Opportunity
Authors: Charlotte Grimshaw
Charlotte Grimshaw
Charlotte Grimshaw is the author of three critically acclaimed
novels,
Provocation
and
Guilt
, published in Britain and New
Zealand, and
Foreign City
, published in New Zealand in 2005.
She has been named by the
New Zealand Listener
as one of
the ten best New Zealand writers under forty. In 2000 she
was awarded the Buddle Findlay Sargeson Fellowship for
literature. She has been a double finalist and prizewinner in
the
Sunday Star-Times
short story competition, and in 2006
she won the Bank of New Zealand Katherine Mansfield award
for short fiction. She lives in Auckland.
For Conrad, Madeleine and Leo
And as one of the old playwrights said, what was virtue
compared to an opportunity?
Frank Sargeson,
En Route
There were red swirls. I fought my way out of them. A
metal object was eased out of my throat. They were asking a
question.
'Nine,' I said, after a long time.
They conferred. They tried again. 'Mr James? Jack? What is
your level of pain on a scale of one to ten?'
'Fifteen,' I groaned. Above me shapes loomed and split off
from one another. I heard mumbled words. The pain came at
me again. I twisted and sighed. Then the red swirls again. I
dreamed I was walking towards my wife. I was following her
down a long corridor, through red light. Out the window was
a red plain. She laughed and asked, 'How much did you love
me, on a scale of one to ten?'
'Zero!' I shouted. 'Zero, you cow!'
I woke in a room in which everything looked liquid. A
plastic bag above me reflected sunlight. There was a window,
a square of blue sky, sparkling dust in the air. There were
shining chrome bars. When I turned my head I felt a tug — a
tube had been inserted in my nose. Other tubes emerged from
the bedclothes and ran down to the floor. I peered over. Two
bottles — one red, one clear — stood upright on the floor.
They were connected to me. How disgusting, I thought, in a
light, tired, teary way. The red swirls had gone. Everything
was too bright.
I lay thinking. Sometimes I moved parts of my body, in a
cautious, experimental fashion. I remembered my wife, the
way she'd skipped and danced through the loops of my pain.
She hadn't really been there, of course. My sister Karen had
volunteered to help me, now I was separated from my wife
and, as Karen put it, 'all alone'.
Karen sat by my bed. She filled my water jug and punched
her fist into my pillows. She chattered about her family. Then
her voice deepened slightly and she said, 'It'll take you a long
time to get over this.'
'How long?' I asked.
'You'll be exhausted for
months
.'
'I've got to go back to work.'
Karen looked secretive, as if that might never be possible.
She said, 'Did they tell you? The operation destroys the
stomach muscles. You'll have a pot belly for the rest of your
life.'
'I'll have to wear a corset,' I said, wearily.
There was a short silence.
'Of course in Auckland it's too hot for a corset.'
I looked at her. 'Oh yes,' I said.
'I'll be back soon,' she promised.
Don't hurry, I thought. I said goodbye without smiling. She
would tell you I've always been like that. Rude. Male.
Ungrateful. She stood above me, in the liquidy light. She's still
one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. Big blue eyes,
blonde hair. She has the face of an angel, people used to say.
And she's so good. She goes to church every Sunday, works
behind the stall at the church fair, runs tirelessly after her kids.
And still finds time to stand at the bedside of her elder
brother . . .
The surgeon came. He complained about the petrol tax. I
waited, not wanting to ask. Finally he remembered to say,
'Everything went very well. You'll be a new man. You'll just
need time to recuperate. And some check-ups after that.'
I stopped listening. Something in me subsided. I realised
I'd been afraid.
I slept for a day and a night. The next night I began to look
about my room. There was a small TV on a metal bracket that
I drew up close to my face. I watched reruns of old shows far
into the night. Out my window I could see the city lights.
In the morning two nurses took me, tubes and all, into a
bathroom and washed me with a shower nozzle. I slept after
this ordeal and woke to a terrible wall of sound. Panicked, I
struggled up, looked out, and saw twenty people grouped in
the dayroom, singing hymns. When the song ended I shouted,
'Shut up!' There was a shocked silence. Then someone quietly
closed my door. I laughed. I almost felt myself again. I arranged
the bedclothes and straightened my fresh pyjamas. A nurse
took out some of my tubes and I feasted on half a cup of soup.
I threw it all up again, but pressed on later, with half a cup of
tea. It was Sunday. Soon Karen would come, fresh from
church, with her blue eyes, her beautiful smile. I want to get
out of here, I thought.
Our mother, Karen's and mine, was a big, powerful woman
with a soft voice. She made us go to church on Sundays and
Wednesdays. She taught Sunday School. She was stern and
took no nonsense, but wasn't punitive or hard. I was a thin,
sickly child. I must have taken up a lot of her time. Was Karen
parked in front of the TV while everyone fussed around me?
Did something wither in her, grow disappointed and hard? I
see a little blonde girl, picking the scabs on her knees, her blue
eyes glazed with
Good Times
, with
Happy Days
. I think my
mother was a powermonger, who made us yearn to please her.
And my sister could please her with goodness but not with
her talk, because, unlike me, Karen didn't have our mother's
brains. So my little sister grew gooder and gooder, and badder
and badder, until she was the beautiful Christian fiend
appearing at the door, with flowers and cards, with messages
of sibling love.
'People get secondaries,' she said. 'It starts with one thing
and then . . .'
'It just gets worse,' I chimed in softly. I smiled at her. She
didn't understand that I'd always loved her. I patronised her
when we were young, but I was proud of her. Or maybe she
did understand, and that made her hate me more. There was
a lot of the powermonger in her too. She used to dislike my
wife Gina because she thought she fancied herself. Gina said
Karen was
sinister
.
I worked on eating. I did well with some rice pudding, but
threw up an omelette. I watched TV. I tried to read but the
pages blurred. I went for a walk along the corridor, dragging
my tubes and bottles, like a ghost — robed, wavering, clanking.
Visitors averted their eyes. I limped past photos of nuns, and
one of the Pope wearing a Maori cloak. My insides groaned,
something laboriously rearranging itself, then there was a
loud report that made my ears burn. Laughter came to me, a
wave of weakness. I had to be helped back into bed.
Karen said, 'I hear you've been shouting at people.'
'Only at the Christians.'
I thought about writing. Would I ever have the strength
again? I couldn't think straight. But I was getting stronger. In
the middle of the night a nurse inserted a painkiller up my
arse. 'You're in the paper,' she said.
'Do you read my column?' It was a strange moment to have
to be polite.
'Your interviews are funny. That one on . . . the TV guy.'
'Thank you,' I said. Then my body made a terrible sound. I
wondered whether I'd blown the pain pill out again.
She bent down. 'Not to worry,' she said.
Mornings, a Samoan woman cleaned the ensuite bathroom.
Usually she sang. One day she was angry. She rushed into the
bathroom and closed the door. Then there were crashes and
bangs, metallic pings. She threw the door open, snatched my
tray and banged it onto her trolley.
'You. In the paper,' she said.
'Yes.'
She stood, hands on hips. 'I say to my children, "Only
nosy
people
read the paper". '
I nodded. She smiled vindictively and pushed the trolley
out the door. I watched her go. What were her children
allowed
to think about? What extraordinarily limited lives some
people led. I decided I would write a novel. But what about?
This had me absorbed for a long time, until a German nurse,
my bête noire, entered with her equipment, her instruments
of torture. 'The thing about cancer is,' she began, and told me
terrible things while she yanked and pummelled and pushed
needles into my arms.
On a sunny morning the surgeon told me I was fit to go.
We discussed my case. Karen came, and joined in. Struck by
her radiance, the surgeon lingered, drawing her a diagram of
my insides, pressing pamphlets into her hands. He outlined
my diet. 'Mostly puréed, please.'
Karen joked and beamed. Then she said to him, 'Could I
just have a word with you outside?'
'Tell her nothing,' I said. They laughed.
'She's not my wife,' I whispered, but they'd gone. I sank into
a chair. I had to wait while she walked him up the corridor. I
couldn't even carry my bag.
Karen helped me into her Landcruiser. I was high up,
behind tinted glass. The enormous truck, the juggernaut,
started with a roar. I felt fragile, wincing as we throbbed
around corners, swayed onto the motorway.
We pulled up outside my first-floor flat. Gina had kept our
villa in Grey Lynn and I rented a place in Parnell. The sitting
room looked over a sunny yard in which, on alternate
mornings, a playgroup was held for local toddlers.
Karen helped me onto the couch. I sat in the sunlight. She
brought me a cup of soup.
'Jack, the surgeon says . . .'
I held up my hand. I gave her a very hard look. I'm used to
warfare, but this was a difficult moment. For one thing, after
the hospital, the flat looked messy, unsanitary, threatening. I
sensed dust and germs.
'You'll be getting some home visits. I've arranged . . . since
you're all alone . . .'
'Tell me later.'
I played the answerphone messages. Four were from a
novelist I'd interviewed just before going into hospital. He
said, 'It's Tony Irons. I've had a couple of extra thoughts!' He
left a number.
Karen left. I made a complicated trip to the lavatory. On
the way back to the couch I picked up a magazine. The sun
shone hot through the window. I reached up to open it. My
innards groaned.
In the yard outside, two women were setting up toys for the
playgroup. Small children staggered about. More women
came, more children. I dropped the magazine and watched.
Time passed. I was absorbed.
Later Karen came with a puréed meal. A nurse paid a visit.
I spent the night watching shadows of car headlights moving
on the wall. I thought about Gina. I imagined she was lying on
my arm, and we talked.
Some days went by. The playgroup came regularly and I set
myself up on the couch to watch. The leader was a tall redhead.
Other women conferred with her, deferred to her. There were
cliques, a couple of loners. There were grandmothers, and
some very young women, probably nannies. One woman was
the life and soul; others gathered about her laughing. One, a
large woman with a sharp face, watched the clownish woman
constantly, a disdainful look on her face.
I watched and made notes on a jotter pad. I began to look
forward to playgroup days. I didn't like it when Karen
interrupted me. I said little, willing her to go. One day she left
me a pile of videotapes, another some magazines. She brought
casseroles full of frozen puréed food. The nurse came and
made me do exercises.
'What are you staring at down there?' she said. She leaned
over. 'Oh. Kiddies.' She looked at me. 'Do you have children of
your own?'
'I have twin daughters. My wife and I are separated,' I
added, with dignity. I saw her lift up one of my magazines
with the tip of her pen, sneaking a look at the cover.
One morning, while deep in thought, I picked up my keys
and went out. I opened the door and stood watching the
street. It was a still, sunny morning. People were going to
work. The playgroup leader began unloading children from a
car. Mothers were arriving with pushchairs. They glanced at
me and at one another. I had the impression they were saying
something about me.
A young, slim woman came along the street. I shaded my
eyes against the sun. There was something familiar.
'Dee,' I called. She began crossing the road away from me.
The mothers watched. 'Dee!'
She hesitated, came back.
'Oh, hi,' she said.
I was terribly excited. 'Will you come in? How about a
coffee?'
She looked unwilling.
'Please, Dee,' I said. 'I'm dying to talk to you.' I took her arm
and started dragging her towards the door. The playgroup
leader watched, a wriggling child in her arms.
'Come on.' I pulled Dee inside.
She started laughing. 'Hey, you'll blow a valve.'
'Humour me,' I said.
We got upstairs and I made her a cup of coffee. 'Okay. Tell
me what's been going on.'
Dee shrugged. 'The usual. She goes for long walks. She
makes eccentric meals.'
'Does she go out much?'
'Yes, quite often.'
'And what's the deal with you?'
'I clean. I babysit if she wants me at night and when the
girls get home from school.'
'Has she got a boyfriend?'
'Not sure.'
I said, 'I want you to work for me.'
She argued a bit, but in the end we hammered out a deal.
She would clean my apartment and I would pay her a lot, but
only if she gave me information about Gina.
'Don't tell her about this,' I said.
'Why not?'
'Because she'll fire you,' I said. I felt weak. 'Come and sit
here.' I patted the couch. 'Look down there.' I pointed at the
playgroup.
She looked at me. 'Are you all right?'
'I had bowel cancer. I had this operation.'
'I heard about that.'
'Did she tell you about it?'
'She said your sister is evil.'
I thought about this. 'Did the girls want to come and see
me?'
'I don't know.'
'Gina said things about . . . "floozies". But I was trying to
find someone like her. And none of them were any good. I just
want her back.'
'Yeah,' Dee said.
'Look down there. See the playgroup? I've been watching
them. I've been taking notes.' I flipped the pages at her.
'Whoa,' Dee said. She raised one eyebrow. I leaned close to
her face. It was narrow, with hollow cheeks, fine freckles on
the nose. Her eyes were watchful, intelligent.
'The granny there. She brings that kid.' I pointed. 'And see
that young woman — she's bored. When the granny's kid gets
stuck, is about to fall over, that young woman just stares. She's
willing it to fall. Once I saw it fall and there was something
in her face. Satisfaction. Like she was thinking
Yes. Smash
.
But if her own kid looks like falling, she's there in a flash,
saving him. The granny's started to notice that the young
woman stares at her kid. And if her kid goes near the young
woman the granny watches like a hawk.'
