Contrition

by Sheldon, Deborah;

  “Same for the café,” Donna said, and raised her glass. “To honesty.”

  Their eye contact felt loaded with tension. Fuck this for a joke, John thought. He put his beer on the coffee table, got up and sat right next to her, thigh against thigh. He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

  “John,” she murmured, leaning into him. “John.”

  He stroked her hair, smoothing it back, fondling the silky strands. Then he kissed her. She opened her mouth and he felt her tongue.

  When at last their kiss ended, Donna whispered, “Let’s go to bed.”

  They stood up. Tiger woke, unfolded, and hopped onto the floor. Donna took John’s hand and led him down the hallway. An open door at the far end glowed with sunshine. John glanced behind. A queasy sensation moved through him.

  “Tiger’s following us,” he said.

  “Don’t mind him. When he doesn’t sleep with Cassie, he sleeps with me.”

  John looked back again. Tiger was padding along, keeping pace.

  “I don’t want him in the room,” John said.

  She laughed. “What am I, some kind of freak? I don’t want my cat watching us either.”

  They entered the bedroom. It had two windows looking out across a patchy, unkempt lawn. The mattress had a white doona cover and a dozen or more pillows of different sizes and colours. Why did women like ‘display’ pillows? Donna pulled the curtains. The bedroom dimm­ed. Tiger leapt onto the mattress, its yellow eyes regarding John without blinking. It felt like an omen but of what, John didn’t know.

  Donna said, “Oh, piss off, Tiger. Go on, shoo.”

  She shoved the cat off the bed. After an awkward landing, Tiger ambled down the hallway towards the kitchen. Donna closed the door.

  “Ignore him,” she said, and paused. “You know, I almost feel shy.”

  “Same.”

  Donna turned her back, unbuttoned her shirt, dropped it; unclipped her bra, dropped it. John’s cock sprang to life. Donna, cupping her bare breasts to hide the nipples, turned to face him. Her cheeks were reddened, her eyes wide.

  “I don’t know the etiquette,” she said, “but I’m clear. No venereal diseases.”

  “What? Oh, yeah, me neither.”

  “I’m wearing a cap.”

  John hesitated, unsure.

  “A Dutch cap,” she continued, “a diaphragm. You don’t have to worry about getting me pregnant. But if you want to wear a franger, that’s okay.”

  Shit, he hadn’t brought any. “No,” he said. “I trust you.”

  “I trust you too.”

  She lowered her hands. Her small breasts were the size and shape of pears. Their generous pink nipples made him lick his lips. Quickly, he unbuttoned his shirt.

  “It’s been a long time for me,” she said. “I’m out of practice.”

  “Me, too.”

  Donna offered a timid smile. John took her in his arms. They kissed, long and deep. Her breasts pressing against him turned his cock into an iron rod. A scrabbling noise of claws at the door caught his attention, and he sighed.

  “Hey, look, I can’t be thinking about your cat,” he said.

  “Think about my pussy instead.”

  Holy shit. John undid the button of her jeans and slid down the zip. Kneeling, he shucked the denim to her ankles. She stepped out of the legs.

  “Merci, monsieur,” she murmured.

  “You speak French?”

  “No, not really. But I can swear in a few languages: French, German, Italian, Greek. And I know a couple of nasty words in Polish.”

  “Does that mean you can talk dirty to me?” he said.

  She giggled. “Well, I can cuss you out. What language would you prefer?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s say Italian.”

  He kissed around her navel. She drew in a breath. He slid his hands up the backs of her bare thighs, softly kneaded her buttocks.

  “Figlio de puttana,” she whispered, stroking her hands through his hair.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  He tugged at the elastic of her underwear, pulling them down. “What else?”

  “Na pas na gamithis,” she said. “Oh no, wait, that’s Greek.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “No, I think I’ll fuck you instead.”

  Donna was shaved clean. He licked gently, experimentally, at her cleft. She moved her feet to part her legs. Using his fingers, he spread her for a languorous lick. Gasping, she grabbed at his hair. The scratching sounds kept on and on from the other side of the door, but John didn’t care any more about Tiger. There was only the taste of Donna, her heavy breathing, and nothing else.

  They were sitting under the pergola in plastic striped chairs, drinking, John smoking. And it was the best-tasting goddamned cigarette he could remember. It had something to do with endorphins. A good root apparently enhances the effect of nicotine. And by Christ, Donna had been a good root. Her face was still flushed, hair tousled. Every time he brought the cigarette to his lips, he could smell her on his fingers. His cock stirred. Maybe he could get it up again in a little while. Not bad for an old codger nudging fifty.

  “How long have you been a smoker?” Donna said.

  For a moment, his mood soured as the unwelcome memory came back: Lyle showing off the packets of Winfield Red and Blue, asking for two dollars per pack. From long practice, John swept the image aside.

  “Since the first day of high school.”

  “Wow. That’s young. Ever tried to quit?”

  He shook his head. “I hear the withdrawal is pretty rough.”

  “Everybody smoked at my school. The cool kids, anyway. I couldn’t get the hang of it. The idea of breathing in smoke freaked me out.”

  “Yeah, you’ve got to work at it, I guess. The habit doesn’t come naturally.”

  “Do you ever wish you hadn’t started?”

  “If I bothered to count up all my regrets, I’d never stop.” He gazed around the yard. No trees, no flower beds; just a few scraggly bushes and an unpainted fence. “The landlord hasn’t made much of an effort out here, has he?”

  “Suits me. I pay a bloke thirty bucks to mow the grass whenever it gets too high, and that’s the end of it. I don’t have a green thumb like you. Housework is bad enough. I’d hate to be out here every weekend, pruning and weeding and all that shit.”

  “I’ll mow your lawns from now on.”

  “What? Oh no, I couldn’t ask that.”

  “You’re not asking, I’m offering. It’ll save you a few hundred bucks a year.”

  “No. Really? I mean, are you sure?”

  “Positive,” he said.

  “Thanks. Money’s pretty tight. That’d be great. I’ll pay you in beer, okay?”

  “Nah, you don’t have to pay me in anything.”

  Her face softened, and she reached over the table to touch his wrist. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a sweetheart?”

  He smiled. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, you are.” She stood and picked up her wineglass. “Stay here and relax. I’ll be back with lunch in a jiffy.”

  He watched her cross to the screen door, appreciating the sway of her hips, the fall of her long hair. Through the slats of the window’s venetian blind, he could just make out her shadowed form as she moved between the fridge and bench, cupboards and sink. A warm, calm sensation suffused his body. They were an item now, he and Donna: a couple. He could take her to restaurants or the movies, buy her flowers, chocolates, do whatever boyfriends were meant to do.

  Hang on, was she singing?

  Stubbing out his cigarette, he paused, rapt.

  Yes, Donna was singing, very softly, just to herself, a tune he recognised but coul
dn’t name. So she was happy too.

  He had made her happy.

  Letting out a contented sigh, John leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head, and listened. This was the first time he had heard her sing…and there would be many more firsts to come: discovering her ticklish spots, her favourite TV shows, if she snored in her sleep. Over the weeks and months—perhaps even years—she would reveal all kinds of small and wonderful things about herself.

  A frenzied clawing sounded against the fly-wire mesh of the screen door.

  Tiger.

  Uneasy, John sat up in the chair.

  “Go on, you dumb old cat,” Donna said, opening the door for a mom­ent. “Git.”

  Tiger strolled onto the patio’s concrete slab. Donna closed the door. The cat met John’s gaze and hesitated, perhaps deciding whether or not to approach and wind itself around his ankles. Swishing its tail, it sauntered away down the yard.

  Fumbling at the cigarette pack, John lit a smoke.

  Who the fuck was he kidding?

  He wasn’t able to have a relationship with Donna. What about Merry? How would he keep her a secret? Donna must never step foot inside the miner’s cottage. What if she heard Merry scratching around behind a closed door, rattling through the contents of those hobby boxes? Even worse, what if Merry wandered out to join them in the lounge room? Donna would scream at the sight. And how could he possibly explain the presence of this witch, this zombie, with her crescent-shaped scars? Impossible. No, no, a relationship with Donna wouldn’t work, couldn’t work. Unless…and the notion came to him slowly, slyly, like a devil crouched on his shoulder, wheedling, needling, whispering—

  “I hope you’re hungry.”

  John startled. Donna shoved open the screen door with her hip. She held two plates, both piled high with roast chicken and salad. He stood up, took the plates from her and put them on the table.

  “Terrific, looks great,” he said.

  “Thanks, but credit goes to the charcoal chicken shop at the mall.”

  She ducked back inside for her wine and came out with a freshened glass and another stubby for John. They smiled at each other as she sat down.

  “Dig in,” she said, and picked up her cutlery.

  A mouthful of chicken woke up John’s stomach. Jesus, he was famished. That’s what an hour of good fucking can do to a man. He had performed, and well. Her moans and cries had testified to that. Just like riding a bicycle, a man never forgets how to ride a woman. And then a great, heavy sadness descended over him. This might be it, he thought. The only time he would ever share with Donna.

  “Everything okay?” she said.

  “Yeah, fine,” he said, and smiled quickly. “Tell me, what do you get up to when you’re not at work?”

  “You mean hobbies?” She put down her knife and fork. “Well, I like to draw.”

  “Cartoons?”

  “No, portraits of people. I took a life drawing class a few years ago and loved it. Mostly, I use Cassie as a model, but only her face and hands. I’ve got a friend who sometimes lets me draw her nude.”

  “Jeez. Nude? Sounds a bit sexy.”

  Donna laughed. “Oh, far from it. Drawing a person is about seeing and looking, paying attention to shapes and shadows and lines.” She regarded him with a critical eye. “Actually, you’d make a great model.”

  He snorted. “Hah, don’t bullshit me.”

  “You’ve got a great profile.”

  “Do I?”

  “A straight nose, a strong jaw… And I’m used to drawing female faces, female bodies. You’d be a challenge. Would you consider posing for me? It’d be fun.”

  “Posing?” A deep, hot flush spread across his cheeks. “Uh, I dunno…”

  “Come on, it’s easy. You sit and don’t move.”

  “In the buff?”

  “Of course, in the buff.” She giggled, touched his arm, briefly. “All right, no pressure. Just think about it, okay?”

  “Okay. What do you draw with, pencils?”

  “Yeah, though lately I’ve been getting into pastels. They make a hell of a mess. You end up with dust absolutely everywhere. I do my pastel pictures in the laundry and use drop sheets.”

  “Sounds like you need a studio.”

  “Oh, I need a lot of things,” she said, and her gaze turned away for a moment, becoming sad and distant. She looked back at him and smiled. “And what about you?”

  “Me?”

  “I know you like gardening and growing vegies. What else?”

  John took a mouthful of chicken and chewed on it for a while. At last, he said, “Nothing else, I guess.”

  “Oh, you’ve got to be interested in something.”

  He shrugged. “Day to day life can be pretty…time-consuming.”

  “What about footy?”

  “Nah, I hate that shitty game.”

  “Good, same here. What about racing? You like Bathurst or Formula One?”

  “I’ll watch if it’s on telly.”

  Donna gave him a mock frown. “You must have some kind of hobby. Woodwork? Fishing? Craft beers?” She laughed. “Soap carving?”

  He rubbed at his chin. In a flash, the burble and swish of the Yarra River rushing over rocks had come back to him, the scent of eucalyptus, and the muscular pull of trout on the line. He swallowed hard, and said, “I used to like fishing.”

  “Sea or river?”

  “River.”

  “My dad river-fished every weekend,” she said. “When I was kid, Sunday night was fish night: Murray cod, perch, redfin; whatever he’d caught. Dad would cook the fillets on the barbie and Mum would make the salads. If he came home with crayfish, all of us kids would go eww and Mum would give us baked beans instead.” Donna shook her head, eyes twinkling. “God, what I’d give for crayfish these days.”

  “You’ve got brothers and sisters?”

  “One of each. My sister lives in the UK, but my brother’s in Melbourne. You’d get along with him, I reckon. He’s a straight-shooter too.”

  John put down his cutlery. “Is that how you see me? As an honest man?”

  “Well, aren’t you?”

  He nodded and smiled. They ate their lunch, chatting between mouthfuls about this and that, but John had a cold tightness in his belly and a stinging behind the eyes. By the time they finished eating, he felt sick. He lit a cigarette and stared at the peeling paint on the overhead beams of the pergola, trying to gather himself together.

  “Coffee?” Donna said.

  “Sure, with a beer chaser.”

  Playfully, she patted his shoulder. She stacked the plates and went inside.

  John drew back on the cigarette. The scraggly bushes in the back yard were camellia, hydrangea, and a bottle-brush…

  Bottle-brush…

  In his mind’s eye, he saw the two-metre canopy of the bottle-brush in the park.

  The park in Melbourne’s outer-east. It had a lake, he remembered, and a cycling track, playground, barbecues for hire. Dusk, late December, 2008. Parents rousting their children, packing up folding chairs, shaking out picnic rugs. John, forty-one years old, tipsy from the Christmas party at the paint factory. He had left his car at work and decided to walk back to his apartment. How long would it take? Half an hour? An hour? No idea. This was the first time he had gone home on foot.

  As he approached the bottle-brush, he saw something underneath it, a shape in the shadows. He got closer. The shape revealed itself to be a person, rolled up in a ragged blanket, motionless as if asleep. Nearby, three plastic shopping bags filled to overflowing with bundled clothes. The person fidgeted, turned under the blanket.

  Shit. John decided to hurry past, feign deafness, and keep his gaze straight ahead. Homeless people usually tried to bludge a smoke off him, and smokes were too expensive these days to give away, especially
to strangers. He picked up his pace. His shoes crunched over the gravel path. The person threw back the blanket. It was a thin, frail woman. She propped up on an elbow and blinked at him with ice-blue eyes.

  John stopped dead.

  Oh, God.

  No, it couldn’t be…

  In that awful, ghastly moment of recognition, his heart broke loose and dropped straight through his stomach.

  The woman sat up and raked a hand through her white-blonde hair.

  “John?” she said, and her voice sounded dry and husky, as if she hadn’t used it in a long time. “John?”

  “Merry?” he whispered. “Jesus Christ, is that you?”

  A tentative smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. She held out both dirty hands to him, arms spread wide, as if for an embrace.

  13

  It felt like a punch to the solar plexus. John’s breath shortened, as if winded.

  The last time he’d seen Meredith Berg-Olsen was twenty-three years ago, when they had shared a cigarette after losing their virginity together. The day before her brother, Lyle, had…disappeared. A ringing noise started in John’s ears. He dropped to his knees. Meredith went to touch him but he flinched away. At last, he found his voice.

  “What are you doing here?” he said.

  “Sleeping.”

  “No, I mean, how long have you been out here like this?”

  “Not long. I think I got to the park yesterday.”

  John squeezed his eyes shut against the sting of tears. “No, I’m asking how long you’ve been like this,” he said, flinging his arms in an all-encompassing gesture, taking in her dishevelled appearance, tattered blanket, split plastic bags of belongings.

  Meredith stared at him vacantly.

  He ran a hand over his face to wipe off the sudden drench of perspiration. For a few seconds, he concentrated on slowing his breathing, getting a grip. Even so, his stomach churned with nausea.

  “Merry,” he said. “Where’s your home?”

  She smiled. “Oh, I’ve got lots of homes.”

  He sat back on his heels and glanced about. By now, the park was almost deserted. Through the trees a few hundred metres away, he could just make out families as they fussed around their cars, buckling in kids and loading picnic baskets.