‘Why wouldn’t you want to tell people that? That’s so wonderful, Graeme.’
‘Again,’ he said, ‘because of that look you have on your face right now. Like I’m a saint. I’m not, Katie, and I’m not just being humble. My staff do all the real work. I just sort of manage their diaries, sign off on their reports and make sure the bills are paid.’
The mention of diaries reminded her of why she’d suspected him. ‘How long have you been doing this?’
‘Five years.’
‘And before?’
‘I was an aid worker. I travelled to war zones and disaster areas and I found out what people needed and then found a way to get it to them. It sounds like what I do here, I suppose but . . . it was very different. I was right there. I was part of it.’
Katie felt tears welling up. ‘You loved it, didn’t you?’
He gave a small shrug. ‘All good things must come to an end.’
‘God, I hate that saying! It doesn’t even mean anything really. I mean, everything must come to an end, good and bad and in between. Why state the obvious as if it’s comforting wisdom or something?’ Her voice broke.
Graeme leant forward in his chair, frowning. ‘Did something happen today, Katie? Did you and Adam have another fight?’
‘No, no.’ She touched the scab on her forehead. ‘But I am worried about him. I don’t think it’s safe to be as sad as he is. I’m not sure a person can keep on living being so sad.’
‘You don’t think he’d . . . do something silly?’
‘Oh, no. I didn’t mean that. God, no, not him.’
Graeme sat back, a hand over his stomach. ‘Oh.’
She pulled her legs up and sat cross-legged. ‘I watch him sleep. Sometimes he actually smiles but mostly he just looks really peaceful. Then I watch him wake and I can see the exact moment when he remembers she’s dead. I see his heart break all over again every day. And then he kind of steels himself –’ she braced her arms against her sides and made her face stern ‘– and goes on with his day but I can still see it, that brand new grief.’
‘His loss is pretty recent . . . Besides, you watch him sleep, you watch him wake, you watch him all the time. Most of us, were we observed so closely, would appear to be burdened with something at least once a day.’
‘He isn’t burdened by anything. That’s the problem.’ The tears prickled her eyes again. ‘He really doesn’t have any reason to wake up each day. That’s what scares me. What if his subconscious or whatever figures it out and holds him in his dreams?’
‘I don’t think that’s possible, Katie.’
‘You hear all the time about people dying of broken hearts.’
‘It’s not meant literally. Listen, if you’re really worried maybe you could suggest grief counselling for him. I know he doesn’t have Medicare, but perhaps we could –’
‘Please.’ Katie climbed off the bed. ‘Grief counselling is such bullshit. If I knew I had to go to one of those dudes I’d tell my subconscious to not wake me up for sure.’ She stretched her arms up to the ceiling.
‘You’ve been to grief counselling?’
‘I’ve been to every kind of counselling. You?’
‘No.’
‘See. You’ve managed okay all these years.’
He smiled. Katie walked across and put her hands on his shoulders. She moved slowly, giving him time to pull away. He didn’t though and she stood on her toes and kissed his bristled cheek. ‘Goodnight,’ she said.
14.
Katie’s grandmother was in the kitchen fixing lunch. Katie said she did this from time to time, particularly when there were new tenants. ‘Says she wants to cook me a Sunday roast, like when I was a kid, but I don’t remember ever having a cooked Sunday lunch as a kid. Sundays were vegemite and lettuce on white bread, like every other day. You know, I’m pretty sure I never ate a roast at all until I moved in here and Gran started needing a reason to crash the place regularly. So stay alert.’ The smell of roasting fat from the kitchen added to the fug of living room air. ‘She’ll start off real casual and friendly, get you talking about your family and where you grew up, and then – bam! – before you know it you’ll be telling her how much you enjoyed doing me in the arse.’
‘I can guarantee you I won’t be telling her that,’ Adam said.
‘You don’t know what she’s like. She has ways of making you talk.’
‘What about the old man? Have you warned him? He could say anything.’
‘He’s not eating with us. He’s got stuff to do, he said.’
Adam leant in close. ‘What does he do in there all the time? He’s so damn secretive.’
‘Leave him alone. He just likes his privacy. Not everybody grew up in a hippy commune examining each others’ stool samples each morning.’
‘I’m going to see if your grandmother would like some help. At least she won’t taunt me about my abusive childhood.’
Within seconds of entering the kitchen, Adam’s shirt was stuck to his back. Mrs Lewis was bent over the stove top, stirring. She was dressed in an orange tank top and jean shorts. Every few seconds she stopped stirring and leant towards the window. There was no breeze at all.
‘Can I help?’
She looked over her shoulder, wiped her forehead with one hand while continuing to stir with the other. ‘All under control in here. You can let Graeme know I’m about to serve up, if you don’t mind.’
‘Katie said he wasn’t –’
‘Katherine!’ Mrs Lewis took the pot off the stove, wiped her forehead with her hand, then her hand with a tea towel. ‘Katherine! In here please!’ She opened the fridge, and grabbed a bottle of VB, which she handed to Adam. ‘There wasn’t a need to dress up, you know,’ she said. ‘We’re very casual around here. Too hot to stand on ceremony.’
‘Yeah, what?’
‘Katherine, Adam tells me Graeme isn’t joining us?’
‘Nah. Busy. Gran, don’t sigh like that. It makes me worry you’re going to faint dead away, expelling so much breath at once.’
‘I bet you didn’t even ask him. People don’t stop wanting to make friends just because they’re over fifty, you know.’
‘I did ask,’ Katie said, but her grandmother had already gone. ‘Poor Graeme. She’s going to make him come out here.’
‘Why not poor Adam? I have to be out here.’
‘Poor Adam. Man, you’re sweating like a pig. Put a singlet on or something.’
Mrs Lewis marched in, Graeme dragging behind her. ‘I told you he’d want lunch.’
‘So, Graeme,’ Mrs Lewis said when they were all seated around the table. ‘How’re you settling in?’
‘Fine. It’s nice to be able to walk to the office, not have to sit in traffic and find a parking space and all that.’
‘I bet. It’s why I like the night shift. Peak hour traffic drives me mad. The other day I had to go into Surry Hills for an appointment. Nine o’clock it was and . . .’
Adam tuned her out as easily as if she were his own mother. He ate slowly, stopping after every few mouthfuls to drink some water and wipe his forehead with a paper napkin. Now and again Katie nudged him and rolled her eyes or grinned.
As Adam was mopping up the remaining gravy with a slice of white bread, he became aware that the conversation had moved on. Mrs Lewis’s voice had become softer, less confident. Adam tuned in just in time to hear Graeme say, ‘No, no, I missed out. Luck of the draw.’
‘That’s all it was, though,’ Mrs Lewis said. ‘Good luck or bad luck in the draw, then good or bad luck over there. Ron said he couldn’t complain about the first bit of bad luck, because compared to some other buggers he saw, he had damn good luck over there.’
‘Luckiest man alive, he always said.’ Katie turned to Adam. ‘He wasn’t really that lucky. Teenage dad and then his daughter a teenage mum. He just used to say it to compliment us. Me and Gran and my mum.’
‘He meant it,’ Mrs Lewis said. ‘’Course he meant it.’
/> ‘Oh, Gran.’ Katie patted her arm.
‘When did –’ Graeme began.
‘Who’s for dessert?’ Mrs Lewis got up from the table.
‘Four years ago,’ Katie said.
A slice of steaming apple pie was placed in front of Adam. He waited for Katie to comment, but she was crouched next to Graeme, whispering in his ear.
‘And how about you, Adam?’ Mrs Lewis asked.
‘How about . . . ?’
‘How’s the shoe business?’
‘Fine, fine.’ He met Graeme’s eyes. ‘Always busy.’
‘Mmm. I bet it’s hard to get enough staff, isn’t it? My friend Bridget works at Myer in town and she says it’s impossible to keep good staff.’
Adam ignored Katie’s under-table shin kicks. ‘Yeah, it’s tough, all right.’
Mrs Lewis spooned custard onto their apple pie. ‘Here’s a thought,’ she said and Katie kicked Adam hard. ‘What if Katherine came and worked with you?’
Kick, kick, kick. ‘It’s not really up to me.’
‘No, but you’d have some influence, surely. You could talk to the manager.’
‘I don’t know. I mean . . .’ Adam looked to Katie for help, but she was digging a hole in her pie. ‘Katie – Katherine, here, I don’t know she’d be right for our store. I mean, I don’t think she even likes shoes.’
‘Ha!’ said Katie.
‘I know she doesn’t present as an ideal shop assistant, but perhaps in a few weeks when her hair’s grown back and those, er, tribal markings have worn off . . .’
‘Gran, I told you, they’re permanent. What would be the point of tribal branding if it wore off in a few weeks?’
Mrs Lewis pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Katherine, you are not an Aborigine.’
‘I’m not? Really, Gran? You’re just telling me this now?’
Gran stuck her tongue out at Katie who winked at her. Adam wondered why no one else seemed bothered by the heat and lack of air. Why did no one suggest a fan or some iced water?
‘What about at your office, Graeme? I don’t suppose you have any positions vacant? Front desk or filing or something? Katherine did a course in word processing and she can type.’
‘She’s sitting right here.’
Graeme smiled. ‘No jobs at the moment, I’m afraid.’
‘Well maybe – if you have time, of course – maybe you could help her put together a resumé. I mean, you’d know better than me what employers are looking for.’
‘Great idea!’ Katie thumped her palms on the tabletop. ‘Let’s start now. Better grab a pen, Graeme, there’s a lot to get down. So, right, education: um, passed all my subjects in Year Ten at Bondi High on only my second try. That’ll impress ’em, right? What else? I’ve got extensive experience in medical administration – filled out lots and lots of forms. That goes for social security, too. I’m an expert on all aspects of applying for the disability pension and unemployment benefits. And what about all the time I’ve spent in court and juvie? We could write experience navigating the juvenile justice system.’
‘All right, Katherine.’
Katie’s face was reddening, she blinked fast. ‘What else? Oh, I know. Drug knowledge. I could write a book on the effects of SSRIs, anti-psychotics, tranquilisers, and especially their interactions with each other and with alcohol.’ She stood up suddenly; her chair skidded back. ‘Alcohol! Make sure you include that, too. I’m a fucking specialist. Oh! Oh! A fucking specialist. Yes, yes. Something else I can do. Wait, I don’t think I need a resumé for that, do I? I could probably just head on down the street and –’
‘Katie,’ Graeme said, softly. He stood and took hold of her upper arm.
She turned to him and smiled brightly. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Just making a point.’
Mrs Lewis sat very still, sweat dripped from her hairline. ‘Okay, sweetheart. We all get it. You can sit down now.’
‘Can I? I don’t know, Gran.’ Katie was vibrating on the spot, Graeme’s hand still on her arm. ‘I really don’t know if I can.’
Graeme said, ‘Would you like to come for a walk? A wander through Victoria Park?’
‘No.’ Katie held his gaze. ‘Sorry, I’m fine.’ She took a deep breath and sat down. She smiled at each of them.
Mrs Lewis gathered up the plates and cutlery and carried them to the sink. Graeme picked up the water glasses and followed her. As Mrs Lewis scraped plates into the garbage, Graeme said something Adam could not make out.
‘With respect, Graeme,’ she said, plonking the dishes into the sink, ‘you don’t know what you’re talking about. The last thing Katherine needs is another well-meaning stranger trying to help her.’
Katie was smiling brightly but her eyes were wet and wide, her hands twisting on the table in front of her.
‘Katie,’ Adam said, reaching for her hand. ‘You okay?’
She pulled her cigarettes from her pocket, lit one and inhaled deeply. ‘That’s better,’ she said.
Graeme mumbled something else Adam couldn’t hear and Mrs Lewis exploded. ‘Well, it seems she is being watched. It seems you, Mr Reynolds, have managed in less than a fortnight to analyse my granddaughter’s history and behaviour, diagnose her with one or another condition and appoint yourself her guardian.’ She wiped her hands on a tea towel and picked up her handbag from the counter. ‘I’m just the silly old lady who’s kept her alive and off the streets for the last decade. What would I know?’
‘Mrs Lewis, I –’
‘Didn’t take you long, did it?’ Mrs Lewis said to Adam, gesturing at his hand on top of Katie’s. ‘Katherine, I’ll call you during the week.’ She bent and kissed her granddaughter on the forehead. ‘Take care of yourself.’
‘You too, Gran. Thanks for lunch.’ Katie followed her grandmother as far as the front door, Graeme and Adam trailing behind her. ‘I love you, Gran,’ she called. ‘Love you to bits and pieces.’
She turned from the door and placed a hand on Adam’s chest. ‘So,’ she said, blowing smoke in his face. ‘Guess Gran knows we’re shagging now.’
‘I guess.’
‘And yet,’ she smiled, ‘you still end up looking like the good tenant!’
‘I’m sorry for upsetting your grandmother,’ Graeme said.
‘She’ll be fine.’ Katie smiled up at Adam.
‘Yes, but I’m not sure you will be,’ Graeme said.
Katie’s smile tightened; she lifted her hand and tickled the nape of Adam’s neck. ‘Hey, can you get me a beer? Gran left some in the fridge.’
As Adam stepped into the kitchen he heard Katie say Graeme, you’re such a sweet bloke, but –. He opened the fridge and leant into it, feeling the sweat on his forehead evaporating, listening intently to the hum of the motor. He had a perfect memory of doing exactly this, of leaning into the fridge and sighing with relief as the chilled air hit his face and forearms. That had been last summer, the northern summer, July, eight months ago. He was reaching for ice water, not beer. The fridge motor almost covered the sound of Eugenie crying in the next room.
‘Forget the beer.’ Katie came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him back into the heat. ‘Let’s go out. The pub in Camperdown with two dollar beers on Sunday arvos.’
‘I don’t know. I was thinking . . . um, maybe all this drinking isn’t good?’
‘Bah!’ She lifted his shirt and planted a raspberry on his spine. She followed up with her tongue, darting over his lower back. ‘Guess what my tongue just wrote?’
‘I’m serious.’
‘Wrong!’ Another raspberry. ‘I wrote Adam is a boring old fart.’
‘If I’m so boring, why do you want me to come out with you? Why don’t you ask Graeme?’
‘I did ask him, Mr Smarty Pants, and he said the same thing as you. “Katie Lewis is not allowed to have any fun, ever again, so say all the boring old farts of the world.’”
Adam pressed his head against the fridge door. ‘Maybe, he’
s right, though. You seem to be –’
‘Shhh!’ She nipped at his ear. ‘Listen. He means well, but Gran’s right. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’ She spun him around and began unbuttoning his shirt. ‘Come on, let’s get you out of this ridiculous shirt, then – oh, there’s that chest!’ She kissed his breastbone. ‘Then, we’ll go and sit in some nice air-conditioning and drink cheap beer and just chill out. Okay?’
With Matty and Carl and Trick, Adam had gone to sports bars. With Jo and Ray he went to places with no sign out the front and no way of telling which of the waifs slumped over the bar were staff and which were customers. On his own, he went to an English pub where he was certain he wouldn’t bump into anyone he knew. When he met Eugenie, he stopped going to bars and when the box of wine in his fridge ran out he did not replace it. His friends called him pussy-whipped and he let them. It would’ve been mean to tell them that he had found something better than drinking, found someone better than them.
Sitting in this concrete bunker, the electronic bells of the slot machines bouncing off the bare walls interrupted only by sporadic shouts or guffaws from one or other of the far, dim corners, Adam noticed a single strand coming loose from the mass of grief and loneliness. He missed his old friends. It was a tiny thing, but he stretched it out in his mind, amazed at finding it at all. This thread of loss related to the living.
‘Hey, what are they staring at?’
Adam followed Katie’s gaze. Three men with ZZ Top beards were looking right back at him. A woman in a tartan mini-skirt and matching cap was talking into one of the men’s ears and pointing at Katie.
‘You want something or you just having a perve?’ Katie called out.
The woman raised her middle finger. One of the men said something Adam couldn’t hear and the others nodded. He was aware, suddenly, of Katie’s bald head, scarred face and combat boots.
Smoke in the Room Page 11
