The Wife and the Widow

by Christian White

  ‘There’s no way in hell I’m spending the night in here alone,’ John said.

  Eddie taunted him with chicken sounds.

  ‘Don’t be an arsehole,’ John told him. ‘Would you stay out here with me?’

  ‘Sure,’ Eddie said. ‘We’ll have to come up with a lie to tell my parents, but it doesn’t have to be a good one. They won’t notice.’

  John had already lied to his parents. He told them he was spending the next three nights on school camp. Instead, he’d snuck away from the city at dawn, hopped a train, bus and ferry, and arrived in Belport mid-morning.

  Eddie was all too happy to skip school to spend the day with him. All John had said on the phone was that he needed to get away for a while, but Eddie was certain there was another reason, and he was almost certain he knew what it was.

  John had brought along his sleeping bag and had planned on sleeping in one of the utility sheds at the deserted foreshore campgrounds. But each shed had been chained, padlocked, and marked with a sign that read, Smile, you’re on camera! Neither of them had been able to see a security camera, but the risk seemed too high, so Eddie had suggested the terminal.

  ‘What the hell even is this place?’ John asked, looking over at the soiled and stained mattress in the corner. There were loose bricks and broken glass on the ground, graffiti sprawled across the walls – For free cock call this number; Judy Bray is a fucking whore; Weed is gay – and a used condom hanging from one of the rafters. Someone must have flung it up there when they were done.

  ‘It used to be the main port on the island,’ Eddie said. ‘I remember it from when I was little. Now they have the new one in over at Elk Harbour.’

  ‘Call Barry for the best blowjob in Belport,’ John said, reading from the wall of graffiti.

  ‘Yeah, now this place is a beat.’

  ‘What’s a beat?’

  ‘Like, a meeting place for fags.’

  ‘Great,’ John said. ‘Now I’m definitely not spending the night here.’

  ‘Why don’t you just stay at my place?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘Because your parents would want to know what I was doing here in the middle of the week. They’d probably want to call my parents, and if they found out I was here they’d never let me leave the house again.’

  Eddie stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and kicked an empty beer can. It shot across the terminal and landed with a clang that echoed around the room. He looked at John, wondered if he should ask, decided he probably shouldn’t, but then went ahead and asked anyway. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Because if I stayed in that house any longer, I’d go crazy and murder my family with an axe,’ John said, with a wry smile. ‘My parents are doing my head in, that’s all. Dad’s at work all the time, and when he does come home, he just sits in front of the TV like a robot. And Mum is just so fake I can’t even stand it. She goes on and on about how important it is that I study and get into a good uni, when she never made it past high school.’

  ‘I like your mum,’ Eddie said. ‘She’s nice.’

  Eddie had been to John’s holiday house a handful of times during the summer, and Pam had always been good to him. She even marked his height against the wall of their living room, alongside John and his cousins.

  ‘Yeah, but she’s only nice because she has to be,’ John said. ‘Because the Bible tells her to. That’s what I never get about Catholics. If we’re just doing things because we’re scared of God, then it shouldn’t really count. Anyway, she wouldn’t be so nice if she knew where I was.’

  ‘Belport?’

  ‘A fag meet-up joint,’ John said. ‘You know what the Bible says about being gay?’

  ‘If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both have committed an abomination,’ Eddie said, quoting Leviticus.

  John raised his eyebrows. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I looked it up at the school library.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was curious,’ he said. ‘You know what else the Bible says you’re not meant to do? Wear torn clothes, get a tattoo, eat bacon…’

  John laughed. ‘Eat bacon? You made that one up.’

  ‘You can’t eat a pig or touch its carcass because it doesn’t chew cud, or something.’

  ‘That’s completely mental,’ John said. ‘How come you know so much about religion when your parents aren’t religious?’

  Eddie gave his ear a tug and shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s why. We were never taught about God and heaven and all that stuff, so I guess I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. So, what do you think?’

  ‘What do I think about what?’

  ‘You think God sends gay people to hell?’

  John looked Eddie in the eyes, deep in the eyes, and shook his head. ‘No. I don’t.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  Eddie kissed him.

  ‘The fuck are you doing?’ John snapped. He shoved Eddie backwards. ‘Get the fuck off me.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘I’m not into that shit, Eddie.’

  ‘Well neither am I,’ Eddie said, forcing a laugh. ‘It was a joke, because of where we are and—’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Eddie rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and muttered, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck…’

  ‘I’m gonna go.’

  ‘Wait.’ Eddie blocked his way. ‘John, just wait.’

  ‘Let me pass, Ed.’

  ‘I’m sorry, okay. It was a joke. I was trying to be funny.’

  ‘Funny,’ John echoed. ‘Okay.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell anyone, are you? Craig and Gordy and those other guys?’

  ‘Let me pass.’

  ‘I thought…’

  ‘Get the fuck out of the way, Eddie.’

  ‘I thought you wanted … I thought you were into…’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m not, Eddie,’ John said. ‘I’m not like you. I’m not a…’

  ‘A fag?’

  ‘That’s not what I said.’

  But that’s what Eddie heard. His anger flared.

  Eddie had shoved John. John shoved him back. Then, in the blink of an eye – just long enough to throw the Switch – Eddie threw a punch. It connected with John’s chin – not hard, but hard enough to send John stumbling back, pinwheeling for balance. A flash of chaos came next, a mad and awkward burst of childish violence.

  They pushed, pulled and punched, cursed and gasped and cried. They became a tangle of limbs, but somewhere in that tangle, Eddie kissed John again. This time, John let him.

  Thunder growled in the distance. The squawking of seabirds and the pounding of waves drifted in through wide cracks in the floorboards, and through the front door, which hung open on one hinge.

  Eddie slid to his knees, fumbling dumbly with John’s belt. He unbuckled, unbuttoned, and unzipped.

  It was awkward and uncomfortable, wonderful and perfect. John moaned, bit down on his bottom lip, tasting blood and toothpaste. He threaded his fingers through Eddie’s hair and guided him up and down, back and forth, following the rhythm of his body, the rhythm of the waves outside.

  John looked out through the dusty, yellowing window. A fat brown moth clung to the glass, then flicked its wings and flew through a hole in the ceiling. John’s focus shifted then. He looked out over the landing and drew in a tight, sudden breath. There was a car parked over by the boat ramps. A dark-blue BMW. It hadn’t been there when they’d come in, had it?’

  ‘Eddie, stop. There’s a car out there. I think there’s someone … here.’

  John glanced over at the door. A man stepped into the terminal. He was tall, with the bulky, solid build of a rugby player. His hair was cropped short. He wore white canvas tennis shoes and a heavy black coat. He was watching them.

  Eddie turned away from John and saw the man. He gasped and scrambled to his feet. John yanked the fly of his jeans up and buckled his belt.

  The boys couldn�
�t be sure what he was doing there, but there was no other reason they could think of: he was cruising. He had brought along a six-pack of beer. He held one open can in his left hand, while the other five dangled from plastic rings in his right. He stepped forward, half a smile on his face. His sneakers crunched against broken glass.

  ‘Don’t stop on my account,’ he said. ‘I was enjoying the … Jesus, how old are you two?’

  His eyes had adjusted to the low light of the terminal and he had seen two hairless, frightened faces staring back at him. He screwed up his face.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

  ‘Nothing,’ John said.

  ‘This isn’t a place for kids,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  If Eddie had stopped to think about that – to really think – he might have realised that if this man was there cruising, he had a reason to keep their secret. But Eddie didn’t think about it. The only thoughts in his mind were, No. This man can’t see this. This man can’t see us. This man can’t end this. They buzzed in flashing, neon lights.

  ‘Fuck off,’ Eddie snapped in a small voice.

  The man glared at him. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything,’ John said, throwing a glance Eddie’s way. ‘Leave it.’

  But Eddie wasn’t thinking straight. He was hardly thinking at all. A fog of panic had rolled into his head, joined the anger and the shame and the lust, and this man shouldn’t know their secret. He couldn’t.

  ‘I said fuck off,’ he blurted, louder now.

  ‘Eddie,’ John hissed.

  The man looked annoyed. ‘Didn’t your parents tell you to respect your elders?’ he said. ‘Do they know you’re here, Eddie?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Eddie said.

  ‘They might be interested to know what their son is doing in the middle of a school day.’

  ‘Your wife might be interested too,’ John said, eyeing the ring on the men’s left hand. He could feel Eddie shaking beside him.

  ‘I was just passing by, minding my own beeswax, when I heard what sounded like a couple of kids fighting.’ He stared at the boys, took a moment to consider his options. Then, perhaps deciding that an argument with two teenage boys wasn’t worth it, shook his head and turned to leave. ‘Whatever. This is not my problem. Your parents can sort this shit out themse—’

  There was a hollow clunk and the man took two big steps backwards. His hand shot to his head. He stumbled, then lost his balance and fell backwards, onto the floor, his head smacking hard on the ground.

  It took John a few seconds to piece together what had happened. The man was very still. Eddie stood over him, his fingers curled tightly around a loose brick. He must have found it on the floor, must have picked it up, must have—

  ‘What the fuck did you do?’ John hissed.

  ‘He was going to tell,’ Eddie muttered. ‘You heard him. He was going to tell.’

  The man’s limbs jerked once. He made a gurgling sound. A rough triangle shape was missing from his forehead. A narrow line of blood seeped from it, cutting a vertical stripe from forehead to chin.

  ‘I had to,’ Eddie kept saying. ‘He was going to tell. I had to. He was going to tell. I had to…’

  ‘Jesus, Eddie,’ John said. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I had—’

  ‘We need to help him.’

  As Eddie began to pace, cry and curse, John went to the man. He was still alive, he thought, but there was a lot of blood and it kept coming. It wasn’t just a seep now. It guzzled from the wound in his head in shallow bursts, keeping in time with his heartbeat.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ John said.

  ‘Come on, we have to go.’

  ‘We need to help him.’

  ‘We have to get out of here, John. Now!’

  Eddie yanked at John’s arm, but John refused to move. He couldn’t move. All he could do was watch the light fade from the man’s eyes.

  Eddie dropped the brick and ran. His hurried footsteps echoed around the terminal. Then there was only John and the dying man. And he was dying. His chest rose once, then fell. The blood streaming down his face slowed to a stop. John stared at the blood. It didn’t look like one whole thing, John thought, but hundreds of tiny things.

  ‘Like caterpillars,’ he muttered. ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen … This wasn’t supposed to

  happen that way,’ Eddie said.

  Abby sat in stunned, broken silence. Her first thought was: I wish I didn’t believe them. Her second was one of self-preservation. She didn’t wish that David Stemple hadn’t met his end, only that it hadn’t been at the hands of her own son. She wished it had been John. Why couldn’t it have been John?

  But if Abby was honest, it wasn’t hard for her to picture Eddie losing it like that. She thought of him as a toddler, in what Ray had called his ‘apocalyptic temper tantrums’, screaming and kicking uncontrollably until, exhausted, he’d collapsed into her arms. She remembered the times – rare enough to be dismissed, but uncomfortable in the moment – when she saw that fury again: when her usually quiet seven-year-old had thrown himself to the floor of a toyshop, screaming and shaking so that she almost thought he was having a seizure. And Eddie at thirteen, after a girl at school had spread a rumour about him and he’d viciously kicked at the wall, both panicked and enraged. And finally, Eddie in the back yard, hurling a comic book into the she-oak. She thought about the Switch, and about the dark things kids inherit from their parents. Abby had been a fool to think that kind of anger just went away.

  ‘Mum, please, say something,’ Eddie said. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I fucked up. Fuck! I fucked up! I fucked—’

  ‘The magazines are yours, aren’t they?’ she said, half dazed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Give me a second.’

  ‘Mum,’ Eddie said.

  ‘Shut up,’ she told them. ‘Just give me a fucking second.’

  She glanced into the hall, to where the teenager had kicked off his dirty sneakers. She wanted to throw them in the fire. She wanted to throw him in the fire. She wanted to drink. She wanted to hurt something. The lights in the kitchen were suddenly too bright. There was too much sensory input. She felt overloaded, like a glass beneath running water, like a screaming, squealing, boiling kettle.

  ‘Alright,’ she said suddenly. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Next?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘After you ran,’ Abby said.

  She clenched her hands into tight fists below the table. ‘If you ran, how did his body end up in the water?’

  ‘The guy had parked his car over on the promenade,’ Eddie said. A startling casualness had crept into his tone. ‘When I reached it, it was like, sounds came back or something. It started to rain and that sort of, snapped me out of it. The car was unlocked and … he had a car phone. I thought about calling the police. I was going to call the police…’

  ‘But you didn’t,’ Abby said. ‘You called your dad.’

  Eddie nodded sadly. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

  She turned to John. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I stayed with the man until he…’ John said. ‘I stayed there until Mr Gilpin arrived and found me. When he got there, he put me and Eddie in the back seat of his work truck and had us tell him what happened. He went out to the ferry terminal and was gone for a while. When he came back, he told us to leave.’

  ‘Leave?’

  ‘He told me to go home, back to Melbourne, and he sent Eddie back here, to the house. He told us we should never talk about it. Not ever. But I … He didn’t do it. He got arrested and he didn’t do it, and I can’t—’

  ‘Yes,’ Abby said. ‘You can.’

  The boys were staring at her dumbly, so she closed her eyes tightly and in the deep, still darkness behind them, she saw her husband. Promise me something. Survive. You, Lori, Eddie. Promise me.

  Ray was right, she felt suddenly. She inhaled deeply, then, as calmly as she could manage, said, �
�Here’s what we’re going to do. John, you’ll spend the night. Tomorrow morning I’ll drop you at the ferry and you’ll go home.’

  She looked hard at both boys.

  ‘We’re going to bury this,’ she continued. ‘Do you know what I mean by that? We’re going to bury this someplace so deep and far away that we’re not even sure it really happened. You’re young. Both of you. You have long lives ahead of you.’

  ‘But, Dad,’ Eddie started. ‘He—’

  ‘Your dad made a sacrifice, Eddie. Now be a good boy and make up the couch for your friend.’

  She stood up, sighed deeply, and went to the fridge to fetch a beer. She left the boys where they were and strode out onto the front verandah to drink.

  Milt Street was quiet and dark. The sawhorses were finally gone from the low intersection of Brown and Delahunt streets. It was finally dry. Dry enough to drive on, at least.

  Abby sat down on the top step, wondering if she’d rescued those boys or cursed them. A new weight settled on her shoulders. She’d have to carry it a long time, she knew.

  A long time.

  29

  THE WIDOW

  Full dark was creeping over Belport when Kate followed Ed Gilpin’s truck onto Milt Street. He pulled into the driveway of a small, two-storey weatherboard house, set back from the street across a sweep of lush green lawn. A homemade sign was posted on the grass with Caretakers written in big black print.

  Ed drove the truck inside the garage. The roller door rattled down behind him.

  Kate parked across the street and started up a narrow stone path that cut across the lawn.

  The house was in desperate need of some TLC. The paint was chipped and peeling, there was a crack in the picture window above the front door, and a board had come loose below the verandah and dangled by one steel nail at a forty-five-degree angle.

  The yard, on the other hand, was immaculate. There was not a blade of grass out of place. A vegetable garden ran the length of the verandah, and there were potted ferns hanging from hooks, shifting slightly in the breeze.

  Kate didn’t stop to think about what she was doing. If she had, she might have realised how reckless she was being, spun on one foot and hightailed it back to the car. Instead, she crept around to the side of the garage, searching for a window she might be able to spy through.