Tigerland

by Sean Kennedy

  “It’s embarrassing coming in here and seeing that all the time,” Declan muttered.

  “It’s just a photo.”

  Dec snorted. “I’m surprised there isn’t incense and votive candles in here.”

  There was, however, an Essendon scarf draped lovingly around his frame.

  “Number one son. You’ve even supplanted Tim.”

  “Sure, you drama queen.”

  We stood in silence, looking at the shrine.

  “You miss it, don’t you?” I asked quietly.

  He took a moment to answer me. “Of course I do. But I knew it couldn’t last forever.”

  “You wanted it to last longer.”

  Dec nodded. “It could have lasted longer. But it didn’t. It was a career, and now I’ve got another one. People do that all the time.”

  “I guess.”

  “You did.”

  He had a point. Film had always been my love, but I had changed jobs, moving sideways into television. Instead of arranging for films to be shown to the public, I was now actually producing shows.

  “But I chose that. A sports star doesn’t choose change. Their body decides for them.”

  “True. And it was strange at first. But I like what I’m doing.”

  Like, but not love. That made me kind of sad. Maybe he was still adjusting.

  “You’d tell me if you were unhappy, right?” I asked.

  “Of course I would. Now let’s get out of here. I feel like I’m being watched by myself.”

  “You’re lucky my parents haven’t had you stuffed and put behind glass like Phar Lap.”

  “You’re creeping me out now.”

  I took his hand and dragged him out of the Museum of Declan Tyler and Assorted Essendon Players. “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll wait until you die first. I think.”

  “That’s very comforting, thanks.”

  IT WAS a relatively early night. Dec and I were tired, and after some grumblings that it meant we were getting old, we crashed at a time when most people were gearing up for a Saturday night out.

  Sunday morning dawned far too early for my liking, and it didn’t help that there was somebody banging on our door. Declan was snoring and practically comatose, so I knew I wasn’t going to be able to convince him to go and see who it was. I disentangled my legs from his, pulled on some clothes to be decent, and stumbled blindly to our front door.

  Lisa jumped, her hand raised in the air, ready to knock again.

  “Oh my God!” she cried. “He really did do it!”

  “Huh?”

  She reached out to touch my eye, and I’m a little ashamed to say I yelped. I wasn’t awake enough to remember the state of my face. Now that I had been reminded, it was aching unpleasantly.

  “That son of a bitch,” Lisa fumed.

  “Uh, it’s nice to see you and everything,” I said, my hurt at the café from the day before coming back to me, “but what are you doing here?”

  Her face fell. “Simon, please don’t be like that.”

  “What, like I’m upset? We haven’t seen you in months, and suddenly you’re here.”

  “I hoped you’d understand. Can I come in or not?”

  I shrugged, hating myself for doing it because I would have preferred to hug her and never let her go so she couldn’t disappear on us again.

  “Come into our gracious drawing room,” I said in an accent Merchant Ivory would be proud of.

  She pushed past me and flung her bag on the couch. It bounced off and succeeded in knocking over a set of empty beer bottles that Dec and I had polished off when we got home last night. Declan had been too tired to do his usual anal-retentive clean before sleep. Lisa surveyed the mess of our lounge with a critical eye and muttered, “Boys.”

  “We’re men,” I reminded her, stooping to pick up the offending objects. I think once you’re out of your twenties, you can claim that for yourself.

  “You’re boys,” Lisa countered.

  “So it’s been two months, and you just came over to insult us?” I dumped the bottles in the recycling bin that slid easily out of sight under the kitchen counter.

  “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “You could have asked me yesterday,” I pointed out, “when you avoided me at the cafe.”

  “You saw me.”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready to talk at that point of time. And, hey, in my defence, you weren’t injured at that point.”

  “Well, what a difference a day makes.”

  She sat down heavily on the couch. “Can you please not make this any harder than it already is?”

  Before I could tell her that, yes, of course she was forgiven, and that all I wanted was for things to go back to the way they were, we were interrupted by Declan stumbling in, pulling a T-shirt over his head. It seemed Lisa had even managed to waken the beast.

  Dec stopped, surprised, and squinted at her. “Oh. Hey.”

  “Hey yourself,” she replied. Her voice was still pretty narky.

  A thought suddenly occurred to me. “How did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “About Abe hitting me.”

  “I am friends with Fran and Roger as well.” She strode over to the kitchen and started banging around with the coffee machine.

  “You’ve been speaking to Fran and Roger?”

  “They are my friends as well.”

  “Well, it’s nice you kept in contact with them, at least.” And I was going to kill them for not telling me as soon as I saw them. They knew how not seeing Lisa was affecting me.

  “Simon! How many times do you want me to say sorry?”

  I knew I had to drop it and just be glad she was finally there. “Make me a coffee, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  She smiled at me. “Deal.”

  “So Fran and Roger told you?”

  Lisa began pouring beans into the grinder, and her response was drowned by the whirr of the tiny engine.

  “What did you say?” Declan asked, reaching out to the couch as if he were blind and feeling his way. Instead of sitting on it, he lay down and clung to it as if it were a life raft. “Can you add two Aspro Clear and a Berocca to my coffee?”

  With the beans now ground, Lisa gave him a thumbs up and poured them into the coffee machine. A new noise started to drown out our conversation.

  “Seriously,” I yelled, “what did you mutter just then?”

  She was talking while pulling three mugs out of the dishwasher.

  I looked at Declan to see if he understood her, but he was staring at the floor and looking decidedly green. I waited until the machine spat out our coffees and asked again.

  Lisa sighed, and this time what she said was audible. “I said, I spoke to Abe.”

  Even Dec raised his head up at that.

  “What?” we demanded in unison. Well, not quite. Dec was about a second behind me, a close echo.

  “I saw him yesterday.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “After he was with Declan. He called me.”

  “And you answered him?” She hadn’t answered our calls at all over the past two months, only sending a couple of text messages.

  “He left four messages. And he sounded really upset, just talking to thin air about what had happened. So, yeah, I called him back.”

  “And?” Declan prodded.

  “We met up for coffee. He needed it to sober up. And we talked.”

  “Huh,” was my sterling addition to the conversation.

  “And how did it end between you?” Declan asked.

  Skilfully avoiding the question, Lisa brought the mugs over to the coffee table and sat next to me. “I have to say, Simon, it was a surprise to hear him say he beat you up.”

  “It was one punch,” I groaned. “Not a bashing.”

  “Still, it’s bad.”

  “It was meant for Declan!” I was wanting to be helpful, but it made her eyes narrow.

 
“That makes it all better, then!”

  “I just got in the way. If it had been Declan, well, he has quicker reflexes. There would be no bloody noses or bruises.”

  “Bloody nose?” Lisa asked.

  Obviously new information for her. Whoops.

  “It stopped after a while,” I said weakly, tapping the object in question. “Look, all good!”

  Declan snorted. “How can you tell the difference?”

  “I think he’s claiming I have a big nose,” I told Lisa.

  “You do.” She sipped at her coffee.

  I sniffed the aroma from my own mug appreciatively and tried not to wince. “See, I couldn’t do that if it was broken!”

  “You still look pretty roughed up,” Declan said, not fooled.

  “You’re full of compliments this morning. That’s not what you were saying yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?” Declan asked, screwing up his face exaggeratedly. “I don’t remember much of yesterday.”

  I think Lisa had sat next to me so she wouldn’t have to look me in the eye. I wasn’t having any of that. I stood and unceremoniously knocked Declan’s feet off the couch to slide in next to him. Immediately they were in my lap as he lay back down.

  “I’m not a cushion,” I said.

  Too tired to respond, he waved my complaint away.

  “That’s what I don’t get either,” Lisa said.

  “What?” I asked. “Because what I don’t get is why you ignored us for so long.”

  “You were too close to Abe. You live in the same bloody building, for a start!”

  “And we could have met you in a neutral zone. Hell, we could have come to your parents’!”

  “I wasn’t ready, okay?”

  “Simon, she told you to drop it,” Declan said quietly, as if he thought only I could hear.

  “I know you’re upset with me, but I needed to do it.”

  I sighed. “I know. You do know that the main reason I’m really angry is because we couldn’t help you?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Who is this, and what happened to the real Simon Murray?” Lisa asked Declan.

  “He has his moments,” Declan said with a small smile.

  Lisa reached over the table and took my hand. “I’m not hiding anymore.”

  “Good.” I squeezed it and held on for longer than was really necessary to reassure myself she was really there.

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” Declan said, swinging his feet out of my lap and sitting up again to drink his coffee. “How did things end with Abe yesterday?”

  “We’re… talking. And will be again. Soon.”

  “That’s news to me,” Dec grumbled.

  “Look, he’s jealous. Abe hasn’t been giving him updates fast enough.” I was rewarded for this comment with a poke in the ribs. “Ouch!”

  Lisa rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I came over to make sure you were okay.”

  “Aww, thanks. But now you don’t need an excuse. Especially since you and Abe are talking again.”

  “Talking is all we’re doing. We’re just… going to see what happens from here.” She didn’t say that she was worried about what that could entail; after all, it was evident in her voice. How could she know that the same problems that plagued them before wouldn’t start all over again? She blinked rapidly and then suddenly turned on Declan. “And you! Abe hits your partner, and you go out drinking with him?”

  “Hey!” Declan protested, but that was as far as he got.

  “I know,” I said, trying to sound as pathetic as possible. “I sat alone here, mopping up my own blood. While they painted the town red. Probably with hookers and AFL groupies.”

  “Reminiscing about the old times when they were stars.” Lisa grinned.

  “Hey!” Declan protested again, but gave up and buried his head in a cushion. “Forget it.”

  Lisa smiled at me, and I patted Dec’s leg comfortingly. “Look, I told him to go after Abe. He couldn’t be left alone in that state.”

  “You’re so much nicer than you pretend to be, Simon.”

  “Don’t make his head swell as big as his nose,” came Declan’s muffled voice from within the cushion. “Can I please have another Berocca?”

  LISA stayed for breakfast, but left soon after as she was worried that Abe could show up at any moment. Things might have been improving between them, but she didn’t want to push it. When Abe failed to materialise, Dec went downstairs to visit him and make sure he was okay. I sat out on the balcony with a book, but the sun disappeared within a darkening sky as Melbourne began preparing for a summer storm. We often had our worst storms in the heat rather than the winter. Mother Nature liked to screw around with our fair city, making sure we knew she was boss and wasn’t beholden to any meteorological timetable.

  I should have known it was a metaphor. Dec returned at lunchtime, although he didn’t have much to report from Abe as he was remaining rather tight-lipped as well. The rest of the afternoon was spent lazing around on the couch, Dec watching some sport I had no interest in whatsoever and me reading. Occasionally we would fool around, distracting each other when we looked too absorbed in our object of interest. Hail began falling outside, coming in at an angle and striking against the balcony door, and along with the air conditioning we were almost duped into believing it was winter. Eventually, we both fell asleep, in what must have been a picture of domesticity, curled up against each other with Maggie between us.

  The shrieking of my mobile rudely woke us. I groaned and half crawled over to where it was about to vibrate itself off the kitchen table.

  “Bugger, it’s work,” I told Declan.

  “Don’t let them make you go in.”

  The rain and hail had subsided, so I took my phone out onto the balcony, as Declan was already watching the sports channel again and whooping excitedly over something. Possibly a baseballer getting a hole in one or something.

  “Why aren’t you answering your e-mail?” demanded Coby when I picked up. No greetings or salutations.

  “I haven’t been on my computer today.”

  “What are you, Amish?”

  “I wish, if it meant I didn’t have to take your call and could dance with Harrison Ford in a barn. Younger, spunkier Harrison Ford, of course. Not the one married to Ally McBeal.”

  “Like you could survive without television. Anyway, I sent you about four e-mails. Normally, a person can tell when they get one, because they hear a little dinging sound, and a cute envelope appears at the bottom of their desktop.”

  “Didn’t I tell you at your last performance review that you had to speak to your boss more respectfully?”

  “If I recall, my last performance review was held at the pub, and you told me I was no Nyssa, but I would do.” It was a bitter memory for him.

  “Huh. So I talked you up, basically.”

  “I guess, seeing you had also told me Coby was a bogan’s name and asked if I had a Southern Cross tattoo.”

  “Coby is a bogan’s name. But it’s not your fault, really. Have you ever thought of changing it by deed poll?”

  “And you wonder why… anyway, you should have heard the way I spoke to my last boss. I actually like you. For some strange reason.”

  The wind was picking up again, and although it wasn’t exactly a cold wind, the fact there was no sun meant I was feeling a little bit exposed on the balcony. “That’s sweet, Coby, but it’s Sunday. What’s so bloody urgent?”

  “Well, if you read your e-mail—”

  “Shut up about the e-mail, already!”

  “There’s some chatter from various sources—”

  “Coby, we’re not in ASIO.”

  “You never let me have any fun. Anyway, people are starting to say that there’s a big AFL star about to come out.”

  I turned to stare at Declan through the window, the wind hitting my back and going right through me to the bone. He was chucking a cushion at the telly in a pique. Somebody had stuffed u
p whatever they were meant to do.

  “What, as a debutante?”

  “Funny.”

  “How big?”

  “Aren’t you being risqué?”

  “Get your mind out of the gutter. I meant, in terms of knowability—”

  “Is that a word?”

  “—I live with the biggest AFL star who ever came out.”

  “It’s sweet that you’re so loyal.”

  The rain was beginning to fall again. “Shut up, Coby! How big? Current player, or somebody long retired? Or a rookie who isn’t going to play the game of pretending to be straight from the very beginning?”

  Dec and I had met quite a few gay footy players in the past few years. Most of them were either amateurs playing in the suburban teams, or rookies in the VFL who, inspired by Declan, had decided that they were going to be open from the very start of their careers. Unfortunately, none of them reached Dec’s heights. Then there were those who had retired and sadly seemed to prefer remaining closeted, thinking they had survived that long without the attention, so why start now? They were destined to remain gossiped about on footy forums but never confirmed in one way or the other.

  But this? It could be big news. The biggest since Dec and I had been caught kissing in the gardens of the St. Vincent Hospital, what now seemed like centuries ago.

  “Apparently he’s announcing his retirement at the same time.”

  I didn’t want to make any judgements, but part of me was already biased against whoever it was. After all, Declan had taken all the good and the bad at being out while in his sporting profession along with the general public, whereas this guy was waiting until his career was over before coming out and dealing with the ramifications. He would get the glory and only a fraction of the hardship.

  I hated thinking like that, but sometimes the harshest critics could come from within the gay community.

  And really, could I judge? Dec himself would be the first to remind me that, at the time, he had thought himself quite happy to go along that same path, and he had only really been faced with the decision to come out when it was forced upon him. Instead of being Declan Tyler, the trailblazer, he could have been this unknown guy we were now talking about, like some parallel universe in an episode of Star Trek. Or to a lesser extent, Sliders.