by Penny Tangey
The picture is lovely but it can’t replace the image of Mary’s immobile face pressed into the linoleum on the floor.
Chapter Nine
Love, and do what you will.
St Augustine, philosopher and theologian
Climbing the stairs at the church hall I try to do some expectation management. I tell myself that Campbell might not be there, that he probably won’t be there.
But when I open the door to the room, Campbell is the first person I see. He’s standing by the bookshelves.
He smiles at me. ‘Hello, Clara.’
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine. How are you?’
‘I’m okay. Well sort of,’ I say. ‘Yesterday something bad happened at the Women’s Centre.’
Someone calls out, ‘Campbell!’
‘What is it, Eric?’
‘You need to read this letter. It’s about John.’
Campbell walks over to where Eric is sitting at a table reading a crumpled piece of paper. Campbell reads over Eric’s shoulder. He looks worried and he puts his arm around Eric. They hug for a moment and then sit down at the table talking intensely. I want to ask what’s happening, but I don’t want to interrupt.
Instead, I pick up a letter from the pile. It’s from Dave, who says he’s trying to study law in prison and he wants a book on criminal trial proceedings. This is a problem. Reading Beyond Bars hardly ever has any law textbooks because they’re so popular.
Just in case, I check the legal section. There’s only one book there, called Torts. At the Monash University open day they told me that torts is one of the first-year law subjects. It’s all about suing people and compensation. I open the book’s apple-green cover and see that it was printed in 1965. Things have probably changed since then.
I turn to the first page of the introduction and try to imagine reading a book like this next year. I don’t know if that’s what I want to do. I don’t have anyone to talk to about it. If I mention it to Mum and Dad they’ll start pressuring me to check my results, as if that will solve everything. I can’t talk to any of my friends in case they tell me my score.
I put Torts back on the shelf; it’s no use to Dave. I don’t want to send him nothing though, so I look in the fiction section in the next aisle. I pull out Jack Maggs by Peter Carey.
Joy looks up and smiles at me as I walk over to the tables. There’s an empty seat next to her, I hesitate, but then sit at a table on my own. Joy looks back down at the letter she’s writing. I feel mean. Pushing that aside I start to write quickly.
Dear Dave,
Unfortunately, we do not have any books on criminal law trial proceedings at the moment.
I am sending you a novel called Jack Maggs. I’m from Australia and it is written by one of my favourite Australian authors.
I am visiting Washington DC but I’ll be going back to Australia in February. I might study law, like you are. I’m not sure if I want to be a lawyer though. What do you think I should do?
Sorry we don’t have what you need, but I hope you enjoy the book anyway.
Best wishes,
Clara
I hurriedly wrap the letter and book in a brown paper bag before I lose my nerve. Logically I see that a convicted criminal is not the best person to ask for career advice. On the other hand, maybe he will write to me with some wonderfully wise words gleaned through his hard-knock life experiences.
Orange-beard man comes and sits next to me. ‘Are we meeting next week?’ he asks.
‘Why wouldn’t we?’ I ask.
‘Because of the holidays.’
‘Of course, Christmas. I’m not sure actually, I’ll have to ask Campbell.’
Since I sent my Christmas package I haven’t thought about Christmas at all. This year I’m going to miss out on our usual family rituals for the first time. I remember driving around the suburbs hunting for Christmas lights with my dad, brother and sister. We’d have a box of chocolates in the car and sometimes we’d sing carols.
Eric and Campbell look very serious. Eric is writing while Campbell dictates to him. It doesn’t look like they’ll be finished soon. What if I don’t get to speak to Campbell at all? I thought things were going so well, but maybe it will fizzle out. This is not the first time I’ve thought I was in with a chance and I’ve always been wrong before. I remember the way Liam looked at me with such uncomfortable pity and I want to crawl under the table with the shame.
I take another letter from the pile. I may as well try to do something useful.
I hang around until the very end waiting for Campbell and Eric to finish talking. People leave one by one until there are only four of us in the room. Eric and Campbell remain deep in conversation. I’ve written ten letters. This is a record for me. Eventually Belle says, ‘We have to lock up.’
Campbell says, ‘We’re finished anyway.’
‘No we’re not!’ says Eric.
‘It’s fine to send it like that.’
‘But we need to plan the next stage.’
‘Yeah, but not tonight.’
Campbell stands up and walks over to the door. I stand next to him.
‘I suppose you’ve got somewhere better to go,’ says Eric.
‘I was going to ask Clara if she wanted to get something to eat with me,’ says Campbell.
I stammer, ‘That would be great. I’m hungry.’ This is alarmingly close to one of my fantasies and I’m finding it hard to be as cool and calm as I was in my imagination.
‘In any case,’ says Belle, ‘we have to go.’
We each pick up a box of parcels to take downstairs. Belle locks the door behind us. We walk down the stairs and she returns the key to the reception desk. Outside the air is exhilaratingly cold. Belle’s car is parked out the front and we put the boxes in the boot.
‘See you soon,’ Campbell says to Eric, putting his hand on his shoulder. They hug. ‘It’ll be okay,’ Campbell tells him.
Eric says nothing. When they pull apart he looks at me menacingly. I’ve never seen someone be so shamelessly hostile. I’m determined not to let it annoy me so I say as cheerfully as I can, ‘Merry Christmas!’
Eric makes a choking noise. ‘What did you say?’ he demands.
I don’t repeat it. I’ve done my best to be polite.
‘Come on, Eric,’ says Belle. ‘We can sort the parcels at my house.’
After they drive away Campbell and I walk quickly down the street.
‘Eric doesn’t like me,’ I say.
‘Eric’s Eric,’ Campbell replies. He’s smiling. ‘He’s an intense guy,’ he adds. He sounds like he thinks this is a good thing.
I remember the way Eric looked at me, his eyes boring, his mouth unsmiling. Eric’s not just intense, I could handle that. He’s rude and hostile and I’m sick of it.
‘Well what about just then?’ I continue. ‘I said “Merry Christmas” to him and he wouldn’t even reply.’
‘Well, he was probably just surprised.’
‘Why?’
‘Lots of people don’t celebrate Christmas you know.’
‘I know that! But I meant, have a good Christmas break.’
‘Well, you can say “Happy Holidays” then. That won’t offend people.’
My righteous indignation slips away. ‘I didn’t think of that,’ I say quietly. ‘Did I offend him?’
‘It’s no big deal.’
I don’t want Campbell to think I’m culturally insensitive. ‘Are you sure it’s okay?’ I ask again.
‘Clara, it’s okay,’ says Campbell, sounding slightly impatient.
I change the topic. ‘What were you and Eric working on tonight?’
‘One of Eric’s best friends, John, was beaten up in prison. We were writing
a letter to the DA.’
‘That’s terrible!’
‘Yeah, Eric’s pretty close to him. They were on the same raid when John got arrested. Maybe that’s why he seemed a little tense tonight.’
I feel terrible. I always assume that everything’s about me, and it isn’t. Some people have real problems in their lives. I remember Mary again. Seeing a lonely old lady die should have made me less superficial, but I am still stuck in my petty high school world.
‘Anyway, I don’t want to talk about that now. What do you feel like eating?’ asks Campbell.
‘Anything,’ I say, hoping he won’t press me for a suggestion.
‘Mexican?’
‘Great.’
Once we’re sitting in a restaurant together, just the two of us, it feels like a proper date. Reading the menu I can barely think straight. I force myself to concentrate. I need to consider the options carefully to avoid embarrassment. In particular, I don’t want to order something that I can’t pronounce.
When the waitress comes over she looks at me first. I still haven’t decided. I wave my hand at Campbell. ‘You go first,’ I say.
Campbell orders and every word he says from the menu is completely different to how I would have said it. Why couldn’t we have gone to an Italian restaurant? I can pronounce Italian words. He orders a beer as well, and the waitress asks to see his ID.
She looks at me again and I panic. I have no idea what to say. There’s a pause during which she starts tapping her pen on her pad. I mutter, ‘I’ll have the same. Except with a glass of Coke.’ I would have preferred some kind of lemonade, but who knows what they call it here. The waitress nods and walks away.
We sit in silence again. All I can think to say is, ‘How’s work?’
‘Good,’ Campbell says. ‘Tony’s wife’s away in France, which is great. She’s such a bitch.’
‘Tony’s wife?’
‘Yeah, she’s a hag. She’s always coming into the cafe and screaming at us about how we’re slicing the cheese wrong.’ Campbell continues with a story about how unreasonable she is but I’ve stopped listening. My brain is struggling to process the new information.
Campbell continues, ‘So I went over there, and told her not to touch the salad plates again because it wrecks the system and her lips turned white and then—’
I interrupt. ‘Tony has a wife?’
‘Sure does. Poor guy.’
‘But what about my mother?’ I say.
‘That’s right. They’re dating or something, aren’t they?’
‘I hope not!’ I exclaim.
‘Why? Don’t you like Tony?’
‘Well, not really. He’s a narrow-minded wanker. But that’s not the point.’
Campbell looks like he genuinely has no idea what my problem is.
‘Mum can’t go out with a married man,’ I try to explain.
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s married! What about his wife?’
‘Maybe they have an understanding,’ says Campbell. ‘Maybe it’s okay for them to see other people.’
‘Or maybe Tony’s fooling around while his wife is in France,’ I say angrily.
Campbell shrugs. ‘Maybe. But to be honest, is it any of your business?’
I stare at him. ‘She’s my mother,’ I say.
Our food arrives. We’ve both ordered fajitas. Who knew that the j was supposed to be pronounced like an h? They come as flat pieces of bread with the stuffing laid out beside. I watch how Campbell assembles his and copy him. When I pick it up, half the contents slide out the bottom but I don’t care. I’m thinking about Mum. For some reason, she does seem to like Tony, and it turns out he’s a complete bastard. Swallowing food is difficult because I want to cry. I take a bite of my fajita, which is now mostly bread anyway, and wash it down with Coke.
Campbell says, ‘Clara?’
I look up.
‘Don’t worry about it, okay?’ He smiles at me and reaches out to touch my hand.
I smile too.
Campbell and I walk to the train station together. When we arrive at Dupont Circle, Campbell asks if I want to get a coffee. ‘It won’t be up to your usual standards,’ he says.
‘It’s a bit late for coffee but I’ll have a hot chocolate.’
In the brightly lit cafe Campbell stands very close to me and I don’t move away. When our drinks are made he suggests we sit in Dupont Circle.
The circle is a big roundabout with a fountain in the middle, surrounded by park benches. The fountain isn’t running because the water would freeze.
Some people are sitting on the park benches. Other people are walking quickly across the circle, taking a shortcut.
I’m very cold but am trying to pretend that I’m okay. I clutch my hot drink with both hands and the warmth seeps through my gloves to my hands. I take a sip. It’s actually quite delicious. Campbell puts his drink down on the bench beside him.
Then he kisses me. It’s unambiguous this time. There is no way he would kiss a friend this way. I twist my body towards him and he puts his hand on my waist. When we pull apart, I put my hot chocolate on the ground and we kiss again. I’m still not sure what to do with my hands, and they rest uncomfortably on my lap before I tentatively place one hand on his shoulder
Someone further around the circle shouts, ‘Get a room.’ I pull away, suddenly aware that other people are watching. I put my head on Campbell’s shoulder and hug him. My face is burning hot and as I press it into his shoulder I can feel Campbell laughing. He strokes my head and says, ‘Don’t worry about those guys, they’re just jealous.’
I look up and see Hilda sitting on the next bench along. I smile at her and I’m sure that she’s seen me, but she looks away quickly and doesn’t smile back.
Campbell calls a taxi for me at Dupont Circle and it’s almost one in the morning when I arrive at the apartment. I’m anxious as I travel up in the lift. I sent Mum a text message saying I was going out for dinner and that I didn’t need a lift from the station but I didn’t say I’d be this late. I imagine her sitting on the couch, waiting up for me with a stern expression and demanding explanations.
When I push open the door the lounge room is dark and empty. The hall light is still on. I hang up my scarf and coat. Mum must have gone to bed and left the light on for me, so she can’t be too worried. I walk down the hallway and turn off the hallway light when I reach my bedroom. There’s light coming out from under Mum’s door, so she’s not asleep yet.
I call out, ‘Goodnight, Mum.’
After a pause Mum replies, ‘Night, Clara.’ I drop my bag near my bed. I’m still way too excited to sleep. I decide to have a shower.
As I open the bathroom door I hear a man’s voice coming from Mum’s room and then Mum’s laugh. I freeze in the hallway. Tony. All my anger at him comes surging back. I consider bursting into the bedroom and saying, ‘Does your wife know about this?’ But who knows what I might see? The thought is horrific.
I stand in the hallway seething. Then I walk into the bathroom, close the door firmly and angrily brush my teeth, trying to make as much noise as possible. I want them to know that I know that they’re there. And I want them to know that I’m not happy about it.
I turn on the taps and step into the shower. I try to make myself calm down and think happy thoughts. Think about Campbell. Think about Campbell kissing me. The way his hand felt on my back.
But then I remember that Mum is with that horrible man. She hardly knows him. How can she be so casual about relationships?
I lie in bed. Fortunately, the bathroom separates our rooms so I can’t hear anything from Mum’s room. Maybe they’re asleep.
This is disgusting. I don’t want to be thinking about my mum’s love life when, for the first time, I have one of my own.
Well, not strictly the first time. There was Kylie James’s party in Year Seven when Jacob Fields and I kissed underneath the Hills hoist. But Jacob moved to Wonthaggi two weeks later and we didn’t attempt a long-distance relationship. I sort of assumed that the next guy would come along, but somehow it didn’t happen. For the last couple of years I haven’t been interested in anyone at school, because I was hung up on other things. The Hills hoist moment with Jacob was five years ago. Five years. I thought there was something wrong with me.
I don’t understand why Campbell likes me; it seems amazing that he does. He’s so smart and has so many interesting ideas. I’m so straight and conventional. I wish I could tell Liam about it, let him know that not everyone thinks I’m a self-obsessed schoolgirl.
I can’t sleep. I think about Campbell and I’m elated. I think about Mum and Tony and surge with anger. Then I remember Mary and I could cry. I realise I never told Campbell about what happened at the centre yesterday.
I have to serve breakfast in four hours.
I manage to leave the house before Mum or Tony get up. I think I would throw something if I had to talk to Tony this morning. Walking to the centre I replay my Dupont Circle kiss with Campbell. This ensures that I’m floaty-tired rather than grumpy-tired, despite hardly sleeping at all last night.
I wish I knew when I would see Campbell again. We exchanged phone numbers, but who knows if he will contact me?
I arrive at the centre later than usual. Tiffany has already opened the doors and the prayer has started.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I say.
‘You’re not,’ says Brad. ‘Do you want to ladle? It’s oatmeal again, and you’re good at oatmeal.’
‘That’s not true,’ I say. ‘I stuffed it up last time, remember?’ I try to give the ladle back. I want to do condiments again. I’m genuinely competent with condiments. But Emily and Brad think I’m joking.
‘Seriously,’ I say. ‘I’m really bad at it.’
Emily laughs again and I’m left still holding the ladle.
The queue starts to form and I have to dish out the oatmeal whether I like it or not. I concentrate on exercising sensible portion control. Not dishing out so little that we’ll have massive amounts of leftovers, but not going over the top either. It seems wrong that we’re all carrying on as though everything’s normal when this time two days ago there was a dead woman lying on the floor.
