The Bookshop on Jacaranda Street

by Marlish Glorie

  She nags at his every effort to erase his grief.

  *

  Hendel waved goodbye to the removalist truck that contained most of his and Astrid’s possessions — they were going into storage until Astrid decided what to do with them. Hendel had procured a unit in a nearby retirement village and needed little furniture.

  He had waved wildly at the removalists as they pulled out of the driveway, and kept waving until the realisation hit him of how silly this display of emotion was. He lowered his head in embarrassment and hoped that none of the neighbours had seen him. But he was saying goodbye to a significant part of his existence, and apart from waving at the removalist’s van there was nothing to mark the occasion.

  Hendel drifted around his empty home like a sightseer. And a sad one at that, for his home contained only desolate memories and recriminations. His marriage was over. The empty house told him so, loud and clear — it’s over!

  He’d lost his church too, had handed the running of his beloved church back to the Lutheran hierarchy.

  He stood in the kitchen with its polished linoleum floor. How often had Astrid polished this floor? A thousand times? A million? It saddened him that beyond her labour as a housekeeper, there was little he knew of her. He thought of her secret life, her gambling, and the casino. He would have forgiven her, but she hadn’t asked for it.

  Hendel walked out to the church and stood in front of it for the last time, tears dampening his face. He opened the church door and looked in, but decided against going any further. It was time to leave. He experienced a sense of being disjointed. What to do? Then he turned to look at Arnold’s house, and mused — two bachelors within the space of a year. One damned for keeping junk, the other for his pride. Hendel felt his was the greater sin.

  He walked over to Arnold’s house for it was a few days yet before he was to move into the retirement village. Arnold had told him he that he was welcome to stay with him until he was ready to move on. Hendel had gratefully accepted the offer. He could do with the company.

  *

  Vivian stayed awake, listening to the wind and rain, waiting for a break in the weather. Once he knew for certain that Ella was sleeping soundly he crept into Paloma’s nursery, took her from her cot, and wrapped her in layers of baby blankets. His fingers shook, and his heart thumped as he carefully sculpted a woollen beanie onto her tiny head.

  He had already prepared a stash of made up bottles for Paloma. He took nappies and clothes, throwing them all into his backpack. He held Paloma tight whispering into her tiny face, ‘I’ll take good care of you.’

  He grabbed the car keys and glided quietly from the house to Ella’s car. He placed Paloma carefully into her baby capsule, buckled her up, and then started the engine, begging the car to run quietly as he inched out of the driveway, gaining speed and courage as he began the ten kilometre drive to his father’s house.

  *

  Arnold was half asleep when he sensed more than heard a pounding. At first he mistook it for his heart but then determined that the frenzied thumping was coming from the front door.

  ‘What the hell,’ he muttered as he scrambled out of bed and, half asleep, stumbled downstairs.

  Hendel emerged from one of the bedrooms, putting on his dressing gown over his pyjamas, and both men made for the front door.

  On hearing Vivian calling out, Arnold was jolted out of his drowsy state. Quickly he flung open the front door to see Vivian wide eyed, windswept and rain splattered, holding a tiny bundle in his arms and a backpack over his shoulder, the wild weather behind him.

  ‘Vivian! Quick! Come in. What’s going on?’

  Hendel, standing back, looked on, readying himself for whatever crisis Vivian was in.

  As they moved into the house, Vivian through gasps of air gave a brief and rough account of how and why, with Paloma, he’d left Ella.

  ‘Get into the kitchen with youse. I’ll get the heater on. Give me the baby, you know where the bath towels are, go dry yourself,’ said Arnold.

  Arnold shook his head in disbelief as he cradled his granddaughter, searching her face for signs of distress. Beginning to stir from her sleep she was calm and dry; neither a drop of water nor a puff of wind had fallen on her delicate features. Vivian had protected his daughter well. Arnold felt proud of his son, but the fact remained, Paloma would have to be returned to her mother.

  Soon all three men sat at the kitchen table. Hendel tried hard not to feel envious as he observed the way Arnold fussed over the tiny bundle that he held in his massive arms. Arnold was feeding Paloma from one of the bottles Vivian had brought in his backpack. Looking up at Vivian he said, ‘We gotta do the right thing here.’

  ‘I have, believe me.’

  ‘No son, you have to take Paloma back.’

  ‘I can’t. Ella’s not a proper mother.’

  ‘Well this is no way to deal with it. Be with Ella, help her.’

  Vivian looked desperate. ‘But this is what you wanted. A baby.’

  Arnold was shaken. What should he tell Vivian? For sure, at first the idea of a baby had been a great motivation for him to pull his finger out. But the fact was, it had been seeing Helen get on with her life without him that had really pressed him into action.

  ‘Yeah, course I wanted a baby. But it was Ella who had it.’

  Vivian turned to Hendel for support. ‘Ella doesn’t care about Paloma. Claims she can’t bond with her.’

  Hendel reflected briefly on this statement. ‘How very sad. In a way she has lost her child. And it is a terrible thing to lose a child. If you want my opinion, take her baby back to her. And don’t punish her if she cannot bond with her baby. Very possibly this may be post-natal depression, and it can be treated.’

  Vivian sat stunned as Hendel continued, ‘Not only that, she has to live with herself for not being a good mother. That is very painful.’

  Arnold ran a finger down Paloma’s cheek. ‘Look at her, she’s an angel. But easy for me to say, I’m just the granddad who gets to hold her once in a while. But for a new mother, looking after a baby twenty-four seven, that’s a tough call. She’s bound to lose it from time to time.’

  Vivian threw up his hands in frustration. This wasn’t the reception he was expecting. He wanted to say; I’m there too. Or I would be, if she’d let me in, but all he said was, ‘Well, she shouldn’t lose it.’

  Arnold shook his head. ‘I ain’t siding with you against Ella.’

  Vivian was amazed; his father had become a different person. He had changed from a hermit who hid behind junk to a strong, forthright man.

  Paloma had emptied her bottle and was now grimacing. Arnold, remembering the drill, laid her against his chest and patted her tiny back, waiting for her to burp. In that instant he knew he didn’t want to give her up either. He loved his granddaughter. But there was right and wrong.

  He gave Paloma back to Vivian, scratched his head and began to pace the floor, forcing the words out. ‘You go back to Ella. You’ve got to talk with her. She needs you. Talk things through. This is marriage.’

  Vivian looked at his baby daughter then up at his father with disbelief. ‘You and Mum never did that — negotiate, sort things out.’

  Arnold gave a weary sigh, ‘Oh boy, and aren’t I paying the price for that right now. Don’t you think I miss your mum?’

  ‘Your father is right,’ Hendel observed. ‘Best to try and work things out. Look at us, your father and me, two sad old men. Failure is a brutal teacher.’

  ‘But she hit Paloma!’

  ‘Why? Why do you think she hit her baby?’ Hendel asked, his voice soft and low as Arnold kept walking at an even pace around the kitchen.

  Vivian shook his head, ‘I don’t know why. She’s changed so much lately.’

  ‘Lately? That should give you a clue. Vivian, open your eyes.’

  Vivian feeling outnumbered, swung from Hendel to his father. ‘Gabriel promised you a grandkid so you’d clean up your crap. Clean up the dump this house
was. Remember? You didn’t open your eyes for twenty years!’

  Arnold knew what he’d done to his family. How destructive his grief had become. And how the son he least knew or understood had been the one most willing to save him. But he also knew that Ella and Paloma’s welfare were at stake here.

  Hendel placed his hand on Vivian. ‘Please, you must understand that this is not an attack on you. It’s all a matter of doing the best thing. You must go home with Paloma. And help Ella, and, dare I say it, you must get some proper help for yourself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Vivian, alarmed.

  ‘You need some professional help for your depression,’ said Hendel.

  A tense silence followed. Hendel had dared to mention what father and son had never even hinted at.

  Arnold said nothing more. Mercifully Paloma’s contented gurgling diffused some of the awkwardness of the situation: the hurt and rejection Vivian suffered, and the guilt and shame Arnold endured.

  42

  It was two young policewomen who came to the shop and told Helen of Razoo’s death. They spoke with solemnity. A customer had found his almost unrecognisable body in the book plant, with the two Rottweilers still licking at the blood that ran across the floor.

  The customer was under sedation. The dogs had been put down. Could Helen come to the morgue to identify the body?

  She went stony-faced with the policewomen to the city morgue. But when she was shown Razoo’s lifeless body on a stainless steel trolley her mouth contorted with anguish. She identified his body; even though it had been ripped to shreds, she could see enough to know it was Razoo. There was his distinctive set of teeth, broken and decayed.

  The police were not surprised that the dogs had attacked their owner. Keeping Rottweilers for security was not smart. They concluded the most likely scenario was that the two dogs had gotten into a fight over a bone, and that Razoo got up from his reading in an attempt to stop them but somehow got caught in the middle. He was still holding a blood-soaked book when the customer came across his mauled and bloodied body.

  As Razoo had no close relatives, Helen organised the funeral. The service was held in the small Lutheran church with Hendel as the conducting chaplain. A handful of people attended and Helen gave the eulogy. She had looked back carefully over the year in which their friendship had flourished and come up with a fitting account of Razoo’s life. On the tombstone she’d had engraved: ‘Forty Winks — A Winner.’

  43

  Vivian left without a word. Distraught as he was at leaving his daughter, he could not find the words to explain his departure. Nor could he find the words to describe his bafflement at the changes in Ella. He said nothing and wrote nothing.

  He reflected on his father’s and Hendel’s advice and knew that as much as he wanted to talk with Ella, sort out things with her, he couldn’t. They had forgotten his limitations. Emotionally, he was bankrupt.

  The only sign of his leaving was the mouthguard Ella had made for his tooth grinding, which she found on the kitchen table after returning home from work. He must have left just as she arrived, for she found Paloma safely asleep in her cot. Later that night Arnold called to say Vivian was staying with him at the family home.

  Ella was genuinely surprised that Vivian had left her. Just like that. No fight. No nothing. He had left nothing behind for her to rail against. Vivian never fought. She had done all the fighting, and talking.

  She felt betrayed by his code of silence. He had never so much as mentioned leaving her before. Never given any real indication that he was unhappy. Well stuff him, she thought, she could manage on her own as a single mother — exactly as she’d expected in the first place. In the coming days and weeks she steeled herself, but despite her best efforts to remain intact she began to crumble, for the one person who had really loved her was gone. And for good reason, she realised.

  Silence, she discovered, had its own powerful voice: she became her own worst critic and judge as she reflected back over her pregnancy, and at the way she had treated Vivian.

  Paloma, a once quiet baby, began to bellow at night as though she knew of her father’s departure. Ella curled up on the sofa, her mind a fog of self reproach while Paloma’s cries of distress ricocheted around the house, begging for her father’s return.

  *

  Vivian sat in his mother’s car studying the building across the road. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes to go. His heart thumped. He’d never seen a psychiatrist before. But Hendel was right; he needed professional help to combat his depression. In the past his approach had been chaotic, relying on his mother, hookers, anyone for help. But now with Ella and Paloma, serious intervention was needed if he was to be a good father and pull his marriage together. He had to act to save his small family. He would not remain inert and impotent when it came to trouble — like his father. He was weary of his inabilities, infuriated by his own passivity and the way he had always been led, like a dog on a leash. He checked his watch again, opened the car door and began to walk towards the building.

  *

  Penny had made an appointment to see Ella at her dental surgery. Three fifteen p.m. She lay back in the dentist chair and fixed her eyes on Ella who was securely perched on her stool but looking bleary eyed and crushed.

  Penny had reversed the roles. ‘You can patch it up with Vivian.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, as if he’d want to be reunited with a bitch and an unfit mother.’

  ‘You’re not unfit. You’re different … and Vivian loves you. Take Paloma to him. Stop being so hard on yourself.’

  Ella tapped an instrument on her forehead. ‘It’s being a mum. I cannot do it. I simply don’t know what to do with a baby. And I can’t do both, run a family and a dental surgery.’

  ‘Then don’t do the mum routine, let Vivian do it. And let Astrid help.’

  Ella grinned. ‘Mrs Merk, she’s a patient of mine, mad German woman who looks like a pixie.’

  ‘Yeah that’s Astrid,’ said Penny. ‘She’s great with kids though, she looked after Gabriel and Vivian a lot when they were young. Couldn’t have any of her own. I know she’s just dying to take care of Paloma. She’ll love her to bits.’

  Ella remembered the card Astrid had sent her when she’d given birth to Paloma. A drippy card from a silly woman she had thought back then, but now, on hearing she’d never had children of her own, Ella’s feelings towards a woman she barely knew, warmed. Maybe the card wasn’t so bad after all.

  Penny’s words came back into focus, ‘And for Chrissake Ella, you work hard enough! You make enough money; so employ a cleaner! A cook! A gardener! There are lot of things you can give up on, but not your marriage. You’ve got too much to lose — Vivian, Paloma.’

  Ella said nothing, and it made Penny nervous for it seemed that she had not managed to sway her in the least. She looked beseechingly at Ella. ‘Go to Vivian. You can be a family. Your own special family. What’s it matter if you’re not the norm — whatever the hell that is.’

  Ella studied her instruments for a few seconds before replying. ‘Time’s up, keep brushing those teeth. And don’t forget to floss.’

  Penny groaned out loud in disappointment, however as she got up to go Ella spoke. ‘I’ll try.’

  *

  Helen stood at the entrance of the book plant, trying to see beyond its dark mouth. Hesitantly she took a few steps forward, found the light switch and half closed her eyes as the fluorescent tubes fluttered into life. The collective glow was cold and uninviting.

  She walked slowly through the higgledy-piggledy rooms. Heavy rains drumming on the corrugated iron made the interior feel damp. Desolate. Then, as the rain eased off, it became eerily quiet. No Razoo talking away. No snarling dogs. Only the books, muted by print.

  Helen stood for a while and surveyed her inheritance. And it didn’t seem weird, it wasn’t a joke, it was a gift. She was the sole beneficiary in Razoo’s last will and testament, inheriting all of his personal effects, the book recycling
plant, and the twenty acres of land that it stood upon.

  Razoo had had a solicitor draw up his will, and that same solicitor had read out his client’s wishes to Helen as she sat at the end of a long shiny table in a stark room that was the very antithesis of Razoo’s book plant. The incongruity had struck Helen, as did the solicitor’s attire and manner.

  Helen thought of Razoo’s rotten teeth. Why did he suffer when he could have afforded false teeth? She concluded that the difference between the educated and the uneducated is deeper, wider and more mystifying than she’d previously thought.

  Helen walked on a little further and noticed a length of plastic police tape that presumably was used to corner off where Razoo’s body had been found. She swallowed hard before navigating her way through the book plant along the path of carpet ends. Suddenly she gave a scream as she saw the massive blood-stained area, close to the kitchen door. She stood transfixed by the stain, and felt sick that he died like this, savaged almost beyond recognition.

  Now the place was hers, and as much as she loved the books, she knew she couldn’t run it. Well, who could? Who would? She edged her way around the stain and into the kitchen and looked at the pile of racing guides on the kitchen table. Razoo was everywhere and nowhere.

  She stared at the familiar cobwebs and the all-pervasive coat of dirt that made the kitchen darker than it should. She inhaled the musty air and grabbed one of the milk crates to sit on.

  Apart from the books, the place was a dump. She hated herself for thinking like that, betraying Razoo, her good and loyal friend. How ironic were the origins of his name, she thought. He had been priceless; he just didn’t polish up, that’s all.

  She didn’t like being in the book plant, especially now Razoo had met his death there. She made her way out into the yard. The skies had cleared, and she stood and surveyed the building and land surrounding her. Did all this really belong to her? It felt strange. She noticed the bell and reached out, tugging at the distinctive dog leash. The bell rang out loudly, and as its peals rippled out into the cool evening air it triggered something, a solution to her question. Arnold! He could run the book recycling plant. He could even live here if he wanted to. Arnold was surely the rightful successor. But would he be interested?