Plane Tree Drive

by Lynette Washington

  Amos turns his attention to the man now. His body language is just as important as Lia’s. In fact, everything rests on his reaction. The man is leaning against the bar and his hips are pointing in Lia’s direction. This is one of the signs Lia has told Amos to look out for; ‘If he’s pointing his groin towards me, he’s interested – don’t bother looking at his face. It’s different for men and women – for women, look at their face, for men, look at where their dick is pointing.’ So this is good, the man is responding to Lia’s flirtation. He smiles when she smiles, laughs when she laughs, drinks when she drinks. This is another sign that Lia has taught him to look for; ‘If he’s copying my actions, he’s interested, if he’s looking over my shoulder he’s wondering if he can get someone better.’

  The man is now touching Lia’s back. His hand rests gently on the small of her spine, a finger casually inching through the belt loop at the top of her short denim skirt. This is good; ‘If his touch goes a little bit further than mine, it’s a good sign. If I touch his arm, he touches my back. If I touch his chest, he touches my arse.’ Lia’s mantras are a checklist in Amos’s mind.

  Tonight is going to plan, but the next step is crucial. Amos waits.

  They finish their drinks and place the empty glasses on the bar. Amos watches the man closely and knows he is asking Lia if she’d like another drink. This is the moment. Amos knows what his wife is about to say, and it has to be just right. Some men bolt at this point, although Lia is usually pretty good at picking.

  And there it is – Lia leans in to whisper in his ear so that her words can’t be overheard. She puts her hand on his arm to steady him and keep him close. Her perfume is drifting up from between her breasts as she speaks. She is speaking slowly, with confidence and just a touch of vulnerability, although she possesses none of this particular quality herself, just the ability to portray it when required. She is measuring her words, weighing each one. Certain syllables require gentleness, others require force. Others require sexiness – sexiness is Lia’s trump card.

  There are a couple of ways this could play out. Sometimes, but not often, the man pulls away as though he’s been slapped in the face, looks wild enough to punch Lia and then storms away breathing words like ‘disgusting’, ‘pervert’ and ‘slag’. More often than that, though, and because Lia has a knack for picking them, the man looks over to where Lia is pointing, towards Amos, and checks him out. At this point, Amos’s role is simple: raise his glass in their direction, give a small smile and hold the man’s gaze. The message is clear, ‘I’m in. Are you?’ Then it is all up to the man.

  As predicted, the man follows Lia’s gaze and looks at Amos. He looks for a long time. Amos holds his gaze, just as Lia has taught him to. He is starting to feel anxious.

  Amos sees a faint smile appear on the man’s face and he feels his excitement build. This one looks just right, for them both. He signals for Amos to come to the bar and join them.

  Amos watches as his wife pulls the thin cotton sheet away from the small sweating child asleep in bed. After a night like they’ve had, he is always astonished that she can switch back to motherhood so easily. Lia turns and leaves the room where their two sons sleep peacefully, and goes to pay the babysitter. It is 3am: an expensive night out, even considering the drinks that the man bought for them.

  Amos follows Lia to the kitchen and watches as she makes a cup of tea for each of them.

  ‘It was a good night, don’t you think?’ she says over the boiling kettle.

  ‘You chose well, you always do.’

  Lia smiles, ‘I’ve had some practice now. I know the ones who will get it, and the ones who won’t. I can tell just by watching them for a while.’

  ‘But still, it’s brave.’

  Lia shrugs.

  Lia pours the drinks and puts the cups on the table in front of Amos, then sits on his lap, ignoring the way the arms of his chair gouge her legs. Beneath her, Amos knows she can feel his spindly and wasted legs, but he cannot feel her weight at all.

  ‘We can stop this anytime you want, you know,’ Lia says.

  ‘You say that every time. But you know I like to imagine it’s me you’re with,’ says Amos.

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘I know, I’ll tell you if it ever changes for me. And you will tell me too.’

  Lia leans over and kisses her husband. ‘Of course. Shall we go to bed?’

  ‘Sure,’ Amos says.

  Lia leaves their drinks on the table and wheels her husband into their bedroom. She helps him into his pyjamas and into bed. Because she knows he’s tired, she arranges his legs so that they can spoon and puts her arm around him, resting it in the valley where his ribs give way to his waist. There she can feel his chest rising and falling more and more slowly as he falls asleep in her arms.

  Need

  The phone rings. I keep breathing.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey, how’re you doing, Lia?’

  Keep breathing.

  ‘Sorry. Stupid question.’

  ‘I wonder how many times I’ve heard the word “sorry” in the last six weeks? You could probably give me a formula for it, couldn’t you?’ I say.

  ‘Probably.’ His laugh has an anxious edge.

  Phone calls are awful for this kind of thing: the silences.

  ‘How are the boys holding up?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh, they’re not. Not really. But they’re better than me,’ I say.

  ‘Lia, I – .’

  ‘Pete, can you come over? The boys are with their grandma and I just need something more human than the telly tonight.’

  I make an effort to clean myself up. Since Amos’ funeral I’ve lived in tracksuits that are faded or stained. I have enough pride to pull myself out of my grief-lethargy, even if it is only for one night.

  The knock at the door startles me and the lipstick I am attempting to apply jolts a fat pink line up my cheek. My jeans and jumper are a pitiful attempt to be normal: the smeared lipstick seems to suit my state of mind so much better. For a moment I consider leaving it, answering the door just like that. Pete wouldn’t mind. He’s seen me worse.

  No he hasn’t.

  Tears run down my face. I dab them with a tissue, using the damp fibres to wipe off the lipstick.

  Opening the door, we look at each other and hug awkwardly. Already I know something has changed between us.

  In the kitchen, I put on the kettle. Pete opens the fridge and plucks out a bottle of wine. He chooses glasses from the cabinet – two of them – and pours them to the rim. I let the kettle boil.

  ‘How’s Sandra?’ I ask. ‘Did she mind you dropping everything to come rescue me?’

  ‘Sandra doesn’t mind what I do these days. Since she moved out I haven’t been up the top of her list.’

  There is a snag of guilt in my gut: I’ve been a bad friend.

  ‘Pete, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘Hey, it’s okay. You’ve had bigger stuff on your mind.’

  We both take a gulp of wine.

  ‘So Riley said to me the other day, “Do I still belong to Daddy, Mum?”. And I said, “Yes, of course, darling, you always will”. And then he said, “Are you still my grown-up, Mum?”’

  Pete reaches out and touches my shoulder. I feel his hand cold from the wineglass, through my jumper.

  ‘I don’t feel like the grown-up anymore. I don’t want to be.’

  ‘I don’t remember ever hurting much as a kid. Apart from when I broke my arm…’ Pete says.

  We move to the lounge room. We choose opposite couches. People often got the wrong idea about the two of us so it was easier for all concerned – especially our partners – if we just kept our distance. Now our habits are embedded.

  I curl my legs up, uncomfortable in my jeans.

  ‘You know this is the first time I’ve been out of tracky dacks since the funeral,’ I say.

  ‘Lia, you don’t have to be together, no one expects you to be.’

  �
��Riley and Ethan do.’

  ‘Do you think they care what you wear?’

  ‘It’s symbolic, Pete.’

  ‘It’s just clothes.’

  Somewhere in that exchange is a weak echo of how Pete and I used to be.

  ‘Do you know why I wanted you to come over tonight, Pete?’

  ‘I assume it’s because you want to fuck me.’

  Our standard joke. People think men and women can’t be friends. Pete and I relished ambushing that idea by calling their bluff. Amos and Sandra had been in on the joke.

  But tonight it isn’t a joke. I need to feel something other than grief and all I can think about is fucking. There is no one else I trust enough. Pete and I have never so much as kissed before, but tonight I want him. It is selfish and I don’t like to admit it to myself, but I’ve orchestrated this whole thing. The boys sleeping over, the wine in the fridge, the condoms by the bed. Somewhere in my muddled mind I’d planned this when I couldn’t even plan getting out of my tracksuit. The guilt feels like a hypodermic needle to my heart. I can’t feed my boys more than toast and jam. Did I actually leave the house to buy condoms? I should be steaming vegetables and talking about Daddy always being with us in our memories.

  The tears ransack my whole body. Pete comes to me and holds me tight. He is rocking me gently and whispering, ‘I’m sorry, it was our joke, I’m sorry.’

  I stop crying. His arms are strong, his back thick with muscle. I’ve never noticed his smell before. It is a combination of faded aftershave and something garlicky.

  Maybe this is enough, I think. I will just hold him. I haven’t been held by a man for so long and it feels so good it almost hurts. The tide is ebbing away, for now at least.

  He stops whispering and starts stroking my hair. It was something my mother used to do when I was a kid, and Pete knows it soothes me. He’s never done it to me before, but we’ve talked about it. We’ve talked about everything.

  I don’t want to be soothed. I take his hand and stop him, pull back just far enough to see his face. His brown eyes are bloodshot and that only makes me want him more.

  I kiss him, tentatively because I don’t know how to kiss another man and I don’t want to kiss Pete the way I had kissed Amos. With Amos it had become perfunctory towards the end, when it was hard for him even to offer me his lips.

  Pete doesn’t respond. I can feel him subtly pulling away, not wanting to kiss me but too fearful to stop my madness. There are no words for it so I keep kissing him, drawing him, thread by thread, into my need.

  And then kissing him stops working. I need to be lost, engulfed, subsumed. He lets me take off his shirt. His chest is smooth and then that delicate skin on my hands isn’t enough. I take off his pants and feel the coarse hair on his legs. It gives me a moment of satisfaction, but then it is gone. I feel like an addict, clawing for more even as I get more. He doesn’t stop me, but he doesn’t do anything either. Is he going to perform a sacrificial function? Do me a favour? This isn’t right, I need a connection. I stop kissing him and force him to look at me. He’s crying.

  He finally touches me and too soon it is done and we lay down, face to face, breathing each other’s air as we sleep.

  When I wake, crumpled and cramped on the narrow ledge of the couch, I am alone. Pete has returned to the other couch, curled into a tight ball, and turned away from me.

  JENNIFER AND DAN

  Cat food and snappyhappy stories

  One of my old commercials comes on the telly. Cat food. Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’ plays as the fur-ball (white as snow) ambles aimlessly around the (white as snow) backdrop, apparently unimpressed with life, until she spots the bowl of food. She speeds up, still managing to look languid and aloof. Takes a haughty sniff. Tucks in. Cue logo.

  We had to drizzle honey over the food to make her eat it.

  Dan looks over at me and smiles. He remembers the story about the honey.

  ‘Didn’t that cat scratch the entire crew raw that day?’ he asks.

  ‘Yep. She looks divine but she’s pure evil.’

  He reaches for the remote.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  I shake my head, no, and he flicks, murmuring to himself, ‘Fifty-seven channels and nothing on.’

  He pauses on SBS, looking for a doco, but there’s nothing there either.

  ‘Any word on them finally screening “Kids Behind Bars”?’ he asks.

  ‘No. Apparently we’re saturated with detention stories. Compassion fatigue, they call it. They want something different. Something happy. “Snappy and happy” is actually what the commissioning editor said to me.’

  ‘But they bought it. Why don’t they just put it on?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ I say.

  I can’t be bothered trying to explain to Dan how the system works. It’s nice of him to show an interest in my work, but he’s never done it before, beyond the necessities of my travel itineraries. Now he’s clutching at relationship straws and it smells of desperation. We’re looking for dusty conversation at the bottom of a drought-stricken lake.

  ‘Do you think you might make one of those snappyhappy docos? Or maybe some more ads?’

  ‘Ava’s only 18 months,’ I say. ‘Are you worried about money?’

  ‘No, not so much…’

  There’s something else he wants to say, so I wait.

  ‘I know that you’re busy, don’t get me wrong, I know Ava’s a full time job and then some. It’s just that I wonder if you’re…bored?’

  Bored. The word stops me. Do I have the right to be bored? Isn’t what I’m doing too important to be boring? It’s too hard to think about, so I change the subject.

  ‘I don’t think I can make those sorts of films again. It seems unbearable now, to immerse myself in human misery. I don’t have the fight in me anymore.’

  ‘What about the snappyhappy stories, then?’

  ‘Is there such a thing?’

  I look over at Dan, in his pyjamas already, even though it’s only 8pm. I try to conjure some feeling towards him, something warm, but there is nothing. No hatred, but no love either. Is there such a thing as a complete absence of feeling in a marriage? It’s not supposed to work that way. Shouldn’t I at least be mad at him?

  There’s nothing snappyhappy about the look Dan is giving me, nor about the look I’m giving him, I suppose. I’ve slipped into the cracks of my life and it’s dark in here. Dan turns to the remote and settles on a channel – reality TV somethingorother.

  DONNA AND DAMIEN

  Jesus and the Tsunami

  Donna and Damien sit on a rolled-up swag in the tray of Damien’s ute, huddled against the bellowing, cantankerous wind. Behind them is the headland: a colossal cyst on the arid landscape of the peninsula just out of town. Gulls swoop and dive in the winds that squall up the cliff. In the water the last surfer of the day dangles his legs over the sides of his board.

  The swig Donna takes from the can of bourbon premix fizzes down her throat. She passes the can to Damien and watches his long hair get all caught up in the wind, his fringe upright in shards like the jagged volcanic rocks below them, before abruptly falling flat over his face. He’s wearing his ‘fuck you world’ expression.

  ‘I feel like I could jump off the cliff and fly. Lift off with the wind,’ says Donna.

  Damien ignores her.

  ‘How’d you go today, Don?’ He is asking about her job, but Donna doesn’t want to think about that now.

  ‘S’alright,’ she shrugs. ‘Nothing to say, hey.’

  He turns away and his fringe whips up and flies into the air. Take off! Donna wishes she could do that. Take off!

  She knows Damien is waiting for her to ask about his old man. She doesn’t want to think about that either.

  ‘Whadya reckon would happen if one of them waves came here, you know, like in Japan or New York? One a them huge motherfuckers that wipes out the whole city? Even the Drive would be gone, wiped off the face of the planet,’ Donna says. />
  ‘Them waves won’t ever come here, nothing to wipe out. Be pointless.’

  Donna laughs and the sound of it is carried away, over the ochre cliff and into the quiet cove behind them where old fishers pull in nets dangling with crabs.

  ‘Nah, seriously, if it did. And we were up here. We might be the only people left. If one of them waves came right now, boom! and wiped out everything in the whole sorry place. Then the tide got sucked back out to sea, and took them all with it. People, houses, dogs and cats. Then what?’

  ‘Christ, Don, you’re bloody tragic tonight.’

  ‘I know.’

  She takes a drag. Her cigarette is almost gone, even though she’s only just lit it.

  ‘Bloody wind,’ she says.

  The lone surfer paddles to shore.

  ‘Shark bait’s comin’ in,’ says Damien.

  ‘He’d be dead,’ Donna says with a nod of her head.

  ‘Ease up, babe,’ Damien says. ‘D’ya wanna go get a pizza?’

  ‘No money.’

  ‘My shout,’ Damien says.

  ‘Alright then. A bit later, hey.’

  Donna thinks about all the old people down there at sea level and doesn’t want to go back down just yet.

  ‘Me old man’s back in hospital,’ Damien says.

  ‘I’m sorry, babe,’ she says, but secretly she wishes he hadn’t told her. She’d been imagining a wave the size of a ten-storey building crashing down on her parents’ house, smashing it into toothpicks. She pictures her collie, Jesus, old now and imagines him clinging to a piece of smashed plasterboard and making it to dry land while her parents and big brother drown in a turban-swirl of foaming, angry water.

  ‘What’s it this time?’