The Full Ridiculous (11 page)

On the way home you pull yourself together and decide not to worry Wendy with these latest developments. Although there is one issue you cannot keep from her: your impending financial doom. If you lived in America you would probably be suing someone—Frannie Prager, or the man who painted the stripes on the crossing, or the company that built the road—for vast amounts of compensation. But this is Australia and those avenues of recompense are not open to you.

That night, as you’re watching a re-run of Wendy’s favourite TV show, you mention that Maxx can’t make the next payment for the book. In some stupid part of your brain you hope that the television will distract her from this news but all it does is spoil the show. Wendy wilts. You are about to suggest that maybe you should think about selling the house and renting something in the neighbourhood but the impulse dissolves into a metallic taste in your mouth.

Wendy says you can afford one more mortgage payment and that’s it. She can make enough money for food and living but not the mortgage as well. ‘Maybe I could get a weekend job,’ she offers. You know you should be the one with the weekend job so you say, ‘No, I’ll try to go back to the paper.’ There’s a long pause and Wendy says, without looking at you, ‘Maybe that’s for the best.’

Later, in the shower, you feel the weight of failure pressing down on you. It pushes you to the tiled floor where you sit watching the water sheet down the mildewed plastic shower curtain until Wendy knocks on the door and tells you she is going to bed.

‘Night,’ she calls.

‘Night,’ you call back.

You and Wendy sit solemnly at the breakfast table as Rosie hovers in front of you, wondering where to begin. She has made you promise not to interrupt her until she has finished what she wants to say. Catastrophes ricochet around your head.

She’s pregnant.

She’s pregnant and she got AIDS from the prison cells.

She’s going to have an AIDS baby.

‘I’ve decided to leave school and get a job. I’m going to start work at the chicken shop with Juan,’ says Rosie.

‘Is that all?’ you blurt.

Quickly concluding that you are going to be of no assistance, Wendy takes control. Assuming Rosie wants to leave school to avoid humiliation, she encourages her to endure the current scrutiny.

‘One day, sooner than you think, it will all blow over,’ Wendy assures her.

Rosie says yes, she knows this; things won’t be horrible forever. ‘I just wanna job, make some money.’

You point out that she’ll be able to get a better job, a higher paying job, if she finishes school.

‘We’ve always talked about you going to uni,’ Wendy adds, ‘doing vet science. You’ve always wanted to be a vet.’

‘Maybe later. Right now I just want to make some money.’

‘What for?’

‘I’d be able to help around here.’

‘With what?’

‘With money. I could help you with money.’

‘We don’t need help with money.’

‘Yes, you do. I heard you talking last night. You wouldn’t have to pay school fees—that would save a lot of money. And I could pay board. I know it’s not a lot but every little bit helps, that’s what you always say, Mum.’

‘Oh darling,’ whispers Wendy.

Those damn tears spring to your eyes again so you study the tabletop. Wendy puts her arms around Rosie and thanks her. She explains that it’s not Rosie’s job to worry about the family finances, that we’re going through a bit of a rough patch but we’ll be fine. All families go through times like this and she’s not to worry. She says this with such loving authority that you almost believe it yourself.

Rosie’s hand brushes across the tips of your fingers. ‘You okay, Pa?’

You look up at your daughter so filled with love that you think you might burst.

The
Herald
has been through one regime change and two arts editors since you worked there so, although you know every desk and chair, many of the faces are not familiar to you. The new arts editor is a weedy hipster with a carefully coiffed quiff and a rat-tat-tat manner of speaking. Knows your work. Loves your work. Hilarious. Vee funny (he actually says
vee
).

Rat-tat-tat asks you what movies you have seen recently. You falter as you realise that you haven’t seen any movies recently. He reframes the question: ‘What’s the last movie you saw?’ You know you should say something impressive like
Citizen Kane
but your mind goes blank. ‘Can’t remember,’ you reply. Fortunately he interprets this as a cryptic analysis of recent cinematic offerings. ‘Ha! So know what you mean!’

You nod sagely.

‘So,’ he says, inviting you with a gesture to state your business.

Artlessly, you get to the point. ‘I was wondering if I could have my old job back.’

He swivels in his chair and smacks his lips. ‘If only you’d asked me that five months ago!’

Five months ago the guy who replaced you was replaced by a new reviewer, Louisa Orban. Louisa loves movies. She loves it when the lights go down and the cinema falls quiet and she is transported into other times, places, lives, worlds. There is a genuine infectiousness to her reviews that makes people want to see the movies she has seen. Even the bad ones seem to offer an illuminating moment or a thrilling performance. Hers is a new-wave positivism that is completely counter to your seen-it-all-before-and-last-time-it-was-actually-good reviewing style.

You suggest that you could provide some yang to balance Louisa’s yin.

‘Actually your style is more yin and Lou is more yang,’ he says.

‘What I meant was—’

‘It’s just that I’m a Buddhist,’ he interrupts.

He pronounces it
Boo-dist
as though he’s giving you the password to a secret society and launches into a monologue that features the phrase ‘budget cuts’. It’s like one of those comic strips in the Sunday papers where the Owner talks to the Dog but all Dog can hear is ‘Blah blah blah Rover. Blah blah blah Rover.’ All you can hear is ‘Blah blah blah budget cut. Budget cut. Budget cut.’

As he walks you to the lifts he repeatedly pats his right fist with his left hand until he suddenly stops dead and you almost walk into him. Omitting all personal pronouns, Rat-tat-tat makes an offer. ‘Hope this isn’t ridiculous. But happy to look at any freelance stuff. More than happy. Delighted. No guarantees, though, with the budget cuts.’

You’re standing in the lift watching the floor numbers light up as you descend when you realise you can’t remember whether you thanked him or shook his hand or said goodbye.

Out in the street it’s cold and raining and the city is seething with people bearing dark umbrellas. Putting a newspaper over your head, you launch yourself into the stream of soaking humanity and try to make your way to the kerb. A harried young mother rams her stroller into your shin and frowns at you as if it’s all your fault. You limp-push your way to a light pole and look across the street. Your mouth dries up and the colour drains from your vision. You slide into the gutter and sit in a puddle, head spinning.

16

You wake. It’s been raining on and off for days but the sky has cleared again. The absence of sun through the venetians tells you that the morning has passed. You wonder what day it is and whether anyone is still home. You feel a movement at the end of the bed and reach down to pat Egg but a hand takes yours and a familiar voice says, ‘Hey there.’ You turn and focus. Your sister Ingrid is there. ‘Can I get you anything?’

Wendy has left the heater on to keep you warm but you’re overheated. ‘Water,’ you croak.

‘You’ve got some,’ she says and you follow her look to a glass of water sitting on the bedside table. You now remember your other sister Tess bringing it; the sunlight was over her shoulder so it must have been morning.

Ingrid watches as you gulp down the water. You hand her the empty glass, say ‘Thanks,’ and close your eyes again. You’ve been sleeping since your failed meeting at the paper. You don’t know why and you don’t care.

The light snaps on and you blink yourself awake as Wendy ushers Doctor Wilson into the room. He puts an icy thermometer under one arm and wraps a black Velcro bandage around the other. Pumping up the sphygmomanometer (
hate the device but love the name
), David Wilson smiles his caring smile, and runs a hand through his teeth-white hair. ‘I’d like you to see a psychiatrist,’ he says.

‘I can’t afford to see a psychiatrist,’ you say.

‘You can’t afford not to.’

Your doctor thinks you are crazy and this scares the living shit out of you. You toss and turn for the rest of the night, leapfrogging from calamity to catastrophe between feverish dreams. You wake with the rest of the family and are first into the kitchen, preparing breakfast for everyone.

Wendy is palpably relieved to see you up and about. You tell her that you’re going to work on the book this morning and may take in a movie after lunch with the intention of bashing out and flogging a freelance review. Wendy is taken aback by your about-face but you can see she has decided to believe you.

Declan flops at the breakfast table, bleary-eyed, which inspires Wendy to suggest that maybe you could help Declan with a school project. He has decided to make a short film as his major assessment piece for drama.

Declan perks up. ‘Would you look at the script, Pa?’

‘Sure,’ you say, feeling a twist of dread in your gut.

When everyone leaves the house you sit down and read Declan’s script. It’s a black comedy about a thief who holds up a convenience store. Customers in the store begin to critique the thief’s hold-up style, offering helpful suggestions on how to be more intimidating. Eventually the thief unravels.

It’s pithy, funny and well structured. You are surprised and impressed. Your son has a gift for storytelling and it fills you with pride. And then relief that for once you can engage in an exchange with him that doesn’t involve cross-examination or admonishment.

That night you tell Declan how wonderful you think his script is and he whoops with delight. He asks you if you have any criticisms and looks at you in complete disbelief when you say (truthfully) that you don’t. It makes you wonder whether you’ve been too critical in the past.

Wendy joins the discussion and you begin to nut out the details of the shoot. Declan wants to film at the local shopping centre but it flashes through your head that one of the actors will be wielding a gun—albeit a toy gun—and that this may draw unwarranted attention. Your mind races straight to the scenario in which an over-enthusiastic local raises the alarm and an idiot cop ends up shooting the hapless actor holding the gun. It’s so ridiculous that you don’t verbalise it but you do suggest that Declan might be better off shooting in a more controlled environment, like the school canteen.

School holidays are coming up so he can make use of the facilities during the winter break without being interrupted or interrupting anyone. Declan thinks this is a great idea and goes off to organise actors, costumes and props. Wendy puts her hand on yours and smiles. She asks if you’ll go to the shoot to support Declan during filming.

‘Of course,’ you say, ‘of course.’

Egg starts barking and wagging his tail and a moment later Rosie staggers through the door. She’s been at an interschool French seminar and she looks exhausted.

‘I want to go to Mount Karver,’ she announces.

Mount Karver is co-ed in years 10, 11 and 12. Rosie’s name has been on the enrolment list there for years but up until this year she seemed settled at Boomerang.

‘Before you say it, it’s nothing to do with Eva. And I know I’m supposed to stick it out and everything but it’s not that. I just want a change and I really think it would be good to be with boys as well—good to get away from the whole all-girl thing. Girls can be so bitchy…’

Rosie’s face crumples and tears tumble down her cheeks. Defiant, she wipes them away and is about to launch further arguments when Wendy promises to look into it.

You’re sitting in a delicious pool of sunlight outside the Mount Karver canteen, reading a book. Inside, Declan and his crew are filming the robbery script. You’re supposed to stop any potential intruders but because it’s school holidays there are very few people around. Declan calls, ‘Action,’ and the actor playing the robber shouts, ‘This is a stick-up! Hands in the air!’ There is the rumble of voices, some indecipherable yelling, then Declan calls, ‘Cut.’

You are proud of your son. You know he is going to make a fine film. You feel this green-shooted thing breaking through the shell of your despair. It startles you with its freshness, this hope, this happiness.

What you don’t know is that less than a hundred metres away, Liesel Ham is drying her squirming four-year-old son, Arthur, with a towel. During the holidays, Mount Karver runs swimming lessons in its indoor pool complex and Arthur has just completed twenty minutes of excellent dog-paddling. Liesel pulls a T-shirt over Arthur’s wet red head while her two-year-old daughter, Bella, clings to her leg, grizzling. Bella needs a nap and Liesel goes into packing-up mode so she can get her home to bed before the man comes to fix her dishwasher.

Liesel slings her bags over one shoulder, scoops Bella onto her hip and tugs Arthur behind her. They hurry down the path leading to the main drive and, even though no one is about, Liesel makes a point (for Arthur’s benefit) of stopping to look left, right, then left again because you’re never too young to learn the principles of road safety.

When Liesel looks left the second time she sees something odd: twenty metres away, a blond man is sitting outside the canteen as if he’s guarding something; it’s not exactly a sinister vision but for some reason it makes her feel uneasy.

Then Liesel hears shouting. ‘This is a stick-up! Hands in the air!’ Her blood runs cold. She scoops Arthur onto her other hip and sprints towards the street where her car is parked.

You glance up, see a woman hurrying out the school gates with her kids, and think nothing of it.

Frantic and fumbling, Liesel unlocks the car, clips the kids into their seats, leaps into the driver’s seat and locks the door. Checking to see that no one has followed her, she extracts a mobile phone from her bag and dials the police.