I Am the Messenger (30 page)

Ritchie bypasses the pub and the betting shop the next day and actually starts looking for a job. As for me, I’ve also thought a lot about what was said last night at the river.

I’m driving people around the city, being told what to do and where to go. I watch the people. I speak with them. The weather’s nice today. The weather’s always something.

Am I whingeing?

Complaining?

No.

This is what I chose to do.

But is it what you want?
I ask.

For a few kilometers, I lie that, yes, it is. I try to convince myself that this is
exactly
what I want my life to be, but I know it isn’t. I know that driving a cab and renting a fibro shack can’t be the final answer of my life. It can’t be.

I feel like I just sat down at some point and said, “Right, this is Ed Kennedy.”

Somewhere along the line, I feel like somehow I introduced myself.

To myself.

And here I am.

“Hey, is this the right way?” my plump, suited customer questions from the backseat.

I look in the mirror and say, “I don’t know.”

The next few days are quiet. We play cards one night and I realize I need to get started on Marv. With Ritchie on his way, Marv is next in line.

I watch him from the corner of my eye, wondering,
What the hell do I do with Marv?
He works. He’s got money. Certainly, he owns the worst car in living history, but he seems satisfied enough, considering he won’t spend any of that money of his to buy a new one.

So what could Marv want?

What could he need?

With every other message I waited for the solution to come.

With Marv, I’m not sure. For him, I have a different feeling. It moves close and resides somewhere I seem to walk past all the time but never notice. I must see it every day, but there’s a big difference between seeing and finding.

In some way, Marv needs me.

I don’t know what to do.

It goes on for the next twenty-four hours, this complete indecision. New Year’s Eve has come and gone. The fireworks have swept the sky in the city. Drunken louts have decorated my cab, shrieking happiness that can only end in bedsheets soaked with the breath of beer and the weight of tomorrow.

Everyone went to Ritchie’s place this time, and I made sure to drop in around midnight. His folks were having a party. I shook Marv’s, Ritchie’s, and Simon’s hand. I kissed Audrey on the cheek and asked her how she managed to get the night off. Pure luck, apparently.

After that it was back to work and home to the Doorman in the early hours of morning. That’s where I am now. We share a prolonged celebratory drink, and I say, “Here’s to you, Mr. Doorman. May you live another year.” He drinks up, heads over to the door, and lies down.

I’m pretty circumspect for New Year’s Eve. I guess I’m not really in the mood for celebrating this year. Part of it’s thinking of my father, as he’s not here anymore for these kind of days and nights. Christmas. New Year’s. Not that he was ever sober enough to really have an impact, but it affects me nonetheless.

I take the towels in the bathroom down as well as the fairly scungy tea towel in the kitchen. That was one of my father’s idiosyncrasies, or superstitions. Never leave anything out to dry as the sun comes up for the new year. A hell of a legacy, I know, but better than nothing.

The other reason for my mood is the thought of Marv and what to do.

I sift through many things—what he’s said lately and what he’s done.

I think of the Sledge Game and the sheer patheticness of his car. And his preference for kissing the Doorman rather than forking out for the Christmas card game at his place.

Forty grand in the bank, but always pulling back when it comes to money.

Always,
I think, and the question strikes me a few nights later as I watch an old movie.

What is it that Marv intends to do with forty thousand dollars?

Yes.

I have it.

The money.

What does Marv need to do with the money?

That’s the message.

I remember what Daryl and Keith told me about Ritchie. They said I should know because he was one of my best friends. This nearly cajoles me into thinking I should also know what Marv needs with the money.
Maybe it’s right under my nose,
I wonder, but nothing is immediately apparent, and I understand that with Marv, my knowledge of him is what I have to use to get the message out of
him
.

I might not know the message, but I know Marv and the options I can go through to figure this out.

On my front porch, I sit with the Doorman and the setting sun. I consider three tactics for Marv.

Tactic 1: argue with him.

This could be done quite easily by bringing up the subject of his car and why he refuses to buy a new one.

The danger here is that Marv could become so heated that he’ll just storm out of the room and I won’t learn anything. This would be nothing short of disastrous.

The advantage of this option is, first of all, that it could be fun, and it might actually make him buy a new car.

Tactic 2: get him so mind-numbingly drunk that he spills the message without even thinking.

Dangers: in coercing Marv into a drunken stupor, I might need to put myself in the same condition. This will leave me in no state to comprehend, let alone remember, what I have to do.

Advantages: no actual message extraction involved. I’d be hoping he just comes out with it. Highly unlikely, I realize, but perhaps worth a shot.

Tactic 3: come straight out and ask.

This is the most dangerous option because it can result in Marv becoming completely obstinate (as we know very well he can be), refusing to tell me anything. If Marv feels discomfort at my sudden extra concern for him (well, let’s face it—I usually act like I couldn’t care less about him), all other hopes and opportunities could be lost.

The advantages are that it’s honest, up-front, and considerably low-maintenance. It either works or it doesn’t, largely depending on timing.

Which tactic do I pursue first?

It’s a difficult question, and only when I’ve turned it over several times do I find the right answer.

The unthinkable happens.

A fourth avenue stretches out and places itself in my hand.

Where?

The supermarket.

When?

Thursday night.

How?

Like this.

I walk in and buy a good fortnight’s worth of groceries and come out struggling with my bags. They’re already cutting into my hands as I walk out the doors, so I put them down for vital repositioning.

An old homeless man confronts me quietly with his beard, his missing teeth, and his poverty.

His expression bleeds.

He begs me timidly if I might have some change to spare. He speaks with humility on his lips.

As soon as he’s said it, his eyes buckle to the ground with shame. He’s broken me but doesn’t know it until he finds me searching my jacket for my wallet.

At that exact moment, as my fingers feel for the money, the answer comes to me. It falls down at my feet, staring up.

Of course!

The inner voice rises up and reports the answer in an instant, perfect thought. I even speak it to believe it. To remember it.

“Ask him for money.” I mouth the words barely loud enough for my own ears to pick them up and put them back inside me.

“Sorry?” the man asks, still in his quiet, humble voice.

“Ask him for money,” I say again, but this time I speak it louder. I can’t contain myself.

Out of habit, the old man says, “I’m sorry, sir.” His expression sags. “I’m sorry to be asking you for change.”

I’ve pulled a five-dollar note from my pocket, and I hand it to him.

He holds it like it’s biblical. It must be rare for him to be given notes. “God bless you.” He looks mesmerized with the money as I pick up my bags again.

“No,” I answer. “God bless
you.
” And I make my way home.

The bags slice through my hands, but I don’t mind. No, I don’t mind at all.

He works. He drinks. He plays cards. He waits for the Sledge Game all year.

This.

Is Marv’s life.

Well, that and forty grand.

On Tuesday I go over to Milla’s place to see how she’s going. I never get sick of being Jimmy, although
Wuthering Heights
is getting on my nerves a bit now. The trouble is, Heathcliff’s a completely bitter arsehole and Catherine frustrates the hell out of me. My purest hatred, however, is reserved for Joseph, the miserable, complete bastard of a servant. On top of all his preaching and carrying on, it’s hard to understand a word he says.

The best thing about the whole story is Milla. For me, it’s her in the pages. When I think of that book, I think of her. I think of her old moist eyes watching me read as she listens. I love closing the book and seeing the old lady resting in her chair. I think she’s my favorite message.

But then there’s Sophie, Father O’Reilly, and the Tatupu family. Even the Rose boys.

Okay, okay.

The Rose boys is pushing it.

I’m walking the Doorman a lot lately, and as I do it, I remember all the messages so far. In one way, I feel like I’m cheating. This kind of reminiscing is supposed to be done at the end, and I haven’t finished yet. I’ve got two messages to go. Two of my best friends.

Maybe that’s why I’m letting the previous messages return to me.

I’m afraid for Marv and for Audrey.

I’m afraid for me.

You can’t let them down,
I lecture myself as each minute shoves past.

Afraid. Afraid.

I didn’t come this far only to fail the ones I’ve known longest and care for most.

I run through them again, from Edgar Street to Ritchie.

Afraid. Afraid.

The messages give me courage.

“Any luck with the job search?” I ask Ritchie as we all get together at my place on Sunday night.

He shakes his head. “No, not yet.”

“You?” exclaims Marv. “Get a job?” He falls into fits of hysterics.

“What’s wrong with that?” Audrey interjects. Ritchie stays quiet, and we can see he’s a little hurt. Even Marv. He tries to suck the laughter back and hold on to it.

He clears his throat.

“Sorry, Ritch.”

Ritchie tucks the pain a touch deeper inside and gives us his usual, easygoing self. “No problems,” he says, and secretly I’m glad Marv’s stirred him up a bit. If anything, he’ll keep trying now just to shut Marv up and see the look on his face when he gets hired by someone. There’s a certain satisfaction in shutting up Marv.

“I’ll deal,” says Audrey.

When the game packs up it’s close to eleven. Ritchie’s already gone when Marv offers Audrey a lift home out on the front porch. For obvious reasons, she declines.

“Why not?” Marv objects.

“It’ll be quicker to walk, Marv.” Audrey tries reasoning with him. “And really, Marv, there are less mosquitoes out here than there are in
there
.” She points at the prize vehicle on the road.

“Thanks a lot.” He begins to sulk.

“Marv, do you remember what happened last time you gave me a lift? A few weeks ago?”

Grudgingly, Marv recalls it.

Audrey reminds him anyway.

“We ended up pushing it all the way to your place.” She comes up with an idea. “You need a bike in the backseat.”

“Why?”

This is getting interesting.

Almost entertaining.

“Oh, come on, Marv,” she says. “I’ll let you ponder that on your way home—especially if you break down.”

She waves goodbye and walks onto the road.

“Bye, Audrey,” I whisper. She’s gone.

When Marv gets in his car, I hope for the inevitable, and it happens.

The engine fails seven or eight times, and I walk across the lawn, open the passenger door, and get in.

Marv looks at me.

“What are you doing, Ed?”

Quietly. Earnestly.

I speak.

I say, “I need your help, Marv.”

He attempts to start the car again. No luck.

“With what?” he asks. He tries again. “You got something needs fixing?”

“No, Marv.”

“You want me to clip the Doorman for you?”

“Clip?”

“Yeah, you know—whack him for you.”

“What are you, Capone?”

Marv admires his own humor and still persists with the key, which irritates me no end.

“Marv,” I say, “could you stop with the key and be serious for a minute or two? Would you do me that honor?”

He goes to try it again, but I reach over and grab the key from the ignition.

“Marv,” I whisper. A whisper the size of a shout. “I need your help. I need money.”

The moment slows, and I can hear us breathing.

A minute’s silence passes.

This is the death of Marv’s and my usual trivial relationship.

It truly feels like something has died.

It doesn’t take much longer for Marv to get interested. The mention of money will do that to him. His eyebrows tense, and he looks over at me, trying to find a way in. He doesn’t look too forthcoming.

He says, “How much, Ed?”

And I erupt.

I rip the car door open.

I slam it.

I lean back in and point my finger at the friend behind the wheel.

“Well, I should have known!” I get stuck into him. “You’re the stingiest bastard, Marv….” I point at him as ruthlessly as I can. “I can’t believe this!”

Silence.

Street and silence.

I turn and rest back against the car as Marv gets out and walks around to me.

“Ed?”

“I’m sorry.”
This is going well,
I think. I shake my head.

“No, you’re not,” he says.

“Marv, I just thought—”

He cuts me off.

“Ed, I haven’t…” His words trail off.

“I just thought you could—”

“Ed, I don’t have the money.”

This is somewhat of a shock.

“Why not, Marv?” I step forward and face him. “Why the hell not?”

“I spent it.”

His voice is somewhere else. It doesn’t come from his mouth. It seems to show up from somewhere next to him. Vacant.

“On what, Marv?”

I’m getting agitated now.

“Well, not on anything.” His voice is coming back to him. It’s his again. “I put it in a fund and can’t withdraw it for at least a few years. I put in, I earn interest.” He’s very serious now. Pensive. “I can’t take it out.”

“At all?”

“No.”

“Not even in an emergency?”

“I don’t think so.”

I become loud again. My aggression seems to strip the street naked. “Why in the hell did you do that, Marv?”

Marv cracks.

He cracks by walking hurriedly around the car and getting back in, behind the wheel. Holding on.

Quietly, Marv cries.

His hands appear to be dripping on the wheel. The tears grip his face. They hold on and slide reluctantly for his throat.

I go around.

“Marv?”

I wait.

“What’s happening, Marv?”

He turns his head, and his disheveled eyes angle for mine.

“Get in,” he says. “I’ll show you something.”

On the fourth attempt, the Ford starts and Marv drives me through town. Tears stream his face. Less reluctant now. They veer down. They look drunk.

We pull up at a small weatherboard shack, and Marv gets out. I follow.

“Remember this?” he asks.

I remember.

“Suzanne Boyd,” I say.

The words stagger slowly from Marv’s mouth. Half his face is trodden with darkness, covered, but I can still make out the outlines, the forms.

“When her family left town,” he says, “there was a reason they just disappeared….”

“Oh God,” I try to say, but the words are inhaled. They don’t find their way out of me.

Marv speaks one last time.

When he moves, a streetlight stabs him, and the words flow out like blood.

He says, “The kid’s about two and a half.”

We get back in the car and sit in silence for a long time, and Marv begins to shiver uncontrollably. He has a tanned face, Marv, from working outside, but he’s as white as paper as we sit in his car.

Now it all makes sense.

I see it.

Like words being typed across his face.

Punched in.

Black on white.

Yes, it all makes sense.

The pathetic car.

The obsessive watchfulness and abhorrent vigilance with money.

Even his argumentative disposition, to use an even more
Wuthering Heights
kind of phrase. Marv is suffering, completely alone, and he uses all of those things to sweep the guilt from his stomach every day.