Contrition

by Sheldon, Deborah;

  Sitting up made his head hurt.

  Vaguely, he remembered having more and more beer, and then nothing. He was suspended in that no man’s land between drunk and hung-over; still pissed yet suffering from a headache, queasy stomach, soured cotton-mouth.

  The knocking sounds kept going.

  Someone was at the front door. He waited for them to leave. They didn’t.

  Annoyed, he swung his legs out of bed and got up. The room tilted. Undigested beer slopped around in his gut. When he reached the hall, he turned on the light. The bulb shone too brightly.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Okay,” he called, “for fuck’s sake. I’m getting there, all right?”

  He snatched opened the front door, squinting against the last rays of sunset, expecting a religious freak or some idiot wanting to know if he’d like to change electricity companies, but no—oh no—it was Donna.

  Donna.

  His stomach dropped. Panicked, he wondered how he must appear: dishevelled, bloodshot, and pissed. You’re an alky when people see you drunk.

  Donna, looking concerned, touched his arm. “Hey, it’s okay.”

  “This isn’t a good time.” John glanced behind him. No sign of Meredith. She would be inside her hobby room, clawing through her goddamned collection.

  “Is everything all right?” Donna said.

  He had to salvage this situation. His mind raced. “I’ve had some bad news.”

  “Oh no, that’s awful. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No.” John briefly closed his eyes. The beer made the ground pitch beneath his feet. He clutched the doorframe. “I’ve had a few too many. Let’s just say goodnight.”

  “No, wait, hang on. I’d already planned on inviting you to dinner. Come over. There’s a big pot of pasta on the stove. Cassie and I can’t eat it by ourselves.”

  “But I’m drunk.”

  “So am I: a bottle of chardy and counting.” She smiled, and it was gentle and kind. “You need to eat, right? I’ve made us mac and cheese, with a crap-tonne of bacon. You like bacon, don’t you?”

  It occurred to him that she didn’t care if he was hammered. She was happy to see him, wanted to spend time with him. The shame and embarrassment began to retreat.

  “And four cheeses,” she continued, “mozzarella, cheddar, parm­esan…I forget the last one. Gruyere? Well, maybe gruyere. It’s all shredded in the same packet.”

  She laughed. He did too.

  Such a beautiful woman.

  What the hell. They were both pissed, weren’t they?

  Taking the keys off the hook, John closed the front door behind him. Together, they crossed to Donna’s house, the clinker-brick shithole with the palm tree out front.

  Cassie giggled, her mouth crammed with pasta. “Wow, I kept waiting for him to cut his arms off.” She hurriedly swallowed, and added, “Or set himself on fire. How did he juggle those knives and flaming sticks? It was awesome.”

  Donna said, “You know, she’s been talking about that one circus act non-stop.”

  “Have not,” Cassie said, and blushed.

  Grinning, John did his best to stay in the moment, to push aside the memories of his conversation with Nate Rossi. Meredith lost her mind… Shut up, shut up, shut up… Once her brother disappeared, Meredith went fruit-loops…

  “They’re professionals, honey,” Donna said. “They do it all the time.”

  “Ugh, but still,” Cassie said, and widened her eyes at John, as if she wanted him to be complicit with her, to join forces. “Am I right? When that clown first came out on the stage, I was like, whoa, he’s pissed.”

  “Young lady,” Donna said, “mind your language.”

  “Yeah, okay. But I was like, whoa, he’ll get hurt.”

  Instead I got hurt, John thought.

  He noticed Cassie staring at him, waiting for an answer. It dawned that, somehow, he was winning over the child, which would, in turn, win over the mother.

  “Yeah, I thought he’d get hurt too,” he said. “In fact, I had my hand on my phone, ready to call an ambulance. And he turned out to be an absolute bloody champion!”

  Cassie burst out laughing. Donna joined in. John gazed around the dining table. God, they looked like a family, didn’t they? An ordinary, suburban family enjoying a home-cooked meal together and it felt surreal, because he had never imagined himself in such a scenario.

  Donna said, “I liked the ponies best.”

  Cassie rolled her eyes. “Ugh, that’d be right. They were so pathetic.”

  “Pathetic? They were not.”

  “Oh, Mum, they were lamer than the birds.”

  “No, they were cute. They had fat little bellies, and stumpy little legs.” Donna gulped from her wineglass. “And their manes plaited with ribbons, now come on; you’ve got to admit that was cute.”

  John winked. “Hey, I told you, didn’t I? You seemed like a horse fan.”

  Donna smiled. He liked the way she was looking at him right now. Goddamn, he liked it one hell of a lot. If only he could leave everything behind—

  …leave Meredith behind…

  —and start over. Start over like nothing bad had ever happened.

  Donna was making coffee. He listened to the fridge door opening and closing, the clinking of a teaspoon. Cassie was in bed, the plates and cutlery stashed in the dishwasher, the curtains drawn against the night. John, sitting on a couch, stared at the fireplace. Now that he was alone, he couldn’t stop thinking of Meredith (I died along with him) and of Lyle, and he scrubbed furiously at his temples with the heels of his palms. At the sound of Donna’s footsteps, he composed himself.

  She came in from the kitchen with two cups. As she handed one to him, she said, “If you want to talk about what’s bothering you, I’m happy to lend an ear.”

  She sat on the other couch and tucked her legs beneath her. He let out a long, tired sigh. The wood in the fireplace popped and hissed.

  “You can trust me,” she said.

  He tried to smile but it felt wrong, as if his mouth was twisting into a grimace.

  “Besides,” she continued, “my grandpa used to reckon that a trouble shared is a trouble halved.”

  “Not this one. This one I’m taking to the grave.”

  Yet Donna’s face showed such compassion and tenderness that if he shut her out now, he feared she might never give him another chance.

  It took him time to find the words.

  “Have you ever done something so bad,” he said, “that there’s no way you can ever make it right?”

  “I’m forty-five. There’s a whole lifetime of stuff I regret.”

  “I don’t mean everyday stuff. I mean something that keeps you awake at night, something that gives you nightmares for years, maybe until the day you die.”

  “No, I guess not,” she said. “But we all make mistakes. Did you mean to do this thing, whatever it is?”

  He shook his head, tears coming to his eyes.

  “So, it was an accident,” she said.

  “I suppose you could call it that.”

  She put her cup on the table, got up, and sat next to him. “Then how can you blame yourself if you didn’t mean to do it?”

  Her cool fingers touched the back of his neck and caressed his hair. He closed his eyes against the tears, held his breath against the ache in his throat.

  “You’re not a bad man,” she whispered.

  “How do you know?”

  A sudden weight hit the armrest. Startled, John looked about and stared right into the face of the ginger tabby.

  “Relax,” Donna said, “it’s only Tiger.”

  “I thought he liked to stay in bed with Cassie.”

  “Normally, yeah, but cats are intuitive. They know when something’s wrong.”

 
“They do?”

  “Sure. That’s why Tiger’s come to you. He wants to offer a little comfort.”

  Tiger crouched on the armrest as if readying to spring and then, instead, hopped delicately into John’s lap. It kneaded at his legs. John felt the very tips of claws through the denim of his jeans. He thought of his previous neighbour, old Mrs Dwight, and her missing Siamese. Angel’s a homebody. It’s not like him to stay away. It’s been six days. I’m literally frantic…

  “Don’t worry, he won’t hurt you,” Donna said. “He’s as gentle as a lamb, aren’t you, Tiger?”

  She rubbed at the cat’s ears. Tiger settled onto John’s legs and closed its eyes as if enjoying the attention.

  “You see?” Donna said. “Go on, give him a pat. It’s all right.”

  Hesitantly, John laid his hand behind the cat’s head. He could feel the nubs of shoulder blades. The fur was warm and soft, pleasant to touch. He stroked Tiger’s back from head to tail, again and again. Faintly at first, the cat began to purr.

  “Hey, how about that,” John said, and smiled. “He sounds just like a lawnmower.”

  He glanced at Donna. She put a hand to his face and kissed him.

  He entered the house and paused, alert now, his pulse thrumming.

  “Merry?” he whispered.

  No response. No movement either.

  The hall light was still on, as he had left it. Her bedroom and hobby room were both shut tight. Perhaps she was asleep. Quietly, John closed the front door, hung the keys on the hook, and started to creep along the hall towards his end of the house.

  “Did you fuck her?”

  He stopped dead. Fixed in the middle of the kitchen, standing stiffly at attention, was Meredith. God only knew how long she had been waiting there. He stared at her carefully. Her face was in shadow. He couldn’t see her expression, couldn’t guess her mood.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Meredith said.

  A chill ran over him. “It’s late. Go to bed.”

  “Did you fuck her?”

  “No.”

  “Did you want to?”

  “Yes.”

  Meredith began to laugh. John strode to his room, shut the door and bolted it.

  7

  John thrashed aside the blankets and stared blindly at the ceiling as his heart continued to gallop. The sounds and images of the nightmare remained. Lyle screams as soil and clods of grassy earth rain down on his face, smothering him, filling his mouth and nostrils, yet his screams go on and on and on, regardless, John help me help me, as John keeps digging the shovel into the earth, tossing the dirt over him.

  But that’s not how it happened. So why did he always dream it that way?

  God almighty…

  John sat on the edge of the bed and switched on the lamp. He studied his open hands. The shovel had given him blisters, two straight lines of them across each palm, red and raw. It had taken a few days for the blisters to dry up. The callused skin had turned yellow and finally peeled away. No scars. Yet his hands should have been scarred, deserved to carry scars, from that day.

  Did you mean to do this thing, whatever it is? So, it was an accident. Then how can you blame yourself if you didn’t mean to do it?

  Oh Donna, he thought, it was no accident.

  I didn’t mean for him to die, but it was no accident.

  Sunday October 19th, 1985.

  Eight o’clock in the morning on a hot and sunny day in the middle of a Melbourne spring. Eighteen-year old John was taking the old man’s VB Commodore sedan to the countryside, with fishing tackle and a six-pack stashed in the boot. Don’t get into a prang, the old man had said, and be back by dinnertime or cop a hiding.

  ‘Out of Mind out of Sight’ by The Models on the radio and John singing along—the lyrics having new meaning for him now that he was no longer a virgin—and smoking, his elbow resting on the open window, looking forward to a day of fishing instead of studying. He turned onto the main road, a three-lane dual carriageway. Brick and weatherboard houses sat behind grassy median strips and service lanes. People were out jogging, walking dogs, pushing prams, or lugg­ing grocery bags.

  What could Meredith be doing? Just the thought of her made him smile.

  They had done the deed yesterday.

  A man at last; John Keith Penrose had finally become a man.

  Okay, he hadn’t lasted too long, but she had enjoyed herself, right? And he’d get better at it. Practice makes perfect, Merry had said so herself, as they’d shared a smoke. The memory warmed him, stiffened his cock a little.

  John flicked the cigarette butt out the window.

  Up ahead, the traffic light turned red. He drew to a stop. Idly, he gazed about. Lyle happened to be strolling along the footpath, carrying his schoolbag. John would know that boofy blonde head and bouncing gait anywhere. He leaned on the horn. The driver in front put her arm out the window and gave him the forks.

  “Get fucked, you dumb bitch,” he yelled. “I’m not tooting at you.”

  She gave him a half-hearted wave.

  Lyle had turned at the commotion. John tapped his horn again to get his attention. Lyle started to walk over. The light turned green. John put on his indicator and pulled into the service lane. Stretching his arm, he wound down the passenger side window. Lyle put his hands on the sill and looked into the car.

  “Did you piss the bed?” John said. “Where are you going so early, ya bastard?”

  “Aaron’s place.”

  “Get in. I’ll drive you there.”

  Frowning, Lyle dropped his gaze, as if he wasn’t too keen on the offer.

  “What’s the matter?” John said.

  With an exaggerated sigh, Lyle wrenched open the door, flung the schoolbag into the foot well and dropped into the passenger seat. John offered his pack of cigarettes. Lyle took a smoke without a word and lit it. Then he slammed the door and stared fixedly out the windscreen.

  “Merry’s got the car today, I take it?” John said.

  Lyle tightened his lips.

  “Shit, mate,” John said, “what’s up your arse?”

  “Just get going.”

  John pulled out into traffic. “How come you’re off to Aaron’s?”

  “We’ve got a science prac due tomorrow. Don’t you have any homework?”

  John made a derisive pfft sound. Who needed to bother with crap like English, maths and geography when there was money in plumbing? The old man, however, wanted John to get a job at the warehouse. Hah. Screw having the old man as a boss, and screw messing around with forklifts and inventories and getting fuck-all wages. John would finish out the HSC year—pass or fail, it didn’t matter—and apply for a plumbing apprenticeship. Actually, he could have dropped out of school ages ago, but stayed to be with his mates. And with Meredith.

  “I’m going fishing,” John said. “Want to join me?”

  “Dunno.”

  John glanced at him. His friend seemed distracted and pensive.

  “Okay,” John said, “I’ll take you to Aaron’s. Past the shops, isn’t it?”

  Lyle stabbed the cigarette into the ashtray. “Fuck it, let’s go fishing.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “You want to drop in on Aaron first, tell him you’re slacking off?”

  Lyle shook his head. With a shrug, John decided to focus on the highway. The minutes ticked by. John watched the traffic, but kept sneaking the occasional peek at his friend, who remained stony-faced. How come he wasn’t gabbing? Where were his funny stories, wise-cracks, laughter? The silence in the car became so uncomfortable that John found himself shifting about in his seat. It’s me, he thought. I’ve fucked up and I think I know how.

  “I’m going back to that really good spot for trout near Warburton,” he said. “Remember? I found
it a few months ago. The river will be jumping. We’ve had solid rain and then sunshine for a few days straight. Perfect conditions.”

  Lyle did not answer.

  “And no arguments, I’m teaching you how to fish today,” John continued. “You’re not sitting on the bank and giving me shit. This time, you’re an angler.”

  Still nothing.

  “It’s about an hour’s drive,” he went on. “Is that all right? We’ll get there about nine or so, get in three or four hours of fishing, then head to the pub for a counter lunch. What do you reckon? I’ve got some beer in the back to keep us going.”

  Lyle kept staring out the window.

  John bit at his lip. “Hey, what’s wrong, mate?”

  Lyle turned up the radio.

  “Fine,” John said. “Act like a prick, I couldn’t give a shit.”

  He kept heading east. The further he drove, the lighter the traffic became.

  The road dwindled to a single-lane dual carriageway without footpaths or kerbs, bordered by eucalypt forest and ferns, the occasional weatherboard house and gravel driveway. The air through the open window was becoming cooler. Up ahead, the hazy blue-green hills of the Yarra Ranges sat against a cloudless blue sky.

  It was a calming, bewitching sight.

  In his mind, John could already smell the clean, mentholated scent of the trees that lined the banks; hear the rush of the river, the water icy-cold from the mountains; see the darting of insects, the overhead flight of eastern rosellas and red-rumped parrots. The first cast was always the best. The rod was like an extension of your own arm, filled with nerves. You felt the weight of the lure spooling out on the line, the plunk of it hitting the surface. Once a trout bit down and began to fight, you could sense through the line and rod its every twist, pull and clench as surely as if you held the wriggling fish in your own hands.

  “What’s going on between you and my sister?”

  John broke from his reverie. Lyle was glaring at him.