Yearning (21 page)

Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love

The Song of Solomon

Today was Dad’s birthday. Max didn’t know how old he was, he just knew his father was pretty old and pretty grumpy. Max and his brothers were used to doing things without their father. He worked night shift so their daytimes were filled with restraint as they played quietly, spoke quietly and fought quietly. Their father lived another life, away from the rest of the family. Every night at six o’clock he’d appear, like a brooding ghost, to collect his dinner, wash down some pills with a swig of beer then disappear into the TV twilight of his bedroom.

Max had been saving his pocket money for a month so he could buy his father a birthday present. It sat on the kitchen table, wrapped in wrinkled paper and tied loosely with string. His mother had taken him to the shops that morning so he could find an extra-specially-special present. It wasn’t easy to choose. After all, he never saw
him do anything but eat dinner and go to bed or work, so Max didn’t know what he’d like.

His mum suggested they look in the hardware store because it was filled with things that dads liked. They walked up and down the aisles as Max sniffed at the unfamiliar smells of paint and glue and new plastic. They looked at hammers and nails and tools but Max couldn’t see anything he thought his dad might like for a present.

He was ready to give up when a man in a blue shirt and a kind face approached them and asked if he could help. Max, holding his mum’s hand tight, nervously explained that he wanted to buy a special birthday present for his dad. The man asked him how much money he had and Max held out a dirty palm filled with an assortment of coins. The man smiled and asked if he could count the coins to see how much money he had. Max agreed, telling the man that this was all of his pocket money, that he had saved for a long, long time so the man should be very careful not to lose any of it.

The man took the money from Max’s hand and carefully counted the coins back to Max. When he’d finished he announced that Max had three dollars and forty cents to spend and he had just the thing that every dad needed. It only cost three dollars. Max’s face lit up. They followed the man across the dusty floor to the side wall where a little rack hung, filled with shoe polish and wooden shoe brushes.

‘Does your dad wear shoes?’ asked the man.

Max nodded.

‘Does he clean his shoes?’ asked the man.

Max looked doubtfully at his mum. She smiled down
at him and said, ‘Yes, your dad cleans his shoes and the shoe brush he uses is very old.’

Max’s face opened up with a triumphant smile. ‘Can I choose the brush?’

The man smiled. ‘Of course, little fella. You choose the polish and brush and bring it to the counter and I’ll put them in a bag for you.’

Max couldn’t have been happier. He chose a fresh tube of black shoe polish and a brush with soft black bristles. At the counter he put all his money on the desk. The man handed him his change and a neat paper bag with the presents inside it.

‘Wish your dad a happy birthday for me,’ he called, and Max waved him goodbye.

At home, his mum found him some wrapping paper and sticky tape, then she helped him write a birthday card. She showed him how to write his name at the bottom. Then she put the present on the kitchen table and told Max to go and watch some television while she made dinner.

Max couldn’t concentrate on the TV. He jiggled his legs and drove his cars silently over the footrest. This was the first big boy thing he’d done for his dad and he knew he’d be so proud. He watched the hands on the clock dragging their way to six o’clock.

Finally he heard the bedroom door open and Max leapt up from the couch and ran to the kitchen.

‘Happy Birthday Dad!’ he called out as his father reached into the fridge for a beer.

He picked up the present from the table and proudly held it out so his father would see the gift when he turned around.

‘What’s this?’ his father asked his mother.

‘A present. For you,’ Max announced, his face hot with anticipation.

His father cracked the can open, took a long drink and stood staring at Max.

‘I bought it for you, Dad.’

His father shot a hard look at his mum. ‘What the fuck is he talking about?’

She didn’t look up from mashing the potatoes. ‘He’s been saving his pocket money all month so he could buy you a birthday present.’

Max was grinning as if his face would split in half. His dad snorted, then he started to laugh. It built from a mirthless husky rattle to a full-mouthed roar. Max, still grinning, stood with his arms outstretched, holding the gift in his hands. He began to worry. His dad still hadn’t taken the present.

Abruptly the laughter stopped and his dad leant down close to Max’s face. His nostrils were flared and his cheeks were red. Max’s grin had frozen stiff on his face and he didn’t feel happy anymore.

‘You little poofter,’ his dad hissed.

Max went rigid. He knew he’d done something wrong but didn’t know what. He felt tears sting his eyes and willed them away. He’d seen his dad do this before and he knew if he made a noise or moved a muscle he might lash out, so he stood very still.

His mum had gone still at the sink, watching them.

‘Fucking birthday,’ his dad hissed as he grabbed the present and tossed it across the floor. ‘I’ll have dinner in the room,’ he barked and stomped out of the kitchen.

Max stood rooted to the floor, unable to move, staring at the parcel on the floor, the sticky tape coming undone at one end and the paper all crumpled. His mum breathed out slowly.

‘It’s all right, darling. He’s just tired. This is a big birthday for him. He feels old because of it. I’m sure he’ll open your present after he’s had his dinner.’

Max stared at her. The unwanted tears pushed their way from his lower lids against his will and he mashed them back into his eyes with the heels of his hands. His mother bent down to comfort him but he pushed her away. Crying quietly, he kicked the parcel into the corner of the kitchen and turned his back on her. With his fists clenched, he marched into the bedroom he shared with his brother and slammed the door behind him.

‘I’ll never forgive you for getting pregnant again.’

The weight of Max’s words made her slump against the sink. She had her back to him as he sat in a tight-fisted clench at the kitchen table. He took another swig from the can, his eyes daring her to challenge him. She refused to look at him as he relished his bitterness.

‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Max.’

He snorted. ‘No you’re not.’

She picked up the dishcloth and wiped down Joshua’s placemat. It had been a difficult night. Josh had thrown his food at Max when he’d tried to force him to eat his peas. She’d tried to settle them both as they screamed at each other, red-faced and open mouthed. In the end Max had pushed the plate off the table onto the floor and slapped Josh across the back of his head. She’d lost her temper then and joined them, shrieking and bawling and pointing accusations. Parenting was supposed to be easier with two of you, so why did everything get so much harder with Max around?

Even now, while Josh was sleeping angel-like in his bed, Max steamed like a kettle on low boil.

‘I may as well be dead. All I’ll do is work, grow old and die. I have no life, nothing to look forward to. And it’s your fault.’

She bit back tears. He really wasn’t being fair. Why couldn’t he stop blaming her? It wasn’t as if she’d planned it. It didn’t have to be as hard as he made out, not if he chose to welcome it, as she had. Josh was such a joy to have around. His little giggle made all the hard work worthwhile. But Max was stuck and miserable, constantly thinking life without kids was the better option. She was tired of hearing him whine about it. His constant criticism was wearing her down. Without looking at him she shoved another beer across the table. Let the booze do its work on him. In an hour he’d be lying heavy and ruined on their lumpy couch and she’d be free of him. For a little while.

She finished the dishes to the sound of Max muttering at the television. She was reminded of her father and the way he dominated the house with his dark moods, the way she’d had to tiptoe around him to avoid a fight. She was tired of grown men acting like children. Did they ever stop throwing tantrums? Max had no idea how frightening he was when he lost his cool. So many times he’d left her curled up on the floor, crying and splintering apart with his spite. She was sick of it. She couldn’t love someone who treated his son the way he had tonight. She couldn’t love someone who treated her so badly.

She crept around the house clearing away Josh’s toys, carefully avoiding Max. With the mood he was in it wouldn’t take much to set him off again. She heard him shuffle to bathroom and took the opportunity to clean
up the lounge. She gathered up a dozen empty beer cans into a rubbish bag and picked up two hand puppets lying in a limp bundle on the floor. The pig leered at her. She pushed her long fingers inside it and held it up to her face.

‘You could leave,’ it said to her.

She gazed at it, chewing on the idea. ‘No I couldn’t,’ she replied. ‘Where would I go?’

‘Your parents?’ it said, tilting its head upwards and opening out its arms.

Her parents. Other than brief visits she hadn’t spent time with them in years. They wouldn’t be happy about her coming home. They were old-fashioned people who didn’t believe in leaving marriages, not for any reason. They’d been relieved when she married Max, believing that she’d finally done something sensible and found a solid, reliable man who could provide a stable life for her. Stable? What a joke. Regular bouts of drunkenness and abuse didn’t amount to stability. Surely her mother would understand that. Wouldn’t she?

She weighed up her options. She was numb and tired. She could hear Max snoring and followed the sound to the bathroom. He was passed out face-down on the floor, blocking the door to the toilet. She pushed him with her toe.

‘Max.’

She kicked him harder. He mumbled, stirred, and resumed snoring.

‘Max. Get up. Max!’

She pulled the puppet from her hand. It hung lifeless in her fingers. Her love for Max was like that. Lifeless. In that moment she knew she was done. Her parents were
no picnic, but they had to be better than this. She would leave. Tonight.

The house felt watchful as she moved silently through the rooms, packing the necessary pieces of life with Josh. She’d never liked this house. It felt drenched with Max’s history, with his mother’s surrender and his father’s rage. Her heart raced. She could hardly believe she was going to do it, half expecting to change her mind at the last minute.

By 11.30 she was ready. The station wagon bulged with clothes, toys and two boxes of her diaries and most precious books. She stood for a moment looking at the heaving car, the weight of it bearing down on the tyres. She would have to take it slowly, but the traffic would be light at this time of night. Gently she gathered her sleeping son in her arms and nestled him into his car seat, covering him with a blanket. He grizzled a little but settled with his favorite teddy. Time to go.

Max was an angry memory unsettling her as she flopped into the driver’s seat. The turn of the engine wouldn’t wake him. Nothing would wake him in the state he was in. She pushed the key into the ignition. Should she leave a note? She imagined Max rising, bleary and remorseful, seeing empty beds and cupboards.

No, emptiness was all he deserved.

*

White lines, white lights.

She put the radio on low and paced the drive, aiming to arrive at her parent’s home sometime before dawn. As she drove the empty distance she wondered about returning to her home-town in a cloud of failure. People there lived
in a small world, too small to understand her choosing to leave a dead marriage. They lived like that themselves. Their lives were a tired washing-machine thrum, their senses deadened by routine, killing off potential like drought kills lawn.

She thought about her parents greeting her in the early hours of the morning. Her mother would make tea while her father would grudgingly make beds. Questions would be asked, arrangements would be made and tomorrow, in the bright hurt of daylight, she’d try to begin a new life in an old place.

White lines, white lights. Soothing repetition. Like his fists on the table.

Bang. ‘What’s this crap? I deserve a decent bloody meal at the end of the day!’

Bang. ‘All I do is work and what thanks do I get?’

Bang. ‘I didn’t want any more damned kids!’

Bang. The wheel lifted over a bump of possum. She was traveling too fast to stop. She glanced in the rear vision mirror but it was too dark to see. Hot tears spilled over onto her cheeks as she imagined the dying animal she’d left on the road behind her. She thumped the steering wheel hard.

Solomon. It was always him. When things got hard he was the one she wanted. In spite of her efforts to shut him out, she still longed for him. She couldn’t help it. It was as though he’d left a part of him inside her when they were making love, or had taken a part of her with him. His memory had her on a leash, returning to him endlessly.

She imagined him reaching out to soothe her with his satin hands. She hadn’t seen him in twenty-five years.
He’d be over fifty now. She wondered where he was. What would age have done to him? Would he be married? Surely he was. A man like Solomon couldn’t stay single forever. Somebody else would have him now. For the millionth time she wished she’d looked him up years ago before she met Max. But even if she had, would he have even remembered her?

She remembered him. Memories of her time with him were embedded in the pages of her diaries. And in her body. They flowed through her veins. Everything about him was clear to her still – the sound of him whispering in her ear, the scratch of chalk on blackboard as he scribbled lines of romantic poetry, the concentration in his face as he moaned over her. Her teacher. Her first lover. Her soulmate. The letters she wrote to him in the vain hope that he would love her. And when he had, how it had changed her. He had emblazoned her with gold and left her thirsting and vacant ever after.