We’ll take it as it comes.
Dad
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Staying Mum
4
T he man in the tuxedo apron took charge of the barbecue as the audience of seven held their breath. Wielding the gleaming new spatula that had emerged from leftover Christmas wrapping ten minutes before, he fl ipped a rissole from the hotplate to the enamel serving dish balancing on his left hand. The onlookers oohed. The act was repeated, fl ip heightened, hot plate to dish distance extended. The onlookers aahed. Of the ensuing ten sorties, eight hit the mark. The two misses barely touched concrete before the salivating border collie at the man’s side gulped them down.
The cook then made his way over, cuing the onlookers to rise.“HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA…HAPPY BIRTHDAY
TO YOU, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, HAPPY BIRTHDAY
DEAR REGGIE, DAD, UNCLE DAD, MR O’DOHERTY,
WOOF-WOOF, OLD BUGGER…HAAAAAAAAPPY
BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HIP-HIP!”
“HOORAY!”
“HIP-HIP!”
“HOORAY!”
“HIPPITY-HIP!”
“HOORAY!”
The table seven resumed their seats as whistles and shouts of ‘Speech! Speech!’ did the rounds. Reginald Maurice O’Doherty nodded toward the loudest hailer—one of only two unrelated invitees—and emptied his hands. He removed his ‘What’s Burnin’?’ chef’s hat and patted down the generous thatch of hair that belied his vintage.
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“Good on you, Kelly,” he said. “Always proud to have you and Sandy—the mighty Clark couple!—as my Clayton’s Kids.”
Kelly blew several kisses. Reg O’Doherty’s two ‘blood’
sons pretended to stick fi ngers down their throats.
“Apart from our sweet Madeline, it’s wonderful to have all the family here for my fi fty-ninth,” continued Reg.
“Hopefully there might be…” He glanced at Eileen, his wife of thirty-six years. She had her fi ngers crossed. “…one or two more for the big Six-Oh.”
All eye contact between the O’Doherty parents and their children ceased. Michelle spread her napkin out and placed it on her lap. Chris whistled, prompting the border collie to sprint over and sniff around the younger master’s feet.
Adam took a pull on his beer.
“I’m certainly practicing,” announced Kelly, noting the surrounding evasiveness.
“It doesn’t work on your own,” replied Sandy.
Reg picked up the spatula and waved it like a magic wand. “So get cracking you lot!”
As the man of the hour retired once more to the barbecue, Chris gave his assessment:
“Bit more verbose this year—clear sign of desperation.”
“We are not desperate, Christopher,” countered Eileen.
“Yeah right! How many World Vision kids have you sponsored now? Four, isn’t it?”
“That’s not necessarily a sign of desperation.”
“True. It could be that you and Dad are just nicer and more caring than the lightweights who take on one measly child. Or you want to put Rebecca Gibney out of a job. But then what do you say about this?” Chris disappeared into the bar area then returned with a framed photograph which he placed on the table. It showed a smiling Reg and Eileen standing in front of the Big Pineapple. Glued in beside them was a cut-out of an African boy, no more than ten years of age. His hands were clasped together in front of his waist.
His shoulders sagged forward. His head tilted down and
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left. He was embarrassed, and Kelly understood why:
“If that photo’s to scale, then that kid’s about fi fty foot high!” He took Eileen by the hand. “These World Vision shonks are using your money for steroids, Aunty Mum.”
“I stuck Samuel in that shot only because his village is trying to make a go of farming pineapples.”
“They should make a go of a basketball team,” declared Michelle.
“But that’s not the full extent of the desperation, ladies and gentlemen,” said Chris, pressing home the advantage,
“Mother Dearest, is it, or is it not true, that you are calling Shelley’s new golden retriever puppy the ‘grand-dog’?”
Eileen snatched up the framed photo and frowned at her youngest son. “You’re out of the will, Christopher…again.”
She addressed the entire group, Big Pineapple and Mutant Samuel held to her chest. “Okay, we are desperate. All our friends, relatives—they’re all blessed-”
“They’re all lucky bastards,” interjected Reg, turning over the onions.
“They carry photos of their grandchildren and talk about their babysitting or their trips out shopping. They even show us the perk stains on their clothes! When they ask when ours are coming, all we can do is smile and say ‘Sometime soon!’.
It’s awful!”
“It is awful,” agreed Kelly. He gave his Aunty Mum a hug then cast a stern eye in the direction of his ‘siblings’. “Well, come on. There must be something you can say to ease these people’s suffering? To give them some hope? Hey?”
Michelle began buttering bread rolls. “James and I have discussed it, haven’t we James?” James shrugged and continued reading the sporting trivia questions on the inside of the beer bottle caps. “I mean, Medicine and becoming an obstetrician, that’s the number one priority for me right now. Getting into that changes everything. But there’s never a right time to have a child is there? Just a time. If our time was in the next year…well that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, would it?”
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“That’s encouraging,” said Kelly, nodding toward Eileen.
“Chris?”
“I hereby dedicate this month to the pursuit of a second date.”
“Excellent! Righto, Edam. We all know your wife’s at home crook. Is it because she’s preggers? That’ll certainly make your folks feel better.”
Adam felt the hand of the imaginary Maddy—a ‘Make Sure’ Maddy—at his side clamp down on his thigh, nails digging. Easy babe, he assured her. No need for the follow-up kick to send his shins into next week.
Though it would be fi tting. The least of what he deserved in light of his gaffe two days earlier.
*
From:“Adam O’Doherty”
I told a complete stranger about you this afternoon. An elderly woman in Coles. We were at the checkout, she with her trolley of canned everything and me with an armful of pregnancy essentials (on this day—organic mince, spring water and a box of Magnum ice-creams), idly gazing at the same tabloid and its cover story “Sprogs Of The Stars”.
“Babies are in fashion,” she said.
I nodded, exhaled and blurted out that I was having a baby myself.
She looked me up and down, then tapped the front page of the mag.
“You’ll make the cover next month.”
I hadn’t intended to say anything—we’re not supposed to be telling anyone right now. Don’t tell your mother. She’s adamant I’ll succumb to the grandparental pining at Reg’s 59th this weekend. Given my knee-jerk with Mrs Tin Food, her concern is probably justifi ed.
I will sign off now. Apparently you need a Magnum.
Love
Dad
*
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“All I can say is when it happens, Mum and Dad, you’ll be the fi rst to know.”
As the legitimacy of such a claim became a point of debate (“What about the other grandparents…? How about the examining doctor…? To really and truly honour that statement, wouldn’t they have to be present at the moment of conception…? EEEEWWWWW…!”), the grip on Adam’s leg subsided. He glanced at Make Sure Maddy. She was fuelling the banter, nodding with each speaker, turning her head with each ve
rbal volley, laughing at the barrage of jokes.
Absolved of closer scrutiny, she was at ease. A satisfactory defl ection had been engineered and the danger had passed.
King Control Freak had managed to let one slide.
Adam drank the remainder of his beer and wondered if his child might already be seeking a father refund.
*
Maddy ceased staring at the ceiling and reached for the warbling cordless phone on the coffee table.
“Talk to me.”
“Mrs O’Doherty?”
“Yes.”
“Hello. How are you today?”
“I’m fabulous. How are you?”
“Good, Mrs O’Doherty, good.”
“Well, that’s good then.”
It was a sunny voice at the other end, youthful and chipper, chock full of bite-size, easily swallowed, easily digested life experiences. It was unrecognisable to Maddy.
“Mrs O’Doherty, I was wondering if you were interested in cheaper phone calls?”
Maddy moved into a sitting position on the couch. A toilet break was looming, so the shift was justifi able. “Do I want cheaper phone calls? Absolutely.”
“That’s good, Mrs O’Doherty, because I have a remarkable deal to share with you. Did you know that you can-”
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“Do you want to know why?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you want to know why I want cheaper phone calls?”
The voice, its sun experiencing a partial eclipse, hesitated before responding.”I…okay, sure.”
Maddy ran a hand across her abdomen. “I want cheaper phone calls because, right now, the phone is just about the only evidence I have that people still exist beyond my couch.”
“Oh.”
“I’m on something called ‘Modifi ed Bed Rest’. I’ve got to stay on our Navajo three-seater from A Mart as much as is humanly possible. It’s so that our little…you don’t need to know the details.”
“Okay.”
“I mean I’m not sick or anything…although my husband is, at this very moment, over at his parents’ house informing the whole family that I’m practically at death’s door. But that’s just to throw them off the scent. So they don’t guess I’m…you don’t need to know the details.”
A shuffl ing of papers preceded a second hesitation.
“Right…well, I’m pleased you’re not…ill. You know our newest offers on overseas and local calls are redefi ning the industry. The competitors have nothing to compare with our---”
“Do I sound grumpy to you?”
Total eclipse. And perhaps a drop in temperature as well.
“I am grumpy,” continued Maddy. “It’s not you though.
Crazy as it sounds, I don’t mind talking to telemarketers these days. It’s a distraction. No, I’m grumpy because of other stuff.
Being cooped up all day—it’s not me. It’s not something I ever imagined I would have to do. Scuba diving…riding a motorbike…I had to do those. And I did. I also four-wheel drove the Northern Territory and sailed around the Barrier Reef. You know how many bungy jumps I’ve had? What’s
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your name?”
“Jared.”
“You know how many bungys I’ve had, Jared? Fourteen!
Did three in one day in Queenstown!” Maddy bounced her feet up and down, trying to shake off the pins and needles.
“These days I bungy through the TV channels.”
“Perhaps I should ring back anoth---”
“But you know what’s worse than doing nothing all day, Jared? The thought that you’re still doing too much. That’s the killer. If all this lounging around came with a guarantee of success then I’d be stitching myself to the cushions and singing Hallelujah. But of course, there are no guarantees, are there? So I second-guess every little move I make. Is cooking a meal a stretch? Is a trip to the mailbox courting disaster? Is a pee break going to reveal the latest crushing defeat? It’s no way to live, Jared, believe me.” Maddy undid the drawstring on her track pants and stood. She took two deep breaths and began the short walk to the bathroom. “But things are going to get better, right? Starting with my phone bills. Tell me, Jared—what can you do for me?”
There was a long pause. Maddy was about to hang up when the reply came:
“I could send you a brochure.”
“Thank you, Jared.”
Maddy pressed the ‘Off’ button, crossed her fi ngers and entered the lavatory.
*
“Hello, Mystery Man of the Backyard.”
The trampoline mat beneath Adam’s back shifted violently, bouncing his prostrate frame. He sat up and drank before the Sovereign in his right hand could froth over.
Michelle laughed then climbed across the springs.
“There’s a game of ‘Charades’ going on inside. What are you hanging around here for like a Nigel?” she asked.
“Just minding my own business.”
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“Minding your own business.”
“Yes.”
“Good God! Are you ill?”
Adam watched his sister slip effortlessly into a half-lotus before easing back onto his elbows. “I’m complex,” he said.
Michelle nodded. “Yes and I’m big boned.” She removed her Pulp slip-on and massaged the toes of her right foot. “We thought you might have snuck off home. To go and tend to that Magic Maddy of yours.”
“No, not yet. Soon though.”
“Is she alright?”
“She’s okay. It’s nothing serious.”
“Has she been to the doctor?”
“Doesn’t want to.”
“Oh. Okay.” Michelle stole a sip from Adam’s beer and removed several strands of grand-dog hair from her shirt.
“So…she’s defi nitely not pregnant then.”
Adam scoffed, then began a charade. “Two words…
sounds like ‘vet-trucked’…”
“Answer the question, bro. You and I both know full well that the trampoline was always the keeper of our secrets.
I told you about Schoolies here. You told me about getting laid under the Storey Bridge.”
“We were kids.”
“And now we’re having kids?”
Adam looked his sister square in the eye. Make Sure Maddy, standing watch beside the trampoline, deposited a Chinese burn on his forearm. “My wife is not pregnant.”
“So you meant what you said before.”
“Yes. I meant what I said before.” Adam sat up straight, leaned forward. “What about you? Did you mean what you said before?”
“What did I say before?”
“‘James and I have discussed it…if our time was in the next year…well that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world…’”
“Did I say that?” Michelle rubbed her forehead and
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shrugged. “I don’t recall saying that.”
Adam gulped down the last of his beer, scrambled to his feet and started jumping. Michelle was caught unawares.
Swearing and screaming through several nips from the springs, she untangled her Lotus legs and manoeuvred onto all fours, fi sts wound tight. The counter-attack was devastating. A stiff arm clotheslined Adam across the left calf at the apex of his jump. The knee to thigh to bum landing saw him rebound sideways and careen off the trampoline amidst a blur of fl ailing arms and legs. Reg O’Doherty emerged from the barbecue area to discover his eldest daughter examining the condition of her half-exposed backside, his eldest son face down at the foot of the newly-planted lemon tree, and both of them laughing to the point of tears.
“Be careful you two. It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.” He picked up the Sovereign bottle; jettisoned during Adam’s ejection and now miraculously standing upright at the entrance to the garden shed. A
test swig confi rmed the vessel was indeed empty and he strolled back along the paved pathway toward the house. Before passing through the gate he added: “This sort of energy could be used for something much more useful.”
“Like becoming a doctor!” shouted Michelle.
“Or writing novels!” chirped Adam.
Reg looked skyward, requested the Almighty give him
‘bloody strength’ then bolted the gate behind him.
*
Maddy emerged from the lavatory. She turned toward the bathroom entrance, hesitated. The prospect of standing before the long mirror at the wash-basin didn’t appeal. Its images weren’t welcoming at the best of times; post-cry they required active avoidance.
God, she hated crying. Loathed it. The earnest but dim counsellor she visited after the second miscarriage assessed such enmity to be a scar of childhood bullying. On the surface,
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it was hard to argue otherwise. The Primary playground taunts had been multi-headed, merciless and often. The
‘Howl’ nickname had clung to her like a scab, refusing to harden and crumble until the beginning of high school.
Maddy, though, felt there was more to the issue than just the cruel classmates of early youth. She sensed something more deep-seated, more visceral. A character fl aw? A genetic glitch? A smudge on her soul? Or was she simply a woman very much in touch with her masculine side?
Beyond debate was that crying was more common than laughing these days. More common and all-pervasive.
Blubbery episodes tainted the good, sharpened the bad, availed the indifferent a needless gravity. They hovered around the fringes of conversations and ran rampant through the minefi elds of dreams. They tattooed ‘Pathetic!’ across your forehead. And if you weren’t careful, they would begin to defi ne you.
Maddy peeled away the stray strands of hair plastered against her cheek and returned to the lounge room. At the present moment, progress remained solid. There was still cause to climb on the couch, to seek out the ruts made by her perpetually propped heels. Consequently, the next wave of tears would accompany a sense of relief. For that she could be grateful.
Perhaps even for the rest of the day
*
“So you’re going to win our race, hey?”
Adam observed the neighbours’ corgi mount a plastic watering can—its fourth inanimate object of affection in the last ten minutes. “What race is that?”
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