Simmering Season

by Jenn J. McLeod

  Maggie spotted another face from her year amid the photographs of those lost.

  ‘Stephen Lowey,’ she murmured, remembering the short boy who, in primary school, had a pudgy face and dimples in both cheeks and his hair shaved with military precision to avoid the lice that plagued the school on a regular basis. With both their surnames starting with L, the pair was often teamed up in class. Maggie didn’t mind. He was funny and smart—much smarter than the other kids knew—with a dream of one day becoming a pilot; a school project based on their career aspirations had told her that. Pinned to tonight’s display was a handwritten card from his mother. Next to that was the picture of a proud uniformed man in his late twenties with dimples, the same old crew cut, and wings pinned to his breast pocket. A simple five-line obituary filled Maggie’s eyes with tears. No explanation how he’d died, just ‘suddenly’. Someone else snatched away too soon. But at least he’d lived part of that dream.

  Maggie knew she shouldn’t dwell on this particular display. She needed to walk away, get another drink, start having fun. This was supposed to be a celebration. But she didn’t do any of those things. She couldn’t move, her feet heavy, her heart too.

  She breathed her brother’s name. ‘Michael.’

  Maggie’s next breath—a sob in the making—shuddered on the way in and she held it there. Crying was not an option. Not here. Not now. Goodness knows if she’d be able to stop crying once she started, or what Max Factor’s Maximising something-or-other would do with an onset of tears.

  ‘Guess who, Maggie?’ Two hands wrapped around her eyes from behind, the urge to cry siphoned away.

  Too easy, Maggie thought, hearing the very distinctive laugh that followed.

  ‘Elizabeth Taylor, if you don’t let go I’ll be forced to tell that big secret about you and Derek Hurley.’

  ‘You remember that?’ The woman giggled again, snatching her hands away.

  Maggie breathed deep, forced a smile and turned to see Elizabeth and …

  ‘Derek? Wow, what a surprise.’ Had a trace of tears been noticeable, the heat now prickling her cheeks would surely have dried them.

  ‘Nice to see you again, too, Maggie. You’re looking good. A little surprised right now, but good.’ Derek’s laugh was almost as memorable as Lizzie’s. Between the two of them they were like Woody Woodpecker meets Porky Pig. ‘I’ll leave you and my wife to catch up while I suss out the bar.’ He winked, then kissed Lizzie and disappeared.

  ‘You married Derek?’ Maggie asked. ‘Weren’t you going to run away to Hollywood and be a big movie star?’

  ‘Hey, I went from little Liz Taylor to Elizabeth Hurley. And I got a gorgeous and faithful husband in the process. Can’t complain.’ She snorted. ‘Speaking of gorgeous, I haven’t seen Tracy yet. Have you?’

  ‘No. No I haven’t.’ Maggie’s stomach hitched at the thought. ‘So, when did you arrive in town?’

  ‘This morning. Tried to get a room at the pub. All full up, it was.’

  ‘We were booked up as soon as word got out. This centenary celebration has been good for business.’

  ‘We were booked up? Are you back living here?’

  ‘Yes, a couple of years now. Had to put Dad into care. The place is on the market, but country pubs don’t get snatched up like they used to. Too many regulations, too much red tape, and … Oh don’t get me started on Workcover, licences, fees … Anyway, I got on with it and I’m …’ Maggie stopped short of admitting aloud how much she loved it. ‘I’m hopeful,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I’m sure someone will fall in love with the old place and take it off your hands,’ Lizzie said with eyes everywhere else but on Maggie. ‘You moved to Sydney, didn’t you? Derek and I settled in Bris-vegas a while ago. We have a little business of our own. We build spec homes, new estate houses, that sort of thing. We love it and we run it from home, so we get lots of time with the kids and …’

  Maggie had tuned out momentarily, rummaging through her memory for a time when she’d last used the word ‘we’ so many times when describing her own life.

  ‘Of course Derek’s been flat out since the January floods.’ Lizzie’s straying eyes were drawn to a commotion on the other side of the hall. ‘Oh! My! God!’ She squealed. ‘Look who that is! Anne Wallace and … Good heavens, is that …? Oh, it is. It’s Will Travelli and—’ She gasped. ‘Who’s that bloke next to him? Cripes! That’s not … Is it? It is!’ Lizzie stood on her toes to peer through the crowd, her head darting left then right, desperate to confirm the sighting. ‘It’s Paul Brashnee. Well …’ She laughed. ‘At least I’ll know where to find my husband tonight. Ask Derek who his football god is and he’ll tell you … Paul Brashnee. I’d better go hold his hand so he doesn’t make a scene and embarrass me. Let’s catch up later, Maggie. Derek! Honey! Wait for me!’

  At school they’d called her Dizzy Lizzie. Maggie just remembered why, baffled at how the girl never passed out from talking without stopping for breath. From across the room, on the outside of the scrum, Sara waved at Maggie—make that beamed at Maggie—a proud, adoring wife basking in the glow of her husband, sporting legend and all-round good guy of football. Theirs was a story of heartache and hope. People loved those stories.

  Everybody here tonight would have his or her own story to tell, no doubt eager to share. They were here because the thought of summing up their achievements in a synopsis and spruiking it—just as Lizzie had—excited them. Maggie didn’t share those feelings. Had the town celebrated with a reunion before she’d moved here and found herself co-opted onto the organising committee, would Maggie have even contemplated going?

  No, she thought decisively.

  So far the event was showing all the elements of a successful night and despite the early hour, having made her appearance, Maggie could start planning her exit.

  Only one thing would stop her from walking out that door.

  22

  Fiona

  ‘This is so much fun. It’s like magic,’ Fiona said, pumping the pianola’s pedals to turn the paper roll, driving the keyboard to play its own tune. ‘Look, Noah, no hands,’ she laughed. ‘Playing this thing is like a gym workout, though.’ She gripped both thighs with her hands, challenging herself to keep the paper roll turning faster and faster.

  ‘You wanna get off that thing? I thought we were making our own music.’

  Fiona stopped pedalling, waiting for the tune to slowly grind to a stop. ‘That thing is so cool, but I can make sweet music with you instead, Noah.’ She walked over and flicked his fringe with her forefinger, feeling particularly playful—happy even. It felt good, like her decision to let go of the father thing had been a kind of release. ‘You know what else?’

  ‘What?’ Noah said flatly.

  He seemed impatient and a little moody tonight, while Fiona had been excited about having a pub all to themselves. She used to wish Luke would do something super romantic, maybe hire out an entire restaurant to propose like Patrick Dempsey did with Tiffany’s for Reese Witherspoon in Sweet Home Alabama. Fiona loved that movie.

  ‘Well,’ she said, distracting him from his playing by tickling her fingers along the back of his neck. ‘If you weren’t gay I might even go for you.’ Noah didn’t say anything. He didn’t stop strumming or look up, his face lowered and focused on his fingers working up and down the strings. ‘From that reaction I gather I’m right and I gather not many people know.’ She plonked herself down in a chair in front of Noah but he still didn’t respond.

  ‘Hey, cowboy, you can talk to me about it. I know you want people to know. I mean, come on! A Team Edward T-shirt? Really? I would have taken you for a Jacob guy myself.’ Fiona tapped his knee with her knuckles, but he jerked his body away. ‘Sorta tells me you want to tell someone. That someone can be me. I understand. I have lots of gay friends.’

  Noah brushed her hand from his leg. ‘Don’t call me cowboy.’

  ‘Okay.’

  A few more awkward moments ticked by before Fiona switched c
hairs, plonking onto the bench seat next to Noah and nudging him with her shoulder. ‘So, what’s it like—being gay, I mean?’

  ‘Shut up.’ Noah nudged her back, a smile creeping into his expression. ‘That’s a dumb-arse question. How would you feel if I asked you what’s it like being blonde? Oh wait, you probably fake that.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, just like you’re pretending to be funny. Ha ha!’ Fiona hooked her arm through Noah’s, tugging his hand from the guitar’s strings. She liked a person’s full attention when she talked. ‘Does Maggie know?’

  ‘Nup.’

  ‘Does anyone know?’

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Without his guitar, Noah fidgeted, his knees jigging up and down.

  Fiona pulled tighter on his arm as if he might take flight any minute. ‘And you’re not faking it?’

  Noah drew back and pulled a face like she was crazy. ‘Why the hell would I do a thing like that?’

  ‘Relax. Don’t go getting all weird on me. I know plenty of people who swing both ways because they can. They’re not gay all the time. They’re having a bit of fun, checking out the opposition, walking on the wild side, you know? Everyone does it. Well, some think about it. I haven’t, of course.’

  ‘It might be fun where you come from, but in case you haven’t figured this out, a small country town isn’t the place to walk on the wild side.’

  ‘So, you’re not out. At all. No one knows. Not even your mum? Woot!’

  ‘Geez, Fiona.’ Noah put his finger to his ear, wiggled it and said, ‘Reckon you can squeal any louder?’

  ‘That’s a hell of a thing to keep to yourself. How have you not told?’

  ‘It’s called keeping a secret,’ he said. ‘Besides, lies are easier than the truth.’

  Fiona wanted to disagree. Her life had been one big lie thanks to everyone around her having that exact opinion. Of the very few faults Fiona believed she possessed, lying was not one. She’d never found any reason to lie. No one cared what she did most times, and if she wanted something she only had to say so, no questions asked.

  ‘So, you don’t have a boyfriend? Cory maybe?

  ‘As if.’

  Finally she had Noah’s undivided attention and the tinge of red creeping up his throat suggested she maybe wasn’t far off the mark.

  ‘He’s cute, don’t you think? In an annoying kind of way.’

  ‘Lay off. He’s not … So just don’t. Don’t you dare—’

  ‘Relax, cowboy, I won’t tell,’ she teased. ‘I know what a secret is, believe me, I know. Give me a little credit.’

  She let Noah start strumming again. ‘So, tell me, did you have a boyfriend in Sydney?’

  ‘Nope, not really.’

  ‘Not really? Then what makes you think you’re gay?’

  ‘Geez, Fi.’ The redness in his throat had burst into his face, both cheeks like beacons. ‘You always such a nosey pain in the arse?’

  ‘No need to be rude. You don’t have to talk about it if you’d rather not.’

  ‘Good. Want a Coke?’ he said on his way to the drink fridge behind the bar.

  ‘If that’s as good as it gets.’ Fiona walked back to the pianola and closed the lid, then back to the bar, eyeing the Vodka Cruisers.

  ‘Don’t even think about it. Mum would not be happy.’

  Noah guzzled half his can in one go and put it on the floor to pick up his guitar and pick out another tune. The fidgeting legs stopped the second he rested the instrument’s cutaway on his thigh. Then, without Fiona having to ask again, he started strumming and talking, his words and the tune restrained, contemplative.

  ‘I’ve never talked to anyone.’

  Fiona put down her Coke and shifted her chair closer, appreciating the significance of what was about to happen.

  ‘When did you know?’

  Noah shrugged and played a few chords. ‘The kids at school in Sydney knew before I did,’ he said. ‘One guy let me know by beating the crap out of me a couple of times.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I guess ’cause he could and ’cause that’s what some kids do.’

  ‘What did you tell Maggie?’

  ‘Whatever. Footy brawl. Scrum collapse. When Mum said we were coming to Calingarry Crossing I thought the country might be different.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Noah shrugged. ‘Not as intense maybe. People seem friendlier, I guess—especially the older kids. Kinda helps owning a pub. People either like me or they don’t, but even when they don’t I reckon country people are more polite about it. Not like some people,’ Noah quipped, shooting a sideways glance at her. ‘At least back home my dad had some cool muso friends. They’d jam together on weekends, usually in someone’s garage and I’d go along. Sometimes I’d get to jam with them. Where we lived there were a couple of gay guys downstairs. Sometimes they came up to our place. I talked to them once, but they moved out.’

  ‘Maybe you can come back to Sydney for a few days with me and see your dad. It’ll be a blast. I can take you out clubbing, introduce you around. And don’t worry about my friends not liking you. In my circle, gay is the new gorgeous.’

  ‘What the hell that does mean?’

  ‘Believe me, everyone will love you. Hey, we can go to this wine bar I know in Cremorne. They have this amazing piano player and an open mike night. We can perform our song. We’ll be amazing together.’

  ‘Who’s being amazing with my girl?’

  Fiona and Noah both jumped at the sound of a voice from somewhere outside the bar room.

  ‘Luke?’ Fiona stared at the nose pressed against a pane of glass.

  ‘You want to let me in?’ he replied, rapping his knuckles in a playful rat-a-tat-tat on the open window. ‘Or do I climb in here?’

  ‘Go ’round to the beer garden and I’ll let you in.’ Fiona waved him in the right direction and ran over to unlock the screen door, launching herself at him so hard she almost knocked him off his feet. ‘What are you doing here?’ she squealed, her arms and legs wrapping themselves around his body so Luke had to brace her buttocks with both hands to suspend her mid-air while twirling her around.

  ‘Can’t a guy miss his girl?’ His hands moved to her waist, plucking her off him, a smile smeared across his face, a guarded stare fixed on Noah as he crossed the room. ‘Mind you, I didn’t think I’d have to travel to the middle of nowhere to find her. And I didn’t think I’d find her all cosy with some bloke. You going to introduce us, Fifi?’

  ‘This is just Noah. His mum owns the pub. Noah, this is Luke.’

  ‘Her fiancé,’ Luke added smugly, overzealous handshake in progress. ‘What’s going on here, Fi? The place looks deserted.’

  ‘The pub’s closed. Everyone’s at the reunion.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Luke stalked the bar room, checking everything out and eyeing Noah from head to toe.

  Fiona smiled. He looked like a wary dog. She half expected him to lift a leg and mark his territory. She dragged a chair out from a table, patted the seat and said a little facetiously, ‘Come, Luke. Sit. You’re just in time.’

  ‘In time for what, my little Fifi?’

  Ordinarily Fiona liked the way Luke pinched her chin and called her Fifi, but his voice held a strange sarcasm today.

  ‘Noah and I are writing a song together. Want to hear it?’

  Noah shot a panicked look in her direction and shook his head. ‘Fi, I don’t think we’re ready for an audience.’

  ‘Sure you are,’ Luke said before Fiona could retract the idea. ‘I’d love to hear your little ditty. But, ah, one question, babe. Shouldn’t you be at the reunion with everyone else? With all the text messages you’ve been sending, I figured you wanted my support. So here I am. And here you are in an empty pub. The reunion you’ve been banging on about is tonight—right? There’s not a second reunion, is there?’

  ‘I haven’t been banging on about the reunion. You have.’ Fiona glared at Luke, expecting him to recognise her mounting irritation, but he seemed in
tent on being a real jerk for some reason. ‘And of course I didn’t forget, Luke. That’s why the pub’s closed. Everyone’s there.’

  ‘Hmm, let me get this straight.’ He draped a possessive arm over Fiona’s shoulder and plucked the elastic strap on her tank top so it pinged back. Then he played with the strap, letting it slide down her arm before repositioning it on her shoulder. He repeated the ping several times, then he tugged a little too roughly, snatching her body close, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh on her shoulder. ‘Everyone is there except you two. Everyone …’ he stressed in a hushed voice, ‘… maybe even the father you’ve travelled several hundred kilometres to find.’

  ‘About that whole find my father thing.’ Fiona squirmed out of his grip, needing to distance herself before she explained. She glanced towards Noah to see his head lowered, eyes focused on the strings of his guitar, as usual.

  She swiped the back of a hand across her mouth, transferring beads of perspiration and face powder to the back of her shorts, suddenly conscious of her state of dress. Had she known Luke was coming she could have showered and dressed in something more than shorts and a singlet. She would have done her hair and smelled of Dior, not dust.

  ‘Luke, I’ve been talking to Noah and we decided the reunion wasn’t the best approach.’

  ‘You and Noah decided? I see. So while I’ve been holding off questions from your grandfather, you’ve been out here playing music?’ Luke was circling the room again, reminding Fiona of her grandfather’s overbearing behaviour in the study on the day her mother died. ‘And you decided to have your own little pub party instead. A party for two, no less. That must make me the gate crasher then. Stupid Luke’s the third fucking wheel. How about that!’

  Anger drove the temperature in Fiona’s cheeks up again. She wasn’t having fun any more. In fact, she was starting to wish Luke hadn’t arrived.