by Kim Lock
‘To come as an adult, an observer, yes I think I would have,’ Elsie maintained. She gave a little sniff and Thomas knew it wasn’t Millie’s absence at Arthur’s school sports day that Elsie was perturbed about – it was Millie’s continued insistence on taking a long holiday with her friends. She and two girlfriends wanted to travel around Australia in a van; they wanted to go across to Perth, north to Darwin, then down the east coast. The trip would take months, they would subsist on scrounged-up cash work – picking fruit, waiting tables, nanny work. Yesterday Elsie had said to Millie, But must you be gone so long? To which Millie had replied, It’s a pretty big country, Mum. I need the space.
From the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Aida give Elsie’s hand a squeeze.
Arthur barrelled up to them. He was panting; his bare knees were scuffed with greenish brown and he had GO BLUE inked in huge black marker letters on the inside of his left forearm.
‘Blue’s only twenty-five points behind Green,’ he said, grinning.
‘Woohoo!’ Aida offered up her palm and he slapped it. Crack.
‘Did you see me in the long jump?’ Arthur bounced from one foot to the other. It seemed as soon as he had turned thirteen his body had shot up overnight, his arms and legs lengthening like stretched-out dough. Thomas wondered where Arthur got his sporty, athletic frame from. Elsie’s side, he decided, as he recalled the tall, farm-brawny figure of her father. Even when he had been doubled over with drink there was no doubt Mr Rushall was an imposingly sized man. Not like Thomas, who was of average height and average build – so suitable for his white-collar job, he reflected with some amusement. He could almost see the blood pumping through Arthur’s eager body now, his muscles growing and firming, and he was glad that if school now required this kind of ‘all-in’ participation, at least his son could hold his own on the field.
Thomas beamed at him. ‘Looked like you landed clear on the other side of the sandpit.’
Arthur laughed. ‘Not quite. But I beat Sam Brekovich, and he came third last year. I’ve gotta go because I’m on the high jump soon but, Ay, did you bring them?’
‘Right here.’ Aida bent down and dragged a large tartan bag from beneath the bench. She unzipped the bag and withdrew a foam cooler.
‘Cool!’ Arthur cried.
‘I’m sure it is cool, that’s its job,’ Thomas said.
Arthur rolled his eyes and dropped a kiss on Aida’s cheek, then another on his mother’s. ‘Bye!’ Clutching the cooler to his chest, he jogged away, to a group of boys standing clumped and jiggling at the edge of the oval. Thomas watched as Arthur approached the group and they all turned to face him, gathered around him as he opened the cooler. Like a flock of seagulls at fish-and-chip leftovers at the beach, they all dived into the cooler.
‘Pasties!’ Thomas cried. ‘Where’s mine?’
Aida delved into the tartan bag and out came a foil-wrapped parcel. ‘I didn’t forget you,’ she said, smiling.
Thomas peeled away the foil and was on his second luxuriant mouthful when Elsie cried out.
Thomas looked up from his pasty.
Aida gasped, ‘What the . . . ?’
‘What?’ Thomas said. ‘What is it?’
They were both staring over towards Arthur’s group. Elsie’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. Arthur had dropped the cooler; it lay on its side on the grass. It was hard to tell how many boys were involved in the tussle, because it was a moving, stomping flurry of arms and legs.
Dropping his pasty onto Elsie’s lap, Thomas leapt to his feet as more gasps and cries came from the seats around him.
‘Hey,’ he yelled, running towards the boys. ‘Hey, stop that!’
Two teachers arrived at the scrum at the same time as Thomas. He hesitated, trying to assess the situation, as the teachers attempted to separate the brawlers. Thomas searched for Arthur and found him startlingly close to the centre of the skirmish – he was gripping one boy’s collar in his two fists and yanking on it with surprising force. Another boy had hold of Arthur’s forearm and was trying in vain to pull him away. Yet another boy had that boy in a double-armed grip around the waist in some kind of attempt at a rugby tackle, and banging into this trio were two other boys who had each other in simultaneous head locks. Several more boys had attached themselves to various appendages or pieces of clothing. There were grunts as hands or fists found bare skin, sharp tears of fabric, howls of outrage. A crowd of multi-coloured teenagers gathered quickly around the fracas, awed and cheering, pointing and egging-on.
The two teachers had swiftly established themselves as a failing counteractive force. Thomas made a snap decision and allied himself to their cause. He dived in. It was Arthur’s ruthless grip on one boy that seemed the nucleus of the fray and Thomas figured if he could dismantle the nucleus, the rest would fall away. Pushing himself into the centre, Thomas, as assertively and non-aggressively as he could, hip-and-shouldered one boy out of the way, then another.
‘Arthur,’ he shouted. ‘Let go.’ Finally reaching his son, Thomas put his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, and heaved. ‘Let him go.’
Reflexively, Arthur snarled in his direction and then, realising who he was, abruptly opened his fists. He and his opponent both tumbled backwards, and Thomas stumbled to keep a hold of him. More teachers had joined the good fight and the boys were being hauled off one at a time, the crowd of onlookers instructed in no uncertain terms to disperse and return to their team sites. Even the voice over the loudspeaker had joined in, declaring there was ‘nothing to see, so please stay seated wherever you are.’
Thomas managed to half-drag, half-push a hyped-up Arthur into the clear. ‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded, panting.
Arthur flung himself free and bent double, his hands on his knees. His shoulders heaved. He spat into the grass then straightened, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He was glaring murderously over Thomas’s shoulder.
‘Arthur? Answer me.’
‘He started it,’ Arthur finally said.
‘Who?’
‘Him.’ He thrust his chin. ‘Dickhead Ron Brown.’
Thomas glanced over his shoulder. The crowd had begun to thin; teachers were interrogating some boys, other boys were sneaking away. Fingers were being pointed in all directions.
‘Is he Brown’s Freightlines’ kid? What did he do?’
Arthur said, ‘He called Mum a lemon.’
‘Mum? Your mum?’
‘Yeah.’
Thomas frowned, confused. ‘He called her a – what now?’
‘A lemon.’
‘Like the fruit?’
‘Yeah, but – no. Not the fruit. You know?’
‘I really don’t,’ said Thomas.
Arthur stepped close to him. Right up to his chest. They were almost the same height; tears of outrage glimmered in his son’s eyes.
‘A lemon is a lezzo,’ he hissed.
Thomas said, ‘Oh.’ He put a steadying hand on Arthur’s shoulder; the muscle was hot and damp, the joint shifting beneath his palm.
Arthur said, ‘I wouldn’t give him a pasty because he’s a jerk. He’s a couple of years older but he only picks on the younger kids because he’s a wimp and a bully. Anyway, he wanted a pasty but I didn’t give him one, so he said my mum was a . . . you know.’
‘Right,’ said Thomas. ‘The citrus thing.’
‘They’re always saying dumb things,’ Arthur went on, ‘mean things about other people: that Mrs Barnaby has to wear adult nappies; that Lizzy Truro’s dad’s a communist; that Chris Withers was left on a church doorstep as a baby. But this one is disgusting, Dad. And about Mum? It’s gross.’
Thomas’s guts sank at the same time as his mouth soured. He took in his son’s infuriated, revolted expression; he was acutely aware of the people milling about them. That his son had heard a stupid urban rumour – proba
bly, Thomas’s mind raced to realise, a legacy of one of Watsons’ kids – and been understandably protective of his mother wasn’t what mortified Thomas now. No, what Thomas found most confronting, as he faced this adrenalin-hyped, deeply impressionable, not-yet-man in front of him, was that his own son was so repulsed by the mere idea of homosexuality that he would get into an enormous brawl over it.
What would Arthur do when he realised those silly rumours were actually based on fact?
‘Arthur,’ Thomas began, ‘look, son, we should talk.’
‘I don’t want to talk, I want you to tell those kids it’s not true.’
A few faces had turned to look at them. Thomas said, ‘I’m not going to do that.’
‘Why not? Why won’t you stand up for me?’
Thomas glanced over at the group of kids, some still being interrogated by teachers, some reforming into cliques and looking over at Arthur. Then he looked over at the stands, where Elsie and Aida were peering at him anxiously. Elsie had half-risen from her seat, her hand at her throat.
‘Dad?’
‘Mate,’ Thomas sighed. ‘Listen –’
‘Wait – it’s not . . .’
‘Arthur –’
Arthur paled. ‘It’s not bloody true, is it?’
Thomas’s heart began to thud. ‘Just stay calm.’
His son took a wobbly step back.
‘Arthur Mullet,’ a voice barked.
They both looked up as the teacher appeared beside them. A squat, flushed man with a whistle on a rope around his neck.
‘Mr Theonopalis,’ Arthur mumbled.
The teacher turned to Thomas. ‘Who are you?’
Thomas was flustered, reeling. He was almost too afraid to answer. ‘I’m, uh –’
‘This is my dad,’ Arthur said.
‘Mr Mullet. I’m Leon Theonopalis, from phys-ed.’ The teacher extended his hand and Thomas took it. The man’s forearms were covered in a thick mat of dark hair. ‘I’d otherwise say it’s a pleasure to meet you,’ Theonopalis went on, ‘but the circumstances are anything but pleasurable, it’s a shame.’
Thomas couldn’t answer. Was the teacher talking about the boys’ fight – or his wife, the ‘lemon’?
‘Young man, you need to come with me.’
‘Why?’ Arthur suddenly stood straighter. ‘It wasn’t me. Ron Brown started it.’
‘He says you started it, so until we can get some straight answers, you’re all off to the headmaster’s office.’
Arthur looked at Thomas.
‘Sir,’ Thomas said, ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. I can take Arthur home right now.’ Please, he thought. Please let me take him home so we can work this out.
‘He needs to be disciplined by the school, I’m afraid,’ Theonopalis said. ‘We have a policy on fighting and Arthur needs to face the consequences of his actions.’
Thomas looked at Arthur, who glowered at him.
‘Mr Mullet, thank you for your assistance. Arthur, come along now.’
Thomas put a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘I’ll see you at home, okay?’ He gave him what he hoped was an imploring, yet also firm look. Arthur shrugged him off and dropped his eyes to the ground.
Face the consequences of his actions.
Thomas watched as Arthur walked off behind the teacher.
The office of Harvey Greene, BPsych
Recently
Not long after Thomas had sunk himself as comfortably as possible into Harvey Greene’s couch, it began to rain outside. A few sporadic drops ticked onto the roof for long enough for Thomas to cock his head and say, ‘Is that rain?’ before it came rushing down in a heavy sheet.
The psychologist opened with, ‘How are you feeling today?’
Thomas told him he was fine, as to be expected. The sound of the rain comfortingly dulled his senses and for an almost pleasant moment his anxiety eased.
‘It sounds like home, doesn’t it?’ Thomas said. ‘No matter where you are, rain on the roof is the sound of being tucked up in bed.’
‘I agree,’ the psych said, ‘It’s a soothing sound. And sometimes I think there’s something of a little kid in each of us, looking for comfort. Isn’t there?’
Thomas inwardly scoffed at the psychobabble, but he didn’t want to be argumentative when he had only just gotten settled. ‘If you say so.’
Harvey got straight to it. ‘You obviously survived the kids’ teenage years,’ he said. ‘How old are Millie and Arthur now? They’d be, what . . .’ he looked down at his notes and Thomas said, ‘Millie’s close to fifty; Arthur’s early-forties.’
‘And how many grandkids did you say?’
‘Five. Jordan – Millie’s eldest – is driving and drinking and everything.’
Harvey said, ‘And they all know about your relationship with Aida?’
‘Yes.’
‘But they keep it from their friends, too?’
‘I honestly don’t know anymore.’ Thomas rubbed his chin. ‘Some of the younger kids these days wouldn’t care so much. It’s different now.’
‘Society is more tolerant?’
Thomas gave a wry laugh. ‘We like to think so, don’t we? But I reckon it’s just different versions of the same intolerance. There’s still criticism – horrible things still happen because of narrow minds.’
‘Is that why you were never entirely forthcoming – about Aida – with Millie and Arthur, when they were younger?’
‘We wanted to protect them, yeah.’
‘But they found out.’
‘We were foolish to think they would never work it out.’ And because he could now, with the sentiment of time passed, Thomas smiled about it. ‘We didn’t like to lie to them, but we did it to protect them. We saw it like any private business. Don’t talk about it, don’t make it obvious, and everyone is safe. Right?’
Harvey looked at him, waiting.
‘We believed – or maybe hoped – that they could grow up seeing Aida as a kind of aunty and that way, they would be guarded, I suppose, from collateral harm. Who’s to say the authorities wouldn’t have taken the kids off us? Can’t say our country doesn’t have a shitty history of arbitrarily taking kids off their parents,’ he pointed out.
‘The worst of it was their childhood years,’ Thomas continued, ‘with school kids and such. We had a few close calls, the odd run-in . . . but people were so bloody conservative no one could really substantiate it. No one could say for sure, “these three people are in a relationship”.’ Thomas paused to listen to the rain grow heavier. ‘I’m sure we weren’t the only family with something to hide. Eventually the kids came to terms with it in their own ways, once they got older.’
‘But from what you’ve said, it was rocky when they were growing up, wasn’t it?’
Thomas mulled it over. ‘Isn’t it always uncomfortable when you find out about . . . the bedroom business of your parents?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I suppose our bedroom business was different to other parents.’
‘Only that you know of,’ Harvey said.
‘But it wasn’t just . . . sex,’ Thomas managed to say. ‘By the time the kids came along it was more than that. And then, the kids had never known any different. It’s not like Aida came along when they were already grown. The only parents they’d had, ever since they were babies, were the three of us. If anything, because I was at work all the time, they had two mums. Aida wasn’t an add-on or a plus-one.’
‘Aida was integral for being herself, you mean?’
‘Yeah. She was as much “Mum” as Elsie.’
‘Is that how Aida saw it?’
It gave Thomas pause. ‘I don’t know. I think so. But maybe . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘I know she never stopped thinking about her own baby. The baby
she never got to be a mother to.’
Harvey said, ‘Hmm.’ He made a note on his pad. ‘Aida never went back to her parents, after that? Or went away again?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘But there was obviously still something there, because her father continued to pay her an allowance. Even after I bought the house. “Guilt money”, Aida called it. But she took it.’ Thomas shifted his weight, plucked at the seam of his pants. ‘But their relationship was strained. Aida said she couldn’t look at either of them without thinking of her baby. After a time she just stopped seeing them. Then her father died, and her mother moved away . . .’ he shrugged sadly.
‘How did Aida take it?’
‘Same way any of us take that kind of thing,’ Thomas said, lowering his brows. ‘In her own way. Her own time.’ It didn’t feel right, discussing this part of Aida’s grief with the shrink. This part of Aida was separate, independent of the story he was here to confess. Aida had always protected the three of them from her own family. Kept her last name guarded, secure. That was her choice. She wasn’t here now to give Thomas permission as to what he could say.
They were quiet for a time and Thomas appreciated the shrink leaving him to listen to the rain, unprompted for a while. The downpour had eased and he heard the gutters gurgle softly, the iron on the verandah roof outside ticking and popping as the sun broke through the clouds.
‘Let me ask something,’ Harvey said. ‘You implied last time –’ he flipped back a couple of pages in his notes ‘– that the sexual relationship between you and Aida didn’t really exist without Elsie. It seems to me like Elsie was the central pin that bound you and Aida. So it wasn’t precisely an equal triangle, as such.’
Thomas looked up at the video camera. ‘They always loved each other more than me.’ He said it quietly, plainly. In his peripheral vision he saw the shrink go still. ‘I got to love two women, and wasn’t I lucky? But I never had what they had.’
‘What did they have?’
Still gazing at the ceiling, Thomas’s brows drew together. ‘I think women are capable of a bond that men can’t understand. They know what it’s like to be female in a man’s world. And maybe that’s a good thing, because I’m about to die.’
