Escape (27 page)

'Oh I didn't mean it, what was I saying, I'm sorry I'm sorry, it's
just that, oh I'll be so late!' but he turned away, his shoulders tight
with indignation, and stomped back up the hall. I closed the door
and hurried after him, weeping and apologising, and went into the
kitchen and made coffee and found bread to toast and cheese to grill
and laid out the breakfast mats and found a clean ironed serviette to
put into his favourite silver serviette ring which I quickly polished
before laying it carefully next to the knife. It struck me that my small
domestic activities were like offerings to a god who needed to be
placated in order that I, his creation, might survive. As I did all these
things fear flamed in my chest. Alone, imagine being entirely
alone
. I
didn't think once about Kirkwood Public School and the 576 children
who would soon be lining up to file into the hall to attend their lecture
on the science of magic.

'Is like plastic, this cheese,' Guido said as he finished the first slice
of toast. 'Why do you continue to buy inferior packet food,
cara
?' But
the shaking of his head and the hint of a resigned smile that followed
his words signalled increased tolerance.
Cara
. That word laid the terror
to rest. As I gathered up my instruments, I began to make a mental list
of credible excuses I could give Kirkwood Public when I arrived forty-five
minutes late.

It wasn't until I'd crossed the Roseville Bridge that I realised I'd left
the cabbage juice at home. The main part of the bloody experiment!
'
Shit!
' I swore at the traffic, and then found I couldn't stop. Instead of
sifting through my list of excuses, I began to find worse words, Clara's
dreadful favourites, and soon I was thumping the dashboard with my
fist, screaming.

He said the cheese was plastic but he'd eaten it all, every last
crumb, just as he always did. I'd stayed and made him breakfast. I'd sat
with him and watched him eat while 576 six children sat in a hall and
waited for me.

The noise of the scream frightened me at first, as if a deranged
stranger had broken into the mineral silence of the car. At the traffic
lights, a man in a Porsche turned to stare. I closed my mouth and
looked away. My throat felt as if it had been scraped with a spatula.
Behind my eyes thoughts were lit up, neon green, poison bright. I
saw the angry breath of me twisting up like genie smoke let out of a
bottle. It rose from the clamp of my body, floating off across peaceful
suburban gardens, over rooftops, leaving me light-headed, ethereal as
a spirit. Not that I believe in them, of course.

'Mum, guess what a drunken ghost is called,' six-year-old Clara
piped in my head as the lights changed. 'A methylated spirit!' I could
see my daughter's little round face scrunched with giggles as I drove,
hyperventilating, onto the freeway.

Oh, Clara. I gripped the steering wheel, watching my knuckles
whiten. Although I've tried, I just cannot think of it as Clara's
'adventure' or 'holiday travels' as other people seem to. I see it as
Clara's disappearance, like a magic act gone wrong. My daughter just
walked behind the folding doors at the airport, shoulder bag swinging
against her hip, Saraah's suitcase wheeling behind her, and vanished. I
stood there for a further thirty minutes, eyes fixed on the spot where I
last saw my child. Perhaps I would get another glimpse – there might
be some administrative hiccup, a technical problem. 'Oh, Mum, thank
god you're still here,' Clara would say, running back, bag flying open
so we'd have to stop and pick up all the old lipsticks and pens and
hairclips and tissues, 'the plane has been delayed until next
week
!'

I'd stood to attention in the departure lounge wearing the good
cream suit I usually reserve for school visits. People eddied around me
like a stream parting around a rock. I was trying to comprehend the
breathtaking pain that was opening out in my stomach. I just couldn't
believe my eyes: the dear familiar body I'd washed and stroked and
worried about for twenty-one years was gone. I didn't know how
I could inhabit the next part of my life, when I would have to point
myself toward the EXIT sign, find my car and drive into the world
without my daughter. But as the minutes ticked on, I realised that
Clara was not going to reappear like Harry Houdini from behind the
curtain. This wasn't a magic trick I could control. My daughter had
truly vanished.

Guido has barely talked of her since she's gone. He didn't
accompany us to the airport. He doesn't seem to approve of airports,
the way some people can't cope with funerals. Several times I've
attempted to discuss Clara's progress with Guido, hoping we could
conjure her up between us. 'Clara will be going into class now,' I say
sometimes at night. I say that at 7 pm. I'm always calculating the ten
hours' difference between us. Or, 'She'll be asleep now, I wonder how
comfortable the bed is, if she's warm enough. Still, they have central
heating in the northern hemisphere, don't they?' Guido just shrugs,
his shoulders bowing as if I'd just placed an intolerable burden upon
him. 'It is
you
who hate the cold,' he argues. Perhaps he's grieving in his
own way, but heavens, it's so hard to know what is moving behind the
wall that is Guido.

As I drove into the parking lot of Kirkwood Public, a fresh ripple
of rage flipped over in my belly. 'Selfish bastard,' I yelled, thumping the
dashboard. I must have put my foot down then, hitting the accelerator
instead of the brake, because the car leapt forward and banged into the
four-wheel drive in front.
Fuck!

I have to be at a funeral in an hour but I can't find it. I'm still at home
in my nightie, searching for the church. My street directory seems
to have lost most of the eastern suburbs. I flip to the cover – a 2001
directory – Christ, it's five years old! I haven't been to a church since
Maria was married nearly twenty years ago, let alone
this
one, a bloody
ferry and bus trip away. Oh why do people have to die, just when you
can least afford the time?
Can you hear yourself?
spits the voice.

The service has already started when I arrive. I sit down in a pew
near the back of the church. It's hard to concentrate on the sad people
speaking from the altar and in the rush I've forgotten to bring my
glasses. Their faces all look alike, washed together in a soft blur.

I think about a lot of things during the service. Because I ought to,
I start with Gerald Bone, the guest of honour. Poor Gerald, I whisper,
struck down in the prime of his life – a successful orthopaedic surgeon,
the ex-husband of Maria. I haven't seen Maria for quite a while, perhaps
ten years, because Guido doesn't approve of her. I wonder how many
regrets poor Gerald might have nourished. Not as many as me, I bet.
I think we need nine lives, like cats, to get even one thing right. Lena
says you should learn to accept your history, learn from it, be yourself
with all your flaws, rooms and ceilings . . . But I don't.

Yesterday, when I told Simon about the funeral, the conversation
turned quite philosophical. As he poured acid into the pool, turning
his head away from the acrid fumes, we talked about death and the
self and a French philosopher who said, 'I think therefore I am.' I
remembered being impressed by that at uni, but I don't understand
what it means any more. Does it count if you just have ordinary
thoughts, like: now I will brush my teeth and then on the way
back from the bathroom I will pick up those dirty clothes from
my daughter's room? You might exist, according to that French
philosopher, but do you
deserve
to?

The pew is hard and unforgiving under my thighs. I shift from
one buttock to another but still the cold seeps through my stockings.
It would be nice to be sitting here with someone close, to exchange
a smile of commiseration, a shared grimace at life's injustices.
Some
husbands accompany their wives to funerals, I think resentfully. It
would be comforting to hold a person's hand when you're facing
death. But I didn't even think of asking Guido. He's superstitious
about funerals – the more time you spend with the dead, he says, the
quicker it will be your turn. He seems to think death is infectious, like
anger or smallpox. Whenever he sees a hearse passing in the street he
clutches his testicles and gives that little hop in the air while making
the
scongiuro
. He doesn't care what people think. He's performing his
ritual, like touching wood or metal, to keep himself safe.

Clara used to leap onto chairs and copy him when she was eight.
It was a game she played with Saraah. As they jumped off , they tried
to point their toes like ballet dancers. To make the
scongiuro
you point
your index and little finger downward in sharp jabbing movements,
making the shape of a devil's horns. When Guido saw the girls doing
it he was furious, so they only played 'Evil Eye' when he went out. It
seemed to give Clara a peculiar satisfaction. When she told him she
was going to Italy, he warned her not to do it in public. It is rude, he
said, and in certain parts of Italy the gesture applied upwards instead
of down means that the wife of the man you are pointing at is being
unfaithful. 'It never stopped you,' Clara said, adding quickly, 'making
that sign, I mean.'

'That is because no one in this place understands such things,' he
replied. 'We are safe 'ere among the
ignorante
.'

It's hard to concentrate on the present, to think about other
people like Gerald, and all those grieving around me. I wonder for
the umpteenth time where my humanity has gone. I used to take on
others' feelings as easily as putting on a coat. But what I think about
for most of the time, sitting there in the church, is my misery.

How is it that I cry in the bathroom each morning but can't leave
my marriage? That I fantasise about my husband falling off cliffs,
walking into traffic, being blown up in a cafe?
Other
people's husbands
die, I notice enviously, why can't mine?

If Guido knew what I was thinking, he would live in mortal terror.
His life would be one continual testicle-clutching leap. He would be
perpetually air-borne, like one of those magicians who specialise in
levitation. Oh poor man, what ever did he do to deserve me?
You're a
coward, as well as evil
, says the voice.
You're too afraid to leave. You wait
until people die around you, like a germ or a witch.

Lately, I've found it hard to believe in love, or grief. The novels I
read are full of romance. I linger over the way men and women look
at each other, make love, go shopping. But for a while now I haven't
been able to identify with the heroines as I used to. It's a bit like having
a permanent cold and losing your sense of taste or smell – you can
remember what love
should
feel like, but that's all.

When the funeral service finishes, we have to queue to look at poor
Gerald. Maria will be there, hugging everyone.

It's a long queue and my feet hurt. I look down into the casket
and see the dead man's hair combed carefully over his bald pate. A
few thin strands are glued right down to his ear. That small piece of
vanity, probably written into his last wishes, makes my heart turn over.
Small, hopeful gestures have always been my undoing. I want to kiss
his forehead but as I bend further, I notice a birthmark the colour of
tea seeping from under his hair. It wanders over the top of his head in
the shape of a boot, a sepia map of Italy.

The scalp of Gerald Bone, surely, never bore any such mark. I
would have noticed it. Come to think of it, Gerald's scalp had been
covered with quite a lot of thick, curly hair when I'd met him. It was
only a couple of times, for drinks at Maria's house.

I peek inside the coffin again. This man is old. The last time I saw
Gerald Bone he was drinking gin and tonic, gazing affectionately but
patronisingly at Maria, and running his hand through a healthy bush of
hair. Sweat breaks out under my arms. In seconds my good silk dress is
sticking to me. Maria said Gerald had been killed by an out of control
cement truck, not age.

Someone coughs behind me. I look around. A man with sunken
eyes and a jutting forehead nods at me to move on. Herman Munster,
I think randomly. A large gap has developed between me and the
person ahead of me in the queue, the kind that opens up in a traffic
jam when a driver is distracted too long in one spot fiddling with the
radio. I move on a couple of steps, darting a glance up the line. A grey
woman stands at the top, receiving people's pats and condolences. I
squinch my eyes into slits, trying to focus. This woman is not Maria.
Even without my glasses I can see that the bereaved wife having her
face kissed is more or less my mother's age, and at least a foot shorter
than my friend.

How did this HAPPEN, Rachel?
the voice shrieks.
You must either
be so late that this is the next person's funeral or you are in the wrong
church. Why don't you concentrate? How can you be so stupid, selfish,
inconsiderate? Whatever will Maria say?

I close my eyes for a moment. I'm so sick of the voice. I turn to
leave the queue, and the sliding feeling strikes, nearly tipping me
over. I see eggs slipping off a plate, greasy gravy falling to the ground.
Herman Munster takes my elbow, and asks if I'm all right.

I don't know what's happening. When I turn around my head
seems to come later. The sliding starts behind my eyes and there's a
bright scramble like loose change in a purse. I'm mesmerised, watching
coins of light settle into old landscapes – the yellow kitchen I grew up
in, the sofa that Danny clung to, Harry's pouting top lip. The slide ends
in a wall of cloud and I'm stuck, blind: I can't move forwards or back. I
just have to wait until I'm released.

I manage to murmur something, and the man drift s away. But I
can't move. I find myself wondering how Houdini might have looked
when he died. I see his face, fierce muscles relaxed, finally, in death. A
terrible grief tears at my chest, making it hard to breathe.

Only once did Harry get stuck. I've always preferred not to think
about it. But now I can't stop. In California he agreed to be buried alive,
manacled in a coffin, under six feet of earth. It was only when he broke
out of his manacles that he understood he was in a real grave. He'd
spent a lifetime learning how to control his breathing. But this time it
was different. He panicked. When he tried to call out, his mouth was
stopped with dirt. Harry never let himself be buried again. He wrote
later, in one revealing little sentence that I've never forgotten, 'the
weight of the earth is killing'.

I read that piece early on, and never returned to it. I hated to
think of Harry so vulnerable, sweating, digging in the dark like me, a
small blind animal. I refused to picture him dead. He has been my one
reliable source of joy all these years. I know this is strange, carrying
around a private hero inside me, but I don't know what I ever would
have done without him. Now, creeping away from the dead man who
is not Maria's husband, all I can see is Harry. His eyes are blind. He is
not dreaming. His wiry hair would be the only thing on his body still
growing, there in the casket.

Guido marches in after dinner, when I'm settled cosily on the sofa
with
Foreign Correspondent
and my chocolate treat. Shit, I can't help
thinking, just my luck.

But Guido doesn't ask about the funeral. He barely says 'hello',
rustling around in the fridge. He's whistling, his step unusually light.
The whistling stops while he munches on something. From the kitchen
he calls out, 'Silvia says the next month will be good for me. The new
moon will bring exceptional creative energy, which means success and
money are coming my way!'

'That's great!' I call back. Right now I'm grateful to the stars.
I just couldn't have lied about the funeral, or told the truth, for that
matter. As I get ready for bed, I wonder if it's too late to ring Maria.
Of
course it is
, sneers the voice,
you coward
. Well, I'll ring Maria tomorrow
morning, early, when Guido is asleep. I'll close the kitchen door and
whisper, in respect for the dead. And then I'll go and do a big shop at
Coles, as my penance.

The beige face of the shopping mall looms. As I drive round and round
in a circle, trying to find a park, I make a mental list of the things I
need for my parents' dinner: chicken, ginger, hoi sin sauce. Their fridge
needs stocking up too, staple foods like margarine, bread, lite milk.
I'll get that big pack of tasty cheese. Dad's always preferred the neat
square slices of packaged cheese. He used to tell Clara it was perfect
for melting under the 'gorilla'.

The supermarket is an overwhelming place, and the only way out
is to make decisions. But the infinite choice of food turns me numb.
Sometimes, looking for comfort, I imagine the shape of Harry. I
usually put him in the fruit section, crouching behind the bananas. I
can almost see him winking at me now, his chains shining in the harsh
fluorescent light. He is naked except for the sign over his genitals
saying
$4.99 a kilo
.

Later, as I haul the packages off the checkout counter, I glance
back at the bananas. I feel regret, and a sense of loss. I can almost make
him out, but he is fading. On the way to Cuthbert Street, the packages
rocking around on the back seat of the car, I try to picture Harry's face.
I hope the fruit doesn't get bruised – I should have knotted the plastic
bags at the top.
Stupid
.

I knock loudly at the front door and wait, the bags dragging on my
arms. There's a key in my bag so I use it. Both my parents have become
a little deaf. When talking it's easier for them to hear if you sit near and
look straight at them.

Mum is lying on the bed. Her eyes are closed and a book is open
on her chest. I tiptoe over, reading the title upside down. The
God
Delusion
. Dad isn't home. I creep into the kitchen and put the groceries
away, careful not to bang the cupboard doors.

I've just cut up the chicken and plonked the pieces in the marinade
when Mum comes up behind me, yawning. I jump, the dark sauce
splashing against my skirt.
Clumsy fool
.

'What are you doing?' she asks, peering over my shoulder.

'Making Thai chicken. You'll just need to put this dish into the
oven for thirty-five minutes, and boil some rice with it.'

'Oh, Rachel, you don't have to do that!' Her tone is surprised
and pleased, as if I haven't done this before. As if I haven't come over
twice a week for the last eighteen months and cooked dinner, leaving
a couple of meals wrapped in plastic to freeze. Goldfish have a thirty-second
memory span, Lena told me, that's why they never get bored.
The view each time around the bowl is new for them. But Mum is
probably just being polite.

I'm clearing up when I spot a chicken thigh lying left over on
the bench. Damn, how could I not have seen it? I sigh, starting to
cut it up to throw in with the rest.

'You know you can get the butcher to do that,' remarks Mum,
watching me. 'Their knives are much sharper and they're quicker,
more used to doing it.'

I stare at her. She's opening the fridge, seeing what else I brought.
This is the woman who said we should bring our own chair to the
hairdressers, in case there weren't enough for other people. And now
she's telling me I should ask the butcher to cut up my own chicken
dinner? I
couldn't
.