Turbulence

by Maggie Rainey-Smith

  Adam relaxed, stopped gulping for air and gained a rhythm, began swimming upwards towards sunlight, following light. Near the surface he could see a pod of dolphins and he joined them, surfacing, surrounded by the huh-huh breathing, aware of his own breath as he wrenched his mouthpiece free, a gasp of relief. His heart was pounding and he lay back, looking skyward, listening to the dolphins, agreeing, agreeing, breathing … He was further from shore than was safe, but safer now than he had been in a long, long time. With dolphins for company, and growing resolution, he struck out for the shore. His stomach was full of gas now, his oesophagus burned, and he belched his way on to the beach, grateful to be alive.

  Adam swallowed a handful of the antacid lozenges that were stored in his glovebox. He sucked, chewed, and cracked a back tooth. Physical pain was welcome. He embraced it. He stuck his hand in his mouth and retrieved pieces of both tooth and lozenge, the tooth larger than the lozenge. The thought of a trip to the dentist cheered him and even the sudden rush of cold air into the gap in his mouth when he sucked was comforting. He felt alive and invigorated, with a burning gut and an aching tooth. Physical pain was bearable. It could be identified, endured and invariably treated.

  He peeled off his wetsuit, pissed into the pebbles and stood naked on the beach, belching. From behind a rock a seal peered at him, whiskers glinting in sunlight, the stench overpowering, and then — as if in response to Adam’s belches — the seal roared.

  Adam was tempted to beat his own chest and roar back, but at that moment he heard a car in the distance on the gravel road. A naked, roaring man on the beach was suddenly less romantic and more problematic.

  He flicked the boot, retrieved his clothes and hurriedly began to dress. The seal huffed back behind the rock and Adam slid into the driver’s seat just as a carload of teenage surfers spewed out on to the beach. The young men waved to him; he waved back. Normally he would have wound his window down and chatted, but today he felt like an old fool. An old fool who had risked his life and been caught starkers with no excuse.

  In the car he cried. Down the gravel road, hurtling over ruts and rocks, tears of relief.

  He could go home, but it didn’t feel safe; he was still fragile. So he drove instead out towards the valley, ending up at the factory, not meaning to, but where else was there to go?

  His hands were shaking when he opened the factory. It wasn’t cold, but he couldn’t keep his hands steady. In the first aid kit was a bottle of brandy (Heather’s idea). It had been there untouched now for six years and Adam decided an aching heart and tooth definitely warranted its use. To hell with his sensitive gut.

  At first he sipped brandy from the small screw-top lid and then, warmed by the alcohol, he grew reckless and sipped from the neck of the bottle. Sips turned to swallows, warming, cheering, and he sat on the factory floor, not drunk but almost, admiring the pitch of the roof, the dust, the machinery, the silence.

  It was late afternoon, and through the back windows the sun caught the glass and dazzled him. A bag of aluminium trimmings overflowing like Christmas tinsel caught the light and sparkled. His kingdom, and standing guard was his old friend Müller the green metal press, tall, outdated, and stuck forever in the factory. If Martin had his way, Müller would be gone in a flash. But they would have to dismantle the roof to remove him, and even Martin wasn’t that stupid.

  Adam thought about Frankie on her first visit to the factory — after George had left, Judy found Phillip, and Louise and Adam had reconnected. All of their lives were scattered and reshaping. Michael had left an unfillable hole, so they moved around the hole, shaped a fence with the leftover pieces.

  Ajax had been working the lathe. The silver shreds of sheet metal were curling at his feet. Ness stood close to Louise, not scared, but cautious and fascinated. Frankie was another story. She hadn’t really worked out that George was gone and what it might mean. She liked Adam, and he wasn’t even her Dam-dad yet. She’d run, as kids do, abruptly and carelessly towards old Müller, across the concrete floor, amid the sharp offcuts, before anyone could stop her. It was Ajax who followed — his goggles on, his work at the lathe abandoned in pursuit of a chubby bundle (manuka honey coloured) — and grabbed her, just as she almost tripped headlong into Müller. Ajax had swept Frankie up from the floor into his arms and introduced her to Müller as if the large dormant green machine (too big to move), a character in the factory, was an old friend.

  Frankie had sat in awe, cradled in Ajax’s arms … until reality sank in: that she was with a complete (and very tall) stranger with hands the size of dinner plates, in a stark, dark place, by a giant green machine. A wail erupted that echoed up to the distant skylight and out to the sunlit back window and back again. Ajax tenderly deposited Frankie back on the ground near Adam, a small hand reached out, and Adam’s closed over it. There in the dust, rust, cold and black, they found each other. It was the hand of Frankie, the hand of Michael, the hand of innocence, his own. He would never forget. In that moment Frankie had restored something to him, a piece of him that was lost. Not all of it of course, but a piece, like one of the tinsel offcuts from Ajax’s lathe — something that sparkled in the darkness. There was something else, too: on his left hand, the white mark left where a wedding ring had been, the fading impression of a former life. And Frankie’s warm hand, warming his cold hand, offering a tentative beginning … an opportunity for reinvention — his own.

  He raided the kitchen, made a sandwich from stale white bread and processed smoked cheese (individually wrapped slices that belonged to Paris). His phone rang. It was Hagen. He hesitated, pushed answer, and slurred what he thought was a very credible greeting.

  ‘Are you okay, Adam?’

  ‘Shaww.’

  ‘You sure as hell don’t sound it.’

  A belch escaped, as Adam tried to find something reassuring to say to Hagen.

  ‘You’re drunk, vere are you?’

  Drunk? He wasn’t drunk, or was he?

  ‘The factory, I’m at veerk.’ Whoops, hope Hagen missed that!

  ‘Are you okay, Adaam?’ Hagen repeated.

  Was he okay? He wasn’t sure. He probably couldn’t drive. He was stranded, really.

  ‘I’m coming out, Adam. Wait there for me.’ It was an order.

  ‘Shaww.’

  By the time Hagen arrived at the factory, Adam had sobered up a bit. He felt foolish and grateful. Hagen had brought with him a large pottle of KFC and they sat in the lunchroom eating greasy chicken, not speaking. There was nothing to say. Hagen insisted Adam eat and then brewed him a really strong instant coffee. Greasy chicken and instant coffee worked wonders. His gut roared into life, his oesophagus burned and his gum bled. Hagen suggested Adam leave his car at the factory, offered to drive him home. He didn’t need much coaxing. It was a relief to be looked after. Just how he would get to work in the morning (before Martin spotted his car) was something he would worry about tomorrow.

  Hagen talked all the way home about his contract with the council and his plans for the project. He didn’t stop for breath and he didn’t look at Adam. He drove carefully and his conversation was intentionally neutral and left no gaps for Adam to fill.

  ‘I’ll be here in the morning to drop you at work.’

  Now all he needed was a story for Louise … no car, no excuse, no appetite. Luck was on his side. There was a note on the breakfast bar: the girls had gone out to a movie. Louise had left quiche in the fridge. All he needed to do was wash the quiche down the waste disposal, and maybe leave a freshly rinsed plate on the bench. They’d notice his car wasn’t there when they came in, but by then he’d have a reason, a flat battery or … perhaps he could even blame drink and implicate Hagen.

  He pretended to be asleep, watched through resting eyelids as Louise undressed (she never failed to impress, even when his eyes were only half open) and did his best I was in a deep sleep but now you’ve woken me embrace. The coolness of her skin full-length along him was the kind of suncream-on-sunburn reli
ef you only feel after sundown.

  In the morning, his absent car was overlooked in a flurry of activity that included Frankie’s lost homework (on the C drive of Louise’s laptop but not in a folder), Ness with a migraine (monthly event predicated by zits on a particular area of her chin), and Louise fielding phone calls (three on her mobile and two on the landline, some simultaneous). Not only was his absent car overlooked, but so was he. When Hagen called to give him a lift, he was able to depart the house almost unnoticed. Did that matter? He wasn’t sure. It was convenient.

  Hagen was hopeful Adam had been sprung, got into trouble, wanted to know how bad. Adam understood. If you were going to rescue a drunken mate from his factory on a Sunday and drive him to work the next morning, the very least you could expect in payback was the fallout, to know the bugger had suffered a bit. He could have told Hagen what excellent sex he had had last night, but that would have been ungrateful. Who knew what Hagen’s sex life was like? They didn’t discuss it. Hagen spent a lot of time ogling and suggesting, but mostly about other woman, not Nakita. All talk was how Adam saw it. Men like Hagen were devoted to their wives.

  Solit as a roock.

  He wondered how that felt — to be so secure; day in, day out. Oh, the monotony. No, he didn’t mean that, either. He desired that. He had that to an extent. It was just that Louise didn’t make it safe or secure. And he needed that, too. The balancing act: sexual tension without betrayal.

  ‘How’s the contract with the council coming along?’

  That was all it took. From the city to the valley as they moved against the peak flow of traffic, from the corporate centre to the industrial outskirts, Hagen warmed to his topic and explained the political manoeuvres required to edge out his competitors. He hinted at lunches in an Italian warehouse, launch charters, fishing trips and the coup de grâce, purchasing hundreds of dollars’ worth of Amway products from one of the senior managers (an investment, old chap). And that led to Hagen detailing the merits of an Amway water-purifying system, which he appeared to be trying to offload on to Adam. At fifteen hundred dollars or thereabouts it was evidently a real bargain. Hagen, it seemed, had two. This seemed to Adam an expensive way to win a contract, but he wasn’t in a position to mention this, being grateful for Hagen’s friendship (not to mention the ride to work). He promised to consider the water purifier as he was dropped off, and was more enthusiastic than he intended, because of his sudden delight on noticing that he’d arrived before Martin. No excuse required this end, either.

  ‘Thanks, Hagen. You’re a real sport. I owe you one, mate. Promise to think about the water purifier. I’ll call you.’

  Yes, perhaps fifteen hundred was a small price to pay for a reckless Sunday dive.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Men got to a certain age and then the selves they inhabited either fitted or grew baggy. The former self shrank while the baggy bits stayed around proclaiming this is who I was, wanted to be, ought to be … tried to be. Adam thought Hagen still fitted himself. His own inhabiting he couldn’t step back from and describe. Sometimes he thought he fitted, particularly in Ness and Frankie’s orbit. With Louise he was who he wanted to be and, sometimes, who he ought to be. But just how others saw him, whether the baggy bits were obvious, the shrunken bits glaringly so, he couldn’t tell. It wasn’t something you could ask — it was something you observed in others.

  Young men like Martin were still growing into themselves. It was impressive (whether or not you liked what they were growing into); it spoke of a future, room for mistakes, room for even more mistakes and oh, the confidence in making mistakes. Adam had decided to step back and give the lad a chance.

  Today he enjoyed the stark contrast between the city where he lived and the valley where he worked. The pace was quieter, he decided, the people more homogeneous — bland perhaps … but his unflattering musings were swiftly undercut.

  A young man wearing a backpack was waiting at the crossing with him. He began chanting, ‘We must stop killing humans’ over and over in a low monotone. It didn’t sound like an anti-war protest. It wasn’t rhetoric or a slogan; it was a deeply held conviction. The boy might be deluded, high or simply mad, but he was certain that ‘We must stop killing humans.’ Which was fair enough: Adam agreed with him.

  They were joined by a young woman in a red leather jacket, her dark curls unfurling from a black felt hat, looking every inch a Janet Jackson impersonator. Adam both recognised and enjoyed the absurdity of his companions, and wondered how they perceived him.

  Middle-aged (okay, ageing) man, slightly overweight (potential paunch), thinning hair (not bald, mind you), comfortable boat shoes (oh no, cliché) strong chin (yes, another one in the making), nice eyes (handsome according to his wife) … oh-ho, no wedding ring (lonely bastard), ordinary sort of chap (harmless, really) …

  They’d crossed now, this trio, braved the four lanes of traffic together, possibly never to meet again. A madman, an ordinary man, and a Janet Jackson wannabe. His ordinariness now magnified, Adam couldn’t decide if he liked it, or not.

  After his self-indulgent weekend, Adam had decided to be proactive. He’d left Martin at the factory negotiating pay rates with disgruntled staff, and he was going to finalise all his travel bookings for the reunion. Plus, he needed to renew his driving licence, something he had overlooked — and perhaps he would hire a car in Oz and take Louise up to the Blue Mountains.

  It was mid morning and there were no queues at the AA counter. His luck was in. He passed the eye test (a small boost to his ageing pride) and then had to pose for a new photograph. The woman behind the counter was cheerful and flirtatious (he chose to believe it wasn’t personal, but just her normal routine to relax the punters).

  He stared into the camera. A mugshot; portrait of an ordinary man — a killer, but ordinary nonetheless. He was allowed to choose which photo he preferred out of three. The woman was being kind (he’d preferred her flirtatious) — she didn’t rush him, and even suggested which photo flattered him most. He chose that one, deciding that perhaps she could see him better than he could. And his slight second chin didn’t show in that shot. (He’d remembered to hold his head up.)

  When he returned to the factory, he was greeted by the sight of all of the staff standing in the car park. His first thoughts were that Martin had failed in his negotiations and everyone was on strike, but then he noticed Ajax had a fire extinguisher in his hand. It had to be very light, as he was waving it at Adam. Empty, no doubt. Not another fire drill organised by Martin in his absence!

  No, not a drill, explained Martin, delighted to be able to tell Adam that Paris had been toasting crumpets in the kitchen and had set fire to a tea towel. How? There were three versions of how, depending on who you listened to. Paris wasn’t sure, Martin thought the toaster was faulty, and Ajax said crumpets caused fires. It was Ajax who’d discovered the fire and put it out (before the alarm went). Something about the story and the three versions seemed to indicate that Martin and Paris had been otherwise occupied. Ajax had been dying to use the fire extinguisher ever since he’d been nominated health and safety officer.

  Adam wondered if he ought to ban crumpets, or to be grateful it was a fire and not a strike.

  It took another hour or so to resettle, restart production and pacify Paris. Martin sent Adam an email advertising a new toaster with a unique crumpet control setting. Adam considered replying with an email outlining the cost of refilling fire extinguishers, but managed to resist this urge. He scheduled a meeting with Martin for later that day so they could discuss the Tahitian bar stools, a new tender for a restaurant fit-out in Petone and, most importantly, the wage negotiations. He’d buy two crumpet toasters if Martin had sorted things, but he wasn’t going to show his hand just yet.

  An email from Louise popped up as he scrolled through his task bar.

  I see Hagen gave you a ride to work … Car okay?

  Ah, so he needed an explanation after all. He’d committed to truth-telling long
ago, but only where it really mattered. He wasn’t going to lie: he would attempt a sidetrack.

  Yup — car’s okay — nothing major — late home tonight — putting out fires at factory!

  There, that was the truth. Putting out fires covered all his bases. Late home hopefully meant the car question would drop below irrelevant by the time he got in. Louise wasn’t one to dwell on things for too long.

  And then he remembered Frankie’s lost homework and added, P.S. Did Mudface get to school on time?

  Almost instantly, a reply from Louise.

  Francesca’s homework printed out, Vanessa’s migraine improving, and it sounds like you’re on the mend too.

  Louise often reverted to the girls’ full names, especially in print, and the email was a reprimand for calling Frankie Mudface. Yet he detected concern. She wasn’t really enquiring about his car in her first email. He’d missed that. Louise was … women were complicated. And just when you thought you’d cracked the code, a new set of characters appeared for deciphering. You had to stay finely tuned. It reminded him of his grandmother, when her telephone connection was on a rural party line. A time when people sat in their homes, listening carefully, discerningly — was it short-long-short, or long-short-long? You had to be careful in case you answered somebody else’s phone call.

  It worked, though. This constant guessing and reassembling of codes, and being aware that cracking the feminine code might provide access only at that particular moment in time. Using the same learned code-cracking behaviour on another occasion could very well land you in trouble. No, on balance, women (and here, he really meant Louise) kept men on their toes and if that was as close as he got to dancing, it wasn’t too bad.