House of Sticks (4 page)

When the soup was heated to bubbling she ladled out the kids' first to let it cool. She made toast from a loaf that was also in the freezer. Spread the pieces with butter and put them on a plate. Ran out again into the cold and picked some parsley. Chopped it and put it in a little dish and set it on the table with parmesan cheese and bowls and spoons. Then she stood over the spare place, hesitating.

‘Doug?' she called, trying to make her voice light. ‘Would you like to stay for some soup?'

No answer.

She went into the living room. Pete was in the far corner, doing something on the computer. Doug was on the couch in front of the gas heater with Edie and Louie squashed together into his lap, pyjama-ed legs dangling. He was reading to them. Bonnie watched his work-battered hand turn the page, his eyebrows go up as he put on a silly voice. She saw the open-mouthed focus of her children, the clean glow of their freshly bathed faces. The way their heads rested against his jumper.

‘
Little pig, little pig
,' growled Doug, ‘
let me come in
.'

The poor man
, Bonnie thought.
He must be so lonely
. The image came to her of Doug as a child, lining up with his raggedy brothers and sisters to take their twenty-cent pieces. Heading out into the cold streets of the country town. Doug running, young and lithe, eyebrows not yet grizzled nor face cragged and pitted with the life that was to come.

She waited for a break in his reading. ‘Excuse me.'

‘Yes, Missus Bonnie?' Cracking that sly grin.

‘Would you like some soup?'

‘Yes, please, Missus Bonnie.' Bobbing his head.

‘Well, it's ready now.'

Louie tapped the page. ‘Read, Douggie.'

Doug looked at Bonnie. There was a pause, just the burr of the heater.

‘Read, Douggie,' said Louie.

‘As soon as you've finished your story.' Bonnie went out and back down the hallway.

‘I got an email from Mickey.'

Pete turned from the washing-up. ‘Yeah?'

‘She wants me to do some recording with her. Must be doing a new album.'

‘That's great.'

‘Yeah.' Bonnie picked up a missed glass and took it over, slipped it into the sink. ‘It is, isn't it. I should do it.'

‘What do you mean?' Pete rinsed the glass and put it down on the folded tea towel. ‘Of course you should do it.'

‘It's just …' She sighed. ‘Yeah, of course I should, it's just that I don't know how easy it'll be to leave Jess. It should only be a couple of days' work but, you know, I'll need to feed her. I could take her in with me, but what if she cries? And she'll distract me.'

‘You could leave her with me. Couldn't you express? How many feeds is she having?'

Bonnie took the dishcloth and wiped down the table. Her earlier excitement was gone. She thought of expressing milk, the whole tedious business, endless boiling of pots of equipment, waiting for a chance to sit down with the pump, trying to time it right so there was still enough for the actual feeds. ‘I don't know, Pete,' she said. ‘It all seems too hard.'

‘Bon.' He pulled out the plug, turned towards her. ‘You should do it. It's an opportunity. People need to know you're still out there. Available.' He pulled down the sleeves of his shirt. ‘I think it would be really good for you. Worth the effort.'

‘Yeah, I know.' She tossed the cloth on the bench. The tension of the dinner, of putting up with Doug and his yammering and gesticulations, of riding the alternating waves of pity and irritation — it all sat in her, dragged at her, pulled her down.

‘Did you reply? Did you say yes?'

‘Not yet.'

‘Well, I think you should. Get the dates and then we'll work out how to deal with the kids.'

‘Okay.' She went to him, leaned into his chest. His arms were warm. She could hear his heart beating. Behind him the last of the water gurgled out of the sink and then there was nothing, the precious quiet of one of their short evenings.

She ran herself a bath. As it filled she moved in and out of the bathroom, tidying, doing things now because she knew that afterwards, her body warmed and loosened by the hot water, all she'd want to do was crawl into bed. She kicked the scatters of dirty kids' clothes into a pile, bundled them into her arms and took them to the laundry. She picked up all the bath toys and stuffed them in their net bag and tried unsuccessfully to stick its exhausted suction cups onto the tiles. She flossed and brushed her teeth. She looked in the mirror. Stood for a moment. Twisted off the bath taps and went to find Pete.

He was on the computer. She sat down behind him, on the arm of the couch. ‘Pete.'

‘Mm?'

‘Doug doesn't need to turn up so early in the mornings.'

‘I think he likes to.'

‘Yeah, I know. But …' She was trying to speak slowly, to keep it a normal conversation. ‘If he doesn't actually start until eight-thirty or nine, he doesn't really need to turn up at seven, does he?'

Pete tapped something on the keyboard. ‘No. But I think he likes to. I think he's staying somewhere pretty miserable — some friend of a friend's place. He calls it a bungalow, but it sounds like it's pretty much a glorified shed. It's probably freezing.'

‘Really?' She pulled her arms around herself. She got a glimpse again of that boy running, his clear, undamaged face. ‘Poor guy. That sounds terrible.' She stood up. ‘Still, though,' she said. ‘It kind of makes it hard for me, having him hanging around. This morning I had to stop him from taking Louie out to the workshop.'

‘Really?' He tapped the keys again, resettled his hand on the mouse.

She refolded her arms. ‘I know you're in the middle of something, but I feel like we should talk about this.' Her voice was creeping upwards, getting thin. ‘Before … well, before he's back again in the morning and I have to deal with it all again.'

Pete turned to her. ‘He's harmless, Bonnie. He's great with the kids. They love him. And so what if he comes a bit early? We're up, aren't we?'

‘What, so you're okay with him taking them out to the workshop? Without you?' She tried to bring her voice back down. ‘Because I'm not. It's not safe out there, there's dangerous stuff, and I don't think the kids should be in there with anybody other than you or me.'

There was a pause. ‘Fair enough,' he said. ‘You're right.'

Another pause. ‘Well, thanks. Good.' Bonnie felt out of breath. She glanced down at the rug. It needed vacuuming.
Just leave it now
, she thought. But she couldn't help going on. ‘So … um, will you, you know … say something to him then?'

He turned back to the computer. She heard him puff out his cheeks, as if dealing with a pestering child. ‘Okay.'

She stood behind him, watching him move the mouse, the line of his shoulders.
Leave him alone
. But still she kept talking. ‘Well, I hope you will, Pete, because I think this is important.'

‘Look, Bon.' He turned again, his voice louder this time, and short. ‘I'll try, okay? But it's not easy — he's fragile, you know? I don't want to upset him.'

‘Upset him?' The anger came rushing, ready. ‘Upset
him
?' Her voice was stretched, strained. ‘He's working for you, Pete. You've got to be clear about where the two of you — where all of us — stand. I mean we can't be held to ransom by this person who turns up at our house whenever he feels like it to take our kids off to play with the bloody saws and helps himself to beer from the fridge because we're worried that we might upset him if we — I don't know — demand a bit of respect?' A faltering laugh broke from her lips. ‘I mean, can't you see how ridiculous this situation is?'

Pete didn't move. His hands lay in his lap.

‘Can't you?' She tried to unfold herself, open her arms and reach to him, but she was stuck there, unbending, a pillar.

‘I've got to do these emails.' Pete went back to the screen.

In the bath Bonnie looked down at her body. Heavy breasts half afloat. The slack flesh of her thighs. The rack of her hips. Her stomach with its web of stretch marks, with the trench-like hollow that showed if she went to sit up, where the muscles hadn't fully joined together again. She put her head back and stared up at the ceiling.

Doug was Pete's friend. An old friend. What did she want to be: one of those women who gradually took over, made their partner cut ties with everyone from the life they had prior to the relationship? A ball-breaker? Or was she a brat? A princess, who couldn't stand having her territory invaded, who wanted everything her way?

She sat up and pulled out the plug. Got out and dried herself, put on her pyjamas and went into the kitchen. Took down the bottle of gin from the top of the fridge and poured a slug into one of the kids' plastic cups that was sitting in the draining rack. Knocked it back in two gulps, like medicine. Rinsed the cup and returned it to the rack. Switched off the light.

By the time she'd checked on the kids and made her way down the hall to the bedroom the alcohol had started to warm her, bring her partway unclenched. She fell into bed without even putting on the light. She almost wished she'd said goodnight to Pete, apologised. She thought about getting up again, going out to him. Thought about him coming back into bed with her, them both saying sorry, their bodies pulling close in the darkness. She fell asleep thinking about it.

Next morning she was up early again. She did try to return to bed after feeding Jess, but it was no good. She lay alongside Pete, eyes scratchy, that faint pain in her throat that always came with tiredness, but every time she dipped towards actual sleep she'd start awake again, checking the clock. Five-thirty. Five forty-five. Six a.m. At six-fifteen she got up. Crept down to the bathroom. Shut the door carefully. Ran the shower. At least she'd be up and dressed when Doug arrived, and not caught in her pyjamas again.

He came at seven-thirty. Everyone was in the kitchen. Edie and Louie eating porridge at the table, Jess kicking in her baby chair, Pete filling the coffee maker at the bench. Doug's face appeared in the glass pane of the back door, and Bonnie was the only one to see at first. He fixed her with that grin of his; down his head went, and up, like a cockatoo's.

‘There's Doug,' she said, and hated herself for the sinking in her stomach, the forced awful smile that seemed to be all she could give him.
Just be nice
.
It's not that hard. He doesn't mean any harm.

‘G'day Douggie,' said Pete, opening the door.

‘Mornin', Boss.' Doug strode in. ‘Mornin', Missus Bonnie. Mornin', kids.' He settled himself in a chair and stuck his face out towards the children. ‘Porridge!' he said. ‘What a treat! You kids don't know how lucky you are.'

Louie and Edie giggled into their bowls.

‘There's some left,' said Pete. ‘Do you want it, Douggie?'

‘Oh-ho-ho,' went Doug, flapping his elbows. ‘I feel like all me Christmases have come at once. I haven't had porridge for years.' He stretched his features in a look of delirious joy and leaned back in his chair.

Pete took a bowl over to him. ‘Sugar?'

‘Yes, please, Boss.'

She stood by the sink and watched as Pete got the jar of brown sugar down from the high cupboard and took it over to the table. She saw the craning of the twins' necks. She steeled herself for what was coming.

‘Can I have sugar on my porridge?'

‘Can I have sugar on my porridge too?'

‘Please?'

‘Please?'

‘What?' said Doug, heaping spoonfuls from the jar. ‘Haven't you got some already?'

She opened her mouth, moved forward, but Pete was there.

‘Just a tiny bit,' he said. ‘Special treat.' And he took Louie's spoon and dug out some sugar with it.

‘Pete.' Bonnie's voice, tight and mean, rang in her own ears.
You're a nag
, she thought. ‘Pete, you know we don't usually —'

‘It's just a tiny bit, Bonnie, come on.' Pete moved on to Edie's bowl. ‘And a little bit for you, Edie-Pedie.'

‘Yeah, but you know we don't give them sugar. They've already got honey on there. And there's sultanas in it. It's sweet enough.'

‘Bonnie.' Pete gave her a look. ‘It's just this once.'

Just leave it
.
You're making things worse
. But she couldn't help it. She began stacking dishes by the sink. Her hands were shaking. ‘There's no such thing as just this once,' she heard herself say, in that pinched voice.

‘Watch out!' said Doug behind her. ‘Have I got everyone in trouble?'

Bonnie didn't need to see. She knew he'd have that grin on again, his head waggling, spoon raised. She was rigid with anger. All she could feel, in the whole room, was him, his presence, taking up all the space. She dropped a fistful of cutlery in the sink, turned and walked with her eyes on the floor to Jess in her chair. She scooped up the baby into her arms and then continued stiffly past the table and out of the room.