Homecoming (17 page)

How would she react if he told her now what he had
planned on the evening she had suffered the stroke? Could the information possibly make any difference? Lessen her anger and frustration? Make her somehow understand that he valued her and that she was a worthy person? Martin figures that there is a remote possibility of finding a way through the debris of her collapsed mind, to a faint response.

But no. Nora is imitating him by plucking individual blades of grass and piling them on the rug. She waves to every jogger and cyclist. There is an energetic restlessness about her that demands a more robust form of entertainment. She looks disapprovingly at Martin and sprinkles bits of grass over his head. Then she giggles. ‘You look funny!’

Martin brushes himself with his hands. He had expected her behaviour to be much worse than this display of childishness. ‘Would you like to go home now?’

Suddenly she loses her playful demeanour. ‘I don’t have a home,’ she frowns.

‘I mean, go back to the hostel.’ He regrets asking and feels a pang of guilt. ‘It will soon be dark.’

Nora takes another pinch of grass and scatters it in front of Martin’s face. She stretches out on the rug, her face pointing upwards at the sky.

‘What do you want to do?’

‘Give you wings and a heart,’ Nora replies.

Martin looks away. She makes him sound dull and callous. But he is irritated by the wings. Secretly he reveres the concept of love, but apart from the extravagant hyperbole of his youth, those passionate meetings with Moira, he has never been able to speak of love. But he does remember a
conversation with My-Kim, as they lay sweaty and naked on the bed in a darkened room. The unfamiliarity of silence outside had played on his nerves, more than any noise of shells or gunfire.

‘I hope we can continue to see each other. Keep things the way they are,’ Martin had said, avoiding her stare. He cursed himself silently for sounding so unconvincing.

She opened a packet of cigarettes he had brought for her and slowly lit one with a lighter that had been a gift from an American soldier. ‘You have time to hope?’

The question annoyed Martin. It made him sound naïve, as though he did not entirely grasp the complexity of the situation that had brought them together. ‘Don’t you?’

‘In war there is no hope. All I want to do is feed my children. I worry all the time. Who will look after them if I am killed or injured?’ She disengaged herself from his embrace and sat up. ‘A woman like me can never hope about other things…about men and love. You are here today, kind and full of promises. But tomorrow may be different.’ She shrugged her shoulders and blew rings of smoke aimed at the ceiling. ‘Look how quickly the smoke goes away,’ she observed, as though drawing a parallel with the transient nature of their association. ‘Some day I will wonder if you were really here.’

She was right, of course. Soon after, Martin had severed the tie, without even the courtesy of an explanation. Barry’s death had tainted him. That’s what it felt like. So he’d relegated My-Kim to the collage of memory and desire. Years later, Martin knew that he should have met her, and knew what he should have said.
I don’t feel anything for you
any more. I don’t know if I ever have.
That would have sounded callous, but it would have been honest. My-Kim would have probably accepted this without a fuss. She had said once that only memories endure and the sadness and pain remain. But Martin had managed to remain morally aloof and non-judgemental until the day Barry was killed. And then he was left tottering on the edge of a frightful darkness and delusion.

He looks at Nora, at who she is now, and wonders whether My-Kim might still be alive in some remote village, wrapped up in memories as she accelerates towards old age. He tries to see her—hunched, wrinkled and slow. The dull reflection of untold stories in her eyes. She would probably be selective about what she told her grandchildren. Tales of heroism, courage and the way a foreign army had been defeated and forced to leave their land. But nothing about the club or the dark rooms where she collected gifts and earned her money. In all the minds of those who were there, those aspects of the turbulent years mostly languish, of necessity. He wonders if she is bitter. And—he can’t help it—does he ever figure in her recollections? As one of the enemies? Or simply as a faded face among the men she had known?

Martin concedes that Nora is right. He needs wings. He has been cold and selfish.
Has been…is…

She lies with her eyes open. They have not shared this kind of closeness for a very long time and yet he can sense the emotional gulf between them.

He says softly, ‘I’m sorry.’ It is not quite what he means, but he wants to say that she has moved him.

A bare flicker of the eyelids indicates that Nora has heard him. ‘Sebastian can give me a baby. He can do anything.’

Martin feels an unreasoned resentment towards Sebastian. He is unable to figure out a way to dispel him. ‘Do you remember anything about the evening you had the stroke?’ He is uncertain about the appropriateness of the question or whether it has any significance for her.

‘You were late.’

‘Anything else?’

She thinks for a moment. ‘I put some water to boil. It made angry noises.’

‘Do you know what I had planned for that evening?’

Nora sits up and stares at the river.

‘We were to have a special dinner. Steaks, potatoes and salad, with a bottle of shiraz. I didn’t tell you why. It was a surprise.’ It strikes Martin that he has never opened that wine. The bottle lies buried somewhere in a cupboard. ‘I was delayed by the traffic.’ He is unable to judge if she is listening or making sense of what he is saying. Nora does not move. ‘After dinner, I was going to ask you to move in with me.’ The words sound hollow, as though he is retrospectively mocking his own intentions.

A canoe glides past. The rowers stroke smoothly as the oars dip into the water in silent unison.

‘They are going home,’ Nora observes. ‘To their children.’

‘They might be a little too young to have children.’

Nora glowers at him.

‘There is something else I have to tell you. Please try and understand.’ Martin dreads this.

She presses the palms of her hands against her ears and buries her face between her knees.

The feeling of helplessness returns. His thoughts wrap around the fixed image of a solitary woman at a window, gazing longingly outside, imagining and waiting.

Martin waits until Nora relaxes again. ‘You know my son, Frank.’ This time she listens. ‘He and his partner have moved to the country. They are expecting their first child.’

‘He doesn’t like me,’ she says dully. ‘Didn’t speak to me. Didn’t want what I had cooked.’

Martin thinks back. Yes—but so long ago—Frank had dropped in and pointedly ignored Nora. He had not expected her to be there. Brusquely he refused her offer to stay for tea. He gulped a beer, asked Martin some questions about a secondhand car he was interested in buying, and then left abruptly without saying goodbye to Nora. And, though angry, Martin had not confronted his son.

‘That’s not true!’ Martin protests now, half-heartedly. ‘They’ve invited you to visit them. Would you like to go? Maria would love to meet you.’

Nora nods cautiously. ‘I will be good. I promise. Did she say she wanted to meet me?’

‘She is very keen to see you.’

‘Really wants to meet me?’ Nora repeats incredulously.

‘Maria has an interesting background.’ Martin watches her closely. ‘Her parents are Vietnamese.’

‘I love the Vietnamese!’ Nora gushes extravagantly. ‘They are my favourite people. I am cold.’

‘Shall we go?’

‘Look! Another boat!’ In the fading light the solitary rower is little more than a silhouette. He steers his canoe in a straight line along the middle of the river. ‘He is journeying home,’ Nora observes wistfully. ‘Even shadows have homes.’

They watch until the canoe is swallowed up by the gathering dusk. Martin folds the rug and then wheels Nora back to the ute. They drive back to the hostel in silence.

Martin has been surprised by the way Nora adapted to the outside world, relishing the crowds. Her delight with whatever she encountered has left him feeling culpable. He blames himself for making a judgement of what is ‘normal’ and applying it to Nora as if she were to remain permanently disabled. It had not occurred to him to work more actively towards her recovery. Initially the doctors were non-commital about her long-term prospects, and Martin has not undertaken any futher enquiries. He is appalled by his insensitivity Were his flashes of generosity simply responses to the unease he felt about keeping her at a distance?

Finding a place for her was itself an achievement, given the waiting lists in most hostels. Martin could have continued to care for her at home, but had convinced himself that it wouldn’t be viable. Institutionalising Nora was convenient, and he had eagerly returned to a solitary life.

Perhaps—Martin hardly dares think it—perhaps Nora can live with him.

Except for a solitary vehicle, the street is empty. Martin slows down, driving close to the edge of the footpath. He is almost near Glenda’s house before he realises that a police car is parked in front of his gate under the streetlight.

Both the policemen are tactful and solicitous. They have been unable to contact him by telephone. There has been an incident involving Frank. ‘Shall we go inside, sir?’

The exact details are not entirely clear. But Frank has shot himself.

Martin receives the news silently, his face shaping disbelief and then pain.

‘Your son’s okay,’ the sergeant hastily assures him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘We can only assume that at the last minute he aborted a suicide attempt.’

Martin murmurs when they offer to make him a hot drink. He is numb, as if his entire emotional network has shut down.

He contacts Maria on her mobile number. She gives him the bare details. She is at one of the hospitals in Ballarat; her voice is toneless. Frank is in a critical but stable condition.

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ he says. Sluggishly he searches for Moira’s number. When he calls her she is already at Brisbane airport, waiting for a flight to Melbourne. She will rent a car at Tullamarine. He can hear the strain in her voice.

After the policemen leave, Martin sits in the kitchen for a few minutes, focusing on what must be done, rather than imagine,
picture,
what might have happened. He reminds himself that Frank is alive.

Hurriedly he tosses some clothes and toiletries into a small suitcase and grabs a sleeping bag. On the way he stops at an ATM and a petrol station. The evening is cool, but without winter’s sharpness. For years Martin has not driven long distances at night. He has a reluctance to venture into unpopulated areas, a lingering fear of being out in the open in the darkness.

NIGHT WAS THE
ultimate equaliser. The troops felt vulnerable and quietened down. The effectiveness of their weaponry was largely neutralised by lack of visibility. They listened, wondered and locked themselves in their private worlds of hope and prayers. There were dreams of lives without violence, of events that did not require courage. They were sensitive to noises. A snake sliding over fallen leaves could make the same sound as an enemy soldier crawling on his belly. A cacophony of animals and birds could stretch the
nerves a little further, making them tighten their grips on gun butts and triggers. Insects hummed carelessly and the darkness became deeper as night took over the terrain.

‘You can never tell how close they are or whether they are there at all,’ Colin had whispered to Martin one evening, peering into the blackness from behind the mound of sandbags. ‘They’re bloody good at the waiting game.’

Martin felt the familiar tightening of muscles under the rib cage. He hated night duty. The Vietcong preyed on their patience, teasing and mocking them with inaction. There was no established pattern of strategic behaviour. There could suddenly be a mortar attack or a burst of gunfire. Sometimes, nothing all night. They came stealthily and waited near the edge of the jungle and then left at dawn, having won the psychological battle.

MARTIN HAS DRIVEN
cautiously on the highway, keeping to the left lane all the way and allowing other vehicles to overtake him. He does not seek to avoid what might confront him now.

At the hospital Maria’s parents hover around their daughter. She is in shock. Given her advanced state of pregnancy, the doctor on emergency is concerned and has instructed a nurse to stay near her. Martin embraces Maria and speaks to her at length before he makes his way to the Intensive Care Unit.

Frank’s heartbeat is being monitored and he is breathing through an oxygen mask. The bleeding has stopped, a doctor assures Martin. A tiny fragment from the right side of the
head has been ripped off, at the point where the bullet grazed the skull.

Even a calculated and precise shot could not have guaranteed less damage.

MARIA SITS STUBBORNLY
on a chair, staring at the wall in front of her. Martin has convinced Nguyen and Luu to stay in Daylesford for the night, and they’ve gone on to the house. ‘I’ll bring Maria home,’ he promised. Now he sits next to her. They do not speak for some time. Then Martin feels a touch on his arm.

‘I’m to blame,’ she says flatly. Martin puts his arm around her shoulders. ‘I am to blame,’ she repeats. Then she tells him.

It began, she says, with an argument about how much furniture there should be in the lounge. Maria preferred the sitting area to be sparse and functional, but let Frank put a large table against one of the walls. ‘I want to put Dad’s war game on it,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve cleaned all the pieces. They look brand new!’

That was not what Maria was expecting. She didn’t want anything to do with war in the house—no painting, picture or artefact with a martial theme. ‘I don’t want my children brought up with any hint of violence around them,’ she’d insisted. Frank had become increasingly agitated, but Maria remained adamant.

‘It’s only a bloody game! It’s something Dad spent months making. It’s a family heirloom, a reminder of his younger days!’ By now he was gesticulating wildly and shouting.

Maria tried to reason with him. ‘Our families have suffered enough because of war, Frank. There’s no need for a
reminder. It can never be a game. I’m sorry, Frank, but that thing is not coming in here.’

He had rushed out of the house, slamming the door.

Maria had been on the mobile, calling her mother, when she heard the noise. It was a sharp crack that split the quietness of the afternoon. She thought it was Frank’s car backfiring, but she went outside to check anyway.

He was in the shed, slumped over the workbench, his hands spread across the felt-covered board which had broken in two at the point where he had fallen. There was a trickle of blood across the surface of the board, smearing some of the model soldiers and dripping onto the floor.

‘It was all so stupid!’ She clenches her fists and shakes her head fiercely. ‘So stupid and avoidable!’

Martin does not try to distract Maria or make any effort to stop her crying. He gets her a drink and sits down. When she stops sobbing, he tells her about the revolver.

THEY DO NOT SPEAK
during the forty-minute drive to Daylesford. He glances at her several times. She stares straight ahead. He feels her coldness towards him.

Martin drives slowly, concentrating on the winding road. The image comes to him of Frank pulling the trigger with the cold nozzle of the revolver pressed against his temple. He cannot remain indifferent any more.

By the time they reach the house, Luu has prepared a meal—egg noodles with whatever she found in the fridge and pantry. They coax Maria to eat a few morsels before she goes to bed.

After Martin finishes dinner, he phones Moira again. She has landed at Tullamarine and is about to rent a car for the journey to Ballarat. Martin persuades her to spend the night in Melbourne.

He decides to sleep in the nursery. A large cot has appeared in the middle of the room. Its emptiness strikes him, and he grips the wooden frame. As he stands there, a feeling of strength surges through him. He feels calm. And the image of a child has an anchoring effect on him. Is this the reason Frank is alive? Something must have made him turn the gun away.

Outside, the light of the moon bathes the night. Martin can’t tell how long he has stood there. He knows he is in the process of relinquishing the blighting effect of the war. Those years were part of his life and have delivered their punishment. He has been chastened and imprisoned in his own private hell. But now the cell door is open and he is left to cross a deserted yard. This is like a prelude to stepping into other kinds of imperfections in the outside world. There is no other way that he can choose.

Thoughtfully he steps back into the lounge, which is now flooded by the silvery light. Martin examines the new curtains. He can dimly see the furniture. Against a wall is a large empty table. The item of discontent, he figures. He tiptoes into the corridor and gropes his way to the front door.

The shed is unlocked. The police found the revolver and the boxes of bullets and have taken them away. Under the glare of the neon lights Martin approaches the workbench. He steps on one of the model soldiers—they’re scattered on the cemented floor. Now one lies squashed flat under the weight of his foot.

The board itself is broken and the features of the landscape are severely damaged. He steps on another soldier, and yet another. Martin looks around him and finds a pile of empty hessian sacks in a corner. He picks up the pieces and dumps them all in one of the sacks. With excessive force he smashes the blood-stained board with his heel, breaking it into bits that will fit into the sack.

The dice are on the floor in a corner. He rolls them in the palm of his right hand and throws them onto the workbench. A pair of sixes. Maximum result. Go out on a winning note. He tosses them into the rubble in the bag. Satisfied there are no stray pieces left anywhere, Martin ties the sack with a piece of string and carries it out to the ute. Then he switches off the lights in the shed and locks the door.

The night is cold. He forces himself to linger in the darkness. The silence fills with the sound of his breathing. Slowly a thin mist seems to roll in from the distance and blur his vision.

THE NATURAL EBULLIENCE
of Maria’s voice is gone, that breathing, walking, talking relish of life that Martin admired. Now her positivity is veiled by a wariness of the unexpected, and of the frailty of human behaviour, which is what ultimately determines the direction and quality of life.

Frank is proving to be difficult. He won’t see anyone the next day, complaining of nausea, headache and tiredness. Then, after a day’s isolation, he asks for Maria and his mother.

Martin has only briefly seen Moira in the hospital. She was aloof and reserved and refused his offer of lunch. The
awkwardness of the meeting lifted when Maria and her parents appeared. But then Martin had realised that Moira was taking the three of them out for lunch and he had slunk away.

By now Moira must know about the revolver, and she will be holding him largely responsible.

But at least Frank’s rehabilitation is already progressing well. A second specialist has confirmed that he will not require a bone graft. There is no permanent damage to the blood vessels and the nerves on the side of his head. The suturing has been successful and the wound is beginning to heal.

AFTER HE IS MOVED
out of Intensive Care, Frank is ready to see his father. Even now, though, he is sullen and hostile. Martin sits by his bed and tries to start a conversation. But Frank’s silence wears away at him.

‘Would you rather I went away?’ Martin asks without any animosity.

‘No, Dad.’

And so they begin to talk. ‘I’m sorry about the trouble I’ve caused.’ Frank gets it out at last. ‘But…I couldn’t go through with it.’

He looks at his father for understanding. Martin reaches out and grips his hand.

‘I thought of Maria and the baby. You and Mum. That overcame the rage and the helplessness of the moment. I just couldn’t do it.’ He moves his head slightly. Grimaces. ‘Dad, what’s wrong with me? Why am I like this?’

‘I can only guess, mate. But whatever it is has to be overcome. You now have very serious responsibilities. You can’t turn away from them.’

‘There was guilt, Dad. Fear. A hollowness in my stomach…like plunging downwards from a great height.’ Weakly Frank squeezes his father’s hand.

Martin stays in the ward until Frank falls asleep. By the time he leaves, it is as though someone has handed him a blueprint for what lies ahead.

IT
‘
S THE LAST TIME
. Martin knows this. He sits motionless in front of the screen as it blinks its indefatigable message:
PLACE YOUR BETS.

But he has no inclination to play the pokies. He has simply wandered into this place of empty time. Now a blonde and a man in a dark jacket and tie are looking in his direction.

Martin stares at the screen, his mind racing towards a future that unfurls with clarity. He will go to the bank and the estate agents and do the business of selling and buying. He will see Nora, and all the people who must be seen for him to bring her home. He will say goodbye to Andrew. He will learn to grow and tend things, with the trees tall around him.

‘Are you all right? Sir?’ It’s the blonde woman.

‘Yes.’ Martin looks at her absently and she retreats.

Martin thinks about Frank, and Fate’s generosity towards them. He picks up the tumbler of coins and walks to the cashier’s counter.

I’ve placed my bets, he thinks, for the rest of my life.