The Memory Tree

by Tess Evans

  He stands back to take in the tree’s hugeness—its solid trunk, its broad roots, its branches, like the ribs of an umbrella scooping him in under the safety of its awning. His eye is sated and now he must touch the tree—run his hands up the trunk, feel the roughness of the bark under his fingertips. His questing hand moves on to a leaf. He touches it reverently. The green of hope. Renewal.

  Now it’s time for his ritual. He takes out the tattered bookmark with the old photograph and smiles at the faded images. He has forgotten all about Godown, who waits patiently on a nearby seat. He performs his ritual with care, touching each image and reciting his mantra. Keep them safe. This time he has no need to add to the house. It’s finished. All he needs now is a key. This ritual is to cut the key. Then the house he has been building all these long years will be complete. He will leave the key in the lock. He can’t be sure when his loved ones will want to move to their new home, but he must be prepared. He chuckles in sheer delight. He’s done it. Despite the voices no-one else can hear, despite the efforts of various psychiatrists, he has never wavered in his goal. He holds his hands above his head, as though he has won an Olympic medal. A marathon, he thinks. It’s been a marathon.

  He gives the tree an affectionate pat. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Goodbye.’

  They stay in Ararat overnight, and all evening, Godown feels Hal’s suppressed excitement. He doesn’t comment. His friend’s mood changes are only too familiar.

  Hal has one more errand. They leave after breakfast the next morning and reach the narrow terrace house in the early afternoon. Chloe and Ariadne are expecting them. They have changed little over the years, their finely sculpted faces smiling gravely as they usher the two men into the living room, where the collected sea-things serve to confirm Hal’s belief. He waits patiently while the women speak to Godown, who leaves, telling Hal he’ll wait for him.

  When he finds himself outside again, Godown can’t remember anything that was said. Was anything said at all? How long was I in there? he wonders. He remembers only one thing—each woman kissing him on one cheek, then the other before gesturing for him to leave.

  ‘Goodbye, dear Pastor.’

  Now he is standing by the gate, struggling with a sense of abandonment.

  When Godown’s footsteps have faded, the women extend their hands and Hal obediently completes the circle. A breeze, as insubstantial as thought, touches his face. It carries the smell of salt, of seaweedy rocks, of sun-warmed sand. The waves roll in, hypnotically regular—surge after surge of foam-flecked green. A massive wave engulfs him and just as his lungs are bursting, it flings him onto the sand where he lies, depleted. Now he’s caressed by wavelets, lapping at the soles of his feet, rippling over his back, singing sad, secret ballads in his grieving ear. He is deliciously cool. Washed by these precise waves, his long-tortured spirit experiences a moment of reprieve.

  What he hears in this circle is the summer blue angel-song. Within its ambit he is safe from the noises, the colours, the Voice that tormented him through the years. Chloe and Ariadne have sung him to a place where he can take some rest.

  ‘It’s time to go,’ Chloe says and they release his hands.

  ‘Thank you,’ Hal says. ‘Thank you for everything.’

  My grandfather is not cured of course. There is no cure. But I must say he looks a lot more at peace with himself when he leaves that house. Godown sees this and swallows his resentment. Hal needs all the help he can get.

  That night, Hal sleeps in the room, in the bed he shared with Paulina. Godown is the only one who knows and he gives Hal his nightly medication without comment. The next morning, Hal cannot remember his dreams but in that half-state between sleeping and waking, he feels cocooned in something warm as wool, soft as silk. A shawl woven with loving hands. When he awakes fully, the sensation is all but gone, and try as he might to clutch it to him, it dissolves, leaving him fragile and exposed.

  That same night, in the secrecy of the dusty round room, Zav is using a mortar and pestle to crush an array of pills. He can’t wait any longer. Sealie is getting better by the day. Tomorrow, he’ll empty the powder into his father’s cocoa.

  6

  I DON’T WANT YOU TO think that my father finds murder an easy option. Neither should you think that he is excused because of his depression, because of his experiences in Vietnam. He is as sane as any of us and that makes his planned killing a murder. Before, during, and after the event, he will be fit to plead. He plans to plead guilty. That will help everyone move on, he thinks.

  Zav spends the morning in his room, watching, pacing, checking his little packet of death and for the hundredth time, rationalising his decision. His father has ruined all their lives. They need to move on. He murdered his granddaughter, Zav’s only child. An eye for an eye, then. He has no qualms regarding patricide versus infanticide. He savours the thought of revenge and finds it sweet indeed. And he never loved me, the child in Zav wails. Never loved his own son. Ironically, he would be doing the old man a favour. Put him out of his misery, the mad bastard.

  All good, even logical, reasons to kill, if you’re that way inclined. But remember, Zav is not a killer. During his short tour of duty, he had witnessed the awful and prosaic fact of death. He still dreams about it, and the thought of inflicting this final oblivion on his father dries the saliva from his mouth, sets his hands trembling. He looks out the window and sees Hal settling down in the chair beside Sealie. He is talking to her with earnest intensity, the loose skin hanging from his bare arms touching and vulnerable.

  Zav moves away and sits on his rumpled bed. His head is beginning to ache and he is unaware that his fists are painfully clenched. Hal always loved his sister best. Always. He has a sudden vision of his father the night Sealie collapsed. He was crouched over his daughter, his whole body willing her to be okay. And his face . . . Zav is ambushed by a long-buried memory. His face was the face Zav saw all those years ago when he woke up in the hospital bed. His father had been holding his hand and the face Zav saw from his pillow was frantic with worry and love.

  That fragile memory is enough to stay his hand. Shaking with relief, he goes to the bathroom, empties the packet into the handbasin, turns on the tap. The powder coagulates, and he pushes it towards the plughole where the water swirls it away. He looks in horror at the residue on his finger and turns the tap on harder. It’s gone in an instant. He stares at his wet hand. He needs to cry. Resisting that urge, he rings Will. He doesn’t want to be alone today.

  Hal and Sealie sit in the pale spring sunshine.

  ‘Sealie?’ She looks up from her book. ‘Do you still miss Mum?’

  ‘I don’t remember her very well. But, yes. It would have been nice to have a mum.’

  ‘I tried to be a good dad.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I tried to be a good grandfather, too.’ Sealie braces herself. Moves fractionally away from him. Looks down at her book.

  ‘I love you all. You. Zav. Paulina. Grace. I took care of each of you in the only way I knew how.’ Sealie continues to stare at a page where the words dance before her eyes like flying insects.

  Hal stands up and rubs his head in a gesture of defeat. ‘You were good to me when no-one else would speak to me. You do understand why I did it?’

  She knew what he meant but couldn’t give the answer he wanted. Taking his hand, she says, ‘You were sick. In your mind—you were sick.’

  Hal tries to explain. ‘I’m not asking to be forgiven or excused. I just need you to understand. You do understand, don’t you?’

  Sealie shakes her head. ‘I don’t understand anything beyond your illness. That way I can forgive you, whether you want forgiveness or not.’

  Hal gives a tremulous smile and brings her hand to his lips. ‘Then I’ll have to make do with that,’ he says.

  On his way up to the bathroom, Hal stops at Zav’s door and knocks softly.

  ‘Zav?’

  The door remains closed.

  ‘Zav.
Just a few minutes. I need you to understand.’

  The door opens and he’s met with Zav’s cold stare. ‘Go away.’

  Hal feels a surge of pity for this man, his son. ‘Yes. I think that’s for the best.’ Mrs Mac is preparing lunch when Hal comes in and stands watching her quietly.

  He picks up the knife and begins to butter the bread. Mrs Mac deals with the fillings.

  ‘We need Vegemite,’ he says. ‘Vegemite for Zav.’

  Mrs Mac looks up, surprised. ‘Zav’s gone out. Anyway, he hasn’t had Vegemite sandwiches since he was in primary school.’

  ‘He used to like them. Time goes by so fast.’

  ‘That it does. We’re none of us getting any younger.’

  ‘I wonder why I called you Mrs Mac, all those years. It’s Eileen, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve always been Mrs Mac in this house.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Eileen. They were bad voices, the ones that told me to send you away.’

  Eileen swallows a lump in her throat. ‘I know that.’

  Hal gets the Vegemite from the pantry. ‘I might have Vegemite myself, today,’ he says.

  After lunch, it’s customary for Hal to take a nap. Instead, he asks Godown to come with him and sit a while in the garden. Zav has gone to Will’s and Brenda is driving Sealie to her doctor’s appointment. ‘Mrs Mac’s gone shopping,’ Sealie tells Godown. ‘We’re meeting her at the coffee shop afterwards. Can you put on the roast at five if we’re not back?’

  The two old men settle in their chairs and Godown tips his hat over his face. ‘Siesta time,’ he says, and is soon snoring loudly. Hal sits quietly, with his hands in his lap. He is not in the least tired. He looks at his watch. Not quite time yet. Glancing back at Godown, he walks over to the magnolia and settles himself with his back against the trunk, watching for the sleeping man to wake up.

  ‘Hal?’ Godown looks at the empty chair.

  ‘Over here.’ Hal waits while his old friend comes over, his face still blurred with sleep.

  ‘What you doin’ over here?’

  ‘Waiting.’

  ‘What you waitin’ for?’

  Hal ignores the question. ‘Will you do me a favour, Pastor?’

  Godown nods. ‘If I can.’

  ‘Will you sing for me?’

  Relieved at such a simple request, Godown is happy to oblige. ‘What do you want me to sing?’

  ‘Can you sing “Amazing Grace” for me?’

  Godown’s reply is barely audible. ‘I can’t, Hal. I can’t.’ The need in Hal’s eyes is so strong, that Godown has to look away. ‘I can sing somethin’ else.’ Anything else. Anything else.

  ‘I’ll never ask another thing of you.’

  So Godown sings my song, his voice thick with grief.

  Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound

  That saved a wretch like me

  I once was lost, but now I’m found

  Was blind but now I see.

  As Hal leans back against his wife’s tree, the old hymn penetrates his skin and flows along his veins until it is flesh of his flesh. Godown sings the second verse and then stops as Hal’s shaky tenor joins him.

  Through many dangers, toils and snares

  I have already come.

  ’Tis Grace that leads me safe thus far

  And Grace that leads me home.

  Hal stands up and brushes down his pants. ‘I’ll be off, then,’ he says. ‘God bless you, Moses. And thank you.’

  ‘You’re sure Hal?’

  ‘Very sure.’

  ‘Is it the voices?’

  ‘No. The voices are gone. This is me.’

  ‘It’s a sin, Hal. I’m bound to tell you that.’

  ‘Only if it’s done in despair.’

  Godown kisses his old friend on both cheeks. ‘Peace,’ he says. ‘Peace be with you.’

  Brushing away his tears, Godown watches as Hal walks out the gate and down the path to the river. He should stop him. It’s the final sin against the Holy Ghost. But Moses B. Washbourne has always served Hal’s will above his own, even above God’s.

  As Hal rounds the corner out of sight, Godown raises his hand in a salute—or maybe it’s a blessing.

  7

  ‘SO YOU DIDN’T FIND A letter?’ They all shake their heads. The detective doesn’t care. One less nutter to worry about, he thinks. There is a letter, though. Two, in fact. One for Sealie and one for my father. Neither of them has been opened.

  ‘No signs that he was planning to do himself in, then?’ They shudder collectively at the crudity of expression and shake their heads again. They had all known on some level, so they didn’t quite meet the detective’s eye. It’s family business. Nothing to do with this red-faced stranger.

  ‘The body is on its way to the Coroner’s office. We’ll be in touch.’ They stand, staring at him, until he says, ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  They are alone again, and in silent agreement go to their separate rooms. Godown and Mrs Mac wonder about a letter. Neither Sealie nor Zav has told them yet. They haven’t even told each other.

  Sealie’s letter is short. She opens it as soon as she’s alone.

  Dearest Sealie, (it says in strong black ink) Dearest Sealie.

  I hope you understand. I am setting us all free. You were my rock, my dear, dear child, but it’s time.

  Your loving father

  Heraldo Rodriguez

  Sealie hasn’t been fully aware of the weight she has carried all these years. You get used to anything. I am setting us all free. Sealie reads and re-reads this sentence and instead of feeling grateful, she is overwhelmed by feelings of anger and abandonment. After all she has done for him, her father has left her. What meaning does her life have if he no longer needs her care? Conflicted and lonely, she sits on her bed, clutching the letter.

  Grief is never simple. Within its net we find guilt, regret, fear, love and, in some dark corner, a shameful relief. Sealie grieves for what might have been. She grieves for what was. She grieves for her ‘real father’ and for the sad, deluded man who was driven to destroy all the things he loved best. Her tears are hot and silent. They constrict her throat with a hard, painful lump. She sits for a very long time.

  She is honest with herself. As the night unfolds and there are no more tears to cry, she has to acknowledge that relief has become her dominant emotion. She’s free. They all are. Especially her poor, sick father. Sealie finally falls asleep feeling weightless and cleansed.

  Zav prepares for bed and sits, turning the letter in his hand. Why was it addressed to him and not Sealie? It had been slipped under his door sometime between his last meeting with his father and Hal’s walk to the river. The letter crackles with intent and he resists its clamour. He could just destroy it. As likely as not, it’s the ranting of a madman. Putting it on his bedside table, he lies on top of the quilt, hands behind his head and tries not to think.

  He wakes up feeling stiff and chilled. It’s three twenty-seven, hours before dawn, and he’s wide awake. The letter lies incandescent, next to the clock. Zav knows he has to read it, not for his sake but for Sealie’s. Surely his father would have some message for the child who stood by him. He fumbles for his reading glasses and opens the letter. There is one page of his father’s neat, square hand. Zav recognises the strange flourish on the Z. ZZZZZZZZZed for ZZZZZZZZZZav, his father used to say. ZZZZZZZZav I’ll give you this chocolate frog if you can count to a ZZZZZZZZillion. That was before his mother died. Maybe before Sealie was born.

  One, two, three, the little boy would chant. Four, five, six . . .

  Tell you what, Hal would say. You can have it if you get to ten.

  Zav smiles in spite of himself and returns to the letter.

  Dear Zav, (he reads)

  Dear, dear Zav. I’ll be gone by the time you read this. Perhaps you won’t read it and you’ll never know the things I need to tell you. I need to tell you because there are things you need to know. If you have been kind enough to come this far, plea
se don’t stop now.

  The first thing you need to know is that I love you. Always have. It’s hard, being the father of a boy. I tried to make you tough and independent but I lost you somewhere along the way. If we’re honest, we’ll agree that by the time you left for Vietnam, you were glad to get away. But I prayed for you every day you were there. Every night, too. I can guess that you probably have that pitying look you always had when I spoke of prayer. Don’t be too cynical. Prayer’s just another way of loving.

  Zav is reading intently, turning to the lamp so he can see more easily. How he would loved to have known this as a boy. But how? What would he have said, at ten, say, if Hal had hugged him? Told him he was loved? He’d have squirmed away, embarrassed, because that’s what boys did. His father wasn’t so different from any other father in that respect. But other boys had a mother. Zav sighs with pity for his young self.

  The next thing you need to know is that I have spent much of my life in the grip of mental illness. (So what’s new? thinks Zav, reading on.) There are moments of clarity. I’m writing this letter in what I hope is one of these moments, but I can never tell. I can’t be sure, but right now there are no voices and the world seems safe. There are times when I’m so depressed I can barely walk. Then there are the voices. How can I explain what it’s like when every waking hour, there are voices mocking you, shouting obscenities, poisoning your thoughts? They tell me who I can trust. There are so many people I can’t trust. The world can be a frightening place.

  He’s right there. Zav flashes back to the tropical heat, the sound of gunfire, the silent shadows flitting through the jungle.

  I want to tell you about Grace . . .

  Zav closes his eyes. All this talk of love, of fear—so persuasive. But Grace—how can he even write her name?