The world was full of terrible things. It was armed, it curled and massed against him, like an enormous wave preparing to break. He could feel these things upon his skin, smell them through his teeth, almost taste them directly through his hands and feet. Indeed, he felt as though his skin were attempting to shuck itself free of him altogether. To be rid of this impossible body. He couldn’t blame it. It’s a terrible thing to be in horror of one’s very self, to be aware of one’s own stench.
How did that Psalm go? I am a worm, and no man. A reproach of men, and despised by the people. Something like that.
He scratched at himself, from arm to toe to thigh to ribs, seeking spot fires of discomfort and irritation that swarmed across his goosebumped skin. His bones were of ice, his eyeballs lumps of salt, his teeth like gravestones sunk into his gums. An itch in the back of his throat, the exact place impossible to locate: he would need to drill through at a point somewhere beneath his right ear to reach it. And then another, deep in the knuckles of his right hand. His nose and eyes streamed. Some dull explosion was taking place within but it would take a lifetime—incremental, interminable, an eternity—to be finished with him.
He lay on the bed, then sat on its edge and bounced lightly to hear the springs squawk. There was no position for his screaming body. His poor body, leaden with ache and keen as a blade. A sponge thickening with sorrow. I could live to be two hundred and never again feel like this, he thought. A thousand long, dry years. And he cried out at the thought of living so long.
Wild had tried to detox many times before, years ago, even before that terrible night at Louise and Frank’s. When Jane had first found out he was using morphine, there had been the expected disbelief and anger. They discussed the matter around the kitchen table late into the night. This was when Alice was little, probably no more than six or seven years old, when she could be shielded from such things, when their marital sorrow could still be contained.
Jane had made whispered phone calls and driven him to a detox unit that smelled of disinfectant and loss in an outer suburb. It was like lifting a rock, an entire layer of the world of which he’d been hitherto unaware. Forms to fill out and blood tests and beds with rubber sheets, a place where everyone spoke from the side of their mouth and jiggled their feet. They asked him about his drug history and whether he’d shared syringes and how much he was using.
I use drugs to cope with the pain of using drugs, he’d volunteered later that night to a social worker opposite him in the waiting room, certain the wit of this would stand out among the dreary litany of abused childhoods and secret traumas. Actually, he went on, I blame Chet Baker. The worker said nothing, barely registered interest, but Wild had continued nonetheless. After all, he’d thought at the time, isn’t that what we’re here for? Some sort of therapeutic unravelling?
When I was about fourteen or fifteen, I stumbled upon a garage sale a few streets away from where I lived. There was the usual junk: old lamps, a blender, some clothes on a rack. But there was also a bunch of records in a box and they were different from anything I’d seen. They were these old jazz records. Some old buff must have died or something, I don’t know, but there was a collection of Chet Baker and Billie and Miles Davis, you know, all the really good stuff from that era. The fifties, I guess. The real deal. Anyway. I bought a couple of these records, I don’t know why. I think I just knew that they were something special, like they’d been put there for me, had been waiting for me to come along. And you know what? I was right.
From the first moment, I knew this was something. Those cracked voices and frail smiles. Chet Baker doing My Funny Valentine, you know that song? Unbelievable. Like he’s so busted up he can barely bring himself to sing it, just sort of sighs through it, but beautifully. Only two minutes long. A love song, but what sort of love? I didn’t know much about art or music or what was good or anything, but this was something. And the whole junk thing, you know? Billie being busted in a hospital room with hundreds of dollars stuffed into her stockings, Chet Baker jumping out a window in Amsterdam. All that romance of despair or something. In love with my own destruction. Not that I was ever a musician or anything, and actually didn’t really start using drugs for a long time afterwards. I did my degree and carried on and got married and all that, so . . . maybe I’m wrong, but I still blame Chet. Course I don’t have any of those records anymore. Lost or sold or broken.
And still the woman in the waiting room didn’t say anything, just sat there and nodded absently. It was only when she wiped the back of her hand across her nose that Wild realised that she wasn’t a social worker at all but just another damn junkie trying to get clean.
But he’d sat in the detox for an entire day and half the night watching television with other sweating creatures until he conspired with two other men to escape and score. He would supply the money if they could find some dope at this absurd hour. Win-win. At 3.00 a.m. they drove through bruise-dark streets in a rattling car until they finished up in some small, inner-city flat with a crowd of people huddled over bent and blackened spoons. Everyone was tattooed and smoked furiously, as if affronted by each and every cigarette. The men compared east-coast prisons. A fight broke out at one point and a toddler with a trail of shit down its leg wandered through the smoke haze eating potato chips.
They had watched television, the early-morning evangelical timeslot through to ancient American reruns and children’s hour. Smiling people in bright jumpsuits, and stars made from red paper. On the way home, he had picked flowers from the local park for Jane, but she hadn’t been at all pleased to see him stagger into the house a day after his shiny new beginning, and stared at him before turning away to drink her tea.
Now Wild thought of his wife. Poor Jane, for so long always on the verge of tears.
I am poured out like water and all my bones are out of joint.
25
Eventually Lee could rotate his torso a little better but was still compelled to crouch like a beggar when he walked. He changed the dressing on his wound and was pleased to see that the skin seemed to be gathering itself together, the stitches like black, spindly claws. The surrounding skin was pink and looked almost healthy. Wild had actually done a good job. With great effort, he was able to chop some wood and maintain the fire in the lounge room.
The rain became heavier throughout the afternoon and water leaked through the ceiling of one of the bathrooms so that its collection of dolls bobbled in the shallows. Lee opened a tin of something called borlotti beans and left them beside Wild, who, although awake, seemed unaware of his presence, so involved was he with whatever he was involved with.
He slept on the couch in front of the fire. The day diminished and later, when the night was at its deepest, Lee stood in the cold hallway and listened at the door to Wild’s room. There was the clank of chain followed by a guttering cough. A groan. When he entered, Wild was sitting on the floor against the bed with his head on his knees. He didn’t look up. The room was piled high with stench; of alcohol and shit and sweat, like an abattoir or asylum. The bottle of whiskey stood beside him with only a few fingers left in the bottom. The tin of beans was on its side under the bed with its pale entrails spilling onto the floor.
I’m dying. Wild sighed. I’m bloody dying.
What do you mean?
Wild raised his head but his gaze faltered, barely making the distance to where Lee stood. He wore just a shirt and trousers and his throat and forearms were patterned with bloody scratches. His beard was flecked with vomit or food or snot. Something terrible was obviously happening. He looked . . . what? Struck. Strucked? Stricken? Was that the word? Stricken. He looked stricken.
What time is it?
Lee hugged himself against the cold. Don’t know. Feels like early in the morning, I think. Late at night. Maybe three or so. Don’t you have a watch?
Broken.
Lee nodded. He loitered in the doorway.
Wild lowered his forehead again to his knees. His toes curled and
uncurled against the linoleum and every few seconds his entire body jolted as if by an electrical current.
Still with his arms clasped around himself, Lee leaned on the doorjamb with his left hand pressed against the dressing on his wound. He wanted to say something, to offer some sort of encouragement, even opened his mouth to do so, but anything he could think of seemed pitiful. Such a small act, but everything seemed beyond him. What did people say at times like this? You’ll be OK. Everything will be fine. It will all work out. The silence was interrupted only by the crackle of the log in the fireplace. How long will this take? he asked at last.
Wild grunted. He ran a hand through his hair and Lee saw that the skin at his wrists was bloodied from the chafing of the chain. Don’t know. Few days. Long days. He paused. How long has it been?
Lee thought. Time seemed to have lost its hold on them out here. Since yesterday, he wondered out loud. Maybe . . . thirty hours? A day and a half.
Wild looked up again. Beneath his beard a nerve or muscle twitched in his cheek. Christ. Damn. Already feels like forever. Well, are you going to come in or what? Can you put some more wood on the fire? Do something useful.
Relieved to have something to do, Lee fetched more wood and coaxed the fire back to life. Then he made some tea and placed a chipped mug on the floor for Wild, who took uncertain sips of the black, steaming liquid as if expecting the worst from it. Outside, the wind prowled through the trees and fluted across the chimney top. Clumps of soot fell occasionally into the fire, sending up small spirals of sparks. It sounded as though the house were falling to pieces around them, sustaining damage from some ghostly assault.
Tell me about this sister of yours, Wild demanded.
What?
Your sister? Claire.
Claire?
Yes. Claire. I’d better know something about her if I’m going to be showing up there. Tell me something. Take my mind off myself.
Like what?
Anything, really. Anything. Just speak. Say something.
Lee scratched his chin and sat on a straight-backed chair by the fire. Really, he just wanted to go back into the lounge room and sleep on the couch. This entire scene disturbed him.
On the floor, Wild huddled with his arms again around his knees, the mug of tea cooling at his side. Is she beautiful, for instance?
I don’t think so.
Is she tall?
He thought of Claire’s sharp, practical face. How she walked with wildly swinging arms, enthusiastically, always heading somewhere. Her love carefully apportioned, as if fearful of running low herself. No, he said. Average height. Brown hair. Sort of pretty, I suppose, that might be a word for her. Pretty. Married for a few years to a guy named Graeme who’s a scientist or something. A botanist. Into trees and leaves and stuff.
That why they live in the country?
Lee had never considered this. I guess so. Claire’s always been into outdoor things as well. Liked horses when she was little. They’ve got two kids, as well. Boy and a girl. Sam and . . . can’t remember the girl’s name, Mary or something.
You can’t remember your own niece’s name? What about that world-class bloody memory of yours?
Lee blushed. Well, she’s little. I’ve never seen her—I mean, just a photo once. Claire sent me some photos. She might even have been born when I was in jail.
Wild sighed, and when he spoke it was as if the words had been hauled from some great muddy depth. Did you and Claire get along as children?
What the fuck is this, Twenty Questions or something?
Just curious, that’s all. Give me a break.
Lee bent down with a poker to rearrange the wood in the fire. He jabbed at a large log and moved some smaller pieces around. Every so often, he turned suddenly or began to raise a hand to his eye or push hair from his face, and pain detonated across his stomach and ribs. When this happened, he paused mid-action with a grimace, breath frozen, like now as he leaned heavily on the fireplace mantel and waited for it to subside. He reached for the nearly empty bottle of whiskey and wiped the mouthpiece on his shirt before drinking. The flavour was dark and muscular, like the air of an inner-city gym.
Begrudgingly, he sat in the flimsy wooden chair and considered what he could possibly say. Family was so obvious that it was often difficult to describe it in ways that others might understand, even if he wanted to. In prison they made him see a social worker who was always interested in his family, in the things that had happened to him. Intrigued by the forces that shaped you, is what the old guy would say. Might be a few clues in there so we can make sure you don’t end up back in here.
She’s a few years older than me, Lee said through his teeth. Six years older. When we were kids she told me that liquorice was made with rat’s blood and I believed it for years. Even now, I can’t eat it. That weird flavour.
Wild made no sign that he’d heard or understood, just stayed with his head resting upon his bent knees and hands clasped at his ankles. His breathing was deep and patient.
But she’d eat it. Run after me with a black tail of it hanging from the edge of her mouth. Her teeth smeared with black gunk, laughing out of her mind. Thought it was the funniest thing ever.
Wild remained quiet and still aside from curling his toes against the floor and the occasional shudder across his shoulders. Lee looked at the closed door and wondered if he could sneak away, but Wild finally grunted with acknowledgement or interest. Lee stared into the fire and felt the blush of heat across his right cheek.
What was that? Wild asked.
What? Liquorice.
Oh. Yes. And?
And what?
That’s all there is about you?
Yeah. Pretty much. Just normal stuff, really. I told you about jail and—Liquorice.
Yeah. Liquorice.
That all you ate? Jesus. What did your mother cook for you? What was your favourite food?
Now that the fire had been rebuilt, the room was warm. Ignoring Wild, Lee shifted back from the fireplace. OK then. Might leave you to it.
Wild looked up. His face was damp and streaked. He sniffled and ran the back of his hand under his nose. What do you mean?
Nothing. Just might go and sleep and—
No, don’t. What are you talking about? Don’t leave me. Please. A bit longer. What’s the rush? Talk to me. Give me something.
Give you what? Why the hell do you want to know all this? What’s it to you, anyway?
What are you so afraid of?
Lee attempted a shrug. I’m not afraid. It’s late.
You look afraid. I was only trying to be friendly. To be a friend. Forget it then.
Lee listened to the drilling rain. If it kept up like this they would be flooded. He imagined the house being torn from its sodden stumps and borne across the fields, its ramshackle creak and sigh, snagging on fences and signs. The fire hissed and popped. He sat unwillingly back on the chair. I’m tired.
Wild scratched at his face and neck and ran his hands over his head, as if tormented by bugs. He grimaced and groaned and chewed at the air. He muttered things to himself. After a minute or so, he settled and again hugged his knees to his chest. So? he said.
What?
Favourite meal. Best thing your mum cooked.
Lee stared into the fire. One of the larger logs was shaped like a dog’s head, complete with two knots for ears and a small, sharp mouth. There was obviously no avoiding this fucking conversation. That smear of night. I don’t really remember. My parents died when I was little.
How long ago?
Twelve years or so.
Or so?
OK. Twelve years. July 15.
Ides of July.
What?
Wild shook his head. Nothing.
They were both killed. In an accident, a car accident. Long time ago now.
And as soon as he said it, Lee wondered why he was telling Wild any of this, a sensation coupled to the fear of knowing that once he began, there seemed no way to s
top. He was haunted, as always, by the insignificance of mere words. They could never be the thing; this was the great failure of language. Killed. Years. Such small and hollow sounds. Accident. That this word could mean both someone spilling their tea and what occurred to his parents on that night. The swerve of trees suddenly ahead. There must be better sounds than these. He lit a cigarette and considered its burning tip.
The car my dad was driving slid off the road into a tree. Just lost control, I think. No big thing. It was wet and raining and my parents were bickering. My mother occasionally picked on my dad. Sort of harassed him. I mean, she loved him, I’m sure she loved him, but, you know, people are strange. You never know what goes on between other people. She used to call him Lucky. Here comes Lucky, she’d say. How’d you go today, Lucky? Often with a little curl on the L, sort of drawing it out and raising an eyebrow. When she smoked a cigarette—which wasn’t very often—the first time she put it into her mouth she would hold the very end of it, the end you light, and just hold it there on her bottom lip for the tiniest half a second before taking her hand away and lighting it. Like she was thinking about having the cigarette, really thinking about it, all in that little speck of time. Always seemed so exotic to me, so worldly or something. The lipstick on it.
Why Lucky?
Oh, because he used to love to bet at the track. That’s what he wanted, really, to hang out with the guys in the yards and shoot the breeze and talk about horses. About who sired who and all that stuff. State of the track, which jockey was riding, you know . . . Not that he lost all our money or anything. We weren’t poor. He worked in a printing place. Not sure what he did. We were OK, I think. But, you know, it’s easy to have a go at someone like that. I think my mother had ambitions for us. High hopes. Like my sister. Wanted something bigger and better. Her mother never wanted her to marry Dad and, you know . . .
The Low Road Page 18
