Clara in Washington

by Penny Tangey

  I arrive at Campbell’s house and it’s clear I’m at the right place. The anarchist symbol is stuck on both the front windows. The small front yard has no plants at all, just some dead brown grass on either side of a concrete path. A sign sticking out of the grass reads Say No to Manufactured Consent.

  The house is a two-storey weatherboard that is mostly grey because the aqua-blue paint has almost all peeled off. There’s an old scarlet couch on the veranda. I guess it might be nice to sit on in summer but it’s hard to imagine now.

  I walk carefully up the three wooden steps leading to the veranda. The second step is particularly dodgy. It’s only a matter of time before someone goes through it. I should mention it to Campbell. He could be liable if a visitor is injured, and American healthcare costs are insane.

  I press the doorbell but there’s no sound. It might be broken. I knock on the door instead.

  I hear a girl yell, ‘Coming,’ and a second later the door is flung open. It’s Belle from Reading Beyond Bars. I didn’t know she was Campbell’s housemate. She’s wearing a bright blue terry-towelling dress over a pair of red pants. The tea-cosy is on again and it matches her rainbow-coloured scarf. Her cheeks are rosy red and the end of her nose is glistening wet. She sniffs and wipes her nose on the back of her fingerless gloves.

  ‘Hi, Belle,’ I say, suddenly aware that I’m dressed entirely in black and beige and wearing a headband.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is Campbell here?’ I ask hesitantly.

  ‘Yeah.’ She turns away and yells, ‘Campbell!’ She walks back down the corridor leaving me standing on my own.

  The door at the end of the hallway opens and Campbell is walking towards me. He is smiling, and his welcoming face makes me feel weak with relief.

  ‘I came for the books.’

  ‘Come into the kitchen,’ says Campbell. ‘We’re having tea.’

  As we walk down the corridor I wonder who ‘we’ will be.

  We go through a lounge room at the end of the corridor and then into the kitchen. There’s a big table with two bench seats on either side of it. Belle and orange-beard man from Reading Beyond Bars are sitting next to each other.

  ‘Hello,’ I say.

  ‘Hi,’ says orange-beard man.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name,’ I confess.

  ‘Bernard,’ he says.

  Campbell and I sit opposite Bernard and Belle. I shove my hands in my pockets. It is very cold, not much warmer than outside. There’s a whistling sound and Belle stands up and goes to a small gas camping stove with an old-fashioned kettle sitting on top of it.

  ‘I’ve never seen a kettle that actually whistles before,’ I say. ‘I thought it was only in nursery rhymes.’

  Belle smiles. ‘It’s cute, isn’t it? I swapped it for my bread-maker last week because the electricity got cut off.’ She pours water into a big teapot.

  ‘Bastards!’ says Bernard.

  ‘That’s terrible!’ I exclaim. ‘Why did they do that?’

  ‘Because the owners don’t want us here,’ says Bernard.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We’re squatting,’ Campbell explains.

  ‘Right.’

  I try to act like it’s no big deal. I imagined a squat as a dark hovel with swags of rolled-up dirty clothes scattered around and a yellowing mattress in the corner. Campbell’s place may be a bit rundown, and it’s certainly very cold, but it’s not squalid and it has lots of actual furniture. The table we’re sitting at is nice, shabby but solid, and would probably cost heaps in a second-hand furniture shop.

  ‘This kitchen is great!’ I say. ‘How long have you been here for?’

  ‘Six months,’ says Belle. ‘And the owners didn’t even notice. And now, all of a sudden, they start harassing us.’

  ‘Well, I guess it is their house,’ I say.

  ‘Why should it be their house?’ says Campbell. ‘They don’t need it. They weren’t using it.’

  Belle brings the teapot to the table and starts pouring. She pushes a cup towards me. I take it, grateful to have something warm to wrap my hands around. I blow on the hot liquid and a rush of warm steam swirls over my face. I take a sip. The tea is strange, but nice; it might be peppermint and something fruity as well.

  ‘So, Clara,’ says Campbell. ‘I’ve got those books in my room if you want to have a look.’

  ‘Can I bring my tea?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says.

  As I stand up I see Belle raise her eyebrows at Bernard.

  Campbell’s room is upstairs. The stairs are uncovered wood. They creak loudly with every step. I imagine my foot falling through and dangling. Splinters of wood would dig into my leg and blood would run down my legs and drip into the chasm below.

  I’m so distracted by this thought that it’s only when we reach the landing that I think about the fact that I’m about to go into a guy’s bedroom. A guy who I have kissed. I wonder what he’s expecting will happen. I’m not sure if I want it to happen. The waves of nerves cascading through me at five-second intervals make it impossible to think straight.

  Campbell’s room is big. The unpolished floorboards are inadequately covered by a small red rug. Two bookshelves near the window are overstuffed with books. He has run out of space and started piling books horizontally at the front of the vertical books.

  I quickly go to a shelf and start looking at the titles. ‘What would you recommend?’ I ask.

  ‘Proudhon,’ says Campbell without hesitation. ‘I have all of his books. But first, what do you think of this?’ He hands me an A5 booklet with Obama is not the answer written on the front with the anarchist symbol. ‘Eric wrote it.’

  The first line is, Electing Obama can’t solve your problems because electing anyone to solve your problems IS the problem.

  I read it over a few times, trying to work out what to say. I don’t know what I think, so I ask, ‘Are you anti-democracy?’

  Campbell shakes his head vehemently. ‘No, we’re for democracy. But representational democracy isn’t democracy at all. People need to make decisions for themselves, not elect someone to do it for them. That’s a fixed-term dictatorship.’

  I turn to the back page of the pamphlet. It says:

  Come to Lafayette Square on January 20 to show that you don’t believe the product Obama hype.

  Smash capitalism and smash this sham democracy.

  ‘What are you actually going to do?’ I ask. I have an alarming vision of Campbell throwing chairs and hitting things with a baseball bat.

  ‘Well, that’s what we haven’t quite worked out. Eric and I don’t agree.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘What you said the other day made a lot of sense to me.’

  ‘What I said?’

  ‘Sure, the stuff about how people need a day to celebrate. So I’m for presence, not protest. We should remind people that all their problems won’t be solved by electing Obama, but if we’re too negative people will hate us.’

  ‘But Eric doesn’t agree?’

  ‘He thinks it’s a climb down from our principles. Eric’s a real idealist. I admire that.’

  Campbell sits on the bed. I’m still standing with the pamphlet, not quite sure what to do.

  Campbell sees me hesitate. He smiles. ‘Want a seat?’ he asks, patting the bed beside him.

  ‘Umm, yeah.’

  He touches my headband. ‘I like this,’ he says.

  ‘I was worried it makes me look preppy,’ I say. ‘Do I look preppy?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he says. ‘Anyway, preppy’s an attitude, not an accessory.’

  But I am preppy, I think.

  Campbell leans towards me and kisses me. I let Eric’s pamphlet fall to the floor and put one hand on
Campbell’s shoulder.

  I feel awkward twisting towards him because I’m restricted by my coat and scarf but I’m worried that it will send the wrong message if I start taking things off. Although I’m not sure what message I’m trying to send.

  I say, ‘Do you mind if I take my coat off?’

  ‘No problem.’

  I stand up and unbutton my coat and take off my scarf as well. Campbell hangs them over the back of a chair and we sit on the bed.

  I’m cold now and feel more exposed.

  I wonder if he can tell that I don’t know what I’m doing.

  He puts his face in my neck and says, ‘I want you to know that I did invite you here to talk about books.’

  ‘Sorry, we can keep doing that.’

  He laughs. ‘That’s not what I meant.’ He brings a hand around to my stomach and lifts up my jumper and T-shirt. His hand is cold. He leaves his hand there for a moment while he kisses me and then he starts moving his hand up. When he reaches my bra, I have to fight the urge to flinch away. He brushes his fingers against me and I can’t help it, I jerk away. Campbell quickly takes his hand out from under my top.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m not used to this. I mean, I’ve never . . .’ I can’t finish the sentence; I’m too embarrassed to explain what I mean. I need more time to get used to this.

  Campbell looks puzzled but then finally he understands. He slides across the bed away from me and says, ‘Oh, hey. Sorry, I didn’t realise. There’s no hurry.’

  Now my incompetence has put him off. ‘Sorry, no, it’s nice. I’m just not sure what to do.’ I look at my hands. They’re hideous, red and blotchy from the cold.

  ‘Here’s a suggestion,’ says Campbell. ‘It’s cold in here. Why don’t we get into bed and read.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No seriously,’ he says. ‘We’ll read. That’s what you came here to do, after all.’

  Campbell starts taking off his shoes. I do the same. He walks over to the bookshelf. ‘How about What is Property? by Proudhon?’

  ‘Is it good?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s brilliant. Proudhon proves that all property is theft.’

  ‘What, even my clothes?’

  ‘No, that’s okay because you’re using them and you need them.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, still confused.

  ‘Trust me, it’ll make sense after you’ve read this.’

  Campbell tosses me the book. He comes back to the bed and says, ‘Well, go on, get in.’

  So I get under the covers and prop myself up with a pillow behind my back. Campbell slides in beside me and does the same.

  I smile at him. ‘This is nice,’ I say.

  ‘Yes it is.’

  We sit in bed reading but it’s hard to focus. I glance across at Campbell. He seems to be concentrating hard. The way he furrows his brow is very cute. I force myself to read at least a page before I look at him again. Each time I glance at him I feel a little thrill of astonishment that I am actually in bed with him.

  I glance at Campbell again and this time he looks back at me. I quickly turn back to my book.

  ‘Hey, Clara?’ he says.

  ‘What?’ I say. I feel my heartbeat quicken as a jolt of nerves goes through my stomach. Perhaps he will want to do more than reading now.

  ‘Eric’s going to be here in about twenty minutes.’

  ‘Oh.’ This is a surprise.

  ‘You don’t have to go.’

  I don’t want to leave, but I don’t want to see Eric either. ‘No, I’d better get going,’ I say.

  I stand up. The cold air of the room is a shock after to the cosiness of the bed. I put on my coat, scarf and shoes. Campbell stands up too and stretches. His shirt rides up and I see his stomach.

  We walk back down the creaking stairs to the front door. Campbell kisses me at the door. I wish I wasn’t leaving.

  ‘Bye then,’ I say, turning to go.

  I almost collide with Eric bounding up to the house.

  ‘Hi, Eric.’

  ‘Clara,’ he says coldly.

  Eric and Campbell hug each other and Eric smiles at him, which makes me realise that I’ve almost never seen him smile because it looks strange.

  ‘Well, I’m leaving then. Umm, Reading Beyond Bars isn’t on this week, is it?’

  ‘No,’ says Campbell. ‘We’ll start again in January.’

  ‘Well, I guess I’ll see you round,’ I say. I hate leaving things this way. I hate not knowing when I’ll see him again.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ says Eric.

  ‘What?’ says Campbell, sounding confused.

  ‘We’re staying with my cousin in Baltimore, remember?’ says Eric.

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘When will you be back?’ I ask.

  ‘On the twenty-ninth,’ says Campbell. ‘I’ll call you then.’

  That’s something at least. ‘Okay,’ I say.

  Walking away I hear the front door close behind me.

  I decide to make a stir-fry for myself, since Mum is out for dinner with Tony, but I’m finding it hard to focus. I stare into the fridge blankly until I start to feel cold before I remember that I’m supposed to be getting out vegetables. Putting garlic into the garlic press also confounds me. I try to assemble all the parts for about five minutes before I finally get it right. I can’t think straight.

  I keep remembering Campbell; thinking about lying next to him in bed, how warm he felt next to me. That felt good, but when he was kissing me I was so nervous I couldn’t enjoy it. I wish I wasn’t like that. I wish I was confident and relaxed. I wish I’d already had sex before so that I wouldn’t be worried about it.

  Now I won’t see Campbell for a week. It feels like a very long time. I think about the next time I see him. Campbell was very nice about it today but we can’t read in bed together indefinitely. Sooner or later Campbell is going to expect something more. I know girls shouldn’t do things just because a guy wants them to, but I want to want to.

  I imagine Campbell in his freezing house. Campbell and Eric are probably still working on a compromise pamphlet by candlelight. Or maybe someone has a torch. I wonder if Eric is in love with Campbell. That would explain why he hates me so much. That seems unfair because it’s not my fault that Campbell likes me. But I guess I never gave Liam’s girlfriend a chance either. Maybe I should feel sorry for Eric.

  When dinner is finally ready I eat it in front of the television. The movie Evil Angels is on. I enjoy the hilarity of the terrible eighties fashion, bad film production values and dodgy script. The line ‘My baby! My baby! A dingo stole my baby!’, spoken in a terrible Australian accent, is so famous that I feel as if I’ve seen the film before even though I haven’t.

  In one of the ad breaks I consider telling Yingmei about me and Campbell. I want to have my own Feeling happy, just happy bragging moment. But I decide not. She might blurt out my results, even if I told her I didn’t want to know.

  I finish dinner and I’m about to scrape my plate into the bin in the kitchen when I see the envelope still sitting there at the top of the rubbish. My results. I guess there’s no harm in keeping it just in case. I pick the envelope out, brush off a few coffee grounds and take it to my bedroom, where I put it in my top drawer with my socks.

  Mum arrives home as the end credits for Evil Angels are rolling.

  ‘Hello,’ she says brightly.

  ‘Hello.’ I’m relieved that Tony isn’t with her and so feel generous enough to ask, ‘How was dinner?’

  ‘Lovely. And I must say, Tony. Is. Hilarious.’

  ‘In what way. Is. Tony. Hilarious?’

  ‘Every way! He’s a very funny man.’

  I can’t see it. I take my mug to the kitchen and put it in the dishwasher.
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  ‘You should be more careful,’ I say. ‘You hardly know Tony.’

  ‘Clara!’ says Mum, exasperated as usual by my common sense.

  I pull out the dishwasher powder from under the sink and pour some in. ‘Seriously, Mum, how do you know what he’s really like?’

  ‘Well how do you know what Campbell’s really like?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s a bit different!’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Campbell doesn’t keep secrets from me.’

  ‘And Tony does?’

  I push the dishwasher door shut and press start. I turn to Mum. I’m still undecided about what to do. ‘Maybe,’ I say.

  ‘Anyway, Clara,’ says Mum in her moving-on-to-the-next-agenda-item voice. ‘We should have a talk.’

  ‘I am not checking my results. Give. Up.’

  ‘No, no,’ says Mum, shaking her head dismissively. ‘I’m over that. If you want to be stubborn then I can’t be bothered. You’ll find out eventually.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘About you and Campbell.’

  ‘What about me and Campbell?’

  ‘I know you’re getting close. And I know you haven’t been this close to anyone before.’

  ‘You think you know a lot!’ I say.

  ‘Well, I want you to know, that if you have any questions, don’t be embarrassed to talk to me.’

  I try to interrupt but Mum pushes on in a firm voice while rummaging around in her handbag. ‘I bought you these.’

  She puts a box of condoms on the kitchen bench between us.

  I stare at them in disbelief. ‘Do you think I’m a complete idiot? Anyway, how can you be lecturing me on being responsible?’

  Mum looks taken aback. ‘Clara, I don’t understand why you’re angry. I’m trying to do the right thing.’

  I can’t take another moment of her thinking that she knows more than me. So I say, ‘I’m not the irresponsible one. Tony’s married.’

  There’s a pause. I hadn’t actually planned to say that and I don’t know how she’ll react, whether she’ll be upset or angry.