Slights (31 page)

  I have never felt more of a pariah than I did that day. I felt like opening up my wounds and bleeding right there in front of them, just to make them pay attention. Say something. Not one mentioned the fact that I wanted to die. No one even asked me how I was. They might start, saying, "How…." But they don't want to know the answer. So they'd say, "How famous is Peter, now?" or they'd ask me if I'd tried the Mexican dip. Fuck that dip.

  Do they think suicide is catching?

at thirty

Peter rang out of the blue. "I want to let you know of a decision we've made. It's about my future."

  I didn't speak. His life was boring.

  "It's just that I don't feel like the courses are going anywhere. We've reached the end with them."

  "Thank fuck for that!" I said. "So what're you gonna do?"

  "We were thinking of politics."

  "Maria thinks it's a good idea, does she?"

  "She thinks I could make a go of it."

  "So long as you promise to legalise homicide," I said.

  "Whatever you say, Steve."

  Some sycophant said, "So, Peter, why join the world of governance? Seems to me you were doing well where you were."

  "Yes, but I had the call to politics."

  He worried about my stories; that I'd spill the family history. He knew the stories as well as I did; Mum liked to talk. But he chose to forget them. Whenever I spoke he'd laugh loudly, to cover up my words and send the message that I was a clown. That nothing I said was to be taken seriously.

  I don't even know why he invited me to his launch. Dougie Page was there, standing in the corner looking uncomfortable. He avoided me. I wanted him to lay off Dad, leave it alone. I knew that Dad's stuff would lead to me, and I wanted Dougie off me so I ignored him. Easy.

  A lot of people came to talk to me after Peter made his decision to get into politics. Journalists from the local paper, investigators who didn't say where they were from, all wanting to find out if Peter was who he seemed to be: perfect, unblemished, with no terrible secrets. As far as the world was concerned, Peter's adult life was without guilt or error. I would have hated the results if they had been about me. They needed to go back as far as his early teenage years to find trouble, and that kind of trouble was something to be proud of.

  He rang me the day after the launch. "Thanks for not telling tales, Steve," he said. "I owe you a trip to the zoo."

  "Oh, yeah. Saturday OK?" I said. It was a joke between us; we both hated the zoo, thought it was the dullest place to visit. "What did I ever do for you?" I said.

  "True," he said. "Apart from saying nice things to anyone who asked over the last few months. I really appreciate it. I relied on you cos you're my only sensible relative."

  "Apart from Auntie Ruth and the Grannies. And Uncle Dom."

  "Yeah, miles apart." We chuckled.

  "No," he said. "It was good of you. Not that I've got any secrets, but I know what you're like."

  I laughed. "Thanks and insults and a trip to the zoo all in one breath."

  He did very well from the start. A lot of the sort of person who votes for a person because their name is familiar said they'd vote for him and he was soon experiencing the power Maria had dreamed of. No one saw the irony of a salesman becoming a politician.

  "Don't talk to me about your grandmother. She sent me a photo. She's going to be dead of skin cancer before too long."

  I rang the Grannies again, and this time they answered. They were fine. Grampa had been in a chess tournament and they had let things slip.

  "Thanks for calling, Diana," Granny Walker said. Bitch. I went outside to work on the car. People ask me about it in the street, sometimes, because it's so old and flash. They're impressed when I say I look after it myself.

  I didn't realise how much other kids loved their grannies until we were adults, when I saw the delight Peter's girls had in seeing Maria's Mum.

  They squealed, wriggled, chattered. Peter often shrugged at me, I don't know where they get it from. It struck me that this was how our Grannies dreamt we would be. Mum told me how much the Grannies had dreamt of grandkids, and then they get us, two kids more interested in the world outside. They got Ruth's sucky little losers, Diana and Cary, though, and Dad's brother Seb had Nate, the most pathetic thing, who never looked alive. The poor little mutant would cry if you stared at it; we lost all contact once we hit our teens. Nate was there in my dark room a couple of times; why, I don't know. The time I shaved a bald spot on his head: the time I farted in his face? I think he took Peter's course once, but we didn't talk to him.

  Ruth's two geniuses are both business heads living overseas. They never have time for her. They send her money and she spends it.

Dougie Page called to tell me there were developments. He wanted to take me to dinner, discuss the news.

I said I didn't need to eat that day.

at thirty-one

On the night of the local election, I ordered pizza, chilled two bottles of champagne in case Peter dropped by to celebrate, and filled a bucket with ice to hold my beers so I wouldn't have to move except to piss. My housemate Isaac sat up in his room and barely bothered me. He was only staying at my place because he was the son of one of the women dying at the hospice, and she'd asked me to look after him. He sat up in his room. He's a very depressed person. I've never seen him smile. He makes me feel light and fluffy. He thought I was a guy. He thought I was a gay guy. I loved it. He told me all sorts of guy stuff I bet he regrets.

  There was some big party at Peter's place, but he said they were all wankers and would stand around talking instead of watching the election on TV. Peter was running as an independent, figuring it was his best way; people often make protest votes at local level, putting independents in to make a point to the government, without actually causing the government to lose power. He had broadened his appeal, building on his popularity as a self-help guru. His line was, "I believe in the little picture. If you're happy, society is happy." I wrote his victory speech for him.

  That's what should have happened. This is what did happen:

  I rang his house as the night progressed and Peter's numbers rose. Each time an excited stranger answered; in the background I could clearly hear the TV and people being shushed. I rang at regular intervals, just to piss them off. Each stranger said Peter was engaged.

  "What is he, a fucken toilet?" I said.

  Peter won his seat; I rang to congratulate him but the phone was engaged. It was engaged for the rest of the night. He's such a weak man, but people seem to find weakness charming. The more charming they find him, the more confident he becomes, and the more charismatic he appears. He never has trouble. He smiles, talks, and people give him what he needs. Maria arranged for the kids to stay with friends. (And haven't their friends changed, now? Maria got them into some fancy school, and all the parents are lawyers, politicians, crap like that.)

  In the morning after the election Maria answered the phone, "Maria Searle." All efficient, suddenly. Hoping it was the Prime Minister, ringing his congratulations. She had aspirations; that was obvious. She only wore designer clothes, always looked impeccable. But what's
peccable
, anyway? Would I be considered peccable?

  She was so ecstatic she forgot to be mean to me.

  "Stevie, sweetie, you must rush over, it's all on here." She remembered herself. "Though I know how much you hate scenes."

  "Don't worry, Maria, I wouldn't spoil your celebration by showing up. I'm happy whooping it up here in my own home."

  "It really is Peter's home, but of course he wouldn't dream of putting you out. Not at a time like this."

  It was actually my home; Mum left it to me. She said in her will, "Because she is so like her father, and will follow in his footsteps." Then they upped the entrance level in the cop force and that blew that idea off.

  "You must be very pleased with yourself," I said.

  "Well, as I do like to say, I remember clearly the moment Peter finally agreed with me that politics was the next logical step for him. He had conquered his own small world and it was time to travel over the ocean."

  The idea of Peter as conqueror was very funny; he was such a whingeing sook.

  "So I said, Peter, it's time."

  "How original," I said.

  "And look at him now! Who knows where the next step will carry us."

"To the Lodge, perhaps?" I said, sarcasm clear.

  "Oh, no, that's not for us," she said, but even a fat deaf dog wouldn't believe that one. I called her First Lady for months after that and she loved it until Peter overheard and said, "There's no need for sarcasm," and she realised I was joking.

  He was very busy, but not too busy to send me a patronage in the mail. A video camera for my birthday. He had recorded a message for me, had the sense not to let Maria show her face.

  "Hi, Sis. Sorry we can't be there for your birthday, but you know how it is."

  I knew. I'd known for years, now, that my birthday was no longer important to anyone but me. It was one of the things that made me a grown-up. I re-wound the tape and recorded over it immediately. I took a movie of the backyard and how nice it was. I rang Peter to thank him for the video, but no one was home. "I'm sorry, Mrs Searle, but the test results came back positive. You are a man," I said to the machine.

  Got my cousin Nate's Granny card by mistake. "
NATE, NATE, YOU ARE GREAT
," it said.

  It surprised me that no one tried to commit me. They thought counselling was enough. As if anyone can read anyone else's mind. Because those tries I made, so many tries, some people would think that was mad. At the hospital, I seemed to get put under a different name every time, depending on who brought me in. Stephanie, Steph, Steve. Steven.

Isaac put me in as Steven.

  He was gone by the time I came home from hospital.

I fixed the video camera so it was close up on my face. I planned to keep my eyes open for as long as possible, because I wanted to see the movie there. I read a couple of chapters of one of Auntie Jessie's. On page 157 of
Erewhon
, the imaginative piece by Samuel Butler, Auntie Jessie wrote:

Egatnavda sekat dna mih rof sgnileef ym swonk eh. Wonk ot eno eht em ekam eh seod yhw? Llet I nac ohw. Em truh ylno nac ti. Egdelwonk siht tnaw t'nod I? Semirc sih fo llet eh tsum yhw.

  I sliced my wrists this time with a smooth, sharp knife. I wanted to see if the room was real; if it was true that those people waited for me. I wanted to see my kingdom again.

  I sat in the bath, locked the door so Isaac couldn't get in and he didn't realise I was in there, which is why I went to the room again, began to identify some of the faces. I saw a friend I had not seen since high school.

  I said, "Hey, mate," hoping he could tell me where I was, but he shrank from my voice. I did not have time to ask again. Housemates were there; every single last fucken one of them. It was a real shock to find they all disliked me and felt slighted by me; I thought they were my friends. I didn't see any of them after they moved out, but people have busy lives. I have a busy life.

  I heard a noise. The smell was there, the faces, waiting. I sat up and could see them leaning against the walls of the room. I glimpsed faces I had seen, angry faces in other cars, waving fists, impatient, frightened, all so very slighted they are here, sliced away, to eat me up.

  "Fuck you," I said. It was all strangers here; my loved ones had gone. Friends of Peter's from his election party, oh yes. Did they even know what I looked like? I hadn't been presented to Peter's society. There's something about it, whether it's my life or someone else's but I feel more in control than anything else. I feel like I'm tricking fate, taking it by surprise, and that it is my choice.

  I never quite expected it would be allowed to work. It was never supposed to work. People would come in time, they'd find me and love me for my helplessness. I have made six attempts to end my life. More truly, on six occasions I placed myself in positions from which I needed to be rescued.

  I had already killed people. But Lacey wasn't in the room this time. Neither was Den. Perhaps because they didn't have time to think of revenge, whereas the slighted remember clearly, and they stew. I didn't see Eve. Mrs Beattie was there, but I didn't kill her.

  They crowded around the bed, their faces hanging over me. Fingernails appeared and they began to caress me. The stroking became stronger, and I heard the noise, the strange clicking noise. I heard a sound like dice clicking, or knuckle bones. I could not tell what it was as they began to fade.

  Strangers, strangers, then Peter, and Danny, still there, still a child. As they shifted towards me I glimpsed a door. Truly, a door. I had not imagined there was a way out.

  I moved my legs, swung them, sat up. People helped me, Mr Stefanovic, a kindly hand, Isaac, who thought I was a guy but now knew otherwise, a gentle shove.

  My dope-smoking housemates gave me a joint; I thought, it's nearly over. I will walk out that door and there will be a golden path, and a voice, "Come, Stevie." My love. I sucked smoke back and choked. The room snickered. I tried to snicker with them but the growl I produced was drowned in their hysteria. The guy who tried to kidnap me was there, his baseball cap in his hands full of rocks. He tossed them around the room; people caught them and came towards me, spinning rocks, raising them,

  "Oh, very funny. Amusing. Laughing at another's distress, how mature." Nothing but a mumble. Laughing. I walked towards the door. I would not need to trick these fools. They left a path, fell silent, and I was strong again. I heard a voice on the other side, "Stevie," it said. It sounded like Peter, but he was here, giving me a neat push in the small of my back. People thumped me, best wishes, see ya, Stevie, and I grasped the door handle. It was warm, as if someone had been keeping it ready for me.

  "Surprise!" A chorus. A lecture hall full of faces, strangers, lovers, friends.

  All of them
click click
, waiting for me to finish dying.

  I watched myself die. I could see the moment when it happened; I slumped, my tongue fell out. I had focussed on my face; I wanted to see my eyes. I had seen surprise in some eyes, relief in others. Never horror.

  In mine, I saw horror.

This is what did happen; this really did happen:

  I was found by Isaac, who thought I was a guy. The greatest shock to him was possibly seeing me with tits and a cunt. I imagine this is what he thought. "Who is that girl? Steve's girlfriend? Not a bad score for a guy I thought was gay. Where is Steve? Why is his girlfriend in the bath? Why is the bath red?"

  This is what he did think. He was disgusted beyond words at the sight of me videoing my own death. My nudity. He was sickened by my fleshiness. But he still saved my life.

  They thought I was done. They thought I wasn't coming back this time. And Peter found the time and sat by my bed and confessed every secret, every piece of knowledge, using me like a whispering wall, like a wishing well, a mirror.

  I came back from the dark room to Peter's voice. He wasn't there to rescue me, though, call me back to life. He was saying goodbye by telling me things I already knew but didn't want to face. He had a list in his head and ticked it off, neatly, in black pen. His head was full of black pen.

  He was talking, but I could see the words. Like I was reading them, a book in my mind. I can close my eyes and read them now. But I can't open the cover. Someone has locked the book. He said, "I never said it before. I don't want scandal. And what good does it do? Who will it help? Not the girls. Not you. But you weren't so good without knowing. Would you have been better off knowing? I wish I could have told you. I wish you knew. I wish you knew things that weren't about yourself. You didn't even know what pain was as a child. We protected you from it. I hate pain. It scares me. It means something is out of control."

  I'm thinking, now. Seeing his words and thinking. Mum was good with other people's panic, though she was a mess with her own. I remember one particularly late home-coming. Eve cooked sweet biscuits and let me eat them straight out of the oven, so hot they burned my air tunnel. They tasted almost liquid, like I had caught them in some magical transformation stage, between fantasy and reality.

  It was past ten when I got home, pitch dark in the back streets between infrequent streetlights. Houses were dark, too, because it was a school night, except for the rare place where they sat up watching television. These were the gaunt people Mum pointed out to me wherever we went; sicklooking people with hold-alls under their eyes, a lazy slump. These were the people who sat up all night watching television.

  I walked very slowly home because I felt quite sick and didn't want to jiggle my stomach much. Even so, I must have been home before ten-thirty – nowhere near the witching hour.

  There were police cars out the front. Three. This was exciting; some of Dad's old friends come to visit and bring presents. I ran towards the house, sure that Peter had taken all the attention and the goodies, angry at Eve for keeping me so long.

  "Stevie!" My mother, pig noises, squeals and grunts, and she rolled on top of me like I was an unwanted runt.

  "Get off, Mum," I said.

  "Where have you been? Look who's here, we're all worried sick."

  There were six policemen (no women, though I didn't wonder about that at the time) sitting around with cups of tea, talking, surreptitiously watching the late night comedy hour playing silently on our TV in the corner. A present from Uncle Dom, Mum always kept the volume way down, as if by being uncomfortable when we used it, we weren't being disloyal to Dad.

  Mum's arms were bruised; Peter told me later she had been throwing herself at my cupboard, thinking I was in there somewhere, and the police had held her down.

  "She's been at it since I got home from school," he said. "Screaming, punching." He showed me his own bruise. "And all because of you." He gave me a bruise of my own.

  The police stayed twenty minutes, thirty. Peter found some whisky and gave Mum a glass after the cops left, and she slept for twenty-four hours, woke up thinking I was still missing, then she hugged me for too long.

  But when Peter was scared – when some big kids teased him, or if a stranger tried to get him in the car, or if he got lost, and he was shaking with fear and unable to speak – it was, "There, there," and perfect calm.

  He burnt himself once, very badly, when I told him to pick up the wood from a fire by the red bit because that was colder. He knew it wasn't true but he did it because I told him to in such a positive way. The pain was so great his finger was sucked onto the wood; he couldn't let go. He whimpered. Mum looked up, dropped her whatever, laid hands on Peter.