Elegy

by Jane Abbott

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked at last.

  Jenny nodded slowly. ‘Are you?’

  His only reply was to lower his mouth to hers.

  ii

  Cait didn’t push Michael when he rejected everything she’d said; she knew it would take time. It always did. In fact, she was almost glad of it, because she needed time too. So she gave him space and let him be, seeking no argument. Besides, it was difficult to argue with someone who wouldn’t speak to her, who left the room as she entered and looked the other way when she tried to catch his eye, who closed his mind and his heart to possibility and denied his fate. It was hard to argue with someone already at war with himself.

  Instead, the two disintegrated into a mess of bitterness and blame. It wasn’t the first time and Cait knew it wouldn’t be the last. If she worried about anyone, it was Gabe. He was the one who was forced to watch them unravel and who might never witness their glory. And she felt regret for those she’d known and loved and lost, those who’d died for them and with them and because of them and who were now unmade. Michael couldn’t remember and Cait was never able to forget. There is balance in all things.

  She watched him with the girl, saw him struggle to marry his new knowledge with the old, to deny who he was for the boy he wanted to be. She didn’t doubt the girl loved him – or imagined she did; Cait recognised that longing, for it mirrored her own. And wasn’t she, too, teased by each of his kisses and every caress? But Michael wasn’t for Jenny, and Cait allowing him time to come to terms with his fate wasn’t the same as letting him waste it. As his power slowly took hold, and his frustration grew, she was forced at last to confront him.

  When lovely woman stoops to folly,

  And finds too late that men betray,

  What charm can sooth her melancholy,

  What art can wash her guilt away?

  OLIVER GOLDSMITH, The Vicar of Wakefield

  VII

  It’ll be fine. Michael will take care of you. He’ll be gentle and everything will be fine. This was what Jenny’s heart said, over and over, insisting that it was her idea, that everyone else had done it, that the time had finally come and she had to stop being such a baby; she needed to stop freaking out. It was no big deal.

  But her head wasn’t convinced, because it was a big deal. And it didn’t matter that she’d just be doing what everyone assumed she’d already done. It didn’t matter that others had done it before her. It was a big deal and she couldn’t help feeling nervous. And she didn’t understand why, because Michael was ‘the one’. She was sure of it.

  She’d had her share of boyfriends, though none had ever been serious. Unlike some of her friends, who were always falling in and out of love and jumping in and out of beds or the backs of cars, she’d never been with a boy who’d made her feel the way Michael did. But all those feelings, the longing that had sprung and twisted inside her until she wanted to burst, now worried her. As was the case with most things concerning Michael, she couldn’t help but feel a little confused. A little afraid.

  Lying in bed on Friday night, all Jenny heard were Kylie’s words from weeks earlier, when she’d sat in that chair in the corner, so eager for gossip. And she couldn’t sleep because every time she closed her eyes she felt Michael’s mouth on hers, his slow kisses trailing under her jaw and down her neck. She knew this wouldn’t be his first time. He’d never said, but he hadn’t had to. Maybe it was a good thing, she thought, because one of them would know what to do. She tried not to think about just how experienced he was.

  Is he as kinky as they say?

  Jenny shivered, suddenly cold.

  On the Saturday, she stayed in her room, convinced that if her parents saw her they’d know. How could anyone not? But all it did was give her more time to worry and obsess. What if Michael didn’t like her body? He’d seen most of it, had touched some of it. But not all of it. What if she didn’t measure up? She tried to remember everything she’d read and seen and heard, all the talk about best positions, about expectations, and none of it helped. And she wondered what Michael was thinking, whether he was nervous too. Are you sure? He hadn’t nodded like she had. He hadn’t actually said yes, had he? And this made her worry even more.

  The clothes piled up on her bed. She’d changed them a thousand times, which was stupid, because surely the whole point was to take them off? She stuffed and restuffed her backpack, not knowing what to take. She hadn’t thought about protection; they hadn’t discussed it. Should she text him and ask? She assumed Michael would take care of it, then wondered if she should buy something in town, except there was nowhere she could get it without seeing someone she knew. Small-town problems. What if it really did hurt? Some girls said it did, others disagreed. Sometimes there was blood, sometimes there wasn’t. So the questions circled, and the doubts niggled.

  Stop overthinking it, you idiot!

  She left earlier than planned because she couldn’t bear it any longer, and she’d rather wait alone at the shed than alone in her room. She wished they’d just done it the afternoon before, got it over with, even if it had had to be quick. Oh God, was it going to be quick? Too quick? She’d heard friends laugh about it, making fun of the boys who were way too eager. Would Michael be one of those?

  Jenny hadn’t spoken to anyone about him – not even her friends in Melbourne. When they asked about boys – if she’d met any, what they were like – making jokes about farm boys and hicks, she kept quiet, unsure of what to say or how to describe him. Only now she wished she hadn’t because she couldn’t turn to them for advice; and the one person she might have asked, she didn’t want to, worried he’d laugh or, worse, judge her like everyone else. And that wouldn’t be fair, she thought. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t done the same thing a hundred times himself, if even half the stories were true.

  The first thing she noticed as she neared the shed was the bike – not one she recognised – standing alongside Michael’s. Maybe Gabe was there too, and she prayed he wouldn’t stay long, certain that if he saw her – saw the bag – he’d know. But perhaps Michael had already told him. Maybe they talked about that sort of thing, laughing together over every conquest, chalking them up on a board.

  Is he as kinky as they say?

  She paused by the fence, fretful and nervous, before telling herself that Gabe wasn’t like that, that he’d never treat a girl that way. And she was sure Michael wouldn’t either. Except hadn’t they all bet on her at the party? All of them laying down money that she’d be so easy. Gabe hadn’t, though. He’d known nothing about the bet until after it was over. He’d been as much in the dark as she had. Of course, he’d probably just laughed about it afterwards while she’d cried.

  So Jenny wavered, the voices in her head tugging one way, her heart pulling the other. Telling herself she was there to be with Michael, she took a deep breath to blow out her fears, banished any doubts and slipped between the wires to climb the small rise to the shed. Our place, she thought, and no one else’s.

  As she approached the rear wall, she heard voices. She stopped, unsure what to do or where to go. It wasn’t Gabe. The voices rose and, as the argument heated and raged, Jenny was torn between her shame at overhearing and the desire to learn more. The contest was brief; curiosity won, and she crept alongside the shed, ducking behind the old gum tree that leaned near one corner. But she could have stood in plain view, waving her arms and calling, and the two inside still wouldn’t have noticed her.

  Michael and Caitlin faced each other, their rage filling the shed until it rattled. He towered over her, black and boiling, and in his shadow she was the lightning, fierce and dazzling white. There was a wild beauty to it; their words were wind, rushed and tangled. Caitlin yelled, Michael yelled back, she screamed, he shouted, she grabbed his arm, he shook it off, she shoved him and he raised a hand to hit her. No! Jenny wanted to cry out, but cowered instead, flinching, already feeling the blow. Caitlin stood her ground, and when Michael cursed and slammed his fist into the s
hed wall, it rang like a gong.

  Panting, Caitlin glared at him for a moment before stalking over to the bike, kicking it to life and riding away. Michael’s anger spilled out in waves and rolled over the grass, a wall of heat. Jenny felt its strength like a physical thing; it left her cold and trembling. Then it passed and there was only Michael, staring at his broken hand.

  He curled and uncurled his fist, almost curiously, as though fascinated by the damage he’d done. The skin was torn, and with each clench it bled more, becoming a red wet glove. The knuckles looked odd and out of place, and when he flexed his fingers, Jenny could see they were broken. She stuffed her fist in her mouth to stop herself from crying out.

  Then he shook his head and she saw him smile, a kind of grimace that stretched his mouth wide. He straightened and a hush descended, as it had the night of the party, and Jenny flinched, remembering. Michael murmured something, just a single word, but instead of that terrible noise there was a long, low sigh, as though the whole world breathed out, and the grass rippled and trees bowed in its wake. His hand almost shimmered, and she watched, horrified, as it reformed, each finger reset, every knuckle made whole, while his skin spread and rejoined, sealing the wounds.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Jenny moaned, pushing away from the tree, and Michael saw her for the first time.

  ‘Jenny,’ he called. It was a summons, a command, and she found herself drawn, despite her fear.

  Stumbling across, she let him hold her, cling to her. Bending, he pressed his forehead to hers, breathing sharp, ragged breaths, and she grabbed his shirt to steady him, so afraid – why did he always scare her? – holding the fabric tight with both hands, staring at its blackness and seeing nothing else. Black. Just black. She twisted the material, pulling it away from his skin, bunching it in her fists. Her hands trembled.

  Black. She thought of Caitlin, so different, reading in the garden in her dress, walking with the dog, confronting Michael in the shed and meeting his rage.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Michael was whispering. ‘God, I’m so sorry.’

  He was apologising for his hand, of course, for scaring her again, but it was too late for that. And it didn’t matter anyway because Jenny wasn’t scared. She was angry – furious – and so, so hurt.

  Jealous? Don’t worry. That’s just Caitlin, his sister.

  She remembered Caitlin’s attentiveness at school, shepherding and guarding him before he’d rejected her, and she felt sick, knowing, at last, the answer to the question she’d asked him so long ago at the party, the one he’d not been able to answer. She knew why Michael always wore black – it was because Caitlin always wore white.

  Jenny pushed herself away from him, wriggling from his grasp and, surprised, he let her go.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were there. I’m sorry,’ he said again, not understanding.

  ‘Oh God!’ she cried. ‘I’ve been so blind. So stupid and so blind!’

  He reached for her again, puzzled now, but she scurried back.

  ‘No! Don’t touch me!’ And she left him standing in the doorway of the shed, alone in that place that had been theirs for such a brief time.

  She barely saw the track, or the railway line, or the river. She cried and sobbed and stumbled. How could she have been such an idiot? Was there anyone alive on the planet as stupid as her? Was that even possible? Dumb, dumb, dumb! It’d been right in front of her the whole time, and she was so angry. With Michael and Caitlin. With Gabe. With herself. But she was also relieved to have escaped utter humiliation. Had she found out afterwards, it would’ve been so much worse. She started to run, across the bridge and up the path to the gardens. She longed to hug her mother, to tell her father he’d been right, to apologise to Chris. I’ll never tell another lie, I’ll never tell another lie, I promise, I’ll never tell –

  ‘Finished so soon?’

  Casey stepped out onto the path and Jenny barged right into him, bouncing off his solid bulk and falling back with a yelp. She wiped her face, not wanting him to see, but her skin was hot, her eyes swollen.

  ‘Rushed the job, did he? Or maybe he wasn’t up to scratch.’ Bending over her, he leered and slowly, deliberately, licked his lips. ‘Shame. I was lookin’ forward to the show.’

  Revulsion surged as Jenny remembered the noises she’d heard walking to and from the farm, the cracking of twigs and the rustling of leaves. She thought of the shed, of the times she and Michael had lain together on the blanket, of his kisses on her skin and his hands on her body … Oh God! Now even that had been ruined.

  ‘You’re disgusting!’ Squaring her shoulders, she moved to walk past, but he stepped in front, blocking the path.

  He laughed. ‘I’m disgusting? I’m not the one screwing my sister.’

  Jenny groaned and clutched her stomach, trying not to vomit, wanting to shut him up, to tell him he was wrong. But, of course, she couldn’t.

  ‘So I’m right,’ he said, fixing his dead eyes on her face, his own a sudden mask of fury. She watched it contort and resettle, as though a serpent had coiled itself under his skin. ‘Well, well. You think he and his brother take turns?’

  ‘Stop it!’ she cried. ‘It’s not like that. And leave Gabe out of it.’

  He held up both hands in mock surrender. His arm was free of the plaster cast, but it didn’t look right, the skin stretched tight and scored by long red welts, like he’d been worrying at it. ‘Aw, hit a nerve, did I? Maybe you fancy Golden Boy instead. Maybe that’s the problem.’

  ‘No,’ she whispered, stunned by his warped mind, horrified when he scratched at his arm, his nails gouging the skin, drawing blood. He didn’t seem to notice. She felt in her pocket for her phone and realised it wasn’t there; she’d switched it off earlier and tucked it into her backpack.

  ‘Now I wonder what old Jim’d do if he found out what was goin’ on. I wonder if he might not have something to say about it.’

  ‘You’re sick,’ she gasped again, backing away. ‘Really, really sick.’

  Casey snorted. ‘Maybe, but something tells me I’m going to get better real soon.’

  He strolled away towards the town and Jenny waited as long as she could – until he was almost out of sight – before leaning against a tree and retching, all her misery spilling out onto the ground.

  She let herself into the house quietly. Her mother was in the kitchen; Jenny could hear the chop-chop of knife on wood and the clatter of pots. Chris was watching TV in the living room, and Jenny tiptoed past, desperate to make it to her room unnoticed.

  ‘Jenny?’ her mum called. She’d always had ears like a bat.

  Ducking inside, Jenny closed the door with a soft click and fell onto the bed, the pillow over her face. Don’t come in here, don’t come in, don’t –

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Her mother’s voice was sharp, needling.

  ‘Get out!’ Jenny yelled.

  But her mother didn’t, and her voice only hardened, not a needle any more but a knife, serrated and grating. ‘Weren’t you at Kylie’s?’

  Jenny groaned. I’ll never tell another lie, I’ll never – ‘Yes,’ she mumbled through the pillow. ‘But I felt sick, so I came home. Give me a minute. Please!’

  The door shut, and she breathed again. Until the pillow was yanked away and her mother was there, standing over her.

  ‘What the …? Get out!’ Jenny screamed.

  ‘Tell me where you’ve been.’

  ‘I told you! At Kylie’s. I felt sick and you’re making it worse. So leave me alone!’ Jenny made a grab for the pillow, but it was held up and away, out of reach.

  ‘Well, in that case, you can imagine my surprise when I saw Kylie at the supermarket this afternoon. You can imagine my embarrassment when she told me she knew nothing about you staying over. You can imagine my concern when I called you – I can’t remember how many times – and couldn’t get hold of you.’ Her mother had lowered her voice, but somehow it was worse.

  Feeling her stomach heave, Jenny rolled away
, but her mum grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back.

  ‘And I’m sure you can imagine my shame when Kylie told me she hasn’t seen you at the pool for weeks,’ she hissed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jenny whispered, staring up at her, seeing the hurt, understanding it. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m –’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re just sorry you got caught.’ Her mother’s voice cracked, becoming brittle. ‘God, you’re just like your father. I will not be lied to any more, Jenny. Do you hear me?’

  I’ll be revenged on the whole pack of you.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Twelfth Night

  VIII

  Gabe didn’t see Jenny at school for two days, and she didn’t return any of his messages. So when he spotted her at recess on the Wednesday, sitting alone and looking utterly miserable, he hauled her up and marched her out of the grounds to the park behind the oval. ‘Bugger school,’ he said, when she protested. ‘Tell me what’s happened. Michael’s not talking and you look like hell. You two have a fight?’

  She stared at him for a long time while her eyes swelled with tears. ‘No,’ she sobbed. ‘They did. Michael and Caitlin. My parents. Oh God, Gabe, everything’s so wrong!’

  Then it poured out, the whole story – what she’d seen and understood, how she felt. She told him about Casey and his filthy words, how stupid she’d been, how humiliated she was. And she told him about her parents and her mother’s accusations. Gabe took her hand and held it until she’d finished, but the tears kept coming. Wondering how best to ease her hurt, he opted, as he always did, for the truth. What he knew of it, anyway.

  ‘You know, Cait’s always been a bit weird,’ he said. ‘She’s always held back, never got involved in anything. She and Michael were never close. He tried at first, but she kept pushing him away and after a while he gave up. Can’t really blame him. All they did was argue, all the bloody time. It used to drive me nuts, but then, the night of the party, something changed.’