Gravity Is the Thing

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  ‘Maybe that’s what was up with your parents,’ Pete Aldridge suggested. ‘Too much flying too high.’

  Everyone stared, and Wilbur blinked.

  ‘I’m kidding, of course,’ Pete said, annoyed.

  Antony leaned back and spun Wilbur’s CD stand. ‘What were they like, Wilbur?’ he asked. ‘Your parents?’

  ‘They were funny,’ Wilbur said. ‘Hilarious. But they never seemed unstable to me. I mean, small things. Dad was terrible on the trumpet but he played every day, and Mum hummed along like she thought he was a genius. Mum was obsessive about her garden. New neighbours moved in once, and lined the border between their properties with plants in pots. Mum threw them away. One at a time, working under moonlight. They were rubbish, she said; weeds really. And purple pots! She never wanted purple in her garden.’

  We all laughed.

  ‘How did your parents die?’ Frangipani asked. ‘If I may ask?’

  ‘My mother got lymphoma,’ Wilbur said, speaking smoothly, though his hands were fists. ‘It moved very fast. Dad had a stroke a few days after we lost Mum. The shock, I guess.’ He smiled around at us in a desperate, determined way. ‘Mum worked in her garden right up until the last week. Dad sat on the verandah playing his trumpet for her.’

  10.

  At another class, Wilbur showed us DVDs of pole dancers and ballerinas, freezing the image at certain interesting moments. ‘Practise these positions,’ he said vaguely. ‘You’ll need them in the sky.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can do that,’ Antony said, and Wilbur scratched the side of his nose, pretending not to hear.

  However, it turned out that Frangipani had studied ballet as a child and she demonstrated positions: glissade, split leap, tour jeté, arabesque. Her instructions were delivered stridently and we concentrated, springing up and kicking out our legs.

  Nicole kicked so vigorously that a postcard fell from the TV stand. I caught the words, W, you know that I’m crazy about you, but—before Wilbur scooped it up and placed it face down on the table. It was one of those free postcards, advertising a local theatrical production.

  11.

  Elsewhere, Socrates suggests that we not praise the one whose heart we wish to win, because it will go to their head, making them harder to catch.

  That’s a fair point. Some days Finnegan used to lavish praise on me—I was breathtaking, sexy as hell!—and I would think: Really? Am I? In that case, should I not be trying for Matt Damon?

  The thing to do, Socrates said, is to let your lover see that they are nobody.

  12.

  In one class, we talked about why birds can fly—hinged wings, hollow bones, light feathers, efficient lungs—and how they navigate take-off and landing. Wilbur told the story of a French zoologist who concluded, after many years of study, that the flight of bumblebees made no sense.

  ‘It’s the speed of their wing beats,’ Pete Aldridge asserted, shaking his head at numbskulled French zoologists. He added that midges beat their wings a thousand times a second.

  ‘But how do they do that?’ Niall asked.

  ‘Their muscles are like a machine.’

  Wilbur allowed Pete Aldridge to carry on.

  ‘Butterflies can only fly when they’re warm,’ Pete told us. ‘On cold days they must lie in the sun before they fly.’

  ‘Yeah, I can’t play the piano when my fingers are cold either,’ I said.

  ‘And playing the piano is a form of flight,’ Antony said, nodding. I thought he was joking but his eyes caught mine, serious.

  ‘Do you play?’ Wilbur asked me.

  ‘Used to.’

  Pete went on to tell a lyrical tale about the flight of termite couples, setting out to start a new colony.

  ‘They can only fly in very specific conditions,’ Pete said. ‘There has to be moisture in the air or they dry out, but if it rains, they drown. You know that suspenseful weather, just before a storm? That’s the idea.’

  ‘It’s a sort of love story,’ Nicole said, ‘the courageous termite lovers,’ and I focused again, having drifted. What could I learn from the love stories of termites?

  It was too late. We were back to birds: Antony was enquiring whether flightless birds—the ostrich, emu, cassowary—might benefit from Wilbur’s Flight School?

  Wilbur smiled mildly as we hooted, a teacher with a rowdy class.

  For the next two weeks, he sent us text messages cancelling the class. I finally added his number to my contacts, naming him: Wilbur: Flight instructor.

  13.

  Oscar’s fifth birthday party took place at Wizzy World. We invited his five best friends from day care.

  On his actual birthday, I gave him a Ben 10 bike with training wheels. It stood in the living room, draped in red tissue paper. I made a cake and invited Niall over.

  ‘Why is your friend here on my birthday?’ Oscar asked, reasonably enough.

  ‘He’s your friend too,’ I said.

  ‘No, he’s not.’

  But Niall gave him a styrofoam rocket that flew into the air when you stomped on a rubber base, so ultimately we were both forgiven.

  14.

  Researching love, I found a book called He’s Just Not That into You.

  This advises women to stop imagining a man is not calling her because he is busy. No. It’s because he doesn’t fancy you.

  Initially, I was most bothered by the word just. It’s like pop, jump, toss, undercuts truth, diminishes immensity, contains a shrug, both affected and earnest. Next, I disliked the universal ‘guy’ permeating the text: This is how we think. We’re simple. We like sex. (Setting aside the ways men change as they age, accumulate tragedies, read more, think more—setting aside cultural differences, varieties in intellect—maybe other men are different to you and your buddies?) After this, I loathed the suggestion that women have a use-by date and the stories of men mistreating women but being excused as simply not into them.

  Also, listen, when women comfort friends, offering excuses for the lover who hasn’t called, it’s just their way of saying: Of course he’s into you. How could anybody not be?

  A truth more profound than the lover’s loss of interest.

  As Socrates says, I would rather have a good friend than the best cock or quail in the world.

  15.

  At Primrose Park, there is a bike track where children do circuits on scooters and trikes.

  One Sunday afternoon, Oscar rode his new Ben 10 bike-with-training-wheels around and around, calling, ‘Mummy? Mummy?’ whenever the bike slowed, as it did each time it hit the shallow slope.

  ‘Turn the pedals,’ I called. ‘Turn the pedals harder!’

  Other children rode by, staring at him.

  I had a picnic blanket, a container of freshly baked muffins, mandarins, and even a thermos of tea. The sky was high blue, the sun warm, shadows crisp around the trees. Other families sat on blankets, helped children ride, kicked balls across the grass. A tall man jogged by on the path, caught a runaway ball with the side of his sneaker, and sent it back to a father and child.

  ‘Cheers,’ called the father.

  The tall man nodded, slowed, gazed across the park, and turned into Wilbur. I shielded my eyes to stare. It was Wilbur, his flying curls, staring back at me. Now what? I thought. Do we pretend not to see each other?

  But Wilbur was striding towards me, grinning. ‘Hello, Abi!’ he said.

  ‘Wilbur!’ I said. ‘What are you doing in my neighbourhood?’

  He sat down on my rug. Quite suddenly, he stood again. ‘Is this okay? Can I join you?’

  ‘Sure, but seriously, what are you doing here? You belong on the other side of the bridge.’ I was only joking, but my voice had a mild intensity.

  Wilbur sat again and told me that his girlfriend lived in Neutral Bay. ‘Which one’s Oscar?’ he asked, so I didn’t get a chance to enquire about the girlfriend. I might have asked whether she dressed in turquoise and how he, a Newtown guy, had got himself a Neutral Bay girlfriend.
Also, I had a confusing sense that I should object to this girlfriend: the northern side belonged to me.

  I pointed out Oscar. ‘Red shirt, Ben 10 bike.’

  Wilbur nodded and we both watched Oscar’s slow cycling. Around and around.

  ‘He’s good,’ Wilbur said.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s not. See that? He can’t get up the hill.’

  ‘He’s hopeless,’ Wilbur conceded. ‘It’s not even a hill.’

  ‘Cute though,’ I said.

  ‘Cutest kid I ever saw.’

  I offered Wilbur a muffin to reward him for that comment. As he accepted this, he looked me in the eye. ‘It’s very kind of you,’ he said, ‘to come to Flight School.’

  ‘Nah.’ I shrugged. ‘I like it.’

  Wilbur shook his head, but he’d just taken a bite of the muffin and now he studied it, turning it around to catch the light, as if it were a Grecian urn. ‘This is fantastic,’ he said eventually. ‘But seriously, I wake in the night and ask myself what I’m doing. It’s not like my parents’ instructions were legally binding. I just thought I needed to do it. Because it’s what they wanted. And for me, I guess. You know, I actually googled, What was I thinking? when I got home from that weekend retreat?’

  ‘And what did Google say?’

  ‘Well, its answers weren’t on point. You people are so generous, giving up your Tuesday nights. What’s it doing to your minds? The way we keep pretending?’

  ‘I think we’ll be all right,’ I said. ‘Life is full of disjunctions.’

  He ate the muffin a while, considering this. ‘See,’ he said eventually, ‘I used to think my parents were writing The Guidebook just for me, like a private joke between us. Intensive parenting.’ He turned back to the bike track, brushing the crumbs away. ‘That was easily the best muffin I ever ate. Where’s Oscar now?’ He leaned right, trying to see around a cluster of kids.

  I pointed. ‘Behind the girl in the pink helmet.’

  More families had arrived and there were crowds of wheels on the track, traffic jams at intersections.

  ‘Peak hour on the bike path,’ Wilbur observed.

  ‘So when you found out your parents had been sending the book to strangers,’ I prompted, ‘I guess you felt . . .’

  ‘Strange, angry, upset, embarrassed, confused, light-headed.’ He smiled. I smiled back.

  ‘Honestly,’ I said, ‘I wish I could take credit for being generous, but I like Flight School. The other people, the night out, the food and wine, the games. Life doesn’t have enough games. And it’s educational! We’re learning about flight! I love hearing you talk.’

  He was listening closely so I tried to clarify. ‘Sometimes you tell stories, Wilbur, and I think: When I get home, I’ll write that down. But I lose the words, they melt, like . . .’ I pointed at children blowing soap bubbles, and watched as the bubbles vanished softly.

  Wilbur was quiet. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  We turned back to the track. Oscar waved at me and frowned at Wilbur, stranger on our picnic rug. Very slowly, his bike tipped sideways and he spilled with a soft thud to the path. I watched to see what he would do. He lay still on the path, a little curl.

  Wilbur began to stand, but I stood faster, and ran across. Oscar held out the palms of his hands to me, just faintly grazed.

  ‘Oh no!’ I said. ‘Did you fall?’

  At which he fell into sobs, so I reached out and let him cling to me, his helmet clunking against my chin, while other children, biking by, turned their gazes on to us.

  I know you’re supposed to say: You’re okay! Up you get!

  But I held on to him anyway, and a moment later he scrambled down and climbed onto his bike again.

  He pedalled away, wiping his nose.

  Wilbur was still standing, waiting for an update.

  ‘That’s the first time he’s fallen from his bike,’ I explained, and we sat down.

  I returned to our conversation. ‘It’s also about The Guidebook,’ I said. ‘I mean, I used to laugh at it, but I also kind of loved your parents—and the book wove itself into my life.’

  He nodded. ‘Mine too.’

  ‘Like, I did a wine appreciation course at university because The Guidebook told me to. And I made a friend there named Natalia who later invited me to the party where I met my husband. He and I connected because we recognised each other. Guess why?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’d both been to the same Italian cooking class. And guess why I’d signed up for that?’

  ‘The Guidebook.’

  I nodded. ‘But causation is complicated. I also signed up for that wine appreciation course because a cute guy was looking at the ad. It’s usually a collection of factors. Cause and effect: depends how you structure the narrative.’

  Wilbur’s mouth quirked.

  ‘I’m not being funny,’ I said.

  ‘I know. I just like what you’re saying.’ He shifted his gaze back to the bike track. ‘You never mention your husband.’

  ‘Oh, he’s not around. We’re not together anymore.’

  ‘Does he spend much time with Oscar?’

  ‘Oscar’s dad,’ I said carefully, ‘is also not around.’

  This is always a complicated conversation. People naturally conflate my ex-husband with the father of my child. But Wilbur’s face did not crumple with consternation, he only nodded again.

  ‘Sometimes,’ I said, changing the subject, ‘The Guidebook seemed like it was meant just for me. Directly connected to events in my life.’

  ‘Me too,’ Wilbur said. ‘If something’s universal enough, eventually it’ll fit.’

  ‘Like horoscopes.’

  ‘Exactly. Here comes your boy now.’

  Oscar was approaching, pushing his bike over bumpy grass. Wilbur stood, stepped towards him and said, ‘Can I help?’ He lifted the bike, swinging it high, and placed it alongside the blanket. Oscar watched all this, part dubious, part impressed by the height and the mighty swing.

  I introduced them.

  ‘You were on fire on that track,’ Wilbur told him, and Oscar nodded, agreeing that yes, he’d been on fire. ‘Coolest kid there.’ Wilbur clicked his fingers, indicating coolness.

  ‘I don’t know how to click,’ Oscar confessed. ‘I know how to do everything except click.’

  ‘Everything?’ Wilbur asked, impressed.

  ‘Everything,’ Oscar agreed and then corrected himself: ‘Everything except how to say hello and goodbye in Mandarin.’

  ‘Easily fixed.’

  Wilbur taught Oscar the Mandarin for hello and goodbye, and then proclaimed: ‘There, now you know how to do everything.’

  Content, Oscar curled into my side, resting his head. The sun was going down, shadows growing.

  16.

  The following Tuesday night, Frangipani told us she’d been studying numerology.

  Of course you have, I thought.

  ‘I used to think I didn’t need anything else,’ she explained, tapping her nails on the window. (We were looking for flight waves.) ‘Because I had The Guidebook.’

  Something fluttered in my chest.

  ‘You know why I never went into your Happiness Café, Abigail?’ she continued. ‘Because I thought, I don’t need that. I’ve got The Guidebook!’ She chuckled. ‘But when it turned out The Guidebook wasn’t real, I realised I’d missed so much! So I’ve been trying to catch up. I’ve been to a course in spiritual awakening, learned how to face-read, and now I’m studying numerology.’

  Life! Honestly! It’s just a series of rebukes from the universe for judgmental thoughts.

  ‘But that’s exactly what I’ve been doing!’ I said. ‘That’s exactly what I thought!’

  We compared rapid notes on our enquires into self-help, while the others listened with interest. Niall, I noticed, continued staring through the window, but he smiled faintly.

  ‘And numerology?’ I said. ‘How’s that working out?’

  Frangipani explained that it is
important to harmonise your child’s name with its date of birth.

  ‘Too late,’ Nicole and I said simultaneously. We’d already named our children.

  Frangipani offered to check our children’s numerology so that, if necessary, we could change their names. ‘Here . . .’ She reached for her handbag and pulled out a notepad. ‘I’ll check all your numerology! Is that okay, Wilbur?’

  ‘Perfectly all right,’ Wilbur said.

  That was a fun night! Frangipani drew up charts, counting on her fingers, informing us of our ruling numbers, destiny numbers, the reservoir of power in our middle names—Oscar’s middle name is Robert—and something about arrows. I remember arrows of intellect and hypersensitivity—I was pretty sure I had the arrow of confusion but Frangipani told me I did not.

  Nicknames should also be considered, Frangipani said. ‘I mean, you’re not just Abigail, are you?’ she asked me. ‘You’re also Abi.’

  I always think that Abi sounds like someone drunk, or with a cold, saying happy.

  ‘Which must be a good thing?’ I tried, but Frangipani was dismissive.

  She promised she would read our faces one day too. Niall, she said, had a Fire face. Niall was delighted. He wanted to change his name to Fire Face. Pete Aldridge told him that Niall was just fine, as a name. But Niall said he’d never liked it. As a teenager, he’d changed it constantly: ‘Different movie star names,’ he said. ‘But Fire Face, I think that one could stick.’

  Feeling reckless on shiraz, I admitted to Frangipani that I often forgot her name was Sasha. In my head, she was Frangipani, I said, because of the flower she wore in her hair that first weekend.

  ‘You think my name is Frangipani!’ she exclaimed. ‘I love frangipanis!’

  We smiled at each other, and it was lucky, I thought, that she did not know that inside the word frangipani was the contempt I’d once felt for her earnestness, her competitiveness, that flouncy flower in her hair.

  But then, as we carried on smiling, I thought maybe she did know, but was setting this aside, allowing frangipani to glide on its own surface, its soft petals, its summer white-and-yellow, its intoxicating fragrance.