He says in India, good luck is assured with a new baby or with a new cow. He reckons with both we’re laughing. What else have we got? The dozen white roses are from-”
“Michelle.”
Adam paused, noting his wife’s half-smile. “That’s right. The chrysanthemums are from Doctor Pole and those brochures must have been left in the mailbox by the Mormons. And this---” He moved toward her, wound his left arm around her shoulders, cradled the back of her head in his right hand and held her, gently rocking side to side,
“---that’s from Canada.”
“And what do I get from you, Sir Fix-A-Lot?” inquired Maddy, burying her head deeper into his chest.
Adam laughed. “For starters—a decent bloody omelette!”
He kissed his wife’s forehead and made to leave. Maddy held his hand, delaying his departure.
“I’m sorry, gorgeous handsome man. For being…for everything.”
Adam placed a hand against her tummy.
“We’re glad to have you back.”
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14
From: “Adam O’Doherty”
Another e-mail from Tristan—another two rejections. Kendrick & Sons was one of them. Tristan assured me it’s all good and that their turn down had nothing to do with the work, but rather with the fact that they recently had a huge overhaul of staff and didn’t want to take on anyone else at this time. He thought I had a strong chance with them, and I must confess I thought I had a strong chance with them, too. They were ranked second on my ‘Make Adam O’Doherty a Star’
chart, second only to Hutton House.
I realise now, however, that this could not have been any other way. A green light from Kendrick & Sons at this time would’ve been disastrous. It would’ve distracted my focus away from Maddy in her hour of need. Sure it would’ve been the dream come true, but could celebration and pride be justifi ed with your wife lying in a hospital bed?
A deal with Hutton House is obviously the masterplan’s intention.
Their Editor-In-Charge knows me, knows Tristan, knows the work.
They liked what they saw in the fi rst two submissions and they are actively and aggressively marketing new writers. Tristan has said from day one that Hutton House was a ‘gimme’ and that shopping it around the other bigs was really just to ‘test the water, swim with the sharks, see if we can catch a bigger fi sh to fry’.
So there weren’t any other bites? Well let’s cook up the one already in the boat.
Bring on Destiny.
I’m ready now.
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A Life More Ordinary
15
From: “Adam O’Doherty”
Your ‘helper’ is certainly generous, B.
It seems Destiny can accommodate a modicum of dream fulfi llment beyond the O’Dohertys of New Farm. So many of the people around us right now are receiving a nod and a wink in the direction of desires long held.
For others, desires not so long held…
*
Adam held his hand over the receiver.
“Maddy…call. It’s Jenna. She wants to talk to you. She says it’s important.”
He handed the phone over and stood by. Maddy noticed his continued presence after the initial ‘hello’.
“You can go now,” she said, fl icking her fi ngers.
Adam retreated to the kitchen and feigned washing the dishes. Hell must have frozen over, he thought. The great hoax is about to end.
It had taken a toll on Jay-Jay he could hardly fathom.
Her guilt, though thoroughly misguided, had been real enough to affect her health. She’d missed the fi rst two days of second term and another the following week. At school, she’d appeared so listless and harried, so unlike her usual bouncing-ball self, that Adam had approached her insisting, pleading, begging he tell Maddy.
“That won’t be necessary,” had been her only response.
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After two and a half months, it certainly seemed necessary.
He had held his tongue, though, and now, at last, his best teaching buddy could go back to being the ‘High School Sweetheart’ instead of the ‘High School Dropout’.
Adam crept closer to the kitchen entrance and was nearly bowled over by a fridge-focused Maddy barreling through.
“You’re wanted on the phone now,” she said, extracting a pair of stray chicken drumsticks from the crisper and holding them up like semaphore fl ags.
“What did she say?”
“Do you have to know?”
“Yes! I have to know.”
Maddy bit into one of the legs and spoke after several chews: “We’re gonna try and get into the same ante-natal class.”
Adam strode over to the wall shelf in the hallway and snatched up the waiting cordless.
“Jay-Jay, for cryin’ out loud-”
“It’s Boyd.”
“Ah…good. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. This has got to stop!”
Boyd laughed. “Can’t stop it now, mate.”
“What, are you just going to let this charade keep going until she’s being wheeled into the delivery room? Or are you stalling so you can actually get her pregnant?”
“Wrong tense on ‘get’, mate. It’s ‘got’.”
“What?”
“‘Got’. ‘Got’ her pregnant. She is actually pregnant.”
Adam held the phone out at arm’s length, tapped it against the wall shelf and brought it back to his ear.
“Jay-Jay is pregnant.”
“She is.”
“She’s with child.”
“Uh-huh.”
“To her husband.”
“I hope so, yes.”
Adam lowered his voice. “Does Maddy know?”
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“Of course she bloody knows, you goose!”
Adam scrunched his eyes shut and shook his head. “I have to sit down.” He drifted into the lounge room, fl opped down into the recliner and levered the footrest into position.
“How the Christ did this happen?”
“Standard procedure. No turkey basters required.”
“When did this happen?”
“Hang on a sec.” Boyd’s voice became distant. “Hey, Jenna! Adam would like to know when this happened?” A stifl ed groan coursed down the line. “As far as we can tell,”
resumed Boyd, “it probably happened the night she said it happened!”
“No way!”
“Do you remember the storm, and me saying we had to make the most of the blackout? I think we did.”
Adam got up and walked into the spare room. Its transformation into a nursery was in full swing. The bookshelf had been relocated, so too the box of Maddy’s snorkeling equipment. The wardrobe that stored their winter woolies was gone, replaced by a chest of drawers with teddy-bear trim. An Anne Geddes picture of a potted child/chili plant hung where a poster of Einstein had once resided. The computer remained—it would be the last to go.
“How do you guys feel? This mucks up your seven year plan, doesn’t it?”
Boyd exhaled. “Yeah, it does a bit. But that’s usually how it is with plans, isn’t it? They don’t necessarily go the way you expect them to go. I think it was really more my plan anyway. Jen may have talked up not wanting a kid in the past—‘Who’d want to bring a child into a world of war and hunger and cloning and endless Survivor series…’ and all the rest of it. But I don’t think she fooled anyone. She’s never been happier, I can tell you right now.” He snorted. “Of course, I’m a different story! I just about shat myself when I found out. But now the dust has settled a bit, I’m really settling into the idea of being a Dad. In fact I can’t wait!”<
br />
“Good on you, Boyd.”
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“Who would’ve thunk it, hey? The Boss upstairs works in mysterious ways.”
*
From: “Adam O’Doherty”
…Add to that piece of unlikely synergy the following: Shelley has just begun her Medicine studies (she says there’s lots of textbooks, she’s starting late, but she believes she’s already one lesson up on the rest of the group)
Reg and Eileen are buying out entire baby shops and thumbing their noses at friends with grandkids.
Chris had a second date last night.
Kelly babysat one of his chiropractic client’s children last weekend and returned the very same child—clean, undamaged and unbandaged—into their care.
It’s not just the home front providing these wondrous turns. School is getting its fair share, too. And the trend has not gone unnoticed by a certain wise man of my acquaintance…
*
“We have a saying in India: ‘Good fortune is a better procreator than the most virile of men’.” Dilip ceased his scrutiny of Jenna’s Q and A crowd at the far end of the lunch table and addressed Adam. “Have you heard the other big news?”
“No.”
“Cal’s leaving.”
Adam’s fork paused in its twirl of last night’s leftover spaghetti bolognaise. “You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. He’s going via the ‘Different Employment’
scheme”
“The ‘Deadwood Fifty Grand’? I thought he didn’t apply for that.”
“So he said. He must have changed his mind at the last
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moment. Good thing he did.”
“The lifer’s getting a new life—how about that?”
Adam peeked over his shoulder in the direction of Callum Morecroft’s desk. The Carsmair veteran was sitting alone, elbows propped on two piles of unfi nished reports, munching on a ham and salad roll. The look on his face suggested he would soon be joined by Donald Trump. Upon completion of the paperwork, the tycoon would inform everyone bar the Deadwood benefi ciary that they were fi red.
“Do you know what he’s using the money for?”
Dilip took up an imaginary waltz partner. “I believe he wants to run a dance studio.”
“What?”
“It’s something he’s always wanted to do apparently. I’ve been told he’s quite the mover.”
“And he never let on. The old dog!”
“His daughter is going to work with him.”
“Lots of people wanting pole dancing lessons, hey?”
“I think she’s sticking to Latin and Ballroom.”
Adam wiped his mouth with a paper towel. “Well, that is undoubtedly big news.”
Dilip grinned and suggestively swayed his hips. “Yes, but good fortune is not yet prepared for the after-cigarette, my friend! Did you hear about The Sarge’s excitement?
For the fi rst time this Anzac Day, he will be able to march with four generations of his family. And then there’s the Carsmair senior girls’ hockey team making the state fi nals, and the performance group winning the Rock Eisteddfod.
Rahul Dravid, my favourite batsman, scored a century on the weekend! Here, look at the paper.”
Adam scanned the front page. “So, we were the fi rst allies to commit troops to the war, hey? The Prime Minister of Australia is, offi cially, the American President’s lapdog.”
“You see? Even our head of state is Good Fortune’s mistress. And now he is living his dream!” Dilip rubbed his hands together. “All this promiscuity bodes very well for a great writer awaiting the fruits of his labour. You think?”
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Adam scooped the last of the spaghetti sauce with his index fi nger then held it skyward.
“We have a saying in Australia, Dee: ‘Bloody oath!’”
*
From: “Adam O’Doherty”
…As I conclude this e-mail, the master copy of The Ordinary Man’s Enemy sits at my left elbow.
In this form, it presents a mirage of susceptibility to its predecessors’
fate. Big, bulky and held together by a bland yellow A4 wallet, it could easily substitute for any one of the failures stashed away in storage. As a plain old manuscript, it appears to hold no more promise of deliverance than a positive pregnancy test.
I can’t wait to see it transformed into a book. To hold it in my hands when it is delivered into the world.
Confi rmation from Hutton House should arrive this week.
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16
A dam stood in the centre of the lounge room. The choking heat of a throwback-to-summer day fi lled his every pore.
His shirt clung to his back. Sweat dripped from his brow, the beads smudging the letterhead of the paper in his hand.
The ceiling fan, operating at its highest speed, carved the fug without providing respite. Cars thumped and bumped over the traffi c calming on James Street.
It was the 29th April, 2003.
It was a life-changing day.
Adam sat down on the couch. He placed the letter on a nearby cushion. He picked up the stereo remote from the coffee table and pressed ‘Off’, silencing Hunters and Collectors’ ‘Newborn’ mid-chorus. He placed the remote on top of the letter and leaned back.
His head was a haze. Eyes, able to see far into the future fi ve minutes earlier, could scarcely focus on the furniture.
His chest was fi lling up with sandbags, crowding in on his fragile heart. His stomach burned. Bile stained his throat.
“God,” he croaked. “What more?”
Adam slid down off the couch and onto his haunches.
Arms wrapped around his midriff, he bent forward until his forehead pressed down onto the polished timber fl oor.
*
“What did it say?”
A prostrate Adam glanced at his wife. She was seated at the foot of the couch, arms wrapped around his bent
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knees, swollen tummy against his shins, cheek against the backrest.
“Does it really matter, Mad?” He felt her pat his thigh and checked himself. “Tristan said they thought it was great, but when it came to a decision about whether to commission the work or not, they felt it would be better written…as a TV
series.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes. ‘It’s all good if you’d like to take it in a different direction’, he said. But as for his continuing to act as agent, he felt there wasn’t any more he could do. And if there was anything more to be done, best that it be done by somebody who could put in the sort of time and energy the work deserved.”
“You?”
“Me.”
“Bastard.”
Adam wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “You know what’s the worst thing about this, the thing I just can’t get my head around? The Ordinary Man’s Enemy could not have had any more in its favour, Mad. Every base was covered. It had been evaluated. It had been plugged. The publisher had requested more of it be sent. It attracted an agent---”
“Bastard.”
“---with a noted name and client list. The work was polished, praised and earmarked for really good things.
Nothing was left to chance. And it still came up short.”
Maddy moved down and off the couch. She sat cross-legged on the fl oor and held her husband’s hand as if preparing for an arm wrestle.
“It didn’t come up short,” she said. “It got you further than you ever were before. The next one will go further still.”
Adam scoffed. “The next one? What next o
ne?”
“The next one. You’ve been into it the last few months.
Haven’t you?”
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“No, that’s not a story. It’s something…it’s something different.”
Maddy drummed the fi ngernails of her free hand on the armrest then shrugged. “Well, whether you do a new story right now or in ten years time, the fact is you can’t not do the next one. Writing is your gift and it’s your necessity. It’s like breathing for you.”
“In that case, I need mouth-to-mouth.”
Adam extended his legs. His feet found the still-present grooves created by ‘Modifi ed Bed Rest’.
“I’ve got nothing, babe. No ideas, no inclination...and now no reason.”
*
From: “Tin Lid”
Yo Dad
Aren’t you one more rejection closer to your triumph?
*
From: “Adam O’Doherty”
B
Real life is very different from the bravado of writers. Real life doesn’t always have room for everyone’s dreams.
The umpire’s decision is fi nal. I now have to work my way towards accepting that decision.
*
Kelly ducked as the speeding tennis ball fl ew towards his head. It grazed his scalp (he would later claim to have lost an extra millimetre from his buzz-cut) and crashed into the back netting on the full.
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“So you’re coming to terms with the disappointment then, Ed.”
Adam banged the soles of his sneakers with the racquet frame. “It’s a joke, Kel! A fucking joke! They wouldn’t know talent if it stuffed a rejection letter up their arse!” He moved to the backhand court and, without taking time or aim, slammed down a serve. It pinged off the net post and into the adjoining court. “It’s all about money and nothing to do with art. They’ll publish the local weather-girl’s bloody life story, even though she can’t write for shit! They’ll bang off fi ve hundred thousand copies and paste her mug on billboards all over the city! Why? Because she’s got a sliver of celebrity, that’s why. And the poor bastards who’ve got real writing talent but didn’t get on ‘Big Brother’…well they can go screw themselves.”
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