“Sir Fix-A-Lot—I don’t think so. Lord Bugger-Up more like it.”
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Emperor Self-Actualised Goes to Ground
*
Maddy recognised the man at her feet. He had proposed like this, on his haunches. She’d laughed at him. One knee was love, she’d argued. Two was desperation.
He’d replied that he was desperately in love.
Nine years on, was it still the case? In her darker moments, she imagined him dashing off with some younger, thinner, better dressed chick; unscarred, History-free, who didn’t demand Mars bars or inspire toilet door vigils, who could see a pregnancy through to term and, in doing so, fulfi l the most basic function of the female species. And she wouldn’t begrudge him his fl ight. Given the chance to run away from herself, she would’ve outpaced an Olympic sprinter.
The day-to-day evidence refuted her worst imaginings. He hugged her when she needed it. He kissed her unannounced.
He cracked up at her rude puns. He got horny over her untouchable body. He eagerly reported dreams in which he remained faithful to her and he changed the channel when Halle Berry appeared on TV. He met her every requirement without overt complaint. He promised the suffering would end.
And he still got down on both knees.
*
Maddy wiped her eyes with the knuckle of her right index fi nger, breathed deeply and placed her hands on her husband’s shoulders.
“Arise, Lord Bugger-Up.”
Adam stood. He surveyed her face, searching for any residual hurt. There was none. The light had returned.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I over-reacted.”
“Babe, don’t be sorr-”
Maddy covered his mouth. “Just tell me we’re going to make it.”
“Mmmph phhmm phmmpphh.”
13
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“Tell me things will be different this time around.”
“Mpphhhmm phhmmh mmph phm.”
She took her hand away. “Tell me why?”
Adam waited for the sudden surge of New Farm noise—a thumping bass line, a siren, far-away yahoos with their backyard fi reworks—to die down.
“Because it’s meant to be,” he said. “And because the Bugger-Up name must live on.”
Maddy smiled and handed over the toothpaste.
“Don’t scratch.”
*
Adam awoke in bed, startled and uncomfortable. After a moment’s adjustment to the light, he peeled the bookmark off his cheek. He extracted the big, heavy hardback—Venero Armanno’s The Volcano—from his armpit and examined the crumpled text.
“Page one-hundred,” he mumbled. “Yaaay.”
He closed the book, hauled it over onto the bedside table and turned the lamp off. The bright red numbers of the digital clock radio showed 10:50. Adam had started reading page ninety-eight at 9:56. I might never fi nish this book, he thought, pulling the sheet up over his chest. Perhaps their child would be willing to narrate the fi nal scenes for him at the nursing home.
Their child.
Their ‘meant to be’ child.
Did he really believe his own propaganda? Lying there in the dark, alone with his thoughts, absent of the need for consolation or comfort, he knew there was only one answer: absolutely. The O’Dohertys had paid their dues. They’d been force-fed patience and perseverance and providence, and now it was time for some reward. And then there was the timing of this pregnancy, too. Was it coincidence that it should occur at the same juncture as his success? Was it happenstance that their twin dreams should be fulfi lled in
14
Emperor Self-Actualised Goes to Ground the same year? Absolutely not. There was destiny involved here. A convergence of cosmic forces. A masterplan.
Adam snuggled up to his wife. Maddy snorted and rolled onto her side. Adam kissed her bare back.
“Things will be different alright,” he whispered. “I promise.”
15
Emperor Self-Actualised Goes to Ground 2
T he Carsmair High staff whiteboard displayed a single message:
Welcome back crew!
Write down the biggest news of your holiday in the space below!
Biggest wins life membership with Education Department!
Second biggest—HONOURARY life membership!
Adam surveyed the candidates thus far: George had fi nished painting the deck; Dilip had swum with the sharks at Sea World; Lynne’s daughter had been accepted into NIDA; Debra’s ex-husband had had to declare bankruptcy.
He picked up a marker and tapped his chin.
“Million dollar book deal,” volunteered a voice behind him.
“Go stick your life membership up your… mmm, how would a big shot writer put it?”
Adam thought for a second, turned and wrote his response in the air: “Stick it up your three R’s….” He smiled at the bespectacled, blonde pixie standing by the ‘Maths Stuff’
fi ling cabinet, bouncing from foot to foot. “Jenna Grimson, my high school sweetheart.”
“Adam O’Doherty, my boy behind the bike sheds.” She gave him a hug then stood back, hands on hips. “So, continue please. Write your fabulous news for all to see.”
Adam yanked the lid off the marker and pivoted back toward the board. Inside his head, Maddy’s waking mantra pounded away like a boxer’s jab:
17
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“Don’t tell.”
“Don’t tell!”
“DON’T TELL!”
He knew the rules: pregnancy was best revealed around the twelve week stage, at the back end of the risky fi rst trimester. To tell any earlier invited the prospect of having to un-tell later. Thus far in the O’Doherty History the wounds had been spared such salt and, as far as Maddy was concerned, they weren’t going to chance it now. Being the sole possessor of their ordeal’s knowledge was her single, tiny, saving grace amidst the devastation. She also believed it was a jinx to mention the bun before the oven had even heated up.
But what about Destiny? thought Adam. A man turns up to work, fi rm in his resolve to stay silent, and pray tell what is the fi rst thing encountered when he walks in? A whiteboard cum inquisitor, armed with bold print and exclamation marks and the interrogative glare of the fl uorescent lights above, demanding he damn the rules and spill the beans!
An omen, for sure. And omens were not supposed to be ignored. They were adverts for the masterplan.
Adam piloted an unsteady hand toward the board---
(DON’T TELL!!!!!!!!!)
---and recorded his holiday highlight:
Caught a rocket ship to a whole new planet
Jenna brought her hands to her open mouth. “Ohmigod!”
she squeaked. “Ohmigod, Adam!”
“What?”
“Congratulations!”
“What, what?”
“You did it!”
“Did what?”
“You sold your book! You nailed the career deal!” Jenna scooted over to the window and hailed the driveway statue
18
Emperor Self-Actualised Goes to Ground of the school’s founder and fi rst Principal, Barry Carsmair:
“HEY BAZ! GUESS WHAT! SEE THIS GUY IN HERE?”
“Jenna.”
“HE NAILED IT!”
“No, I didn’t.”
“BIT LIKE THOSE PIGEONS WITH YOU! Sorry, what did you say?”
“I haven’t nailed anything, Jay…well, not yet anyway.”
Adam tossed the pen in the air. “You didn’t think it was a metaphor, did you?”
Jenna closed the window, blushed, bit her bottom lip.
“Writers like metaphor. ‘Rocket ship’…’planet’…I thought you were being clever.”
“I’m not clever.”
“Oh.”
Adam wrapped an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “In Tristan’s own words the ‘irons in the fi re are still heating up’.”
“Is he clever?”
“I hope so.”
“He’s your agent, isn’t he?”
“Apparently. He’s sent it off to the six big houses. Their replies should come in over the next few months. He reckons it’s a ‘shoe-in’.”
“Really?”
“He says my life is going to ‘go ballistic’.”
Jenna held her closed fi sts under her chin and gave a little squeal. “God Adam, it’s so exciting!
I’m excited—I can only imagine how you feel.”
“Eh.”
“What…aren’t you excited?” Jenna inspected her colleague at close quarters. “You look like crap, Ad.”
“I need a coffee.”
“Are you worried about the submissions?”
“Nope.”
“Has this Tristan fellow got the goods?”
Adam took a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I think he’s a bit of a twit…but his client list certainly suggests
19
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that, yes, he has got the goods. In the end, though, what he says or does is probably irrelevant anyway. The work must stand on its own. And it will—I’ve no doubt.”
Jenna stood silent for a moment, measuring the truth of her friend’s response. “It’s not the book,” she conceded.
“That’s great. So…why are you so wrecked?”
Adam rolled the whiteboard marker between his fi ngers.
“I’m busy at home.”
“Busy.”
“Maddy’s a bit crook at the moment.”
“Oh no. What’s she got?”
“Tummy bug.”
“Oh no. There’s plenty of those going around.”
“Yeah.”
“Should I give her a ring at lunch time? Try and cheer her up a bit?”
Adam shook his head. “She’s not real keen on talking right now. Wants to keep it quiet that she’s, you know…sick.
Hey, Boyd!”
Boyd Grimson ceased his scrutiny of the semester timetable and summoned a quick march out of his creaky footballer’s legs. He gave his wife a peck on the cheek then read Adam’s holiday note.
“Whole new planet, hey? Where’d you go, O’Doherty?
Mars?”
Adam nodded. “Several times.”
Boyd eased his wife away from the whiteboard then tapped his watch. “Staff meeting in fi ve, boys and girls. The Sarge’ll do his nana if we’re late.”
Adam replaced the marker in the tray. The trio headed for the library.
*
Deputy Principal Merrill Hagan, known to all and sundry at Carsmair State High School as ‘The Sarge’, stepped up to the podium.
20
Emperor Self-Actualised Goes to Ground
“I think we might get started, troops.”
After a short wait and a few shooshes, silence was achieved. The Sarge shuffl ed his papers, adjusted his RSL
tie clip then cleared the phlegm from his throat. His right eye took in much of the seated, fi fty strong staff that served under him. His left eye, turned from birth and shunned during the initial Vietnam roll call, fell upon an out-of-order photocopier at the fringe of the gathered group.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “this year promises to be a call to arms. The world today is an unknown quantity.
There exists a climate of uncertainty from which no nation, no institution, no individual is immune. People everywhere are grappling with feelings of anxiety and fear. For our kids—the inheritors of this world—the struggle is all the more intense, all the more confusing. What are the possibilities? What can I aspire to? What sort of future can I expect? These are the questions they have.”
Adam shifted in his chair. These were the questions the students of Carsmair had? Perhaps if you took away some syllables, added some profanities, availed them of the capacity to think beyond sex and drag racing.
“Can we give them answers?” continued The Sarge.
“Probably not. Can we give them anything that will help? By jingoes, yes! We can give them what all kids need, what all kids deserve: T-R-S. Trust. Respect. Security. Someone they can talk to. Someone they can listen to. Someone they know is going to be there. Someone they know is working for their benefi t. Someone they want beside them as they prepare to go over the top and charge that uncertain world. T-R-S, ladies and gentlemen! The important stuff in life!”
Merrill Hagan acknowledged the smattering of applause then mopped his brow with a khaki handkerchief.
I can’t do this, thought Adam.
He’d come into the school year with a plan for redemption.
It would start with this student-free day staff meeting.
Occupy a front row seat, sit up straight, eyes forward.
Devote attention wholly and solely to work instead of the
21
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usual beach holiday, famous author, Wimbledon triumph daydreams. Such were the behaviours of other teachers, good teachers. Teachers who truly believed their profession to be the noblest of them all. Teachers with joy in their hearts and fi re in their guts. Teachers who gave a shit about the students.
Teachers like Jenna and Boyd. Vera and Cate. Lynne. And Dilip, sitting closest to the podium, leaning forward, taking notes, nodding in a manner that suggested The Sarge was a venerated swami and his outline of the earbashing fest to follow was a free ticket to nirvana. In his fi nal year, Adam O’Doherty would be amongst them. It was the right thing to do after nine years of adequate fakery.
He’d lasted fi ve minutes.
A shame, he thought, settling into a back row chair. But no surprise. Earthly duties didn’t matter much to those who caught rocket ships to whole new planets.
Adam opened his glossy new teacher’s diary to the section titled ‘Staff Meeting Notes’ and wrote: ‘ Our baby is presently one fi fth the size of a Mars bar’. He nodded. The inquisitor would be satisfi ed with that. So too Destiny. Talk it up, get it out there; gratefully accept the well-wishes, the handshakes, the raised glasses; soak up all the goodwill…
such an atmosphere of joy and celebration could only be good, do good, for the little life growing inside Maddy. A cursory glance at History indicated something had been lacking in the past—perhaps telling was it? Perhaps giving voice to their unborn child was the missing piece of the jigsaw, the lucky last ball in the lottery?
Maree Kurylewski, Financial Consultant with the Education Department, now occupied the podium. She thanked Merrill Hagan for his inspiring introduction and contended that teachers couldn’t provide security for their students if they didn’t feel secure themselves. The most meaningful way to achieve that, she claimed, was to salary sacrifi ce in the interests of topping up your superannuation.
Several pie graphs later, Adam got up from his chair and headed for the door. As he passed Jenna her raised eyebrows
22
Emperor Self-Actualised Goes to Ground suggested he’d better have a damn good excuse.
“Something I need to do,” he whispered.
He exited the conference area and headed for the staffroom whiteboard.
*
Maddy sat up and perused the coffee table. Distributed across the scratched Cypress surface were a multitude of tasks, hobbies, games, distractions and time-wasters that Adam—
gorgeous handsome man!—had hurriedly organised for her during breakfast. Prior to leaving, he’d calculated their accumulated care factor to be well in excess of his seven-hour absence. Maddy looked at her watch and performed some calculations of her own.
“Only fi ve hours short,” she murmured.
In hindsight, the ‘Super Fun Happy Interesting Table’ as Adam had dubbed it might’ve benefi tted from a little more thought. The ‘World’s Greatest Drinking Games’ cards didn’t trouble the scorer. Nor the Twister mat. The Nintendo Game Boy undoubtedly held the potential to propel time occupied beyond lunch—withou
t batteries it left much to be desired.
And as for the National Geographic ‘Where in the World Are We?’ board game…Maddy defi ed any person with access to growing grass or peeling wallpaper to fi nd it diverting.
Consequently, at 11.08 on the morning of her Super Fun Happy Interesting Husband’s fi rst day back at work, staring at the ceiling and its rotating fan represented much of the foreseeable future’s prospective entertainment.
Maddy resumed her position on the couch. She wondered if her man was struggling to stay plugged-in himself. He had promised to approach this fi nal year with a revised attitude—was he walking the talk? She hoped so. A return to the teacher’s survival instinct, to chalking the talk, gave rise to an Adam desperate for distraction. And an Adam desperate for distraction might create his own.
She could empathise with that.
23
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Hoisting a leg onto the Super Boring Crap Table, Maddy grasped the cordless phone’s small antenna between her toes.
After shifting the appliance to her hand, she scrolled through the bank of saved numbers. The tiny screen displayed several Adam-inspired listings: ‘R&E (Mouldy Oldies)’—‘Carsmair (Endsville)’—‘Kel (The Other Goran)’. At the one titled ‘Can Fam (Lock Up Your Moose)’, she paused. Her thumb shifted left from the chunky master button to the ‘Call’ command.
She summoned her little Kiddo with a pat of the abdomen.
“Something I need to do,” she whispered.
She pressed her thumb down and waited for the seemingly endless series of beeps to fashion a relieving connection.
*
“Ladies and gentlemen…without further ado, I would like to announce the winner in our ‘Biggest News of the Holidays’ competition. There were many worthy candidates.
Marjorie’s fi rst grandchild. David seeing himself up on the big electronic scoreboard at the cricket. Bree losing eight kilos—great effort, darl. But in the end it was no contest. A late entry blew everyone else away. Ladies and gentlemen, the provider of the biggest news of the hols, and the winner of the life membership with the Education Department, is none other than…” Jenna grasped a pair of rulers, performed a drumroll on the table then struck the proffered lid of the coffee tin, sending it spinning into the salad sandwich section of the Carsmair staff’s catered lunch. “CALLUM CUTHBERT
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