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What Friends Are For
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What Friends Are For
By J.B. Reynolds
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A gritty and engaging story of human faults, fears, and frailty, What Friends Are For keeps you guessing right up until the punch.
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So I’m at home folding laundry, cos that’s what you do when you got a young kid. Between the shit and the piss and the vomit, seems like all I’m ever doing is laundry. I’d just given Hayley a box of raisins cos she was cranky—she loves her raisins, guaranteed to shut her up for five minutes anyway—when the phone rings. It’s Kate Hensley. Her son, Corbin, goes to daycare with Hayley, which is how Kate and I know each other.
I’m not sure why her Corbin goes to daycare, since as far as I know she doesn’t have a job; I guess she just needs the time to paint her nails and prune her roses in peace. Anyway, she wants to know if I’ll go along with her and Corbin to Alexandra for the morning to have a look round the shops. This is unexpected. I said we knew each other, but we’re not exactly friends. We see each other when we’re picking up or dropping off the kids at daycare, but we’ve never hung out before. I’m up for it. It’s not easy to make friends in Cromwell, especially when you’re a young mum and you’re new to town. I get sideways looks when I walk down the street, pushing a pram, like people are thinking, There goes another one. Should’ve kept her legs closed. They’re right of course, but hey, what’s done is done.
Kate might be posh, but she’s always been friendly enough. I ask her how long we’d be in Alexandra cos my shift at the pub starts at one-thirty and I got to get Hayley to daycare before that. I was late on Monday and the boss gave me a bollocking. I don’t want another one.
She says, “Oh, don’t worry about that. I promise we’ll be back before one.”
I say, “Okay then,” cos the housework can wait, and I think it’ll be nice to go shopping—you know, do some girly things. To tell the truth, I’ve been feeling a bit lonely lately. I stopped going to mothers’ group cos I was the youngest one there, and I didn’t exactly fit in. I mean, they were nice enough to my face, but all they ever did was bitch about other mothers behind their backs, so God only knows what they said about me.
So I’m excited Kate’s called. “It’ll be nice to get out of the house,” I tell her.
“Right, I’ll pick you up in half an hour,” she says.
“See you then.”
Which leaves me just enough time to finish folding the laundry, change Hayley’s bum and put a bit of lippy on. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not usually one for the make-up—you can’t polish a turd, as Davy likes to say—but it’s a little different when you’re going out about town with a woman as beautiful as Kate Hensley. I mean, I’m not vain or nothing, but you gotta make an effort.
I hear the toot of a horn and look out the window to see Kate coming up the driveway in her gleaming white Hyundai Santa Fe. It’s a good measure of the difference in our family incomes. I drive an eighty-four Corolla.
“Nice car,” I tell Kate as I place Hayley’s car seat in the back.
“Isn’t it lovely?” she says. “It’s just perfect for going skiing.”
This is my second winter in Cromwell and I still haven’t been skiing. It’s not on the priority list. I strap Hayley into her seat next to Corbin and put her stroller in the boot and then off we head off down the road. Straight away, Kate starts singing Coming Round the Mountain at the top of her lungs. She can’t sing to save herself.
“Jesus Christ, Kate,” I say.
“Pardon me,” she says, all hoity-toity like, and then I remember that she’s religious and I’ve just blasphemed.
She goes to one of the churches in town—not the cult one, thank God, but she’s bad enough. She’s one of those people who’s always slipping God or church or the Bible into the conversation. Like, How was your weekend, Kate? Oh, really good, thanks, went to a great service on Sunday—we learnt about prayer strategies. Or: Beaut day eh, Kate? Oh, yes, it’s lovely. God certainly has blessed us with the weather this week. She’s good in that she doesn’t pester you to come along to church all the time, but you know she’d be thrilled if you said you would. I’ve even considered it, just for the singing and the company, but the most judgemental people I’ve ever met were Christians and I’ve had my share of being judged.
“Do you mind if I put the radio on?” I say. “Only Coming Round the Mountain’s not my favourite tune.”
She shrugs. “I suppose.”
I switch the radio on and we cross over Deadman’s Point Bridge and turn towards Alexandra. The kids are quiet and it’s nice, you know, listening to the radio and looking out the window at the Clutha River, which on this stretch, up to the Clyde Dam, is less river and more lake. The sky is overcast and the water looks cold and grim and grey in the washed-out winter light. As we get nearer the dam, the steep slopes on the far side of the lake become criss-crossed with a network of dirt roads, made when the dam was constructed. They look like pale scars slashed against the hill rock.
“How’s Davy?” asks Kate, breaking my reverie.
“Who cares? He’s a jerk,” I say.
“Oh no, what’s he done?”
I grunt. “Okay, get this—right? It was my twenty-first birthday last week—”
“Really? Did you have a party?”
“Nah, it was just me and Davy and Hayley. My mate Julz back home said she’d organise one for me if I came up, but it’s just not that easy, is it? She hasn’t got a clue what it’s like to have a kid. None of my old mates do. Mum an’ Dad were gonna come down, but then Dad got called away for work an’ they couldn’t make it.”
“Oh, Tracy, you should have told me. I could have organised something.”
“Nah, it’s all good. I’d accepted the fact that I wasn’t goin’ to have the world’s most excitin’ twenty-first celebration. But I’m still pissed off at Davy cos the present he bought me was shit. Here I was, preparin’ my own birthday dinner since Davy was at work, an’ he comes home with a big box. No flowers or chocolates, just a box. It was gift wrapped, an’ there was a card attached, but I was already suspicious cos I was thinkin’, What on earth do I want that comes in a big box? ‘Open it, open it,’ he says, all excited, so I open it, an’ can you guess what it was?”
“No,” says Kate, shaking her head.
“A fuckin’ cake mixer! I wasn’t expectin’ diamond earrin’s or anythin’ like that, though that would’ve been nice, but for fuck’s sake, a cake mixer! I mean, it’s a nice cake mixer an’ all, but it was my twenty-first, not my fuckin’ fortieth! Most girls my age would be out ragin’ with their mates, but me, I’m stuck at home with my boyfriend an’ our kid—no friends, no family, changin’ shitty nappies an’ goin’ to bed at nine o’clock cos I’m so exhausted! I told him to go mix his own fuckin’ cakes.”
Kate laughs. “Oh, I’m sorry, Tracy. That is a pretty awful twenty-first present. I guess he thought he was doing something nice for you.”
“I know, but what a dickhead.”
“Don’t be too hard on him. At least he cares.”
“Oh, I know he does. It’s just that sometimes he can be such a moron.”
“That’s men for you. I…” She stops, frowning, and then turns her head away. She’s a beautiful woman—sleek and blonde and elegant, with high cheekbones, a sharp nose,
and luminous green eyes. Plus she’s got boobs and hips. She kinda reminds of a Barbie doll, only more Presbyterian. She looks straight ahead now, concentrating on driving, and I think to myself, Why am I here? Does she want to be friends? It’s a nice thought, I suppose, but we’re so different. I must look like her ugly, freckle-faced, flat-chested younger cousin.
An ad break comes on the radio so she switches channels, and there’s ads there too. She switches again, but it’s more ads. Why do radio stations do that—run their ads all at the same time? She turns it off and we travel in silence for a while. I look over my shoulder at the kids. They’ve both fallen asleep. Hayley often falls asleep when I’m driving. This would be fine, if she weren’t always so goddamn grumpy when she wakes up.
We reach the dam and I catch a glimpse of the water rushing through the sluice gates. Descending the hill, we pass the exit to Clyde, and a few minutes later arrive in Alexandra, where we turn off the highway and into the main drag. Kate parks the car opposite the Post Office. As soon as she stops, Corbin starts stirring, but Hayley remains fast asleep.
Kate opens her door and says, “Do you mind looking after the kids while I pop into the Post Office to pay some bills? I’ll only be a few minutes, and then we can go and have a look around the shops.”
“Nah, go ahead,” I say.
She goes into the Post Office and as she does, Corbin comes to his senses, realises she’s gone, and starts crying. Then Hayley wakes up and of course she starts crying as well.
“Awright, awright, give us a bloody minute!” I say. I’ve got some M&Ms in my handbag, so fish them out and hand them round, and that shuts them up.
Five minutes go by and Kate doesn’t come back and the kids have polished off the M&Ms and are starting to whine again so I get the pack of chocolate biscuits out of Hayley’s baby bag and give them one each. Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking—what kind of a mother am I? But it’s not always like this, I can tell you. It’s not like Hayley lives off chocolate and chips and fizzy drinks. It’s just that when you’re out and about you gotta let go a little, otherwise you’ll give yourself a coronary. Anyway, I’d rather give them chocolate than waste my breath trying to reason with them.
Ten minutes go by and Kate still hasn’t come back so I give them each another biscuit and open the door to stand up and look over the road through the windows of the Post Office where I can see Kate yabbering away to the lady behind the counter. It’s cold outside and I put my woollen gloves and beanie on. The kids are happy with their biscuits, so I stand there, looking around at the snow-capped hills in the distance, the sky bleak and grey but still beautiful, my breath steaming in the chill winter air.
Another couple of minutes pass and Kate finally returns. “Right. Shall we get going then?” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Do y’know that woman?”
Kate looks confused. “What woman?”
“The one in the Post Office.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head.
“You were talkin’ for ages.”
“Was I? Sorry, I didn’t mean to. Sometimes I get chatting and just forget myself.”
I don’t have that problem—least not with strangers. Changing the topic, I say, “Are we gonna walk from here?”
“May as well.”
Kate opens the boot to get the pushchairs out. She hands me Hayley’s and I unfold it on the footpath. It was second-hand when I bought it and it’s stained and faded but it’s lightweight and easy to manoeuvre. Corbin’s got a monstrous black buggy with knobbly pneumatic tyres—the thing looks like a miniature Humvee. There’s not a speck of dirt on it and I doubt it’s ever been off-road. I watch her struggle to lift it down to the footpath and unfold it. Then she goes to put Corbin in it and sees he’s covered in brown goo.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“Dunno,” I say. “Could be poo. Try tastin’ it.”
She leans in and takes a suspicious sniff, then turns and frowns at me. “It’s chocolate. How did he get covered in chocolate?”
“You were gone so long the kids were gettin’ tetchy. I gave ‘em a chocolate biscuit to keep ‘em quiet.”
She gets a baby wipe out of her bag and cleans him up. “I wish you hadn’t. I try to keep his sugar intake to a minimum.”
I ignore her and walk round the car to get Hayley out. Before I can, Kate reaches over with another baby wipe and starts cleaning Hayley with it.
“I’ll do that,” I say, snatching it off her. I wipe Hayley’s hands and most of her face but she’s got chocolate in both corners of her mouth and I leave it there—a little chocolate smile.
We dress the kids in hats and mittens and put them into their pushchairs, covering them with blankets. I get Hayley’s baby bag and hang it over the handles of her stroller. Kate places Corbin’s in the fabric basket beneath the Humvee’s carriage.
“Where we goin’?” I ask.
“I thought we could have a look in McDiarmid’s. Is that okay?”
“Uh-huh,” I say, nodding. “Let’s go.”
***
McDiarmid’s is a boutique department store of a kind I normally wouldn’t bother setting foot in cos I know I can’t afford anything in there. Once inside, Kate heads straight for the cosmetics and starts trying all these perfume testers, spraying a little on her wrists and then waving them about and sniffing, one bottle after the other, until the air is thick with the sick-sweet smell of perfume. Both kids crinkle their noses and then Corbin gives a big sneeze and a dribble of snot runs down his lip. Meanwhile, the lady at the counter is staring daggers at us.
“Oh, this one’s nice!” Kate grabs my wrist and sprays some on it. “Go on, smell it.”
I take a tentative sniff. It smells of cinnamon and cat piss and I scrunch my face up in disgust.
“No?” She tests another couple and then tries one that makes her eyes light up.
“Oh, Trace, this is lovely! Here, try it.”
She goes to grab my wrist again but I pull it away. I’m not much for perfume—I mean, who would I wear it for? Hayley doesn’t care what I smell like. Davy tells me he enjoys my natural odour. And the blokes at the pub don’t care either; the mere fact that I own a vagina is enough for them. But I humour her and say, “I’ll do it, thanks.”
She hands me the bottle, frowning. It says GLOW, by JLo. I spray a little on and have a whiff. It’s okay, not too strong, with a hint of citrus and vanilla.
“What do you think, Trace?” she asks.
I’m not sure why I’ve suddenly gone from Tracy to Trace. I guess we must’ve crossed some kinda intimacy threshold, like junkies do when they shoot up, only instead of needles we’re sharing perfume testers. I don’t mind being called Trace—most of my friends and family use it— but with Kate it rings a little false.
“Yeah, it’s nice,” I say.
“Great,” she says, replacing the tester and grabbing a box of GLOW off the shelf. She places it on the counter next to Daggers, who cracks a fake smile. “I’ll have this, thanks.”
I leave her to it and push Hayley over to the underwear department and leaf through a rack of undies. The price tags are enough to make my eyes water.
A minute or two later, Kate and Corbin come over and she joins in the search, saying, “You know Trace, you should get yourself some nice lingerie while we’re here. I’m sure Davy would love you for it.”
“Yeah, I dunno,” I say. “Do you think any of ’em come with built-in teeth?”
She laughs. “Oh, Tracy, you’re so funny.”
I wasn’t making a joke but I continue browsing, just to show I’m into the spirit of the occasion.
“See anything you like?”
“Nah, it’s all too lacy. Leather an’ studs is more my thing. You?”
She holds up a lacy black bra with a matching pair of panties, looking thoughtful before shaking her head. “No, I…” She pauses, and then says, “Shall we get going?”
I look at my watch. It’s a
cheap digital one, white plastic with a pink vinyl strap. Not like Kate’s elegant silver number. “Yeah,” I say. “There’s a sale on kids’ clothes at The Warehouse an’ I wanna have a look.”
She stares absently at the panties for a moment, an’ then brightens. “Okay.”
We head towards the exit. As we do, I hear these little grunts from Hayley. She’s wriggling around in her stroller and I stop and bend down to rearrange her blanket so she can get her arms free. She seems happy with that and stops grunting. When I stand up I see Kate standing there with Corbin, snot free now, holding a small, gift-wrapped box in his chubby little hands.
“Okay, Corbin, give the present to Tracy now.” Kate points at me.
“What?” I say.
“No,” says Corbin.
“Come on now. Give it to Tracy.”
“Oh. I didn’t realise you were gettin’ it for me.”
“Mine!”
“It’s your birthday, Trace. You deserve it.”
“It was my birthday. Really, I wasn’t expectin’—”
“Give it to her now, Corbin.”
“No, Mummy! My pesent!”
“It is not! It’s Tracy’s!” Kate bends down to take it from Corbin but he wraps his arms around it.
“No! Mine!”
“Forget about it, Kate. There’s no need—”
“Give it here!” Kate yanks it off him.
“No, Mummy! Mine, mine, mine!”
“Oh, stop it!” She hands the package to me. “There you go, Trace.”
Corbin starts howling. Kate glares at him, then leans forward and pecks me on the cheek. “Sorry about that. Unwrap it when you get home.”
First the wrist and now the kiss. Inside I’m squirming, but I force a smile. “Thank you,” I say, and put the gift in my handbag.
“You’re welcome. All right, let’s get going.” She wheels Corbin towards the exit. “Stop it, Corbin! I don’t want to listen to that horrible noise!”
The Warehouse is a few blocks away, and we walk accompanied by the tune of Corbin’s wailing. He’s really going for it, and his face is red and covered in a liquid mix of tears and snot, the poor little bugger. We come to a chemist and Kate stops.
What Friends Are For Page 1
