The Family Men (20 page)

He knows he doesn't give a shit about Rosie but he keeps thinking about the baby.
Rock a bye baby.
The image of the child and the girl bookending his anxieties, closing a loop as though they also are one and the same person, before and after, a cautionary tale of sorts, and he is responsible for it all.

Laurie passes a message via Matt that if Harry renews his contract for another year, Laurie will see to it that he only plays eight or so games, give or take injuries. The board is very keen to keep him onside. They like the image of the brothers playing together. Jack and Eddy. Matt and Harry. Blood and water. The family club. It is a story they are keen to promote, with or without his permission, the importance of stability, tradition, legacy, their eyes all dollar signs, weaving him into their kin as surely as the cheer squad stitches together the banner week after week, its sole purpose to be torn down, ripped and snarled, then reconceived, reborn and resurrected.

Matt's Jeep idles in the driveway, Evermore blaring as he checks his messages, while Harry fiddles with the wonky latch on the letterbox, flicking it up and down, trying to get it to catch. “Go on, Harry. You should do it,” says Kate from the passenger seat, “it'll be fun, both of you playing in the finals again,” as though the decision is as uncomplicated as hers was to purchase her skinny iced latte that morning (a beverage to match the weather like her shoes to match her dress), her fuchsia lipstick visible on the takeaway cup which she holds aloft as she speaks.

“Perhaps you should pray on it,” says Matt, all sarcasm. “See if Dad can pull some strings for you upstairs.”

“Yes. That's an excellent suggestion. I'll run it by him, see what he has to say.”

Harry could push back harder, conjure some demands, make it seem like he has something personal on the line, but what for? He understands his value to the organisation, his role in their story, he can see that. Much the same as it is for Matt, his brother's insouciance an expression of that allegiance, the Club as family, his future anchored to that dock (any connection with the Furey family heritage only of interest in so far as it advances that purpose, now his purpose), Kate inserting herself into the conversation as surely as a close relative might, having now made his business her business, his future part of her purview.

Rosie has hardly spent any time at his place but she too has done her best to weave herself in there, leaving remnants of her efforts, seemingly innocuous traces littered amongst his things. A tube of lip gloss on his bookcase. Under the bed, a scrunched-up receipt for disposable razors, a button. One of her pens wedged next to the seat in his car. And the intertwined hearts, now supporting a couple of waxy ear cleaners in his dustbin.

Why are women always leaving him with things, his mum and Grandad's cufflinks, Margo and her notes, Rosie and her woollen keepsakes? The signed photographs, the keys, the underwear. What do they think he is going to do with all their shit? Treasure it? Cradle it? Worship it at some kind of private altar?

His dad still has a ton of stuff given to him by Diana. Mostly practical items, a belt she bought him when they were courting, a watch he never wears. But they aren't gifts so much as relics, flotsam bobbing about the wreckage of their marriage.

Rosie's deposits are the opposite, miniature down payments, an advance on a future life, slipped in so he won't notice (might overlook the next fifty years). In which case he might as well simply renew his contract and be done with it.

There are worse things in life than loveless marriages, he supposes. His parents are testament to that.

Most of Harry's clothes are still hanging in his wardrobe at his mother's. He sorts through a couple of things while Diana prepares lunch, leftover-chicken sandwiches with lettuce and mayonnaise, which they eat on their laps on the back steps. He inhales it. “How come it tastes so much better than mine?”

“Because you make everything in the microwave,” says Diana. “But you can't do that with poultry. It's disgusting. You've got to roast it or fry it or grill it. It has to be properly cooked.”

“Microwaving's cooking.”

Diana grimaces. “No, it's not the same thing. You've got to sear the meat.”

They sit side by side, Diana sipping a coffee while Harry keeps her company, relishing a brief interval of calm, a break from her left-brain style of nurturing. Since his career announcement she's been riding him about the Club, asking if anybody has had a proper conversation with him yet, a serious talk about his long-term plans, the Club's lackadaisical attitude to his time-out as good as baiting him to quit, their willingness to give him as much space as he needs evidence in her opinion that they aren't looking after his best interests, that they aren't invested in the longevity of his career on the field or off it. The reprieve doesn't last long. “If they're not going to get into it with you, the real details, the nitty gritty, then you've got to bring it up. Career planning, professional qualifications, how they'll support you through the transition. I don't know how it works, but if you're going to do some study you might need extra help. Have they suggested a tutor, someone to give you a hand? What about starting next year, even part-time? These things won't wait. There are application deadlines. You've got to force them to look into it,” she says, picking up the conversation as though there'd been no lag. “Your father's no bloody use. Has he been any help?” she says. “No, of course he hasn't. When was he ever?”

“Dad's been okay.”

“How the worm turns. You're joking, aren't you? Tell me one constructive thing he's done on your behalf? Exactly,” she continues, before Harry has a chance to answer. “Too obsessed with his own bullshit. Can't let you have five minutes in the sun. He could have called that Margo and told her where to stick it. That's something he could have managed instead of drinking himself into another stupor. Have you heard any more from her?”

“No, nothing there. I think she got the message,” he lies.

“Good. So she should.”

One of the neighbourhood cats leaps onto their fence, spine arched, hissing, surprised by a bored Labrador barking in the adjacent yard, courtesy of a vacation rental. “Poor puss,” says Diana. “Last I knew they weren't meant to have dogs in there. They're up all hours of the night too. Partying, playing music. February can't come soon enough.”

It is a favourite sport amongst the locals, complaining about the holiday season. The tourists clogging up the streets, descending on the town like cashed-up Vikings, six weeks of raping the landscape and pillaging supplies before getting back in their SUV longships and returning home. “Every year it gets worse and worse,” says Diana. “It's madness. At the shops today I waited ten minutes for a park. I nearly gave up and came back again.” Harry pays scant attention as she rambles on, a familiar tirade, how she can't find half the things she wants because the place has been ransacked by out-of-towners, how the council is going to have to put in another roundabout if they want people to use the south entrance of the shopping centre, that there are kids everywhere, running around the car park. “The parents are on holidays so they just switch off. Somebody's going to get hurt. I'm surprised there hasn't been an accident already. Though on that topic, I popped into the chemist while I was down there, saw that girl that you are friendly with.”

“What girl?”

“You know who I mean.”

“Rosie?” says Harry.

“Yes, that's it. Rosie,” repeats his mother. She holds out her hand displaying her new nail polish, a bright cheery citrus redolent of his grandmother's kumquats. “Pamplemousse,” she says, referring to the colour. “French for grapefruit. Rosie and I had a good long chat. She was very helpful.”

*

What is heroin but a deep warm bath of nothingness, hours slipping away in a series of narcotic nods, the past and future merging into a soft empty present of blurred lines and comfortable ellipses. The girl watched the others inhale the smoke from the battered foil, more ladylike than having a needle pierce their skins, something to take the edge off, though Greta suggested a pill for her instead, assuring her that that was the best way to go, much easier than performing straight, and she was happy to take her word for it. Observing the way the other girls closed their eyes as they leant forward, the sharp sickly sweetness of the struck match.

She swallowed two tablets with half a glass of wine. And then the drugs worked their magic and she lost track of time.

COUNTDOWN ON FUREY DECISION

By Margo Milne-Arthurs

December 28, 2006

Pressure is building for Harry Furey who is expected to announce a decision about his future in early January.

Furey has been keeping a low profile, swapping preseason training for the Melbourne sun and surf.

Club president Ted Parker said a decision should come any day now. “We're happy to give the lad some time, but it's not the sort of thing that can wait forever. I need to know. The boys need to know. And most importantly, the supporters need to know. This is bigger than one person.”

Furey could not be reached for comment.

Pressure Building on Star Recruit. No Time for
Dilly-Dallying. Where There's a Will There's a Payday.
These are the kinds of headlines appearing in the newspapers, but as January looms Harry is driven by no clearer purpose than he had been in December. At issue is not so much the will he or won't he, but the why – the prospect of an infant introducing a wildcard into the equation, the idea that he would renew his contract for this reason unimaginable barely weeks ago.

Walking to the milk bar, he counts random things – light poles, cats, the number of steps between cars – the sky curved wide above him, translucent, a giant sphere, like a cerulean football field with the middle hollowed out, as he stares up at it, waiting for a game plan to reveal itself.

Matt and Kate take off for the Gold Coast, a last-minute holiday before Matt flies out to Arizona when pre-season training begins in earnest. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do,” Diana says to Kate, farewelling her with a kiss on the cheek, daughter-in-law in waiting – Diana having made no secret of her desire to see the couple engaged, already bragging freely about the likely handsomeness of her winsome brown-eyed grandchildren.

In different circumstances Harry might have gone with them, piggybacked on their arrangements, dragged a couple of the other boys along for the ride (
the family club
). But that life is gone for him now. He has joined the ranks of the initiated.

Laurie invites Harry to yet another informal lunch, just him and a couple of board members at home on his back deck, ham sandwiches, Crown Lager, a bit of gentle pressure –
what happens at Sportsman's Night stays at Sportsman's Night –
and a tall frosted glass (they don't want him going off the reservation, telling tales out of school, another nail in the coffin of the Club's reputation). Laurie's house is like a mini version of the Club executive suite, a padded leatherette aesthetic that's probably the real thing. It's the kind of scene Harry hates, everyone pretending to be his mate, Laurie slinging an arm around him as he skites about his contribution to the team culture, one of the good guys – talking up his leadership potential, his popularity with the party faithful – the fact that they're wearing polo shirts rather than suits meant to suggest that business isn't at the forefront on their agenda.

“Doesn't he remind you of Bobby Skilton,” says Gerry Cooper, as he spills mustard pickles down his front. “His decision-making, the way he can read the play.”

Ted agrees. “A real ball magnet. All these camps and retreats they send the kids on these days, I'm all for it, but they can't teach you that, how to anticipate the play. Experience can get you so far but it will never compensate for instinct. Either you've got it or you don't, and Harry, you've got it in spades.”

“The whole family does,” says Jock.

“It's in the genes,” says Gerry. “Your grandad had it, your father, your brother. Bloody banana-benders. There must be something in the water up there.”

E. coli
, thinks Harry.

Laurie leans forward to tackle his sandwich. His back is covered in flies.

“They want me to commit for at least another year,” Harry reports to his father afterwards. “Ted says that way I've got a solid stint under my belt; then if I want to move on, no one can dispute I've got those runs on the board. He says it'll give the old man something to be proud of.”

“I've told you before, don't do it 'cause you think it'll make me happy,” advises his dad. “You've got to want it for yourself. Otherwise there's no point doing anything.”

“Yeah, but then you say I'm not doing anything with my life, that I have to make a decision, find a direction, sort out my priorities. This is a decision. I thought you'd be happy.”

“But is it the right decision?”

See it, believe it!

“I don't fucking know. You don't fucking know. When did you ever have to make the right decision? No one ever asked you to do that. You've always done whatever the hell you wanted.” He thinks about the girl, about Sportsman's Night, his clumsiness, the absurdity of her red satin underwear, hating himself, the situation, wondering if anyone ever makes the right decision, or if right decisions are simply chanced upon, less intention and more timely accident.

What he'd give to be able to go back. It was a make-or-break situation – hadn't he known that at the time, that all he had to do was say no? – but Marty motioned for Harry to join him on stage, he needed assistance securing the cravat across the girl's eyes, and Harry didn't know how not to go. The girl sat there, neither here nor there, not welcoming nor objecting to the situation, as the two men tangled with her hair. No one appeared to mind about that but clearly Harry wasn't executing his role with enough flourish because the cravat slipped down, setting off a disgruntled cry from the audience, Jack rising out of his seat yelling at him to stop piss-farting around and put his back into it. Harry tried again, making more of a show of tying it tighter this time and then Marty asked the girl if she could see anything. She shook her head. No. He waved his hands in front of her face, invited Harry to do the same, but “No,” she maintained, she couldn't see a thing.

“She can't see anything,” Marty said to the room and then he began to fan himself. “It's so hot up here. Aren't you hot?” he asked Harry. A blatant move to incite the crowd, who dutifully obliged, starting up a new chant. “Strip,” they yelled. “Strip. Strip.” It was Harry's cue. Marty indicated he was supposed to untie the girl's corset, unravel a series of loops through a panel of eyes down her back like an overly complicated bootlace.

Harry gave it a go but fumbled the attempt, his fingers too broad for such delicate work.

This was precisely the moment Jack had been waiting for. He jumped up on stage and offered to show Harry how it was done, Harry stepping aside as Eddy joined him there, Rising Star trophy in hand, the brothers a perfect storm of Club fidelity.

Margo continues her campaign, ringing incessantly, creating a tide of messages in her wake, a verbal slipstream of inquiry that Harry seeks to sidestep and avoid despite being inexorably drawn to the momentum of her quest, feeling himself on that ledge, wanting to step off, to plunge headlong into danger. Mostly it has been about his future: has he reached a decision yet, when does he plan on letting everyone know? But today it is about the girl again. She has dug up more information about the girl. “Someone thinks they know her. It could lead to an address.”

Harry feels light-headed as he listens to her message, his field of vision narrowing at the prospect of more information. Why can't she drop it? He already knows more about her than he could ever have conceived of wanting to know. Has reached his limit of her vague particulars. What he craves is a stay from her, to excise her from his awareness, to rule a line under it, under her; he wants to forget she ever happened.

He picks up the telephone and punches in Margo's number, then puts it down again almost as quickly, in that extended first ring seeing his future dissolve before him, his career unravelling like one of his father's moth-eaten footy jumpers, the pulled strands meaningless when not integrated with the whole. He feels his inability to properly reconcile his accounts closing in on him, the peculiarities of his character determining his fate.

The following afternoon Margo tails him to the park. “Fancy seeing you here,” she says from her car window as he jogs past, trying to pretend he hasn't noticed her as she paces him down the street. “What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

“What cat?” he says, stopping by the side of the road.

She laughs. “See, I knew you wanted to talk to me. You're not the first rookie to go through this. You know that, don't you. It's not just superstars like your dad. That's what I want to write about, the culture of the sport, the way you're forced into situations you can't deal with, encouraged to engage in antisocial behaviour right from the get-go. It's like a pressure cooker, something's going to happen, it has to. It's a recipe for disaster. Why don't you go home and change and then we can go and grab a coffee somewhere quiet and talk about it properly?”

“No. I don't want to talk to you. I really don't.”

“That's what your dad used to say. He always put the Club first too.”

The Club first? What was he to make of that? “What are you suggesting?” says Harry.

“You're a proud bunch, that's all. They breed you tough. It's a compliment. Don't read too much into it. Unless, of course, there's something to read?“

Harry stares right through her.

“I'm still going to write the article. You might as well take the opportunity to give your side of the story, to seem cooperative. The less you say, the worse it looks.”

Harry spits on the ground, then turns and resumes his run.

“What were you ringing about yesterday?” she calls after him.

“I didn't. Leave me alone.”

“Don't be silly, Harry. We both know you did. Your number's in my log.”

“I didn't,” he says again, before accelerating into a sprint. As though that makes it real. His new strategy, to deny everything.

*

The lights were so bright the girl couldn't really see. She knew she was moving, she was walking, but she felt so heavy, so lethargic, she didn't really care which way she went. She took a seat and then the room went dark. It was all so very loud but distant, as though she was toggling the mute button while watching herself in a movie. Now she was here. Now she was not. The optional audio track keeping time with her vacillating engagement.

Somehow she was forced to her knees. She felt woozy. She could hear the men talking to her, knew what was happening, but was powerless to act.
It's okay
, she told herself.
It will be okay
. The noise, the thrusting, the ad hoc bursts of light. It was like a thrill ride in a light aircraft, the kind her father piloted, but during an electrical storm, the floor dropping away, her body rocked around, disoriented, her senses confused. But she would see him soon. Happy. This must be how it felt to be floating. Giving way to it. The idea filling her with a feeling of comfort and warmth, a sensation she tried to inhabit as her body was splayed, parted at both ends and occupied, the men calling her repulsive things as they lunged at her, as though she was somehow responsible for this treatment,
you make your own luck
, though to the best of her knowledge she'd not met any of them before. Something flashed. Through a gape to her right she thought she saw someone with a camera phone. She closed her eyes beneath the draping as the audience heartily clapped and stomped to their three-person'd dance.

*

Rosie leaves Harry a note. She doesn't say much, bare bones. Her period has finally come, three weeks late. “But better late than never, right?!” And isn't it funny how these things happen? Probably all for the best. Though it has got her thinking and she doesn't think they have a future together after all. She agrees they should call it off. Adieu.

“Good riddance,” says Dean, when Harry tells him he and Rosie had been seeing each other. “Seriously, fat Rosie from high school, the chemist girl? No wonder you kept that one quiet. What's wrong with you? It's such a waste. You could bag any honey you like. You know that, right? Instead you head to the nearest heifer. Unless you get off on that kind of thing. Kinky bastard. Is that it? You like some junk in the trunk. Shame though about the personality. I remember Scotty said she was a bit of a talker.”

“Leave it alone. She's alright.”

“Alright for what?”

Harry lets it slide, glad to be relieved of the situation, to have one less stress to worry about. He lets his head hang, examines the veins on the backs of his hands, wonders what his palms might reveal of his future. “Have you ever wished you could have done something differently?” he says.

“What like?”

“I don't know. Something you wished you could take back. A do-over.”

“You're not having second thoughts already, are you?”

“Not like that.”

“I wish I'd grown a bigger dick.”

“No, fuckwit. Something you regret, something you wish you could change, something you could have changed.”

“Shit, I don't know. Probably. Of course. Everybody does. Like right now I regret quitting footy training all those years ago. Who knows, if I'd stuck with it then maybe I'd be in the AFL too and I'd have a shot with that hottie on the beach. Either that or I wish I was a better looking cunt. Did you see the way she was ogling you? I reckon every bloke in the water is thinking about fucking her.”

“Holy shit,” says Harry, slamming his fist on Dean's board. “That's not what I'm talking about. Is that all you ever think about?”

“Pretty much,” says Dean. “Watch it mate.”

“Watch what?”

“The board.”

“Oh fuck your fucking board.”

Dean thinks it is hilarious. “Jesus, when did you become such an uptight bastard?” he says, laughing. “Maybe you shouldn't have called it off.”

Harry's dreams are his comeuppance. That night the warden is well out of earshot. Not that he would have done anything for him anyway. The staff likes to torment the inmates like that, by withholding favours, not declaring when they'll protect them and when they won't. And this time Harry is on his own. Trapped in the wrong cell, a pillow case over his head, a dirty sock stuffed in his gaping mouth. Obviously, screaming will make no difference, there is no avenue from which the sound can escape, but it is still his instinct to scream, finding himself less concerned with his stifled airway than with his silenced vocal cords. It is better than thinking about the pain. Because there will be pain. It is intended to hurt. That is the whole point. What the perpetrators want to emphasise, an eye for an eye, an anguish for an anguish. He is here to face his punishment. They are going to abuse him like he abused the girl.