Absence Makes

by Bruce Menzies

  June rose and marched inside. He heard a door slam.

  7

  ‘What kind of name is that - Passeri?’

  ‘You’re asking the questions today?’

  Simone watched him settle back in his chair, sinking into the beige cushions. Inexplicably, she felt uplifted, just to be there. That was unusual. With most old folk, those she’d interviewed, she felt deflated or even despair. But Baxter was different. She could see he had his cantankerous side but that didn’t bother her. Quite the opposite. And today, in only their second meeting, she sensed his animation.

  ‘I bet you’re an Italian.’

  ‘My folks came here right after the war. I was delivered in Fremantle Hospital. What does that make me?’

  ‘A bloody Italian Bulldogs supporter.’

  ‘Nice one, Baxter. And who do you follow?’

  ‘The mighty Cardinals.’

  ‘West Perth? Aren’t they the garlic munchers?’

  ‘You’ve got me there.’

  As he cackled and lifted his head, she saw he’d nicked himself shaving. He’s more nervous than he’s letting on, she thought.

  ‘Shall we talk football this morning?’

  ‘I’m better on the horses.’

  ‘The trots or the racetrack?’

  ‘Both are up my alley.’

  ‘Not mine. Shall I tell you about the Passeris?’

  ‘Suit yourself. I haven’t any appointments.’

  ‘You’re a card, Baxter, you know that.’

  In her humble view, it was a good start to the session. He’s sharp, she’s sharp. Bluffing a bit. Her footy knowledge ran thin. But the rapport – what a great word – was building. She’d read her Rogers. Engage the client – or did he call them patients? Pity those psychs don’t do Rogers. And the bleeding doctors for that matter. Okay girl, that’s enough. Put the megaphone away. No one’s listening.

  ‘My folks came from Umbria, in the middle. Dad was a schoolteacher. He became a fisherman over here. Mum looked after the kids. There were six of us. Half a dozen ragamuffin Catholic kids running around on the streets of Freo. There was not much money but we were pretty okay.’

  ‘Simone doesn’t sound Italian.’

  ‘You’re right. My mum read Simone de Beauvoir and said it changed her life. Dad said it changed his, though not for the better.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘De Beauvoir? Oh, a French writer. Also famous as a lover of Jean-Paul Sartre, and an early feminist.’

  He was looking blankly at her. Better cut this short.

  ‘My surname, Passeri – that means ‘sparrow’. To my dad, I’m his chirpy sparrow, always with too much to say.’

  ‘Your dad knows what he’s talking about.’

  ‘Shall we talk about you now?’

  ‘I was wondering when you’d get around to it.’

  ‘Are you fine if we talk about your early life?’

  ‘Try me and see.’

  His initial encounter with Simone shook him up. This was unexpected. She was a smart cookie, alright. But that wasn’t it. A couple of her remarks stayed with him, eating their way into his guts and replaying over and over in his mind. Try as he might, he couldn’t entirely dismiss what she said: We all need help. Sometimes other people see what we don’t see. He scoffed when he heard her say that. Good sales pitch. I know one when I hear one. That was my game, after all. Later, chewing over her words, he wondered if she might not be on the money. Nobody was much help when he landed in the muck. One or two of his mates who knew him well would have had a fair idea of what was going on. But they knew not to cross the line. Anyway, he wouldn’t have listened if they’d taken him to task. Told them to mind their own bloody business, that’s how you did things back then. The same was true for his family. Ann was too polite, and she had her own troubles with Keith. Jennie was down south. He might have listened to her but even that’s debatable. I was such a proud son-of-a-bitch. Proud and ashamed.

  What else had she said, this Simone? Unless I get the full picture I can’t deal with what is happening underneath. The full picture. Heaven help her if she should ever get mine. She’d probably run a mile. And they’d put me back inside, no risk about that.

  As the days passed, he weighed up the consequences of any disclosures, spending much of his time under the sugar gum, hardly aware of Angela, as she brought him his tea. The paper lay untouched on the bench.

  ‘Are you alright, Mr Moncur?’

  ‘Fine thanks, Angela, don’t you worry about me.’

  She seemed about to say something. I didn’t convince her, he thought, watching her return to the office.

  As his next appointment drew near, he knew what he would do. He would answer Simone’s questions unless they came too close to the bone. Who knows, it might help him clear his head. For all his bluster about forgetting the past, it was the past that occupied his mind. He could see the irony. Jennie was right. I can’t stop raking over the coals. But I can’t put them out, as much as I would like to.

  Now, he was face to face with her again. A social worker, she said. I don’t feel very social, he thought.

  ‘Try me and see? You’ve lobbed the ball into my court, right?’

  He nodded, watching her brush the hair from her eyes.

  She wore a polka-dotted dress. A tape recorder rested on the coffee table. He’d agreed to her using it, reserving the right to have it switched off, if things got too sticky.

  ‘Okay.’ Simone was smiling. ‘Let’s start with your early days and your family. Tell me about them.’

  He spoke for a long time without interruption, telling her of his childhood in Kellerberrin. Mucking about with kids his age as well as his brothers and sometimes his sisters. About his father he said little. There wasn’t much to say. He hardly remembered him, only the yelling and the broken bottles, and the terror he felt when things got out of hand. About his mother, he was effusive, praising her for her industry and for keeping them together when the Welfare might come knocking on any given day. He’d been sad when she died.

  ‘Did you like school?’

  ‘So-so,’ he said, recalling the torn pants and the canings and the fear of getting caught or dobbed in for some prank committed by one of the other kids.

  ‘But you did well?’

  ‘Pretty well. I had a good head for figures, and I liked reading.’

  ‘What about work?’

  He gave her a potted version of his employment history, extending his career at Wentworths until the late thirties. There’s no way that can be checked, he thought.

  ‘And in the wars?’

  He told her about his medical exemption, thinking it probably appeared in his records.

  ‘I was with the Volunteer Defence Force in the second one. They weren’t too fussy if I could hear or not. A posting on Rottnest. That was a hoot.’

  She grinned. ‘And then you went down to Albany to stay with Jennie?’

  ‘Just out of Denmark,’ he corrected her. ‘She was an aide at the local hospital.’

  She switched off the recorder and went to find Angela. ‘I’m dying for a coffee. Are you ready for something?’

  When they resumed, he sipped his tea and looked her over. A pen protruded from behind one ear. She was blowing softly into her cup. The coffee smelt strong. ‘Freshly ground beans,’ she told him.

  ‘You remind me of a girl I once knew.’

  ‘Do I? And who might that be?’

  ‘She worked in a shop. I bought my shirts there. Always had a pen behind her ear.’

  ‘Was she good looking?’

  ‘I kept my distance. She was a bit keen on me.’

  ‘Not the only one, I’ll bet.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘And you never hitched your wagon to any of them?’

  ‘I did have someone, once.’

  He had not set out to say anything but, much like his marriage proposal, the words were in the air before he could think. He put his cup on the table. A
refill would be nice. She was looking expectantly at him. That’s opened her eyes.

  ‘Do you want to tell me about her?’

  He picked up the cup. A few tealeaves clung to the bottom. ‘I might just do that.’

  For the rest of the morning, he talked about Alice, from the time he met her with Tom until the day he left Hexbury Road for good. He described everything, almost everything, they had done together and how they shared some of the happiest moments of his life. He did not go into the other moments or the reasons for the break-up. He was not ready for that.

  ‘That’s quite a story, quite a romance.’ She had listened in silence, holding back on the questions that must be running through her mind. What had he done? Why did they separate? He’d glossed over the details, saying that the marriage had run into trouble, and that Alice had left him, taking the kids. The tape recorder, he noticed, was off, either deliberately or she forgot.

  ‘And you don’t know what happened to her - to her or the children?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  He could see her wrestle with this. Why didn’t I try to track them down? Did I spend fifty years doing nothing? Well, that’s the truth. And I had my reasons but they’re not for publication, not yet.

  A bird flew past the window. Suddenly he wanted air. She seemed to tune in.

  ‘Thanks for that, Baxter. Maybe we can leave it there for today.’

  Driving back to the office, she reflected on their discussion. Baxter’s previous reticence had fooled her. She was sure it would take much longer for him to open up, if he did at all.

  How would she handle this fresh information? There was now the wife, Alice, revealed by Baxter after being hidden from public display for fifty years. A constant focus of his thoughts, he says. And the children. The girl and the two boys. If they’re alive, they must be middle-aged, probably with children of their own. Even grandchildren, she speculated, doing the maths in her head. Where are they all? Her impulse was to do some digging. She frowned. It’s ethically tricky. He’d not given her the green light, definitely not. She saw him look at the tape recorder. He knew it was off. She did that on purpose, a not-so-subtle manipulative act. A blatant encouragement for him to spill some beans. He may have done so in any case. She could easily rationalise it but she felt a flutter of guilt. He was starting to trust her. Or else he doesn’t care, either way.

  What should she do? Leave it at that? Wait for him to say more? She would have to think about her options but not right now. It was fast approaching midday. If she was late again for the weekly policy meeting, there would be trouble.

  8

  Ross thought a lot about June’s declaration. He continued to think about it all through the week and into the next. They hardly spoke. She made it clear it was up to him. Unless he decided to ‘work on their marriage’ she could see little hope. ‘Thank God we haven’t got kids,’ she said. ‘Otherwise we’d be in a worse shithole.’ He wondered if that was simply an excuse. An excuse for her to bail out. It made him angry. A shithole? She must be living in another universe. We’ve had a bit of tension but that’s going too far. What the hell does she expect?

  That was the trouble. He couldn’t fathom what was expected of him. Am I the problem? Tell me or do I have to figure it out? She’d given him a withering glance, grabbed her keys and stormed off. He drove to work, feeling the anger mount. What’s behind all this? A week or so ago, we were holding hands at a fantastic concert. Now, the world’s about to come to an end.

  The traffic thickened as he came around the river on Mounts Bay Road. He sat behind an old truck, breathing diesel fumes, his mind elsewhere. A motor bike roared past. Startled, he gripped the wheel and swore. To his right, a lone fisherman cast into the dark water. Further out, a cormorant perched on a stained pylon. There was no breeze and the river was still.

  A fortnight after their altercation, she told him she would be away for the day.

  ‘Where? Not psychodrama again?’

  ‘Yes. Since you’re not interested I’m going by myself.’

  He swallowed. ‘What time does it start?’

  ‘Two o’clock. I’ll be at Claire’s until then.’

  When she left, he cooled his heels under the vine. Stuff it, he thought, what can I lose?

  He rang her at Claire’s and found out how to get there. It was in an old church. As he entered he heard laughter. A dozen or more persons of varying ages were grouped near the front, their attention held by a man in black. When Ross came closer he saw the robes of a priest. What the hell is this? Some kind of religious ritual?

  ‘Hi. I’m Father Paul. June said you might drop in.’

  He shook the priest’s hand. They were invited to sit down.

  There were other newcomers. The priest explained the process. They could act out any internal conflicts on stage. It was more or less spontaneous. You never knew what would come up. One person – the protagonist – would take the centre and others would have supporting roles. There would be opportunities to mirror each other and to play at reversing roles.

  His heart raced, and he understood little of the prologue. As far as he could make out, it had nothing to do with religion. Thank Satan for that. But acting? This was the last thing he wanted. To be smack bang in the middle of a room, surrounded by strangers and acting some weird role. Acting! He couldn’t act to save himself. At school, he squirmed whenever they were forced into reciting a poem. When it came time to choose parts in some obsolete play, he always found an excuse to leave the room. He could read and write and talk about all manner of things but he definitely couldn’t act.

  The session began with a warm up. They arranged themselves in a circle and received their instructions. ‘Imagine you’re in an overcrowded lifeboat. There are ten of you and only enough room for seven. Three must go. You must make a case for you to be among those who stay.’

  When it came to his turn, he told them how strong he was and how they would need him to man one of the oars and to find food when they reached land.

  ‘Ah, John Wayne meets Tarzan,’ said the priest, eliciting a laugh.

  After the warm up, anyone carrying a burning issue was invited to enact their feelings in front of the group.

  ‘I have.’ All eyes moved to June. She picked up a cushion and came forward. The others made space, then re-formed a circle around her.

  Without prompting, she launched into a remarkable tirade. At first, Ross was sure it was directed at him but he quickly realised she was acting out a scene with her supervisor. The cushion took a pounding. He stared open-mouthed, as she swore and snarled and writhed on the floor like a crazed animal.

  ‘Words, June, use words,’ urged the priest from the sidelines.

  ‘You rotten, lousy bastard.’

  June wrestled with the cushion, gouging and thumping it against the floor. ‘You slimy turd. You creepy dung beetle. I’ll kill you, kill you, kill you!’

  Father Paul clapped his hands. ‘Stop!’

  June lay dishevelled on the floor.

  ‘Get up, June. Now, you play the person you were yelling at.’

  As he watched, Ross felt totally confused. Her intensity scared him but his fear was coupled with fascination. Never before had he seen her like this. Her damaging tongue was well known. But, in the scene played out in front of him, it was her body expressing itself with a power of its own. It didn’t look as if she was acting.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ she said, when they met in the car park. ‘It’s spontaneous, bringing up what’s happening underneath. You should try it. You feel good afterwards. Incredibly alive.’

  He was not tempted. In the discussion following the dramatic enactments, he’d kept his counsel. Why would he make an idiot of himself in front of that mob? The priest spoke about acting in the moment. How it encouraged creativity and how unexpected solutions may emerge to intractable problems. It sounded useful, if it worked. But how was this relevant to his marriage? How would belting up a cushion and screaming abuse bring
him and June closer? His mind drifted back to the smashed dinner plates. That did help a bit. He’d certainly felt alive. But what had it solved? As far as he could tell – nothing at all. Zilch.

  In the weeks that followed, a kind of civil resignation settled over Mangler Avenue. Neither of them wanted to initiate anything contentious, yet each waited for the other to make overtures. June spent less time in her study and more in front of the television. Ross read, mostly under a mosquito net he rigged up out the back. Away from the house, they did little together apart from a couple of perfunctory parental visits. Occasionally, she looked at him and appeared about to say something. He avoided eye contact and restricted the conversation to practical things. On the whole he felt like shit.

  On April Fool’s Day, when he came home from work, her car was not in the garage. She had been back and forth to Claire’s house over the weekend. They listened to a lot of tapes, she told him. Entering the bedroom he saw the note on his pillow.

  Dear Ross. I can’t go on living like this. I don’t know what has happened but we can’t communicate at all. We seem to have grown apart. It’s sad but that’s how it appears to me. I am going to stay with Claire and decide what to do. Uni is awful. I may give it up and get a job.

  Take care of yourself. June.

  He read the note twice. He was stunned but not as shocked as he might have been. Somewhere, he sensed the dam needed to break. She would be the one to act and now she was gone. He still could not comprehend where or why they had veered so far off course. Now, it felt bloody hopeless. Did this mean their marriage was over?

  On the counter, he saw the casserole she’d cooked during the weekend. He lit the oven and inserted the dish on the middle shelf, vaguely wondering if it should go on the bottom. Retrieving a beer from the fridge, he wandered outside and slumped on the settee.

  Her watch said four fifteen. Simone drove slowly through the grounds, stealing glances at the elderly inmates. One had a hose and was watering a flower garden. A couple of the men touched their caps as she drove by. It made no sense to drive back to the Institute. I’ll pick up a roast chicken at Charlie Carters, she decided, as she swung towards Claremont. Maybe a few vegies. I have bugger-all in the fridge.