slap of oversized slippers on tiles. The girl he had seen yesterday wearing the netball outfit walked into the lounge in a t-shirt and leggings. She gave him the death stare. He felt like he was back in high school.

  “Cassie, this is our new neighbour. Say hello to John.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” John said.

  The girl said nothing.

  Donna checked her wristwatch. “All right, into the shower, missy.”

  Sighing, the girl turned and slapped her moccasins out of the room.

  “Kids,” Donna said, and rolled her eyes. “You got any?”

  “Yeah, two: all grown up.” John trotted out his usual lie. “Sometimes, they stay with me. That’s why I rent houses with spare bedrooms.”

  “Cool. Sons or daughters?”

  John paused, and said, “Daughters.”

  “What are their names?”

  He had never answered this question before. After taking a long swig from the stubby, he finally said, “Jane and…Susan.”

  “In honour of treasured aunts, I bet.”

  “You got it.”

  “How old are they?” she went on.

  “Uh…both in their twenties.”

  “Married?”

  “One of them is, yeah.” He took a gulp of beer. The pulse was beating in his ears. First impressions are everything. If he didn’t come across as sociable, friendly, easy to talk to, there would be no second invite. But, Jesus, what the hell could he say about his imaginary offspring? He added, “Susan’s just had a baby, a little boy.”

  “Oh, wow! Congratulations!”

  “Thanks. We’re all pretty chuffed. They named him after me, as a matter of fact, but everyone calls him Jack.”

  “Aw, that’s a lovely name for a boy. I prefer traditional names, don’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  “I mean, shit, some of the names at Cassie’s school… What are parents thinking? There’s a girl called ‘Neveah’, which is ‘heaven’ backwards, apparently, and another poor mite saddled with ‘Shiraz’, as in the wine. Can you believe it?”

  He laughed.

  Donna drained her glass. “Speaking of wine, another drink?”

  “Cheers.”

  She went to the kitchen. The wood in the fireplace popped. It was a relief Donna liked to drink too. Once, he had tried to date a woman who reckoned she was allergic to alcohol. That relationship had fizzled within a couple of days.

  “So tell me,” Donna said, breezing into the lounge, “when does the bitchy teenage phase wear off? Cassie’s just turned twelve, and it’s started already.”

  Fuck. How in God’s name would he know the answer to something like that? Donna passed him the stubby. His hands had begun to perspire. She sat down, sipped at her wine, and waited expectantly. His mind raced, his foot jiggled.

  “Well,” he said after a while, and took a drink. “I didn’t see my daughters much when they were growing up. Me and their mum divorced when they were little.”

  Donna’s eyes clouded. “Oh, now that’s what I’m worried about with Cassie. With the travelling he has to do for work, she only gets to see him one weekend a month. That’s not much, is it?”

  “If he’s a good enough dad, it ought to be.”

  She smiled, crinkled her nose. “Graeme a good dad? That’s debat­eable.”

&n
bsp; “All she needs is some male role-models in her life, dependable and positive ones, like a loving uncle, and she’ll be okay.”

  “Thanks.” Donna gave him a long and tender gaze. “That’s great advice.”

  They held eye contact. Should he make a move? Go over and sit next to her? It had been a while since his last woman. He wasn’t sure if he was reading her right.

  “So, what do you do for a living?” Donna said, breaking the moment.

  “I’m a plate mounter at a printing company.”

  “Uh-huh. Nine to five?”

  “No. Twelve-hour shifts every Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday.”

  “So you get four days off a week. Cool. You like your job?”

  He shrugged. “It pays the bills. Look, this may sound like a weird question, but you wouldn’t happen to own a horse, would you?”

  “A horse?” She giggled. “Why, do you need one?”

  “No, you just look like the kind of woman who’d be into horses.”

  “And what kind of woman is that?”

  He shrugged again. “I don’t know. Outdoorsy, I guess. Fit.”

  She got that look in her eye again. If she started twirling her hair, he would put down his stubby, move to her couch and take her in his arms.

  “Shit, you’re really pretty,” he said.

  “You’re not so bad yourself, mister.”

  John put the stubby on the table. Before he could get up, he heard the slap of moccasins on the kitchen tiles. Instantly, Donna’s coquettish aura switched off, and she checked her watch, frowning. Cassie appeared in the doorway, wearing pyjamas.

  “That was quick,” Donna said. “Did you even have a shower?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So how come your hair’s not wet?”

  “Duh, because I didn’t wash it. I washed it yesterday.”

  “All right, fine.” With a harried expression, Donna clanked her glass onto the coffee table. “I won’t be long,” she said to John. “I’m off to tuck her in.”

  “No worries,” he said. “Take your time. Goodnight, Cassie.”

  They left the room. He stared into the fireplace.

  Something about Donna reminded him of Meredith; but the old Meredith, not the ghost he lived with now. The forthrightness, direct gaze, the self-confidence…

  A knot of wood popped in the flames, and he remembered the bon­fire party.

  His high school had been located near a nature reserve with a creek running through it. This particular evening, the start of spring in Year Twelve, the boys congregated at the reserve and spent an hour or more collecting fallen branches, arranging them into a pile. The girls arrived later with the grog. After dark, the boys lit the fire. The wood crackled and snapped. Getting tipsy, fast, people started to pair off. John found himself with Meredith. They lay together in the grass, sharing a bottle of Vickers gin she had nicked from her parents’ cabinet, swigging it neat. Dutch courage: that’s what he hoped for. But Meredith made the first move. Running her fingers through his hair, she murmured, “You need a written invitation? Come on. Don’t you want to kiss me, dopey?”

  The scream of a police siren made everyone scramble to their feet. The cop car, lights flashing, turned off the road and bumped straight across the grass towards the bonfire. The kids scattered. Meredith grabbed John’s hand. They ran with a bunch of others to a fence, which they scaled, dropping into someone’s back yard. John started forward and fell through space. Icy water closed over his head. He surfaced, spluttering, tasting chlorine. The kids, including Meredith, were laughing, but holding their hands over their mouths to smother the sounds.

  “Get out of my pool, dickhead,” a boy called Darren (Darryl?) hissed. “Quick.”

  John hoisted himself onto the pebbled deck and, dripping, followed the others into a cabana. Everyone huddled together, giggling and shushing each other.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Darren/Darryl said. “If my old man finds you in here, I’m in deep shit.”

  The creaking of a door opening at the other end of the yard froze their throats.

  “What’s going on?” a deep voice called from the house. “Son, is that you?”

  “Yeah, Dad, it’s me,” the kid yelled. “I’m having a smoke. Won’t be long.”

  “Did you hop in the pool?”

  Everyone huddled in the cabana, including Meredith and John, pressed hands against their lips to stifle laughter.

  “Nah, why would I?” the kid yelled back. “It’s too cold.”

  “I thought I heard a splash.”

  “Nah, there was no splash. Okay, Dad, I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Well, all right. Don’t be long.”

  The door closed. They were safe. Everyone fell against each other in relief.

  “All of youse, fuck off out of here, pronto,” the kid said.

  “But I don’t understand,” John said. “If your dad is cool enough to let you smoke, why would he care if you have some friends over?”

  “Because I didn’t ask the bastard first, that’s why. Now fuck off and be quiet about it. Watch for the cops.”

  Darren/Darryl left the cabana first, climbed the stairs to the back door, and went inside the house. The other kids left in pairs. Meredith and John were last.

  “You’re shivering,” she said, wrapping her arms about him. “Poor baby.”

  She kissed him, softly at first, chastely. Then she opened her mouth, and their tongues touched. His heart leapt. After all these years of loving her from afar, idolising her, John was kissing her; at last, at long last…

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  He glanced up. Donna strolled into the lounge. John took a drink of beer.

  “You seemed a million miles away,” she said, sitting, grabbing her wineglass.

  “It’s the magic of fireplaces, I guess. They kind of mesmerise you.”

  “I know, right? That’s what I hate about summer: no cosy nights by the fire.”

  At the sound of slapping moccasins, Donna rolled her eyes and slammed down her wineglass. “Ugh, I swear to Christ…” she whispered.

  He smiled. A moment of complicity passed between them. Parenthood is so exhausting… No different to anybody else, Donna had bought his lie too.

  Cassie appeared in the doorway. John baulked. In her arms, she held a cat, a ginger tabby. Oh, shit. This was not good. This was not good at all.

  “What are you doing up?” Donna said.

  “I want Tiger in my room.”

  “No. Absolutely not. You know he’ll jump on your bed.”

  “Please?” Cassie whined.

  “No. I hate cat fur over the sheets.”

  “Please? I’ll bring in his cushion.”

  Huffing, Donna glanced at John. He shrugged helplessly. She flung out her hands, and said, “Fine. Try to keep him on the cushion, not on the sheets, okay?”

  Cassie hurried back through the kitchen, moccasins slapping.

  “Did you hear me?” Donna called. “On his cushion!”

  No answer.

  Donna shook her head. “That stupid cat, I swear. Cassie always wants to cuddle him in bed like a teddy bear, and he lets her. I think he actually likes it. God help me when the bloody thing dies.”

  5

  It was warm for a morning in early spring, twenty degrees already and sunny. Panting, sweat running into his eyes, John straightened up, took off his leather gloves and surveyed the construction of his soon-to-be vegetable patch.

  A top job, even if he said so himself.

  With a sledgehammer, he had pounded into the ground four galvanised iron corner-posts. Then, he had slid the treated pine sleepers down the slots of the posts, stacking them two sleepers high on each side, correcting any lean by eye.

  He scrabbled in his shirt pocket for a
cigarette. Both hands shook. Not from thirst, but from physical exertion. At least he’d got the measurements right. The sleepers had fit snugly within the posts.

  He checked his watch—9.39 a.m.—still making good time.

  Next would be a trip to the plant nursery for a cubic metre of dirt, a bag of chook shit, and seedlings. He would get a couple of capsicum plants, maybe some red onion. Sweet truss was his preference for tomato, but failing that, he’d settle for roma. Then he’d be home before beer o’clock: 10.45 a.m.

  Might Donna appreciate a gift of homegrown tomatoes?

  Yes, surely. Everybody loved organic stuff these days. Didn’t they?

  He could only hope the nursery had truss seedlings. A length of green vine sprouting plump fruit looked impressive; much more impressive than a plastic bag of romas that looked no different than the shit you bought from a supermarket. He imagined Donna’s grateful smile, her hand pressed to the base of her throat in surprise and delight. Oh John, for me? Why, these tomatoes are just too pretty to eat…

  But last night, despite the clean sheets on Donna’s bed, she hadn’t invited him to stay; in fact, had not even kissed him. He had left her place around eleven.

  He mulled this over, drawing on his smoke.

  Nearby, an adolescent magpie with grey feathers strutted amongst the grass and weeds of the back yard, occasionally stabbing its beak into the dirt to capture a worm, getting closer and closer.

  “How come you’re not scared of me?” John whispered.

  The magpie stopped and regarded him for a moment with a red, glossy eye, and walked straight past, resuming the hunt. John flicked the cigarette butt over its head. The magpie didn’t even flinch.

  A respectable woman like Donna wouldn’t screw him straight away—or anyone else for that matter—because she had her daughter, Cassie, to consider. This was John’s dilemma. Somehow, he would have to win over the kid. He remembered the death stare Cassie had given him, and sighed. With the back of his arm, he wiped sweat from his face. The magpie broke into a trot, flapping its wings.