The Bogan Mondrian

by Herrick, Steven

  When I return to the kitchen, Mum is standing at the sink, biting her fingernails, staring out the window. Her shoulders are hunched.

  ‘I like your dress, Mum.’

  She snaps out of her mood and attempts a showy twirl. ‘One of the girls at work loaned me,’ she says. ‘It was her wedding dress.’

  ‘It’s red.’

  ‘Her husband wanted red.’ Mum shrugs. ‘Men.’

  She notices I’m wearing a clean t-shirt, jeans and shoes. ‘You didn’t have to dress up as well.’

  I sigh. ‘I’m going out, Mum. I told you.’

  She looks to the oven as if the roast lamb will hear. ‘Is it because—’

  ‘I hope you have fun,’ I interrupt. No matter what I say, it sounds like I’m being negative. ‘Save me some leftovers,’ I add.

  Mum glances at her watch, again. I kiss her on the cheek. She’s wearing red lipstick to match her dress.

  I don’t know what to say.

  I hope he’s not a gambler.

  I hope he makes her laugh.

  I hope I never meet him.

  I hope.

  Buster barks and runs alongside the fence.

  ‘Not tonight, boy,’ I say.

  He jumps up at the wire. I look towards his house. The front door is open. I can hear the television. Buster looks at me with big brown eyes. I lean over and pat him.

  ‘Tomorrow, we’ll go for a swim,’ I promise.

  Buster barks again. A male voice shouts, ‘Quiet, ya stupid dog!’

  I don’t want to leave Buster here, but if I take him now the owner will know, and when he finds Buster … I shiver at the thought.

  I walk away.

  Buster whines and lies down in the dirt.

  12

  ‘The carpet is still too clean,’ I say.

  Charlotte leads me into the kitchen. She’s wearing a baggy cream dress and her hair is tied back in a scarf. She’s beautiful, but I can’t say that. How do you say words like that without stammering?

  ‘I thought we’d eat at the tennis,’ she says.

  She picks up a tray containing a bowl of salad, a long stick of bread and a stack of chicken drumsticks.

  ‘You know where the beer is,’ she says.

  I follow her down to the court. Two candles are burning in glass holders on the table; they smell of vanilla and lemon. I open the beer.

  ‘Who’s playing?’ I ask.

  ‘Do you know anything about tennis?’

  ‘Sure. Two racquets, a ball, a net and lots of tantrums,’ I say. ‘I’m fairly sure Piet Mondrian didn’t play.’

  ‘You know his first name!’

  ‘I prefer his Paris period,’ I smirk. I try to remember what else I read about Mondrian. ‘Neo-plasticism … pphhtt!’

  Charlotte laughs. ‘What else do you know?’

  ‘“Although I live for art, I’m attracted to beautiful things”,’ I attempt to quote.

  ‘Wow! I’m impressed.’

  ‘And, “Good things just have to grow slowly”?’

  ‘You are King Mondrian,’ Charlotte answers.

  ‘More like the Bogan Mondrian,’ I say.

  She leans across the table and kisses me on the cheek, quickly. ‘You smell of soap.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve just had running water installed on our side of the highway.’

  ‘In that case …’ Charlotte moves close to me and we kiss. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I touch her shoulder. She looks at my hand. We kiss again.

  I stop at four drumsticks and two bottles of beer. Charlotte sits with her legs tucked under her body.

  ‘Are you practising yoga?’ I ask.

  She attempts a smile, but it doesn’t come out right.

  ‘Mum and I go every Thursday afternoon. To find peace, Mum says. As if sitting cross-legged will do it.’ She looks at her feet.

  ‘There’s a sound he makes,’ Charlotte says. ‘A clicking at the back of his throat.’

  I recall the snap of Rodney’s lighter.

  ‘It’s a warning.’ She sits up straight and adopts her father’s voice, ‘I don’t approve!’ She sighs. ‘Whenever we hear that sound, Mum and I leave him alone.’ Charlotte’s voice has dropped to a whisper, as if he can hear across the distance of kilometres.

  I look across the tennis court and realise that wherever Charlotte goes, her father stands behind her, threatening, goading, challenging. A willie wagtail lands on the net and cocks its head towards us. I can see the tiny heartbeat in its chest.

  Charlotte attempts a smile. ‘You probably know everything about willie wagtails as well?’

  I shake my head, afraid to speak in case the bird flies away and we go back to her father.

  ‘I bet you’ve even got central heating,’ I say, when we return to the kitchen.

  Charlotte gestures for me to follow her. She leads me through a pantry as big as a bedroom, shelves stacked high with tins and packets and jars of food. I pick up a sample.

  ‘Pâté,’ I say.

  Charlotte giggles. I pronounced it wrong.

  She opens a door which leads down a few stairs to a garage full of gym equipment. Leaning against the far wall is a gleaming red bike with a narrow seat and shiny silver wheels.

  ‘Every Saturday morning, he and a few workmates used to ride from Bondi to Maroubra and back dressed in lycra, dicky shoes and bandanas. His own gang.’

  She walks across to the bike, leans down and unlocks the wheel from its housing.

  ‘An accident waiting to happen,’ she says to herself.

  She loosens the nut on the other side of the axle before clamping it shut. She tests the wheel. It moves sideways.

  ‘Don’t, Charlotte.’

  She looks up as if startled. Maybe she forgot I was there, lost in imagining her father racing down a hill, the wheel giving way and his face hitting the bitumen.

  ‘Why not?’

  I remember her father in the school foyer, a relaxed and easygoing man.

  ‘If he breaks his arm, he can’t hit Mum,’ she reasons.

  ‘He could get killed.’

  ‘Who cares?’

  ‘You will, after it happens.’

  ‘To hell with him!’

  ‘We should go to the cops.’

  ‘Mum tried,’ her voice fades, ‘she couldn’t do it.’

  ‘There’s got to be another way.’

  ‘Yeah, he’ll keep hitting her!’ She raises her voice. ‘If I don’t do something, he’ll—’

  ‘Charlotte—’

  ‘You’re taking his side!’ she shouts across the room.

  I hold up my hands. What can I say? Causing an accident won’t solve things. She’d have it on her conscience forever.

  ‘We … we could visit a counsellor,’ I stammer.

  ‘You think it’s me that needs help, not him!’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like … Charlotte …’

  She’s trembling and her face is flushed. I step towards her. She picks up a spanner from the workbench. I hesitate.

  ‘I thought I’d found someone who’d help.’

  ‘I will. I promise.’

  ‘By drinking our beer and making jokes. That’s no help at all!’

  ‘Don’t do anything you’ll—’

  ‘Fuck you!’ She throws the spanner at me.

  I duck.

  It bounces off the wall.

  I’m not sure who’s more shocked.

  ‘I saw you with him after the concert,’ she says. ‘I bet he charmed you like everyone else.’

  ‘He said you were overwrought,’ I admit.

  ‘He lies!’ Charlotte shouts. She clenches her fists and presses them into her forehead.

  ‘Charlotte,’ I plead.

  Sh
e searches the bench for something else to throw.

  I can’t believe this is happening. A moment ago we were kissing and admiring a willie wagtail. Now she wants to dent my skull.

  Her hand reaches for a chisel.

  Oh, shit!

  I run through the doorway and slam the door shut behind me just as the chisel thumps against the wood. Her footsteps pound across the gym. I hold the doorknob firm as she tries to turn the handle.

  ‘Let me out,’ she screams.

  A thump rattles the door.

  My face is pressed against the wood.

  The door shakes.

  And then silence.

  I’m too scared to let go of the doorknob. I hear her footsteps move away. My mind is racing. I can’t stand here all night. I take a deep breath. On the count of three … One … Bugger it! I run through the kitchen, down the hallway and out the front door. I race down the curling driveway, picturing Charlotte alone in the gym, surrounded by sharp objects.

  I’m crying.

  She needed help and I was no help at all.

  I walk to the reservoir. A full moon lights the path to the water’s edge. In the distance, a curlew calls for rain. Clouds darken the horizon. I reckon I’ve got an hour before the deluge. I sit on a log and watch the moon’s reflection shimmer on the water.

  I remember my dad and his skeletal frame under the sheets, still drinking beer even when he struggled to swallow. I sat beside him with a cotton washer soaked in cool water for when he dribbled or coughed up muck.

  My dad never hurt anyone but himself. He shared mad schemes on how to beat the numbers at the casino, how grey horses never win but are good for an each-way bet, and insider information he’d heard at the pub; all with a smile and a glint in his eye, as if life was a big adventure where everyone was a winner.

  My father, who tore apart his own body from the inside out but never laid a rough hand on me. I remember his stubbly cheek when he kissed me. The drunk smile when I drove his treasured Holden to the fish and chip shop. When he got out of the car to check whether I’d parked it straight, he’d clapped and pumped the air with his fist. He’d found his winner.

  My father hugged me as though it was the most natural thing on earth.

  I miss Dad with every fibre of my being.

  I think of Charlotte alone in that house, waiting for her parents to return from their days away, hoping her dad is happy, not a raging madman.

  The raindrops puck the soil and I walk home, avoiding Buster’s house in case he barks and wakes his owner.

  Our street is dark, the Mazda alone in the driveway. I hear voices from across the road.

  Mr and Mrs Grady are on the stoop. She’s sitting a step lower and he has both arms draped around her shoulders. He wears a singlet and shorts, his feet covered in fluorescent work socks. He leans down and kisses her. Mrs Grady reaches up and strokes his cheek. They’re too involved in each other to notice me in the shadows. Mrs Grady looks up at the dark sky. She stands and leads her husband inside. Out of the rain.

  Away from the rest of the world.

  13

  The next morning, I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge door. The roast lamb sits on a tray on the top shelf, surrounded by potatoes, carrots and pumpkin. I grab a potato and put it under the griller. Mum walks in and boils the kettle.

  ‘There’s a lot of food left,’ I say.

  She takes the teapot down from the shelf and tosses in a teabag before pouring boiling water over it.

  ‘I cancelled.’

  ‘You cancelled?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  She brings the teapot and cup to the table and sits down. ‘Because of your father,’ she says.

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘I still love the bastard,’ she says. ‘It might take a bit longer …’

  ‘It’s okay, Mum. Men aren’t worth it.’

  She laughs and pours the tea. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

  I remove the potato from under the griller. It’s too hot to hold so I drop it on a plate and carry it to the table.

  ‘Do we have any butter?’ I ask.

  ‘What do think this place is, a restaurant?’ She smiles.

  I take a big mouthful.

  ‘Bloody delicious.’

  ‘The roast has to last a few days,’ she says. She takes a sip of tea and reaches out to touch my hand. ‘You’re the only man for me.’

  Charlotte isn’t at school. I wander the yard before the bell, knowing she won’t arrive. Blake and Hayley play basketball which involves Blake putting his arms around Hayley and lots of giggling. They don’t notice me as I walk past. I zombie through Science and English. At lunch, I jump the back fence and walk to Charlotte’s house.

  At the front gate, I check the mailbox. It’s crammed with letters. I creep up the driveway, stand on the front verandah and stare at the door handle. After a few minutes, I swallow hard and knock.

  The sound echoes through the house.

  I look through the window. No movement.

  I take out my phone and call Charlotte’s number, pressing my ear to the door to hear if it rings from inside.

  Silence.

  In the garden, a lone ornamental gnome laughs at me. The house keeps its secrets.

  After school, I go to the library. Tracey is at the counter.

  ‘My favourite customer. How can I help?’ she says.

  ‘I … I want to learn about domestic violence,’ I say.

  Tracey frowns and looks to the computers.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll find it.’

  She shakes her head and signals for a man wearing a blue and white shirt to staff the front counter. Then we sit on a lounge and stare at a wind-blown courtyard of lime trees and overflowing rubbish bins.

  ‘It’s for a friend,’ I say.

  She arches an eyebrow as if we’re speaking in code.

  ‘No, really. I live with my mum,’ I add.

  Tracey nods.

  ‘The woman involved,’ she says, ‘should report it.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘She can take out an order and the man has to stay away.’

  ‘I don’t think she’ll do that.’

  Tracey sighs. She leans back against the lounge. ‘Men can be brutal cowards.’

  ‘My … my friend wants to …’ I don’t know how to say it, ‘… to … to pay him back,’ I whisper.

  Tracey shakes her head. ‘Violence doesn’t work. It makes it worse.’

  She pats my knee, stands and walks to a shelf in the corner. She pulls out a pamphlet and brings it back to me.

  I attempt a smile. ‘I knew you’d give me a brochure.’

  ‘She’s lucky to have a friend like you,’ Tracey says.

  A grey-haired man hovers near us, wanting to ask a question. She tries to ignore him until I nod and stand.

  ‘Brutal cowards,’ I repeat.

  ‘Let me know how it goes,’ she says.

  While reading the brochure, I use the library wi-fi to listen to a podcast on my phone where four women discuss domestic violence. A school teacher talks about how she used to love the debates she’d have with her husband on politics and education. She thought their arguments were a sign of the strength of their marriage. But he always had to have the last word and if she kept arguing, he’d get personal. One day he called her ‘a stupid bitch’ and punched the wall beside her head. She couldn’t believe it was the same man she’d married.

  Another woman who’d been married for twenty-seven years talks about how she was too scared to leave her husband. She reasoned it was safer taking the verbal abuse than escalating the situation. Her voice cracked when she mentioned her grown children who’d left home and didn’t know what their
father was really like. How much she dreaded Christmas and family birthdays.

  I switch off the podcast. My hands are sweating.

  Thursday morning. A heavy mist smudges the school. Water drips from the pine trees at the front gates where I wait. After two days away, Charlotte walks straight past me. I call her name. She pretends not to hear.

  I walk beside her to class, repeating what I’d read in the brochure. Charlotte ignores me. I can tell she’s been crying even if she won’t look at me.

  She pushes through the door and sits at her desk, alone against the world. When Ms Childs enters, I go to my chair. All through the period, I don’t take in a word anyone says. Although I’m looking at the whiteboard, I notice every move Charlotte makes.

  At lunch, she goes to the library where I can’t talk to her. I’m dismissed, like a bad smell.

  At the end of the day, I follow her out of the schoolyard. The mist has turned into rain. Cars slosh down the street with their headlights switched on. I call her name again. She doesn’t turn around. At the corner of her street, I realise that, just like her father, I’m only making it worse.

  I shiver with the thought. I watch her walk away before shuffling home, one useless foot after the other.

  In my bedroom, I lay back and stare at the ceiling for a long time. The peeling paint doesn’t offer any answers. I fall asleep and stay that way until morning. Mum leaves me alone.

  14

  On Saturday morning, Betty smiles when I enter the corner store. She finishes packing a plastic bag of groceries for Mrs Shankley, an old lady who lives a few doors down from the shop. Betty carries the bag around the counter and packs it in Mrs Shankley’s trolley.

  ‘Thanks, dear,’ Mrs Shankley says. She notices me, lifts her glasses and peers. ‘Bruce,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘Luke,’ I answer. ‘Bruce was my dad.’

  Mrs Shankley takes off her glasses and lets them hang around her neck. She looks confused for a few seconds, then remembers.

  ‘I’m sorry, dear.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘You look like your dad.’

  Betty and Mrs Shankley both wait for me to say something.

  I shuffle from one foot to the other, mute.

  ‘You’ll be okay with the trolley, Mrs Shankley?’ Betty breaks the silence.