by Penny Tangey
As I watch them together I wish Eric hadn’t come, that I was still sitting with Campbell on the bench. I love listening to him talk. It reminds me of how I felt about Liam, except that this time, amazingly, Campbell seems to think that I’m someone worth talking to, not a stupid schoolgirl. Before Eric arrived and ruined everything, Campbell did seem to imply that he liked me. I think he said I was hot. I don’t think about myself like that. Yingmei is the hot one. I’m the boring one who studies all the time. Maybe Campbell was referring to someone else from Reading Beyond Bars? He might have meant Belle.
I see Eric look up at me. He’s at least a hundred metres away but we manage to look straight into each other’s eyes. He flicks his head contemptuously and turns back to Campbell. He obviously dislikes me; in fact, he seems to hate me. I don’t understand why.
I lean against the fountain. The park is still and very quiet. Far away a dog barks. The only people around are a man and a woman sitting in a small gazebo near a pond. They both have suitcases, which seems odd, but then I realise that they’re probably homeless. I peer to see if I recognise the woman from the centre, but she’s too far away and anyway there are lots of homeless people in DC.
I’m very cold, and I’m very hungry because I didn’t have any lunch. It’s 4.30. My stomach grumbles and I’m nauseous from having too much caffeine with no food. Maybe I should leave. Eric doesn’t want me here and who knows how long he and Campbell will talk for. But I don’t want to walk to the train station by myself. It will be dark soon. What if the homeless people follow me and rob me? It wouldn’t be hard for one of them to snatch my bag.
But that’s a terrible thought. Just because they’re poor doesn’t mean they’re a threat. I’m such a fraud, pretending to be a good person and volunteering at the centre, but then when I do see someone less fortunate, I’m scared rather than sympathetic.
A voice behind me says, ‘Hey.’
I scream.
Whipping around I see Campbell on the other side of the drinking fountain.
‘Sorry!’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
I laugh nervously with relief and embarrassment. ‘That’s okay.’
‘Listen, we should head off now. It’s probably not a good idea to hang out in the park after dark.’ Campbell has always seemed cool and unbothered so I’m surprised that he’s worried.
‘I’m sorry about Eric,’ he says. ‘I didn’t know he’d feel this way.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘Eric and I need to do some more work tonight so we’re going to his place.’
‘I should go home too.’
On the way to the station Campbell walks between Eric and me and tries to engage us in conversation. Eric refuses to talk to me, and I’m too nervous to say anything to him. After a couple of blocks Eric strides off ahead of us. He’s wearing an enormous square backpack and his short little legs scurry under the bag to stay ahead.
Campbell calls out, ‘What’s the hurry?’
Eric replies, ‘We do have some work to do tonight.’ He hitches up his backpack and walks even faster.
At the station, we catch up with Eric near the escalators. We stand in an awkward triangle. Campbell says, ‘It was great to see you today, Clara.’
‘Yeah, thanks for taking me to the park,’ I say. ‘Bye, Eric. It was nice to see you again. I’m sorry I interrupted your meeting.’
‘Goodbye, Clara,’ he says darkly.
Campbell steps forward and places a hand on my arm. I realise he is going to kiss me on the cheek. I hate this sort of thing. I’m not sure whether you’re supposed to kiss the person’s cheek or kiss the air in their general vicinity. I usually end up with my nose in an ear.
Campbell kisses me on the mouth. It’s very quick and it takes me completely by surprise so that I’m not even quite sure what happened as I stammer, ‘Okay, bye then,’ and step onto the escalator.
‘See you Wednesday,’ calls Campbell. Eric stands beside him, scowling.
As I descend into the station I take in what’s happened. He kissed me. It was a proper kiss.
At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what happened. It does seem weird that he did it in front of Eric. Maybe kissing friends on the mouth is normal here, it might not mean anything. We might just be friends.
I won’t see Campbell again until Reading Beyond Bars on Wednesday. It’s two days away, which is a very long time.
The apartment building is stifling as usual. I take off my gloves, scarf and coat in the lift. I wonder if Mum will be home yet, or whether she’ll be out whooping it up with Tony.
As I put the key in the door I hear voices in the apartment that don’t sound like the television. Mum laughs and there’s a man’s voice too. When I push open the door Tony is sitting on the couch with a glass of red wine, acting as if he owns the place.
‘Clara! You’re back!’ says Mum.
‘I know!’ I cry, imitating her voice. I sound bitchy but I don’t care.
‘I’ve invited Tony for dinner.’
‘You’re cooking?’ I ask, incredulous.
‘Well, no. We’re getting takeaway.’ The doorbell rings. ‘That must be it,’ she says. ‘I’ll get it.’
Tony jumps up. ‘No, let me.’
Mum pushes him back down on the couch and the red wine sloshes alarmingly in his glass. At least we don’t actually own the fawn-coloured couch, or the cream rug under it.
Mum goes to the door and I’m left with Tony, who is lounging back on the couch again like a prince at court.
‘So, Clara,’ he says in a conversational tone that makes me instantly wary. I don’t want him to think we’ll be friends. He’s just another boring middle-aged man who thinks my mother can reignite some excitement in his tired life. If I was friends with all of them I’d be more popular than Jesus.
He continues, ‘Your mom tells me you’ve had a big year.’
‘Not really,’ I say, not wanting to encourage him.
‘You must be nervous about your results,’ he says.
‘Not really.’
‘Well, your mom said you worked hard.’
Mum has obviously told him all about it and now he thinks he can ‘help’ with my ‘problem’. This is practically the first conversation we’ve had and he decides to use it as a counselling session. What a freak. Anyway, I’m not the one who has a problem, it’s everyone else who’s worried about my results, not me.
I don’t say anything. I wish Mum would come back. She’s taking forever to pay the delivery man. Tony changes tack. ‘How was your afternoon with Campbell?’
‘Fine.’
‘He’s an interesting guy, that Campbell.’ Tony swirls his wine in his glass. It rises dangerously close to the rim of the glass.
‘Yes.’ I’m keeping my answers short and I don’t care if I sound rude.
If Tony notices he’s in a one-sided conversation to nowhere, he doesn’t care. ‘He has a lot of interesting ideas,’ he continues.
‘Yes.’
‘You know he’s an anarchist?’
‘Yes.’
‘He tells me about his ideas sometimes – getting rid of governments, and all that.’
There’s no way I’m going to discuss anarchism with Tony. I can tell that Tony doesn’t agree with Campbell and I don’t want to have an argument with him. I don’t want to talk to him at all.
Fortunately Mum comes back carrying the pizza boxes. I take out plates, knives and forks and set the table. We sit down. Mum tops up Tony’s glass. I’m starving, so I grab a slice of pizza and start eating.
‘Clara and I were talking about Campbell’s political views,’ says Tony. Clearly this is a topic dear to his heart.
‘Oh that’s right, he’s an anarchist. It’s so cute!’ says Mum.
&nb
sp; ‘You’re not an anarchist too, Camille?’ asks Tony in a teasing voice.
‘Oh no,’ says Mum. ‘I like things to be well organised, and of course any kind of political violence is awful.’
I grip my knife and fork harder. She has no idea what she’s talking about.
‘Yes, that’s what I don’t understand,’ says Tony as he cuts his slice of pizza into little pieces. ‘These people say they’re against the violence of the state, but then they commit violence themselves.’ Having dissected his pizza Tony puts a piece in his mouth.
‘Anarchism isn’t about violence and disorder,’ I burst out. I can hear my voice getting squeaky as I go on, ‘That’s a myth. Anarchists believe that we don’t need governments to create order. It’s about letting people decide for themselves what they want to do.’
I wish I hadn’t said anything. I stand up and go to the kitchen to get a drink of water. I hope that Mum and Tony will drop it.
Tony says, ‘Well, that sounds dangerous to me. I mean, as a businessman, I’m all for small government. But these anarchists, they’ve got no idea about the real world. They have no idea how complicated things are.’ Some stringy cheese is caught in his moustache.
Mum nods and says, ‘Yes, I mean, take my job. International banking computer systems don’t organise themselves. They need someone to set them up, to set the rules and then to enforce them.’
I’m absolutely furious. It’s not fair to pick on Campbell’s ideas when he’s not here.
‘What about birds?’ I say.
‘What about them?’
‘Well . . .’ In my agitated state I can’t quite remember what Campbell said about them. ‘They’re self-organising.’
‘What do you mean?’ asks Mum. ‘Have they unionised?’ She and Tony laugh.
My face is hot and my voice is getting louder and more high-pitched. ‘They are organised,’ I say. ‘It’s the way they fly together.’
But Mum and Tony aren’t listening to me. They are in fits of giggles. I can’t stand it. I push my chair back from the table and rush to my room.
Mum calls, ‘Clara,’ after me. I don’t turn around.
In my room I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. I hear Mum and Tony talking in low voices. I’m still hungry. I only managed to have half a slice of pizza.
I wonder how long Tony will stay for. I hope he doesn’t stay the night. If I have to see him at breakfast tomorrow I will spew.
Eventually I hear the apartment door open and close. I hope that means he’s gone. Footsteps come up the corridor and there’s a tap on the door.
‘Yes?’ I say. But I don’t bother to sit up. And I don’t look at Mum when she comes in.
‘I’m sorry, Clara,’ says Mum. ‘We were being silly.’
I still don’t say anything. She doesn’t actually think she’s done anything wrong. She thinks I’m being oversensitive.
‘I don’t care,’ I say.
Mum says in a controlled voice, ‘Clearly you do.’
‘Well, it’s not very nice having everyone disagree with you and criticise your friends and then laugh at you.’
‘No one was criticising your friends.’
‘Yes, you were. You were picking on Campbell for being an anarchist.’
‘We were disagreeing with his ideas, not picking on him. There is a difference.’
‘No, there’s not.’
‘There is Clara. Look at me and Tony,’ she says.
‘I’d rather not.’
Mum ignores my comment. ‘Do you know Tony voted for McCain?’
I sit up in shock. ‘He did what?!’
Mum continues, ‘But just because we don’t agree on politics, it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.’
‘Why did he do that?’
‘Well, he’s always been a Republican. And he thought McCain would keep taxes lower.’
‘But you hate the Republicans!’
‘That’s not true. I don’t agree with a lot of their ideas.’
‘No, you hate them. What about George Bush?’
‘Well, I suppose I do hate some of them, but not all of them.’
I can see that this is degenerating into yet another lecture about how I should loosen up, and take things less seriously. I’m not in the mood for it. ‘I’m tired and I want to go to sleep.’
‘Clara, I don’t like it when you’re angry at me.’
‘I’m not angry at you. I’m tired. There is a difference. Can you please leave?’
‘I know you’ve been stressed about your Year Twelve results. Perhaps if you checked them it would remove some of the uncertainty and you could move on.’
I’ve heard all this before, and I’m sick of it. My Year Twelve results have nothing to do with it. I’m not worried about them, I don’t even care. I’ll deal with it in January when I have to. I put a pillow over my head and say, ‘Just. Go.’
Mum leaves then. I remove the pillow and stare at the ceiling. I have to fight a strong urge to turn on my computer and check Facebook. I can’t do that in case someone tells me about my results.
All year I’ve thought that getting my score would be the most momentous day of my life. But it all seems so petty now. I’m much more interested in hearing about new ideas than getting a number to benchmark myself against other people. I bet Campbell never cared about his Year Twelve results.
I remember the kiss again. The quick flash of soft lips against mine. I think about seeing Campbell again at Reading Beyond Bars and my stomach squirms with excitement.
Then I remember Eric’s piggy little eyes squinting out from under his hat. I wish he hadn’t been there this afternoon.
‘What would you like to do today, Clara?’ asks Brad.
‘Condiments, please,’ I say quickly. At least we won’t run out of condiments, unlike oatmeal. ‘If it’s okay with you?’
Emily takes the tongs to dish up the toast, and Brad ladles the cereal.
Handing out condiments is easy. Emily gives me the plate with toast and I ask, ‘Jelly or peanut butter?’ and then hand it back to the lady. It’s busy this morning and we develop a pleasant rhythm.
When things start to quieten down Emily asks, ‘So, what’s news with you?’
I think about what’s happened to me since I last saw her. Campbell’s kiss comes to mind first but I don’t think Emily is interested in girly chats. I could tell her I might become an anarchist. But I don’t want to talk about anarchism again. It’s unlikely that Emily would mock me like Mum and Tony did, but I could still end up feeling stupid.
So I say, ‘Not much, really.’ Then I feel lame for admitting that I do nothing with my life. ‘My Year Twelve results came out,’ I admit.
‘What’s Year Twelve?’
‘It’s the final year of high school.’
‘Great. How did you go?’
Of course she’s asked that. It’s the obvious question. And now I’ll have to explain the whole complicated mess. Emily is such a straightforward, no-nonsense person, I’m sure she’ll think I’m being idiot like Mum and Dad do.
There’s a crash in the dining room and I see a woman lying on the floor. Her tray is in front of her and there is milk all over the floor. Brad quickly rushes out of the kitchen and kneels down beside her.
I’m closest to the phone in the kitchen, but Emily is the one who picks it up and dials.
Brad rolls the woman onto her back and I see that it is Mary. Her skirt has hitched up and her knees poke up like bony grey mountains.
A group of women are hovering around Mary. Tiffany comes in and implores everyone not to crowd her. She tries to get people to leave the dining room but everyone stays put. Maybe I should leave, but I don’t.
The ambulance arrives, along with a police car a
nd a fire truck, which seems a bit unnecessary. People move aside as the paramedics walk quickly over to where Mary is lying.
I finally manage to walk out of the kitchen and sit in the corridor outside. An extremely obese lady, a regular called Hilda, sits down in the chair beside me. Her body hangs over the chair and one of the folds of her stomach rests against my arm. I have to force myself not to flinch away.
‘That’s Mary,’ she says. ‘She’s gone.’
‘Gone to the hospital?’ I ask hopefully, even though I know that’s not what she means.
‘No. Gone to Jesus.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’ve seen that before. She’s gone. Heart attack probably. She didn’t take her medication.’
‘Was she a friend of yours?’ I ask.
‘Everybody’s my friend,’ she says. ‘Even if they don’t know it. ’
I smile but my eyes are filling with tears. She puts her hand on my shoulder and pats it.
I don’t feel like going straight home after I leave the Women’s Centre so I trudge towards the train station. I catch a train to the city, without really having a plan. The train is crowded with people going to work, which would usually make me nervous, but I’m too sad about Mary to let any other feelings in. I wonder if she has any family and if there will be anyone at her funeral. I suppose Tiffany will go, and Hilda.
I change trains at Metro Central for a train to the National Mall. I’ll go to the art gallery. I don’t know much about art, but I’ve always wanted to see a painting by Vermeer in real life. Mum has a print of ‘The Girl with a Pearl Earring’ in her bedroom at home.
I walk around the vast building in a daze, trying to make sense of the map but taking several wrong turns. I walk through an indoor garden area with ferns and statues. People are sitting in white cane chairs in the courtyard reading.
I finally ask a security guard to direct me to the Vermeers.
Maybe I’m biased, but when I finally find them, the Vermeer paintings seem to stand out as superior to the other paintings. My favourite is of a woman holding a pair of scales. She looks perfectly poised and as though Vermeer has captured an instant of time.
