From Under the Overcoat (3 page)

‘I say this to them, and they say nothing, these women. They just stare at
my
mouth with their botox eyebrows halfway up their foreheads and this look on their faces.’ He pulls a condescending pout. Everyone laughs. ‘What can I say? The kid goes into the chair, the money meter goes on. Years of metal in their mouths for no reason.’

‘Why don’t you get your own teeth done?’ says Neil. ‘You’re not much of a poster boy.’

‘No way. That’s the point. I mean, it’s different if there’s an actual problem, overcrowding or whatever. But they’re fine, my teeth. They do the job they’re meant to.’

‘So what are you saying? You’re saying that these women put their kids through all the shit of having braces, all the expense, just for perfect-looking teeth?’ asks Neil.

‘No. I’m saying they put their kids through all that shit so they can be seen to be able to afford to put their kids through all that shit.’

Halfway down the other side of the hill, David feels better. He can see, by the milky sky, that they are nearly at the coast.

IT’S AFTER SIX O’CLOCK
when they arrive. The course is closed for the night, the golf carts locked away. They make themselves known at reception, then decide to play just one hole, the tenth, while there’s still enough light.

The pines along the fairway are fully grown and throw long arrow shadows back towards the tee. The beauty of the course takes David’s breath away. His father has told him about places like this — greens and fairways grafted onto magnificent natural landscapes — names like Banff Springs, the Teeth of the Dog in the Dominican Republic. David understands now, what the old man was talking about. He feels a sudden knowing, adult sadness for his father. How unhappy has he been, a widower bringing up a child?

The tenth hole’s a par 4, 394-metre dogleg left. David tees up and takes another look at where the green must be, around the corner. His father spent months teaching him to draw the ball. The lessons began on a hole like this. He held David by his shoulders over the tee, gently manoeuvred him to an uncomfortable, contorted stance, his right hand too far over the left on the grip. David, the snarling teenager, glared at his father and repositioned himself correctly — shoulders down, right hand locked back in place, head over the ball. Ron said nothing, but stepped forward again and repeated the manipulation. David struck the ball hard, grimacing at the jarring, then watched in amazement as the ball soared and swung away to the left, to where it needed to go. It had landed on the apron of the green.

Neil, Mitchell and Ciaran are quiet behind him. David looks down at the tee again and blinks. The ball’s gone; he’s already hit it.

‘Jesus Christ.’ Neil squints, shaking his head, pacing in circles. Then he turns to David with a smile. ‘How the
fuck
did you do that?’

‘Bad habit,’ replies David.

‘Jesus …’ says Neil again.

‘Lucky the old hook cropped up on the dogleg.’ Ciaran’s grinning too. ‘And here’s me with a permanent hook I can’t get rid of.’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Let’s have a go.’

Ciaran sends the ball too far to the left. It lands in the rough three-quarters of the way down the fairway. He swears under his breath.

Neil and Mitchell tee off, making safe but short shots. The light is fading and a new breeze carries the smell of the ocean.

‘Your old man undersold you, David,’ says Neil, on their way to the green. ‘Stunning golf. Stunning. What do you play to?’

‘Haven’t had a game for ages,’ says David. ‘Played to a four handicap when I was younger.’

It’d been so long since he’d held a club, but his hands meshed into the golfer’s grip as though he played every day of his life.

IN THE COOL MARBLE
lobby of the resort, they take out their credit cards and hand them to the girl behind the desk. She taps the details into the computer. While the others talk about handicaps, David glances down at the print out of his bill.

He’s reading the numbers upside down. The figure he thinks he sees is $700. His eyes dart again to the number;
he has read it correctly. A small bead of sweat touches his left temple. He brushes it away and leans forward over the counter.

‘Could you … could you tell me how much is going on the card, please?’

‘$700 sir.’ She doesn’t look up.

‘Per person?’

‘It’s per room. $350 per night.’

‘Is that um … some kind of bond, or …?’

She looks up at David, puzzled. He tries to guess at her age. Twenty, maybe. Young, poorly paid, too many zeros on these numbers to render them meaningful to her.

‘Bond? No, sir. Just the two nights’ accommodation. That’s all we hold. We put the meals and incidentals on at the end.’ She smiles a vacant, hospitality-trained smile.

‘Of course,’ says David.

What had Neil said at the Laybourne, that hot hazy afternoon?
Peanuts
— that was the word he’d used. They never did discuss the actual cost. The price of things never crops up in conversation with Neil.

So why hadn’t he asked? Sure, it would have been awkward, but that moment at the Laybourne would have been just right — the moment when he told Neil about Jamie’s treatment — that’s when he should have spelled out the facts, established the cost of things. And $700 for two nights’ accommodation at an international golf resort might well be cheap. What would he know?

David stands quite still, resting his elbow on the reception counter as the woman finishes her paperwork. He and Trudy budgeted $400 for the whole trip, scraped it together after
Ross had gifted David airpoints for the flights. The prickle of sweat is gone, in its place a dull throb of pain pulsing across his brow.

‘David?’ It’s Ciaran, in his ear, hand on his shoulder. David shakes his head, focuses on what Ciaran is saying. ‘Dinner in twenty minutes, alright? Meet in the dining room at seven.’

He sits on the end of his bed for what seems like an eternity, staring at the floor. The phone ringing on the desk beside him jolts him back to the present. It’s Neil, calling from the dining room, telling him to hurry up. He looks up at the mirror, addresses the idiot staring back.
You selfish prick
.

JAMIE WENT BACK TO
sleep after Ross and Vivian went home from Sunday lunch that day. David stood over his bassinet. Jamie’s hands were closed tight, suspended in mid-air. His eyes made tiny movements under pale eyelids.

‘How do they do that?’ Trudy had slipped into the cool, darkened room. She stood in front of David, pulled his arms around her waist.

‘Do what?’ he whispered back.

‘Fall asleep like that, with their hands up. All babies do it.’

‘I never knew that. I thought it was to do with …’

‘It’s completely normal. Like little marionettes. Amazing.’

She turned around to face David. Her eyes were shining and she smiled. She touched his cheek, ran her finger down his lips. ‘It could be the answer, David,’ she whispered. ‘This Prolaze.’

Trudy took David’s hand, led him away from the bassinet. Their own bed was only a few steps away. She kissed him,
started unbuttoning his shirt.

‘What about Jamie?’ It was the first time they’d turned to each other since Jamie was born.

‘What about him?’ Trudy’s dress fell to the floor. ‘He’ll wake up, or he won’t.’

David held Trudy as she pulled him down onto their bed. Her hands crept over him, silently pulling his clothes away. He closed his eyes, ran his fingers down her stomach, between her legs. He kept his eyes closed as Trudy’s mouth moved down his body.

He willed Jamie to wake.

When he opened his eyes, she was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. She was crying.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

‘He’s sound asleep.’

‘But he’s bound to wake up, start screaming … just knowing that’s going to happen … I … it’s not you, Trudy. Honestly.’

THEIR TABLE IS SET
apart from the others, in an alcove overlooking the sea. The entire dining room faces the Pacific, but this private room sits right out over the ocean: a cube above rolling breakers. The entire structure, including the ceiling and floor, is reinforced glass. Waves crash into steep black rocks at the bottom of the cliff below.

Ciaran has booked the room for both evenings. At his request, the staff have lifted out a heavy mahogany banquet table and replaced it with a smaller round one. In the extra space, they’ve put two burgundy leather couches and a coffee table.

The four men look at the sea. Ciaran and Mitchell have stayed before. They point out islands and luxury holiday homes dotting the coast below them. David looks down at fenced tennis courts and swimming pools. He pulls up short of doing the arithmetic. The number, whatever it is, would sustain Jamie for several lifetimes.

He takes his place at the table and looks at the spread of cutlery. Silver knives, forks and spoons form a two-handed salute to a black heavy menu directly in front of him.

Inside, there is a single sheet of crisp, heavy white paper with rough edges. The words are handwritten in black ink and centred on the page. The first line is the date. Then, there is:

WHITEBAIT

PAUA

CRAB

CRAYFISH

DESSERT

There are no prices on the menu, no indication which are entrées, which are mains. David turns to the next page; it is blank.

The chatter of the others surges and recedes around him. He sits back in his chair, his hands clasped between his knees, and looks down. It’s dark, but he can just make out the shifting sea and the waves churning black on the rocks below.

He wonders, for a joyous moment, whether the meals might be included in the price of the room. They could be; that could be why there are no prices. Yes, it makes sense, the
more he thinks about it. It might be some sort of a package deal, all inclusive.

Then he remembers what the woman at reception said.
Meals and incidentals go on at the end
. He feels giddy, nausea rising for the second time that day. Still he is unable to draw his eyes away from the swirl of foam and seaweed far below the dining room.

‘What’s everyone having?’ he asks. The inside of his head feels strangely hollow; the thinking, rationalising functions settling like sludge. He wonders whether each of them might pay for his own meal. Then he laughs, just quietly, a little shrug of his shoulders as he stares down through the floor. As if. As if these guys would sit down at the end and, like careful students, tally up who had eaten what.

‘It’s a set menu.’ Ciaran’s flicking through a second folder, much thicker than the one in front of David. ‘It’s what they do. A single menu, a new one each night. They decide on it during the day, depending on what the chef can get hold of. The best ingredients on the day.’

‘Wow,’ says David.

‘He knows his stuff.’ Ciaran closes the thick menu. ‘White wine, with seafood? Everyone okay with Chablis?’

Mitchell and Neil nod, barely breaking their conversation. David nods too. What does it matter? he thinks. Cheap accommodation costing $700, gourmet food costing God knows what. What does the wine matter now?

The food comes in waves. Plate after perfect plate. A tower of whitebait — each tiny fish cooked in subtle seasonings, then stacked precariously to form a lacework pyramid. Exquisite pasta parcels filled with crabmeat, tossed in herbed
butter; each mouthful singing of the sea. Crayfish slashed in half lengthways, delicate white flesh seared to perfection, drizzled with imported truffle oil.

This is what David eats. What he tastes is thick, salty and sour; bile tainting every mouthful.

The wine helps him through the meal — he fills his glass again and again, tasting none of the French grape but thankful for the numbing effect. The bottles keep coming; Ciaran making sure that no glass sits empty. The talk swirls around trading gossip and David is grateful, at least, that he can contribute without too much thought.