Escape (6 page)

The room is quiet as we eat. There's just the clinking of forks and
the moist sound of swallowing. My stomach clenches. This pause at
the beginning of a meal always feels like judgement time. Like the
quiet ticking of the clock when the exam starts.

'Isn't the main ingredient of Penne Siciliana the olive, Rachel?'
asks Guido, but his voice doesn't go up at the end the way it would
with a real question. He's peering at his plate, moving food around
gingerly with his fork. 'I don't see many on my plate.' He leans over to
check how many Dad has.

My heart starts to thump. 'I forgot them until the last minute.'
Sweat-beads are forming on my lip. 'Then, well, there weren't many
left . I was concentrating on the ratatouille, you know, the vegetables
had got a bit too dry.'

'Ah, the vegetables. Did you forget also to put salt in the pasta?'

Dad passes him the table salt, but Guido waves it away. 'No,'
he sighs, 'the salt must be cooked
with
the pasta and the sauce. Is
no good put on top at the end like that. Penne Siciliana is a peasant
dish, originally. It should be very simple and tasty, relying on fresh
ingredients.
Beh
, this is too sweet for me, Rachel,' he concludes and
pushes his plate patiently away from him. 'I'll just wait for the roast.'

'Well, you won't need to wash
my
plate!' Dad is mopping up the
last of the sauce with his bread. 'I've just about licked it clean.'

Guido makes a disgusted face.

Clara, sitting between her grandparents, gives her pop a smile.

There is a silence until my father clears his throat and goes on. 'So,
your book is a bit overdue then, Rachel? How far have you got?

I wipe the corner of my eyes with my finger. It comes back black.
Eyeliner has smudged with sweat, probably pooled under my eyes
so that I look like some kind of nocturnal animal. A raccoon maybe.
'Well, it's mapped out pretty thoroughly. And I've got the introduction
done and most of the research. I just have to organise it now. One of
the magicians is coming to Australia actually, in a few months. Jonny
Love, from Chicago. We're not sure of the dates yet—'

'Who's that?' asks my mother. 'A cartoon character?'

'No, Jonny Love is one of Rachel's magicians, Deb.' Dad smiles at
her. 'So, do you have a title yet? I always think the title of a book is
what gets people in.'

'Well, at first I was going to call it
Magic Men
. But that sounds a
bit childish. So now, well, Clara suggested
Lives of Deception
,' I beam at
Clara, 'which I really liked. So I think I'll go with that.'

'Ooh, that's catchy!' nods Dad. He's looking at me with
enthusiasm, the dear man, glancing at Clara, back at me, nodding
approvingly, waiting for me to go on. I just can't seem to find the
energy. I'm dreading bringing out the second course. Another work of
mine that is overdue.

'Maybe you'll write a book about your travels in Italy, Clara,' Dad
says, striding out into the silence like a diver into the sea. 'What with
both your parents being writers, you might get the bug too.'

'Who knows?' She turns to her grandparents eagerly, her eyes
shining. 'Or maybe I'll join an aid organisation, work with refugees or
something. There are heaps of Albanian and African refugees in Italy.'

'Yes,' says Mum. 'I was just reading the other day how many
refugees Italy takes in each year. Puts us to shame.'

Clara nods, her fork bobbing animatedly in mid-air. 'I might even
go on to Africa, after Italy. I could get work with an NGO there I'm
sure, you know, teaching English or something.'

Adrenalin shoots through me, making my hands shake as I pass
the bread basket.
Africa
. 'Aren't there any number of terrible diseases
in Africa?' I say, trying to take the tremor out of my voice. 'Wouldn't
you need particular shots? Cholera, typhoid, malaria, I don't know.'

'I could get them in Italy,' says Clara. 'They aren't totally devoid of
medical knowledge over there, you know.'

'No, of course – but, well you've never said anything about Africa.
I mean it all sounds very interesting but what about AIDS and that
Ebola thing—'

'It's okay, Mum, I've actually been talking to Simon about Africa –
he knows so much about it, particularly Tanzania where his wife came
from.'

'Simon? Simon who?'

'Oh god, Mum, what world do you live in? Simon Manson, the
man who comes to fix our pool?'

'Simon? But I never—'

'His daughter, Sam, was at uni with me.'

'Sam?' puts in Guido. 'What kind of a name is that for a girl?'

Clara snorts. 'Sam is short for Samantha. She did political science
at uni, we used to talk a lot.'

'Did she finish her degree?' I ask.

'Yes,
she
stuck it out, just like our Harry.'

'Harry who?' asks Dad, looking bewildered.

'A ghost that haunts our family,' says Clara.

'I've never believed in ghosts,' says Mum.

'So have you seen Sam since university?' I ask Clara.

'A bit. She goes with her dad to visit people in the detention centre
in Sydney – they went to that Baxter demo, too, in South Australia.
Simon even got arrested!'

I bite my lip. The things you learn about your daughter when she's
about to disappear! And the pool man! Has Simon ever mentioned
detention centres in our conversations? Or refugees? Or, heavens
above, that he had a wife from Tanzania? That he has a
wife
? Or did
Clara use the past tense?

'Will the roast be arriving any time soon?' asks Guido.

I can't remember Simon ever referring to his wife. Or, actually, his
life. It's always been about my pool, my deadlines.

I start collecting the plates. 'Have you thought
where
you might
want to travel in Africa specifically, Clara? I mean, you might have to
do some research on these NGOs and find out about qualifications
you'll need or which regions are safest and what conditions . . .'

'You mean do I have my body of African
facts
?' She looks at me
with that wide-open, rather insolent stare. I lower my eyes and begin
scraping the plates. Well. I know that life expectancy in Tanzania is
46.2 and it is home to some of East Africa's oldest remains and the
mountain, Kilimanjaro. But how my facts have ever helped the world
I cannot say. The starry feeling makes my head light and I blink hard
to focus.

'Why haven't you told me any of this before?' I ask her.

'Because I knew you'd worry yourself to death and go into overkill
about diseases and crime rates and how to hide a shim in your hair
and, oh, life wouldn't be worth living!'

I hear Guido snigger into his wine. Clara leans over and squeezes
my fingers. 'See, it's just that knowing the facts doesn't satisfy me, I
want to DO something about them, otherwise I feel useless.'

'That's how I've felt all my life,' I say. I don't mean to say it, but the
thought just sails out of my mouth like a breath.

There is silence while legs are recrossed and throats are cleared.
I start taking the plates out to the kitchen. I dump them into the sink
and begin rinsing with hot water.

'Here, I'll do that,' says Clara behind me. 'Haven't you got to get
ze
rost
?' Her tone is affectionate as she raises her eyebrows, Guido-like,
and grins.

I slip on the crocodile oven glove. I used to chase Clara around
the kitchen with it, jaws snapping, causing squeals of terrified delight.
Amazing how the old thing's lasted, only a little brown and frayed
around the ends.

Clara makes a space on the hot plates for the dishes, the only clear
area in the kitchen. I start taking out the veal in rosemary, the collapsed
capsicums, now black instead of red, the potatoes and pumpkin. As I
turn to close the oven I catch my wrist on the burning oven door. I can
feel my mouth opening in an O of pain.

'Quick, run it under cold water!' cries Clara. She turns on the tap
but she must have forgotten she'd been using the hot and I fling back
my hand with the scald of it. Just then the screw holding the tap onto
the wall falls off , the spring shoots out like a jack-in-the-box, and hot
water gushes in a boiling waterfall. The sink and the bench and the
floor all join up in a horrible Picasso kind of jangle and I can't keep my
balance. I slide to the floor, my limbs sinking together neatly like one
of those folding chairs at the beach.

'Oh, I'm sorry, oh!' Clara's hands flap in dismay.

I want to tell her that it's okay and really it doesn't hurt much at
all now and that the stupid tap is always falling off and actually it's
my fault because I should have told the plumber to fix it and I'm just
upset because waking up to a marriage like mine every morning is like
waking up dead and now the only person in the world who makes me
feel alive and hopeful is going away for a whole year but these awful
heaving sobs are coming up like vomit and all I can do is put my head
in my own lap and howl.

'Pop!' calls Clara. 'Quick, come and help Mummy!'

Clara hasn't called me that for years, poor mite.

'I'm okay,' I manage and then Dad is there leaning down, his hands
on my shoulders. 'I just need to sit here for a moment,' I mumble. 'Bit
dizzy.'

'She burnt herself on the oven,' Clara says. She looks shocked, and
there are tears in her eyes too.

Look what you've done!
says the voice.

'She gets upset so easily lately,' Clara is whispering to my father. I
can hear her perfectly well, but it's as if she thinks my ears have stopped
working as well as my legs. 'Like she's just watching TV or doing the
washing-up and she'll suddenly tear up. Sometimes she cries at the end
of a movie, just because it's the end. And she's started swearing. You
heard her before. Do you think it's the menopause or something?'

Dad clears his throat, shifting his feet on the cork floor.

'You know, Pop, the change of life?'

'Er, yes, well, she's definitely getting near that...er...age. No doubt
about that.' He pats her head soothingly. 'Don't you worry about it,
love, we'll sort it out. No need for you to worry.'

Clara looks relieved. 'I'll take the roast out then,' and she goes to
pick up the tray.

'That's hot, use the glove!' I yell, but not quickly enough.

'Ow!' cries Clara, dropping the tray, and with it the overdone veal
stuff ed with rosemary and garlic and baked in red wine.

We watch the veal shoot out of the tray and slide in its own rich
juices across the floor. It comes to a stop on the flat brown island of
the cockroach hotel nestling at the foot of the cupboards.

'Jesus, I didn't know those baits could catch anything as big as
that!' says Clara and we start to laugh hysterically.

Even while I'm laughing, I'm thinking, funny how Clara didn't
think to call Guido when I needed help. But actually it's not funny at
all.

Dad gets the tap screwed back on to the wall while Clara and I pass
around the vegetables.

'Suits me!' beams Dad as he strides back to the table. 'I've always
preferred my vegies to meat, haven't I, Deborah?'

Mum smiles. 'That's right.' She pats her stomach. 'I'm so full after
that pasta anyway, darling, I couldn't have eaten another thing.'

'But
I
ham still 'angry,' says Guido sharply. 'Is there any cheese,
Rachel?'

'Oh, I'll have a look,' I say, getting up. 'There might be some
parmigiano, or stracchino.'

'Mind the wet floor,' Dad calls out. 'Don't slip!'

I hear the silence fall as I pad out to the kitchen. I can see Guido
waiting patiently for his cheese, knees together, hands folded in his lap.
For a moment he looks just like good little Bill Cooper in my grade
three all those years ago, sitting up straight to have his class photo
taken. But Guido would never know he wasn't being a good boy, that
sometimes being good means you have to take the initiative in social
gatherings, a slice of responsibility for the conversation. My stomach
twists and an uncomfortable swamp of pity and anger paralyses me,
the fridge door swinging open. What was I looking for? Then I hear
Dad come to the rescue, as usual.

'So what are you writing at the moment, Guido?'

'
Scusi?
'

Dad repeats the question and Guido's eyes return from a faraway
place. They swim up, two dark fish surfacing to catch the light. His face
comes alive. He loves to talk about his work. I can see he is beautiful,
but nothing stirs in me. It's like looking at a painting that is pretty but
will do nothing to change your life.

'Well, I've been trying a different sort of poetry,' Guido begins,
leaning forward now, elbows on the edge of the table. 'It's called
mosaic poetry, because different fragments are put together to make a
whole picture. Words and phrases derived from different contexts and
experience are created and thrown together randomly, the only order
being that of the unconscious. Then you examine the results, and work
with that. In this way entirely new connections are made and you are
getting to know and work with a different part of yourself. There are
new ideas coming from this.'

'Well,' says Dad, 'that's interesting. Just like when Rachel used
to put up those little word magnets on the fridge to help Clara
learn to read. Sometimes I'd come over and find some really funny
combinations – "moon sand loves mice", I remember that one.' He
gives a short laugh. 'I used to play around with them long after Clara
had lost interest. It was fun!'

Clara grins at him.

Guido doesn't smile. His left eyebrow rises practically to his
hairline. 'Fridge magnets,' he mutters.

I remember the cheese and quickly throw it onto a plate and bring
it out. 'Brie and stracchino! Who would like some?'

'But what is an idea, after all?' Guido goes on, helping himself to
the stracchino. 'This is something I often discuss with my students.
I will tell you. An idea is the connection between two facts. These
random facts are existing out there, completely separate, until a
thought brings them together.'