by Aaron Dries
“Don’t abuse your employer, it’s the number one rule in the book.” Marshall rubbed his face, scratching the stubble. “What’re we doing here, man? And you! You could be out editing for Peter Weir, or Joe-Blow Spielberg or someone and instead you’re in this shoebox doing kids’ birthday parties. And vampire parties no less.”
“I fucking hate vampires,” Simone said, resting her head on the table.
“Hey, there once was a time when vampires were cool. Believe it or not.”
She gave him a wink, toying with her dreadlocks.
“Fuck you! These kids wouldn’t know a real vampire if it came up and bit them on the ass.” Marshall sighed. “Twilight will hit the screens later in the year and mark my words: those producers won’t stop at book one. That flick’s gonna be huge. Our vampire-themed kids’ parties aren’t going anywhere.” He looked at the screen, feeling defeated.
“At least we’ve got enough here for the blooper reel,” Simone said.
Marshall took a deep breath. “I swear, if I’m still doing kids’ parties and not corporate clients in six months from now, steak me, Simone. Right through the heart.”
“Got it, boss.”
Marshall stood up, the bones in his back cracking. “Jesus, you heard that?”
“Ouch. Watching you stretch is like watching a snake regurgitate. It’s disgusting. How does your wife put up with it? That’s the great mystery here.”
“My friend, my wonderful twenty-two-year-old genius, prodigy of an employee—marriages are built on cracking bones and bedtime farts. Trust me, one day you’ll get it. You’ll lap that shit up.”
It was a one-room office, reception, editing suite. The walls were covered in movie posters and framed awards. They were listed in the phone book as a production company, but the majority of their income came from big companies in search of the perfect team builder, alcohol-fuelled hens’ nights and birthday parties like the one they were editing. Marshall provided the food, the lights, sets, camera and laughter, and the client was the actor. Within a week they got the video delivered to their door, which would correspond with a handsome sum being deposited into the company account.
It was a win-win situation, except that it was Marshall and Simone who had to put the short-film together. Over and over again. In the three years the company had been running, they had done a total of eighty-four Grease recitals, and twenty-two vampire epics. The twenty-third would leave them anemic for sure.
“What time is it?” Marshall asked.
“Uh-hhh, ten to four.”
“Right. I’m calling it a day soon.”
“You picking your son up from school?”
“Not today. Claire’s doing it. They’re going to Macquarie Shopping Centre in Marsfield together. My boy needs new school shoes.”
“What’s his name again?”
“Noah.”
“Ah, that’s right. He’s cool, you know? And a cute little thing.”
Marshall crossed the room in three strides and stood in front of his desk. He looked down at the glass countertop and at the briefcase upon it. “Did you see what I’m reading?”
Simone, the most genre-literate girl Marshall had ever met, turned and saw the hard cover book wedged between the speakers. She picked it up, felt its weight in her hand and turned it face up. On the cover was a thin man in an elaborate jester’s outfit against a large velvet curtain. His fingers were wrapped around a checkered cane, only it wasn’t just a cane—it was a sharp hidden dagger, half pulled from its sheath.
“Screams; Three novels of Suspense,” Simone recited, not hiding her grin.
“Robert Bloch, amigo. A true master.”
“Sounds kinda cornball, you know?” She winced, showing the gum over her teeth. She was both girlish and rough, a cocktail that proved popular with the boys, and despite the glasses and dreadlocks she wasn’t pretentious. She was also a very talented editor. Marshall had warmed to her straight off the bat and often spoke to her as though she were one of the boys. Simone liked that.
“Yeah, you’d say that wouldn’t you? You little shit. Bloch is brilliant,” Marshall said.
“If he’s so brilliant, then why is the book called Screams? If I saw that on the shelf, I’d high-tail it out of there. Gag.”
“Give me that thing.” Marshall snatched back the book and stroked the cover as though it were a wounded kitten. “Be nice to Mister Bloch. Sure, he’s a little dated and sure, ninety-nine percent of his stuff is out of print, but the legend never dies. We’re talking about the fella who wrote Psycho here. Show some respect.”
“Marshall,” Simone began, wagging her finger, drawing herself upright in her chair. “Psycho was written by Joseph Stefano.” Her encyclopedic knowledge of the genre wasn’t limited to books, either. Like her boss, Simone loved horror films. As far as she was concerned, there was nothing better than snuggling up with someone on her couch, a blanket drawn up to their chins and watching some mid-career John Carpenter.
“It was a book first, douche bag,” Marshall said, wagging his finger.
“No way!”
“Way. And you call yourself a film buff. Pfft! Remind me again why I gave you this job?”
“Because I’m brilliant. And because you’re a tight-ass. I work cheap.”
“Yeah, well I can’t deny that.”
Marshall opened the book to the title page, the spine creaking minor anguish. Simone leant in, adjusting her glasses. The words swam into focus.
Best Wishes, Robert Bloch. In red ink.
“eBay,” Marshall said, looking down at the girl, chewing on an invisible cigar. Simone nodded; put in her place.
“Okay, I’ll admit. That’s kinda cool.” She swung around and turned back to the computer.
Marshall’s Blackberry sprang to life; it vibrated across the glass desk to the beat of The White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army”. He swept it into his hand. “Keep editing, just keep the sound down. It’s the wife.”
“Listen to you, ‘the wife’, you talk so mucho but you’re just a little lap dog,” Simone said, sneering.
Marshall pointed at himself. “Me, employer.” He then pointed at her. “You, employee. Get cracking, that thing needs to be finished tonight.” He thumbed the flashing phone symbol and put the receiver to his ear. “Hey, Claire-bear.”
“Hey, Mars,” said the delicate voice on the other end of the line. Even after eleven-and-a-half years in Australia, Claire still had the majority of her Canadian accent. Marshall liked that she hadn’t lost it. The sharpness of her voice and the broad drag of her vowels—it was sexy in its own weird way. It reminded him of what it was like to be young and in love. Of travel.
“How’s the editing going?” she asked.
“It’s not but I am, at least. Babe, I’m buggered. I’m just packing up my things and I’m about to run out the door. How’s work?”
“Oh! Stimulating.”
Marshall could hear her pained grimace, could see the way her eyes were dancing with sarcasm. But with it came awkwardness—the awkwardness that springs up between out-of-sync spouses. He owned his own business, to moderate success, in an industry he still cared about. Sure, it wasn’t film, which had always been his ultimate goal, but it was close enough for the time being anyway. Claire on the other hand, wanted to write—and she was good at it. Yet, like most writers, she had a punitive publication record, nothing more than a few short stories in literary collections that nobody seemed to buy, let alone read. Instead of writing full time, she worked five days a week for a financial investment institution in their profile maintenance division. Her job description sounded important, Document Account Associate, but in reality it translated to “scanner/photocopier/data enterer”. Marshall knew how much she hated it, but her coworkers were nice and the pay wasn’t too bad. He often found himself downplaying his days to not upset her.
This said, Claire was comfortable in her slump. Complacent.
If the economy picked up, and if the time ever cam
e when he could afford a second staff, he would employ his wife as scriptwriter and creative consultant without hesitation—and not because they were married. He would hire her because she was good. And he missed her. She worked office hours, whereas his schedule often stretched into the night. Between work, sleep and trying to raise a child, there was little time for the two of them. It wasn’t just their careers that were out of sync.
Marshall blinked and in that millisecond of darkness he saw his wife with great clarity. Her skin was porcelain white, littered with freckles. Her face was framed by strawberry bangs. People flocked to her at social gatherings, she radiated warmth and her laugh was infectious…and yet there was something about her. Something elusive, almost aloft. Only she wasn’t. It was her private mystery, and it was one of the idiosyncrasies that kept him coming back, interested and always searching.
He loved her without reserve. Adored how she debated over wine, dreamed about seeing more of the world. They gave and took from each other, compromised and merged in most of the right ways. Marshall was proud of her every day. She had given up a lot in her move to Australia and he would never forget the debt he owed to her.
Claire could always make him smile, despite that other presence, the face beneath the face. He saw it sometimes—a flash in the mirror as she put on her makeup, a blank shadow passing over her expression after work. It frightened him. It was the one rough corner that refused to wedge into the jigsaw of their relationship.
Work-wise, he could teach her how to use the camera, show her how to construct simple, effective shots—but who was he kidding? The company was treading water as it was and it hurt to think that it might go belly up within a year or two. The economy had hit hard and the corporate clients were hitting the ground running. There would come a time when he would have to let Simone go, and that would hurt.
“Well, we’re just sitting here,” Claire said, “Benny and I, gossiping, and I thought I’d let you in on what we’ve found out.”
“Say hi to him for me, will you.”
“Benny, he says hi to you.”
Muffled laughter, a shuffle on the line. “Hi, Marshall!”
“He says hi.”
“I heard. So, come on, spill the beans.”
“It’s not good news though. Raquel over in the transfers department, you remember me telling you about her, right?”
“Yeah, the nice Indian lady.”
“Yeah. She’s been diagnosed with breast cancer.”
“Oh man, that’s rough.”
“Yeah, I know. We’re rounding up some money to get her flowers and a card, which just makes me feel so darn stupid. What good are flowers to her? Sure, the gesture’s nice but it just seems so—hell, I don’t know.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Is she at work?”
“God no! Luisa told us today. She’s taken her disability leave and I guess, we’re just to play it by ear until then.”
“Ahh shit, Claire-bear, you okay?”
“Me? I’m fine. Sucks is all. You want to help someone and sometimes you just can’t. I feel terrible, talking with her all these years and all the while this thing was growing inside her.”
“Look, why don’t you skip taking Noah to the shops tonight and just come back home. Let’s have a beer and curl up together. It’s been a while. We can set Noah up in front of the telly or something.”
“No, it’s okay. Have you seen his shoes? Mars, they’re shocking! He needs a new pair. Plus, I’m thinking I might indulge in some retail therapy. Is that okay?”
“Babe, you don’t need to ask me to spend money.”
“Yeah, I know. I just don’t like doing it. I don’t want you to think I’m doing anything behind your back.”
Sometimes “the look”, it had a voice too, and it weakened her somehow. Like now.
“Claire,” Marshall began, “it’s fine. You go and have yourself a nice night. I’ll see you when you get home, okay?”
“No probs. Thanks, Mars.”
“Totally cool. You drive safe.”
“You too. See-ya.”
“Okay, bye-bye,” he said, snapping the phone shut. It was 3:15 p.m.
Chapter Three
Claire took off her headset and dropped it into its holster. Images of tumors and her son’s scuffed shoes ran through her mind.
Noah hadn’t spoken to either of them in two days. He had taken to brooding and sulking of late; he seemed to laugh in private only. She had walked into the living room two weeks prior and caught him giggling over an episode of Australia’s Funniest Home Videos, but once she’d sat down next to him, offering him a cup of hot chocolate, the laughter ended. She felt her son tense up when she touched him.
Noah had developed the ability to suck the life from a room without effort and it upset her as his mother to see it happening. He hadn’t always been so withdrawn. There had been a time not so long ago when he could talk to her about anything.
But the dialogue had dried up. Now, Noah spent the majority of his time at the local library near his school, home by six thirty in time for dinner. He ate in silence, replying to their questions in short, one-word answers, or the always indomitable, “I dunno.”
That simple sentence, it was a knife.
Claire and Marshall had relented to the fact that their son had reached the age when they, as parents, weren’t as important to him as they once were. Claire had spoken to friends about it and they all empathized, but their answers were unanimous: It’s the start of adolescence, a rite of passage for both child and parent. Sweat it out. But Noah was her only son. Missing him was as natural as breathing.
“What’s the matter?” Benny asked.
Claire turned to her coworker. He was twenty-five, handsome and of Chinese and Malaysian descent, though born and raised in Melbourne. He looked at her through a pair of designer glasses, the lenses magnifying his brown eyes. Benny was one of the reasons she put up with her job, with the office politics and the mundane tasks. He could always make her laugh. And the laughs had been lacking of late.
“Aw, it’s nothing,” Claire answered, shrugging. She studied the wall in front of her. There were thank-you cards and office exercise routines, sample documents and a smorgasbord of colored Post-It Notes. There was an old Polaroid photograph, torn in half, the remainder featuring a younger Claire before a city landscape. On a small shelf was a bonsai tree, its trunk a twisted finger pointing at the artificial lights to which it aspired.
“How’s the hubby?” Benny asked.
“Marshall’s fine. Just finishing up work.”
Benny leaned forward in his chair, wiping his glasses with a small blue cloth. “Marshall. Marshall.” He smiled, coy.
There it was, her laugh. She felt a weight lifting from her chest.
“I swear to god he’s sex on legs. He looks just like Aiden from Sex and The City.”
“Benny, you’re a scream! He does not.”
“Oh yeah, he does. Mirror image. Were the two of them separated at birth? Oh Aiden. Why on Earth would Carrie choose Mister Big over Aiden? At least you got the good guy. I can’t say the same for myself.”
“Mars is great. It’s just—oh, I don’t know. I’ve got all these voices in my head and none of those seem to be getting along. Ah, don’t listen to me, I’m talking crap.”
Claire had no idea where these words were coming from, or even if they were genuine. Whilst the thoughts were fighting, words that would have stalled under normal circumstances, slipped through.
“What do you mean?” Benny asked, sipping from his Dora The Explorer coffee mug.
“I don’t know what I mean anymore. I don’t even know what I’m saying. I love my Mars.”
“Claire,” he began, “we’re in The Bubble, your secret’s safe with me. Plus, if there’s any chance Marshall’s on the market—”
“Honey, my husband is most definitely straight. As an arrow.”
He reached over and poked her, making her giggle. She usually didn’t like
men touching her, but with Benny she didn’t mind. “Look, I’m not serious. Yeah, you got the stud, the house and the perfect son. You’re healthy and smart and hot. I don’t understand what the matter is. I guess I’m just not that perceptive… But I’ve got to say, something’s going on. These last few months… Is it work?” He began to smirk. “Has selling your creative soul to the corporate devil finally gotten to you?”
Claire shrugged, running her fingers through her hair.
“It’s okay to say yes,” Benny said. “I won’t turn you in to the authorities, though I’m positive Human Resources has bugged this room.”
“Oh, work’s fine. Well, as good as it’ll ever be, I guess. I’m comfortable. I like you, I like the girls. But I guess you’re right, this place is kind of sucking me dry.”
“You need to write, missy. Don’t say you don’t. But I can’t talk; I need to get out of here as well. Trust me, finance investing ain’t where I want to be. I think I want to do teaching. Or music. I dunno. It’s hard to find financial balance when you want to be creative. Gotta pay da bills, uh-huh.”
A supervisor walked by outside their cubicle. They dummied up and turned back to their computers. Once she was gone, Benny spun back to Claire. “Do something. Write, dammit!”
“I know. Piss or get off the pot, right? But writing’s so darn hard.”
“You know what I do? Every few nights I square off an hour of Benny-time. Just an hour, but it’s good to know you can build on that. In that hour, I do whatever I want as long as it’s creative. I pick up my guitar and just go for it like mad. Or I just fucking paint. You got to keep the spark going otherwise you’ll go crazy. Especially in a place like this.”
“You’re right,” Claire said, staring at her computer screen, at all the meaningless numbers. She sighed.
Benny put down his mug, crossed his legs and intertwined his fingers. “Okay, Mrs. Deakins, your session has begun. Be warned: I charge through the nose.”
“Oh shush up, you goober.”
“Listen to you with your ‘goobers’ and shit. You’re so bloody Canadian.”
Claire half-smiled. Tore up a Post-It. She felt sadness welling in her throat. “I miss home, Benny. I don’t get back to see my parents half as much as I should or would like. I’ve been living in Sydney for over a decade now. I was a baby when I met Mars. We met in Thailand. I was a dirty backpacker.”
