Her Christmas Homecoming

by Shirley Wine

  Many a time Joe’s father had knocked on the Fields’ door, a basket of fresh vegetables on his arm. Agnes had made him welcome. I have so many fond memories of Joe’s dad, and more often than I care to remember, I wished he was mine.

  Joe unlocked the house, opened the door and stood back for her to enter.

  A rush of hot, stale air hit Marta in the face as she stepped inside. It robbed her of breath and she gagged, coughing and spluttering as she waved a hand in front of her face.

  Joe ignored her distress.

  He stepped into what she saw was the kitchen, thrust open the windows and walked to the big ranch slider, unlocked it and opened it wide. His footsteps left a distinct track in the inch-thick layer of dust on the floor.

  Still coughing, she crossed the room and inhaled the hot, but blessedly fresh air. When she had her voice under control she turned to him. ‘You don’t live here?’

  ‘I’ve only set foot in here once since the day my father was buried.’

  The curt edge of violence in his voice had Marta giving him a sharp look. ‘Then where do you live? In the growing houses?’

  He snorted.

  ‘I’m not quite that rough or that much of a classless hick.’ He stalked from the room into the corridor that led to the bowels of the house.

  Marta flinched at the emphasis, but followed him, her steps hesitant. She was more nervous than she could remember feeling in a very long time.

  What was going on here?

  Joe stopped in the corridor before a closed door, stiffened and she clearly heard the harsh breath he sucked in as if he needed to brace himself to open it. The room beyond was dark and it was impossible to make out anything in the gloom.

  With unerring steps, he strode across the room, ripped back the heavy curtains and flung open the windows—to reveal a scene of carnage.

  Marta stared, shocked into immobility.

  Light streamed in through the wide bow windows, disturbed dust motes glittered and danced in the beam of sunlight that fought its way through the dusty glass. In the centre of the room, a Steinway grand piano lay at a drunken angle, its keyboard smashed, its innards hanging by wire strings.

  The elegant curved legs were broken, and the once beautiful instrument lay sprawled there like a crippled elephant—majestic and pathetic.

  The floor was littered with sheet music. The walls pockmarked with jagged holes. Framed portraits hung drunkenly, glass and frames shattered.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ she breathed, standing there shaking her head trying to take it all in. ‘You did this?’

  ‘I did.’ Joe faced her, his arms akimbo, his gaze hard and unflinching.

  ‘Typical Frank, an inconvenience to the bitter end’—he’d told her what his mother had said.

  Was this destruction Joe’s response to his mother’s callousness?

  ‘I was done with music, done with piano practice, done with being stuffed into penguin suits and paraded around, shown off like a piece of prized beef,’ he said, his voice harsh and ringing with bitter anger. ‘I finally grew some balls and refused to be my mother’s ticket out of here.’

  He strode to one wall and yanked off a photo, its glass and frame broken as if it had been smashed with a fist, and shoved it under her nose.

  It was a photo of a much younger Joe, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and bow tie, his unruly hair unnaturally slicked back, a prim and proper Luke Perry look-alike.

  Marta much preferred Joe, the angry down-to-earth man facing her. He was real and nothing like the polished mannequin in the photo.

  ‘Is this what you want me to be?’ He shook the offending photo in her face. ‘What’s the old adage? Been there, done that.’

  He threw the photo at the wall in a burst of violence.

  ‘I’m never going down that path again. Not for you, not for anyone. Understand?’

  So much that Marta had never understood now made sense—and I called him a country hick—and shame licked at her.

  Shame that was quickly subsumed by scorching anger—I understand alright, Joe, but do you?

  ‘Tell me, Joe, do you own the land and the gardens here?’

  He blinked, obviously taken aback by the non sequitur.

  ‘Well, I own the front gate posts,’ he said, his voice much quieter and tinged with cynicism. ‘The bank has a very substantial interest in the rest of the property.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant? Your mother—’

  ‘I bought my mother out. That’s why she left with her lover.’

  Marta inhaled a ragged breath. She had heard rumours, but had discounted most of them as just gossip—now Joe was confirming the worst of them as true.

  ‘Dad carried a hefty insurance policy on the business, with me as the principal beneficiary, and this enabled me to do so.’ He stepped closer, his dark grey eyes as cold as rough-hewn granite. ‘What possible interest is this to you?’

  Marta flinched, fresh bitterness fuelling her anger. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you stopped wallowing in self-pity, Joseph Marshall?’

  He stood stock still, his shock clear to see.

  ‘You need to clear this shit up. It’s an absolute disgrace. You’re one sorry, selfish idiot; you’ve not only dishonoured yourself, you’ve dishonoured your father’s memory.’

  ‘You have one hell of a nerve.’ Joe breathed so heavily his nostrils flared, and his eyes filled with a dangerous fire.

  ‘Have I?’ She took a step closer, shaking with the force of her anger. ‘It’s one thing to have a youthful rebellion and a justified meltdown, Joe. It’s another thing entirely to shut the door on the mess you’ve created and still be sulking over it years later.’

  ‘Sulking? You think I’m sulking?’

  She flung out a hand towards the smashed piano.

  ‘This—’ her voice shook, ‘—this is an outrage. You’ve spent weeks helping me clear out my mother’s house, and in ten years you’ve never lifted a finger to clean up your own shit. My mother was ill, Joe. She didn’t have your youth or resilience to fall back on when her mind failed her.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ She stepped closer until she was right in his face. ‘You are a rat-fink coward. You need to stop wallowing and get your own house in order, clean up your own shit before you start telling me or anyone else what to do.’

  Joe, white to the lips, stared at her and rubbed a hand across his belly. ‘Are you quite finished?’

  ‘No.’ Marta stepped forward and seized his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh. ‘This crass country hick persona you’ve developed, this wearing ratty falling apart clothes and disreputable footwear, is understandable in a teenager. In a grown man it’s pathetic. Give me your car keys.’

  He opened his mouth, but only a strangled sound emerged. He dug into his pocket pulled out the keys and tossed them to her.

  She caught them and gave him a grim look.

  ‘I’m going home, Joe. Don’t bother coming back to my place until you’ve dealt with this and got your head on straight.’ She paused in the doorway to look at him. ‘What your mother did to you was wrong, but is what you’re doing to yourself any better? I don’t want you to change, I have never expected you to change, but this chip you have on your shoulder isn’t healthy, nor is having this—’ she gestured to the wreckage strewn room, ‘— hanging around your neck like the rotten, stinking carcass of an albatross.’

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘I’m out of here. You know where I am if you ever feel inclined to free yourself of the shackles of the past.’ She walked out without once looking back.

  ***

  Joe listened to Marta’s footfalls fade, her accusations ringing in his ears—rat-fink coward—self-pitying—sulking—pathetic—wallowing.

  He staggered to the window-seat and sat down with a solid thud, releasing a cloud of choking dust into the hot air. The ground shifted beneath his feet; guilt and shame writhed inside him like
some ravenous beast.

  Marta had well and truly nailed him.

  Her anger, her disgust, had done what nothing and no one else had—she’d held up a mirror and forced him to face himself. Stunned, he sat there amid the wreckage, and stared blindly into space.

  ‘Joe. Joe. Is everything okay?’

  Old Kev’s voice echoed through the empty house, his boots clattered on the wooden floors. The sound pulled Joe out of his stupor. He winced—my mother would have a fit, boots on her precious floors.

  The old handyman stood in the doorway, his expression priceless. ‘Shit!’

  He strode across the room with scant regard for the carnage and clapped a hand on Joe’s shoulder. ‘I saw your car leave, and the house still open. Thought I better have a look-see.’

  ‘Thanks, mate, I appreciate it.’

  ‘So, what you gonna do about this?’

  ‘What I should have done years ago. Clear out this bloody house.’

  ‘You weren’t ready then.’

  ‘Damned if I’m ready now.’ He turned to look at the old man who’d guided his shaky footsteps in developing the market garden to its present prosperity. ‘Marta thinks I’m a rat-fink coward indulging in self-pity.’

  Kev snorted. ‘You had it rough, Joe. Losing your dad like that, then that bust-up with your mum, enough to turn the strongest bloke to drink.’

  Joe sighed and rubbed a hand across his belly.

  ‘That ulcer playin’ up again?’

  ‘No.’ Joe didn’t want to go there. Not with Kev and not with Marta.

  ‘So is young Marta right? You gonna clear this up or walk out and leave it?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘Then what?’

  ‘You leave it, your mother wins. Do you want her to keep controlling you?’ Kev’s voice was a deep, quiet rumble. ‘Every damn person born will get hurt sometime, suffer grief other times. No one escapes, Joe. It’s called living.’

  ‘I do know this.’

  ‘So what are you going to do? Let it fester, or cut out the canker at its root?’

  He turned to look at the old man. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You going to keep being a coward and burying your head in the sand, or you going to deal with this shit, once and for all?’

  Hearing the old man confirm Marta’s accusations jerked Joe from his apathy. He leapt to his feet. ‘I’m going to get the bloody farm truck and haul all this junk to the tip.’

  ‘Need a hand?’

  ‘I’d appreciate it.’ Joe stalked from the house.

  Kev’s rheumy voice followed him. ‘Bring some work gloves and get your boots. No sense cutting up your feet on this here glass.’

  When he returned, Joe found Kev had removed the photos from their damaged frames and picked up most of the sheet music and stacked them all in a pile.

  ‘No good throwing out that,’ he said, giving Joe a gimlet stare. ‘Maybe one day your kids will want to see what their daddy looked like as a young ’un.’

  Joe snorted. ‘Kids? In your dreams, old man.’

  ‘I may be old, boy, not dead. If I can dream so can you. I’ve seen the way you look at young Marta.’

  ‘She’s leaving.’

  ‘Is she?’ Kev nailed him with a stern look. ‘More to the point, Joe, have you given her a reason to stay?’

  He winced and stared at Kev. ‘Her life’s not here, it’s never been here.’

  Joe turned away and picked up a piece of broken keyboard, and smoothed his fingers over the scarred ivories. ‘Poor piano, it didn’t deserve to be treated like that.’

  Kev stopped mid-step and skewered Joe with another hard look. ‘Frank was most probably there, right at your shoulder, adding his strength to yours.’

  Joe froze, the broken keyboard forgotten. ‘What?’

  ‘Your father had reached the end of his tolerance. Told me he and Adele were done. He was done with her pushing you and young Becky where anyone but a fool could see you didn’t want to go.’

  ‘He never breathed a word to me.’

  ‘He wouldn’t, he didn’t work that way. The university contacted him when the scandal over your grades came to light, and that bloke your mother took up with.’

  ‘He knew?’ Joe held the broken keyboard in a death grip. ‘I didn’t realise.’

  ‘A lot you didn’t know.’ Kev lifted his battered cap and scratched at his bald head. ‘Frank cut off the money and Adele went nuts.’

  Joe snorted. ‘I’ll bet.’

  ‘She threatened young Marta, you know.’

  ‘Who? Mother?’ Joe stared at Kev as if he’d suddenly grown two heads.

  Kev nodded. ‘Marta came here to see you, to tell you she was leaving to go to Sydney to take up some fancy singing class. Adele told the girl that if she contacted you again, she’d ensure everyone in Marandowie would know that she was divorcing Frank because of his affair with Agnes Field.’

  ‘That’s a load of bullshit.’

  ‘For sure, your dad was a straight arrow. He knew Agnes found it a struggle to feed her kids and he helped out where he could.’

  ‘Marta would have been devastated if her mother had been subjected to such gossip, even now.’

  Kev nodded and continued to sweep up broken glass and put it in an empty carton.

  His mind in turmoil, Joe strode out to the farm truck and tossed the broken keyboard onto the junk already on the truck bed and destined for the tip. He stood there for a moment, clenching and unclenching his hands, fighting down the urge to find his mother and wring her bloody neck—how dare she threaten Marta with a pack of lies?

  Kev carried the carton of broken glass and dumped it on the truck bed. ‘You can’t change anything, Joe. You need to let it go.’

  ‘My mother—’

  Kev cut him off. ‘Adele was a frustrated, unhappy woman. She and Frank should never have married, but that was their mistake, not yours. Besides, what could you do about it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Kev clapped him on the shoulder, squeezing hard. ‘Let it go, and don’t be a fool and let Marta get away a second time. You two were always meant to be together.’

  He had no desire to tell the old man that Marta had well and truly kicked him to the kerb—for a second time.

  You going to accept that, act like a wuss? Joe squirmed at that uncomfortable inner voice—damned if I’m going to give her up this time, at least not without a fight.

  ‘You’re right, let’s get this place cleared out.’

  With the ease of long practice, the two men worked, each aware of the other’s moves. Soon, they had cleared away the broken furniture.

  Adele Marshall had more or less stripped the house when she left—so Joe only had to deal with his stuff and some of his father’s.

  Inside a couple of hours, the house was still dusty and grimy, but empty.

  His father’s clothes Joe packed for goodwill. And the clothes of his own he despised, clothes his mother had forced him to wear, were also packed for the charity shop. They were all of excellent quality and in good condition, and maybe someone else could benefit from his mother’s obsession.

  Joe couldn’t wait to see the last of them.

  As he taped up the last box, Marta’s words echoed in his head—‘It’s one thing to have a youthful rebellion, Joe. It’s another thing entirely to still be sulking over it years later.’

  Is this what he had been doing?

  He winced, and looked down at the clothes he was wearing, clothes he’d had to buy for the photo shoot he’d done to promote Joe’s Gourmet Vegetables.

  Shame coursed through him—Dad would be ashamed of me, my unkempt look, and my actions.

  Kev walked into the room, his footsteps echoing with that hollowness peculiar to empty houses. ‘So what now?’

  Joe clapped the old man on the shoulder. ‘You go on home; I’m going to get cleaning gear from my pad and clean this house from end to end.’

  ‘You going to move back in here?’

  ‘No, I can’
t see me ever wanting to move in here. Too many bad memories.’

  ‘So what you going to do, let it sit empty?’

  ‘No, I’ve been thinking. I’ll see if Ben wants to move in.’

  ‘Ben Field?’ Kev stared at him, his rheumy eyes shadowed. ‘He’s getting out? When?’

  ‘In January. I’ve offered him a job here.’

  Kev stood there chewing on a piece of straw. ‘Not my business, Joe, but you think that’s wise? Prison changes a man, and not always in a good way.’

  Too clearly, Joe remembered his own reaction when Christophe had taken in Nico off the streets when he’d found him hungry and stealing food out of the restaurant dumpster.

  Today, he’d looked at the man Nico was now, seen his smile and his well-developed self-confidence, and understood how Christophe had turned that young man’s life around, for the better.

  Nico was now an asset to society.

  ‘I know all this, Kev. But young Ben was a good kid, one who made a mistake, and to quote my friend Christophe when he befriended a street kid and gave him a job—I can’t change the world, but if I can change one life, then the world is a better place.’

  Kev nodded, a watery gleam in his eyes. ‘Your dad would be proud of you, Joe, proud of the man you’ve become.’

  Chapter 15

  Marta couldn’t sleep.

  Her bed without Joe wasn’t the place she wanted to be. For the thousandth time, she sat up and punched the pillows, but comfort and sleep eluded her.

  Was I too harsh with Joe?

  She replayed that conversation, over and over. Now she was unsure why she was so angry, why she’d lit into him and called him a coward of all things.

  It was the shock, she realised.

  She’d seen that smashed piano, the ruined room, and something inside her had broken when faced with the chilling evidence of Joe’s rage. Despite the sultry heat, a cold shiver slithered its way down her spine as if an ice-cube had slipped melting down the neck of her nightgown.