‘Ned!’
‘I don’t care, Viv. I’ll say what I want. I’m not going to pretend he’s our friend.’ She stopped short of saying, ‘or that we’re even friends.’ Their moment had passed. This was now about Jean.
‘It’s OK,’ he said, then he tried to tell them what the accident was like but it was difficult; he seemed to have so few words. They egged him on and he tried to describe the state of the woman who’d opened her car door and how the woman’s baby cried bloody murder until somehow the light rain had lulled it to sleep. They wanted details and he had them, though it was hard to understand him through the mumbles but he managed a story about cars passing him and how he’d felt guilty and ashamed and wished he could’ve hidden. Neddy, despite her breasts, drank from her third glass while they asked more questions, becoming apologetic themselves as he tried to tell them where he’d been going, how he had remembered thinking Jean was crazy cycling on a morning like that, and what it had felt like when he found out she’d had a son. His stilted language meant they only got snippets of each story but it was, however, enough. So often Neddy came in charging like a bull then bowed her head in submission. She was submitting to Charley now. He was only human. Someone else’s child.
But then she felt the beast in her rising again when Charley asked how Jean’s family was.
‘Have you seen much of Stan and Orion, Viv?’ Neddy stuck the heels of her Going-Out Boots into the floor, bracing herself as an ex-girlfriend might when asking the boy who broke her heart if he was happy with his new girlfriend. Maybe their moment was going to surface after all. Maybe it couldn’t be helped.
‘They’re getting on. Stan’s mainly focused on work and being a single dad to Orion. Hasn’t met anyone else. I don’t think he’s trying too hard. A few dates here and there, nothing serious, though I wish it could be otherwise. He’s a good man. He deserves to be happy. And Orion, you know, he’s doing well at school. He’s a lovely boy, just so lovely. He’s started playing the guitar. You know he’s only nine and he’s writing his own songs? Can you imagine?’
‘I was writing poetry at nine, so why not? Kids are just little people, Viv. They each seem so amazing and unique, but they’re just little people.’ Neddy should have left it at that but she couldn’t suppress her laughter. It was sarcastic, not an ingredient for a good night at the pub.
Viv’s look at Neddy seemed one half confusion and the other half caution. She turned to Charley and said, ‘I don’t have children of my own, but I love Orion. We’re very close. I’m glad he’s in my life.’
‘We all love Orion.’ What should have been gentle words of Neddy’s had a sting in them and were meant as a challenge for Viv.
‘Of course we do.’ And from the sound of her voice, Viv appeared to have flicked away the stinger and accepted the challenge.
Whether Charley had caught on as well was not on Neddy’s mind; she was that focused on how annoyed she was at the Welcoming Day invitation. She knew it was inappropriate given the unique circumstances presented to them tonight, but she couldn’t help it. ‘I feel like I don’t know who you are, Viv.’
‘Why would you? You haven’t wanted anything to do with me since Jean died.’
Neddy felt the need to roll up her sleeves and get down to business, this being The Moment, such a long time coming. ‘Sorry, Charley, I just can’t …’ Neddy looked up to the ceiling and shook her head. ‘If you hadn’t taken Jean out just so you could sleep with that boy at the pub, she’d be here now. With us. Have you ever even thought of that?’ She’d said it. She wasn’t sure if she really believed it – the trite old saying of ‘accidents happen’ had lasting merit and Neddy held true to the chaos of life and randomness of days – but she’d stewed over the theory for years now. How much of what she’d said was grounds for ending their friendship and how much was simply reaching for a reason?
‘How dare you.’ It was quiet and measured, but Neddy saw that it easily could’ve bubbled over. ‘How dare you say that. Jean was Jean that night. She was dancing, she was celebrating, so don’t you dare say I made her do a thing. She wanted to be out and I am so happy I got to dance with her on the last night of her life.’ Viv was staring Neddy down, leaning forward, her muscles taut, a statue.
Charley signalled the bartender with a lift of the chin and a whisky on the rocks was brought to him. ‘I take it you need one of these, mate?’
‘Ta.’
The girls didn’t miss a beat.
‘If you’re so sure it was all my fault, then why didn’t you ever say anything? Why didn’t we ever talk about it? You never contacted me. You dumped me like we’d never even mattered after Jean died.’
‘So if I don’t contact you then we’re not friends? It’s completely up to me? You could’ve called me. I’m pretty fucking busy too, Viv. I don’t just go to work then knock off at five and wait for people to invite me out. I’ve got a family. I’ve got a very full life.’
‘Whoa, Ned, slow down. What’s—’
But Neddy didn’t slow down. ‘Remember uni, Viv? You, me and Jean putting on plays, making art, meeting guys, travelling. We were all new to life then. It was all so equal and easy. It’s not now, is it? You’re perfect and Jean’s dead and I’m just …’ She used both of her hands to motion to her body.
‘Equal?’ Viv scoffed. Another laugh for the list. ‘You and Jean got all the good guys.’
‘Me? I had no guys. It was you and Jean. Jean had the accent and you had the charm.’
‘Jean had the amazing body and you had this way of making boys want to be men.’
‘What?’ Neddy turned to Charley, who was tugging on the point of his beard. ‘Excuse us, Charley,’ she said, then turned back to Viv. ‘That’s bullshit, Viv. Jean was good at conversation. You had sophistication. I can’t believe we’re even talking about this.’
‘No, Jean was the most adventurous. Guys loved that about her.’ Viv looked at Charley, still tugging away. ‘She used to suggest rock climbing for a first date.’ She looked back at Neddy. ‘You were the most caring. When a guy needed sympathy, he went with you.’
‘What, like when he broke up with his girlfriend?’
‘Yeah, you were always there!’ It was a good-hearted joke that they both smiled at, tentatively.
Viv poured more wine. Neddy put her hand over her glass. ‘Enough for me. I need water.’
The uncomfortable man, and rightly so, got up uneasily from the table and offered to get the water. ‘I could use another whisky, eh.’ He looked around the room and Neddy wondered if once he’d made it to the bar he might keep on walking out the door. She felt sorry for him for what they were doing. She felt sorry for Viv, for their damaged friendship. She wondered, if the two of them had gotten it all wrong, had gotten each other completely wrong, what about Jean? If she’d been here, with them, instead of the man who’d caused her death, what would she have said?
Neddy realised that her Moment had shifted. She began again, this time without accusation. ‘You were always so successful, Viv. Things seemed to just fall into your lap and you’d take them and grow them into bigger things. I’m a jealous bitch, I know, but I have the upper hand on children. It’s just what it is. And I can’t bear for you to take that away from me.’
‘Welcoming Day, right? Ned, I’m not going to be his mother. His mother is Jean. His mother will always be Jean. I only want to be his friend. Stan’s just doing this because he wants Orion to be taken care of if anything happens to him. He’s making it official in his will and we decided to celebrate because of Jean. Jean loved a party and would’ve wanted to celebrate too.’
‘What, celebrate you and Professor Sleazeman? Oh, sorry: Funtastic Phil, wherever that came from.’
‘Ned, stop. I love Orion and so does Philip. We both want what’s best for him. We both want to be happy for him when he’s thrilled to bits with a song he’s written, you know?
The little things and the big things.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I’m screwed up, I’m sad, I’m hormonal, tired, scared, drunk, what have you.’
‘Jean was the dancer, you were the writer. Have you written anything lately? Do you ever write about Jean?’
‘I haven’t written in years.’
Charley returned with a small jug of water and three glasses, one filled with whisky. ‘I write letters.’ He looked no one in the eye.
‘I know Lisa. She said you write beautiful letters.’
‘Can’t spell worth shit. Me mum used to write me letters.’
‘So she passed that onto you?’
‘Guess. Guess it’ll stop with me cause I don’t have anybody to pass it onto. Don’t have me own kids.’
‘Does that make you sad? Not having children?’
‘Never thought it was something I’d do, but I reckon so.’
‘What about you, Viv? Are you still glad you never had children?’
‘I’m not so sure I’d use the word “glad”.’
‘Every kid could use more love, eh.’ Charley poured out the waters and drank from his whisky. ‘Coming from a man who never had a dad and misses his mum like hell.’
A long silence ensued. Somehow, between this new trio, it was a very comfortable silence. Neddy looked at Charley. She was glad he was with them. And she was glad she was with Viv again. And though this trio would never meet in any pub or anywhere else ever again, and though Neddy would return to considering Charley the man who ran over her old friend Jean and Viv an old friend she used to know like a sister but didn’t see anymore, it felt right in the Crown & Sceptre. So right that Neddy picked up her water glass and said, ‘To Jean Harley.’
‘To Jean Harley.’
And though it was another sombre cheers, this time they all managed to smile. Before the night was over, they would laugh too.
How to Fill an Empty Space
He’d finished the letter to Orion. It took years of starting then crumpling up then discarding the idea entirely but, after meeting Neddy and Viv in the pub four-and-a-half years after Jean Harley’s funeral, he knew the time was now. He couldn’t let what happened with his mum happen again. When he’d finally sat down to write her his first letter from prison, she’d been dead for two years. Orion was only a kid and would probably live for another seventy years, but accidents happen.
He took the envelope off his fridge, leaving a space he’d never fill again. No electricity or water bill, no calendar telling him what week was the yellow bin and what week was the green, no coupon for a six-inch sub would ever fill the space where Orion’s envelope had hung for years. He’d even thought about putting it back and hand-delivering the letter because once he put the letter in the envelope, sealed it up and mailed it off, Orion would be gone from his life, and Orion had shared every meal with him, more than a thousand packs of cigarettes, litres and litres of coffee and highballs and shots of whisky. Could his life get any lonelier? Placing the letter into the envelope, sealing it up and walking down the street to the postbox where he dropped it into the slot, he was about to find out.
~
It was a fairly long walk on a narrow road without a footpath, past a few houses set back in the bush, past two cyclists in their lycra and clip-on shoes. They’d better be careful, he said to himself. He always said that to himself. Charley breathed heavily and sweated around his neck and the backs of his ears, under his arms, where his belt held up his pants, between his legs and inside his socks. He wasn’t in good shape and was resigned to the fact that he never would be, so what was the point? Maybe the day he couldn’t do this walk was the day he’d decide things needed to change. Or the day he packed it in. For now, stuff it. A little exercise wasn’t going to kill him. A lot might, though.
It was like slow motion putting the letter through the slot, saying hello and goodbye at the same time to a little boy he’d known for years though only ever met once, at Jean Harley’s funeral. This was it. This was it.
Back at home there was a letter waiting for him. What are the bloody chances? No, not a letter. Not quite. A postcard. His first too. Seeing it was from Lisa (who else could it be?), he smiled.
On the front was a photograph of the MacDonnell Ranges. Maybe at sunset, maybe sunrise. Pink either way. Long ranges, ones he couldn’t have imagined without seeing them on the front of this card even though Lisa had described them many times before. ‘You lucky dog,’ he said, meaning Lisa, such a funny turn of phrase, but seeing those ranges on the glossy postcard, he definitely thought her lucky.
Dear Charley,
I hope you like the look of Alice Springs because I’m inviting you up for a Christmas holiday. It’s high time you met the family. No need to bring presents, just say yes!
Your friend,
Lisa
Charley walked around the back of his house and lit a smoke, inhaling deeply and looking at the sun reflecting off the leaves, mist in the air from the morning’s rain, still dripping from the trees. So different from where Lisa lived. Could he afford the trip? He wasn’t thinking about money because all he ever bought were a few tins of soups, some fresh eggs, cheap sausages, milk, coffee, whisky and second-hand books and lots and lots of smokes, so he had plenty of money in the bank; could he afford the experience?
Wasn’t life simple in this open prison space of his where he could go days without saying anything? Wasn’t their friendship simple, just the two of them and with only pieces of paper between them? Coward, he thought and shook his head as if shaking off his very cowardice and making an easy decision.
He’d have to go to the Salvos and buy a suitcase. Nothing big. Something for a few shirts and an extra pair of jeans. Something with a pocket for his toiletries. Did he need a toiletries bag too? The suitcase would have to be big enough to carry some presents, even though she’d said not to bring any. But what would he bring for a family of people he’d never met? Her children weren’t children anymore. Maybe he didn’t need to bring them anything after all.
Charley focused on a single leaf and it came to him.
The salvage yard had just what he needed: a large slab of grey cement.
‘Nice to see you, Charley.’
‘You too, Don.’
‘See you next time.’
‘See you, Don.’
A friendly little place.
At home he took his tools out from the shed he’d built himself when he first moved in after getting out of prison. He smashed the slab into smaller pieces, then picked the right one to chip away, smoothed out the corners of edges, leaving only dust to be taken by the wind. It took him one weekend and three nights to get it right, almost thirty hours, he reckoned, and it was just right, fitting perfectly into his new but old Salvos suitcase, adding quite a bit of weight but fitting in flat among his few shirts and extra pair of jeans. He stuffed socks and jocks into the corners, probably more than he needed, so the piece wouldn’t move around too much. He had no idea how they’d handle his luggage on the bus. He’d never been on a bus with luggage. He’d just have to ask if he could load it himself and he’d have to be there when they unloaded it too. It was precious cargo, this first present he’d ever given anyone other than his mum. A carving of a stack of ten books, piled high, with YOUR FRIEND, CHARLEY engraved on top.
The bus ride was long and all the way to Coober Pedy he sat behind a rank-smelling man, though he himself was no flower. The city turned to suburbia, then spread to the open space of the mid-north, then to complete desolation: Aboriginal communities, petrol stops at pubs, the old all-in-one where the bus driver would stop and pick up and drop off packages while the passengers hurried towards toilets and meat pies and the longed-for fag.
Sleep was a bitch because here was a man who enjoyed sleeping on his side and a doona to his chin and now he had to sit up straight and tilt his head back and, if it fel
l to the side, be very aware of the passenger next to him but not so aware that he couldn’t sleep, so here was a man who didn’t get much sleep and felt cold without a blanket.
More than twenty hours later and the bus pulled into Alice Springs, the MacDonnell Ranges welcoming him. As were Lisa and one of her kids. The back of Charley’s neck ached from the sleep and now itched from nerves. Lisa began waving to him before the bus even stopped. Already he was preparing for the hug that would come, for Lisa’s tears that would fall because she’d always been a bit of a sook, for the introduction to the kid. And would the kid know her mother had taught him to read in prison? That he was a murderer, guilty as charged? That she used to call him Rascal because he’d been too afraid of his own name? That Lisa had come down to visit him once, years ago, to take him to the funeral of a woman he’d run over with his van on a rainy morning and left a young child to grieve for the rest of his life? What would he do, hold out his hand and say g’day, pretending not to notice that the kid couldn’t close her mouth from the shock of taking in the size of him? His ugly mug? The tattoos and scars?
Charley walked down the steps of the bus to a dry heat and bevvy of flies, looking at Lisa nearly jumping up and down and her kid standing there nonplussed. He looked to the left at the bus driver opening the luggage compartment where his Salvos suitcase held the present for Lisa to place in her backyard, near the veranda, so she could see it when she read his letters and so her kids and her husband, too, could say, ‘That’s from that strange man called Charley,’ then think about what it might feel like to be the reason for not one but two people losing their lives. And here was Lisa and the kid, walking to meet him, the bus driver hefting the Salvos suitcase carefully to the ground. And here was Charley, thinking to himself, This is it. This is it.
Downhill
Comfort comes in many ways and this one came in the slice of a pizza: the way the heat bubbled on the pepperoni and the pepperoni crunched when he bit in, the way the cheese stretched over his tongue then settled warm in his belly. Orion looked up at his dad, who was too busy for words – they both were – too hungry to do anything but eat, and this was comfort. On this tremendous bike trip through Missouri, the boy was learning that there is life and there is death, and in between there is great hunger and thirst. His dad took a long swig from his beer and Orion took one from his milk, then they both went back to eating. How good life could be.
Jean Harley Was Here Page 20
