by Cassie Hamer
Max slung the jacket over his shoulder and thrust the other hand in his pocket. So infuriatingly casual! ‘Ethan, mate. Slow down, buddy. I haven’t even had a chance to say hello.’
Ethan stopped. ‘Hey, Dad. I’m just off to Dylan’s for a little while. No biggie.’ He shot a look at Beth.
‘What’s all this about a test tomorrow?’
‘I’ve done heaps of study, honest. It’ll be fine, I won’t be late home. Promise.’
Max nodded and slapped his son’s shoulder. ‘All right, then. Have fun, mate.’
‘Bye, Mum.’ Ethan strolled out the door, while Beth, seething, stomped over to the cupboard and flung open the door to find a half-empty bottle of cab sauv – the one she’d used in yesterday’s coq au vin.
‘Is there one for me?’ said Max as Chloe scuttled out of the room. For a twelve year old, she was as accurate as a barometer in gauging a pressure change between her parents.
Beth slammed the cupboard door shut. ‘Get it yourself.’
‘What is it now?’ Max sighed, going to the cupboard.
‘You let him go to the party, just like that! After I told him he couldn’t go.’
‘What else could I do? He’s seventeen. I can’t actually stop him. Ethan’s a sensible kid. He’s done his study and he’ll be home early. You heard him.’
‘And you actually believe that?’
‘He’s my son, I raised him after all, and I like to think the best of him, where you want to think the worst.’
Beth flinched. ‘Beg your pardon? You raised him? I think you’ll find it was a joint effort.’ Even joint was generous. The division of labour in the Chandler household was quite clear – Max was chief financial provider and Beth was chief household manager, which meant much of the parenting over the years had fallen to her. Not that Max was a uninterested father. Not at all. He was more loving than most, but he simply wasn’t around as much as Beth. Houses didn’t sell themselves, as he so often reminded his clients.
Children didn’t raise themselves either.
‘You’re right,’ said Max. ‘We have raised a son who is now seventeen years old. It’s time for us to let go a little. Let him off the leash and get our own lives back.’
‘He is my life, he and Chloe, and I don’t want it any other way!’
‘Don’t you see that if you hold on too tight, you’ll only lose him.’
‘So, we just have to stand by and let him get drunk before exams? I’m sorry, I can’t do that.’
‘You don’t have a choice. He’s going to make mistakes, and all we can do is be there to help pick up the pieces.’
‘I don’t see why we have to let him break to begin with. It just seems … careless.’ She picked up the mortar off the bench, and moved to the sink to wash it up. Careless, she’d been careless with her treasured wedding gift, and look what happened. She wouldn’t make the same mistake with her family. Max was wrong. All wrong. Now was the time to hold close. Stay tight. Keep focused. She hadn’t worked on her son for seventeen years to throw it all away now.
‘I’m going upstairs to change,’ said Max, eventually, shifting off the bench. Beth didn’t turn around, but listened to him clump slowly up the stairs. She was alone now, the curry bubbling away. As she drained the sink, her anger emptied away with the water, and was replaced by guilt. She hated fighting with Max, and in the course of their marriage it had happened rarely, at least up until the last few months. Beth put the increased friction down to the stress of having two high-school-aged children in the house. What was that saying? Small people, small problems, big people, big problems. Max’s strategy seemed to be one of denial, which, in Beth’s view, wasn’t a strategy at all.
She snapped off the washing gloves, lifted the garbage bag out of the cupboard under the sink and headed for the door. Outside, the sky was glorious, crimson as the bougainvillea spilling over the fence from Cara’s, and Beth stopped for a minute to appreciate the view. Lights had come on in a few of the houses and through the leadlight windows that typified the federation homes of the close came an inviting amber glow in the approaching dusk.
‘Evening, Bethy,’ called Ian from number seventeen, the elderly gent with his equally elderly golden retriever, Rex, walking haltingly at his side.
‘Hello, Ian. Beautiful evening, isn’t it? Nice to see the sun again today.’ Beth waved her hand into the warm air.
‘It’s always beautiful in Cuthbert Close – rain, hail or shine,’ he replied, moving tortoise-like towards his house. ‘The family well and happy?’
‘Never better.’ She gave a bright smile. ‘And Paula?’
‘Ah, she’s grand. Sitting up and sipping a sherry as we speak.’ Paula, Ian’s wife of fifty-two years, had advanced dementia. There was a carer who came twice a day for bathing and toileting, but eighty-one year old Ian did the rest.
‘You’ve just reminded me – I’ve got a lasagne in my freezer that didn’t get eaten at the street party. How about I pop over tomorrow with it?’
Ian beamed. ‘Ah, you’re a wonder. No doubt about you, Beth.’ He turned for the house. ‘Best be getting back.’ He clapped his hands gently to summon Rex. ‘Off we go, old boy.’
‘Give my love to Paula, and tell her I’ll come round for a cuppa tomorrow.’
Ian waved over his shoulder and Beth waited to make sure he got inside safely.
Once the door had closed, she lifted the lid on the wheelie bin.
Completely full. Plastic cups and plates from the party, along with all the detritus from the storm.
‘He could have at least mentioned it,’ Beth muttered under her breath. Garbage was usually Max’s job.
Beth closed the lid, dragged the bin into position for collection and looked about the quiet street. Where to put the extra bag of rubbish? There’d be someone in the street with an emptyish bin. But who? House by house, she went down the line until her gaze settled on the Pezzullos’.
Not the Pezzullos’, but the Devines’ now.
They’d only been there two days. Surely their bins couldn’t be full. Did they even know it was collection night? Beth squared her shoulders. Excellent. A chance to be neighbourly and find a home for her rubbish.
Garbage bag in hand, she strode over, cutting across the lawn. Nearing the Devines’ door, she could hear voices coming from inside. Good, they were home. At the front step, she stopped. They weren’t just voices, they were raised voices. An argument. Beth leant in. Not eavesdropping, she told herself, just trying to gauge if it was a bad time. The words were indistinct but Beth could swear she heard the word neighbours repeated at least once, then there was silence.
‘Hi, Mrs Chandler. Everything okay?’
Beth jumped back in surprise as Talia peered from around the door, her face pale and wan.
‘Of course, Talia. Everything’s fine. Sorry, I was just about to knock but I thought it might not be … Never mind. Are you all right?’
She nodded. ‘I’m making sure our cat doesn’t get out again. He’s been a bit naughty today.’
‘New street, new home. It’s to be expected, I suppose.’ The Chandlers didn’t have pets. Beth found the children enough work as it was. ‘Well, I just wanted to let you and your mum know that tonight is rubbish collection night … and I was wondering if I could put a bag into your bin. Ours is full,’ she explained.
‘I’m sure it’s fine. Mum’s a bit busy at the moment.’
‘Talia,’ came a weary voice from down the hallway. ‘Where’s all the medication? You unpacked the box, didn’t you?’
The girl looked nervously over her shoulder. ‘Mum, Mrs Chandler’s here,’ she called down the hallway.
Beth put up her hands. ‘No need to bother her …’
A second face appeared around the door.
‘Oh, Beth, hello.’ Charlie Devine smiled but there was a tone in her voice that Beth couldn’t quite pick. Annoyance, perhaps? Obviously she’d interrupted something. The smile didn’t reach her eyes, which were …
They were cold, Beth realised with a start. And there were dark shadows underneath that hadn’t been there yesterday. The fatigue of moving, no doubt.
‘I’ll go check on Banjo.’ Talia disappeared, and Charlie took her place in the doorway, blocking Beth’s view down the hall.
‘I’m sorry I’ve caught you at a bad time, but I was just letting you know it’s bin night, and Talia said it might be okay for me to pop this in yours?’ Beth held up the plastic bag.
Charlie’s nose wrinkled and she fingered the collar of her satin shirt, which formed one half of a very glamorous, pure-white pyjama set – the kind of outfit Beth would have stained in five seconds flat. Hopefully, Charlie wouldn’t notice the splodge of curry paste on her jeans.
‘Sorry, it’s a bit whiffy from last night’s lamb chops,’ Beth apologised.
‘No, it’s fine. Go ahead,’ Charlie said, waving her hand tiredly.
Beth paused. ‘I know that moving house can be overwhelming, let alone moving interstate, so if there’s anything I can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask. I mean that,’ she added.
‘Thank you, but really, we’re fine.’ Charlie went to close the door, and stopped. Her eyes flicked over Beth dispassionately. ‘I know you mean well … but, look, what Talia and I need right now is space and time to get ourselves settled. Do you understand?’
Beth stepped back from the door. Charlie’s slow and deliberate delivery had made the words sound almost like … like a warning. ‘Yes, yes. Of course,’ she stammered. ‘I completely understand.’
Charlie nodded, and closed the door.
Feeling the flush of a rebuke rising up her neck, Beth scurried down the front path. The Devines’ bin was on her left. Should she still put her rubbish in? Or would that be crowding them?
‘Don’t be silly. It’s just rubbish. Not a marriage proposal,’ Beth muttered to herself, swinging open the bin lid.
She peered in, and stopped. What was that? Was it what she thought it was?
She looked more closely.
It was! Her quiche, sitting in a smashed pile at the bottom of the Devines’ bin. The one she’d taken over in the pouring rain after the ruined street party.
But why? Why throw it out?
Talia had seemed so happy to receive it. Perhaps Charlie decided it was against their eating principles. Perhaps she saw it as Beth interfering or dismissing their dietary choices? Oh, dear. She’d only been trying to make them feel welcome. Should she apologise? Yes, she should apologise, and make them see.
Beth pivoted and started back up the path towards the house. Her eye was drawn to a sudden lift in the curtains. It was Talia at the window, and she was shaking her head.
Don’t come in, she seemed to be saying, her eyes large and sorrowful. Don’t get involved.
Beth stopped and took a breath. Max’s words about Ethan pinged in her head, about holding on too tight. She saw it as caring. He saw it as crowding. Was that what she was doing to the Devines? To Ian and Paula? Even Cara and Alex? Maybe they were just too polite to tell her? All except Charlie, that was.
Retreating quickly down the path, Beth dumped the rubbish in the Devines’ bin and scurried back towards home.
At the front door, she stopped and looked back over her shoulder, but Talia had gone from the window, like she was never there at all.
ThePrimalGuy.com.au
From: The Primal Guy
Subject: Black Swans
Dear Prime-Timers,
Okay, so don’t drop your phones when you hear this, but, I have news! I’ve been reading. I mean, I’m always digesting the latest and greatest in food and nutrition. But this was an actual book, by my home-boy Nassim Nicholas Taleb. That dude is like the Jesus of the new millennium. You know he predicted the big crash of 2008? Seriously. The guy’s a freak.
Anyway, in his book, he goes back a few hundred years to when the first white dudes turned up in Australia and discovered this crazy looking bird. It was a swan, but it was BLACK! What the freak? The only swans they’d ever seen were WHITE. They couldn’t believe their freakin’ eyes. It was insane. Hectic. I mean, who’d have predicted it?
But, that’s life, right? Shit happens, and we never see it coming. It’s so predictably unpredictable. Jobs, love, fire, floods, accidents, death – who knows what’s around the corner.
All we know is that we don’t know what’s coming. And, boy, am I learning that. This trip is pushing me so far on the inside I can almost see my own a-hole, and it ain’t so pretty, even with an a-bomb diet.
But here’s the thing – if you know that shit never quite goes how you want, you’re already ahead. If you’re quick and agile and strong, you can cope with any black swan that flies your way. Disasters aren’t the time to bunker down, they’re the time to get moving.
You just gotta be ready to be brave, reach out, grab those wings and fly high.
Peace out,
Ryan (AKA the Primal Guy)
PS Introduce a new Prime-Mate to the crew and get 50% off a pack of our super-awesome Chicken and Jalapeno Primal Meal Bars, packed with 100% natural chicken and 0% gluten. You know you want it!
CHAPTER SIX
Alex stared at the basket of washing in front of her, hoping that if she looked at it for long enough, it might actually fold itself. Wasn’t that the theory of visualisation that she’d learnt about during a break-out session from a two-day corporate law conference last year? That if you imagined something hard enough, it would come to fruition?
The facilitator had made them use the technique during trust falls, visualising themselves landing safely in the arms of their colleagues before they actually went ahead and did so. True, no one was dropped, though there were a few wobbles when it came to catching the pompous barrister with the personal hygiene issue, and perhaps, as corporate lawyers, they might have been better served imagining piles and piles of money. After all, that was the core business. Falling successfully into the arms of colleagues and opponents wasn’t exactly a key performance indicator at Macauley Partners, where Alex had worked for twelve years.
She closed her eyes and imagined the twenty pairs of underpants, four school shirts, three business shirts, umpteen socks and two pairs of school shorts all neatly ironed, folded and put away. She squeezed her lids and clenched her fists. In her mind she saw razor-sharp folds and starched collars. She squeezed more tightly, then opened.
Nothing. The clothes hadn’t moved.
She pulled out her phone and scrolled through emails. Nothing urgent from work. A bit of spam from travel and clothing websites that Alex couldn’t remember using. A new one from The Primal Guy. She opened it and read through. Another slightly unhinged rant about life and black swans. Actually, this one wasn’t quite as bad as the others. He had a point about life throwing up the unexpected, like a baby for instance.
Alex yawned and visualised herself falling successfully into bed. She ached for sleep. At least the boys were out cold and the house was quiet. James had a couple of late clients but he’d be home soon and she would need to talk to him about the baby. Or at least the potential baby.
Would he be happy? Only yesterday he’d commented on how nice it was to be working again, properly, with the boys now in their second year of school. Only one thing was certain. He’d be surprised about the (possible) pregnancy.
Alex picked up the first pair of underpants, and her stomach sank. Another certain thing about a baby was that the washing load would at least double when it came along. Babies, or at least Alex’s babies, puked enthusiastically after every meal, which was possibly testament to the calibre of her cooking but certainly made for an endless round of changing and washing. At one point, she remembered dressing the twins in nothing but singlets and nappies for weeks on end because she simply didn’t have time to wash the puked-on clothing, and they never left the house anyway, so what was the harm.
Alex sat at the dining table, fished out a couple of the boys’ shirts from the basket, and laid her head on the
m. Just for a minute, she told herself. How she longed for a glass of sauv blanc. Anything to ease the knot of worry at the pit of her stomach. But that second pink line made alcohol out of the question. She could stomach the anxiety better than the guilt. Just a short, short rest. Until the desire for wine passes. Next thing she knew, James was gently squeezing her shoulder.
‘Alex, Alex,’ he said softly. ‘You fell asleep.’
She lifted her head quickly and swallowed hard. Her mouth was like sand. James got down on his haunches and used his thumb to wipe her chin. Drool, she realised, which would explain the dry mouth.
‘Shit, what time is it?’ Alex groggily checked the clock on the oven.
‘It’s just after nine.’ James stroked a piece of hair off her forehead. ‘You were out like a light.’
She yawned. ‘The boys were asleep, and I felt so exhausted I thought I’d put my head down for a minute and then get to the washing and—’
‘You don’t need to explain to me.’ James rose and wandered towards the fridge.
‘There’s one of Beth’s lasagnes in the fridge, if you want to throw that in the microwave. I ate with the twins.’
James opened the fridge door. ‘How were they this arvo?’
‘Oh, fine.’ Alex resumed folding the washing. ‘Henrietta died.’
James turned quickly. ‘Who died?’
‘Henny … the guinea pig.’
‘Oh, shit. Already? She was only a few months old, wasn’t she?’ James covered the lasagne with cling wrap and set it in the microwave.
‘The boys didn’t put her back in the hutch this morning and when we went looking this afternoon we found her at the Devines’. Their cat killed her.’ She thought back to Henny’s taut little body, Talia’s dismay and Charlie’s ambivalence. ‘You know, Charlie Devine didn’t even apologise.’
‘Well, it’s not her fault that Henny wandered off. She really should have been in her hutch. It’s our fault more than hers.’
‘Look at it this way,’ said Alex. ‘If one of the boys ran out onto the road and got run over, you’d blame the driver, not the child.’
