It's Not All About YOU, Calma!

by Barry Jonsberg

  I just wasn’t looking forward to it.

  I also thought about the Fridge. My sneaking around had come up with absolutely nothing and, what with the Vanessa business, I’d placed the mystery surrounding her on the emotional and intellectual backburner. Still, she knew that I knew she was keeping a secret. What’s more, she was going to tell me about it. I resolved to demand a full revelation the next time I saw her. I was tired of lies and half-truths. To hell with whose responsibility it was to initiate the discussion. The time had come for an honest conversation, her and me.

  Then there was my father. He wanted to tell me something too. It was ironic. I was desperate for information from the Fridge, but she was saying nothing. I didn’t want information from my own father and he was desperate to give it. It’s a funny old world, isn’t it? I remembered the attempt he had made at the supermarket, just before the thieving, gun-toting runt had performed his impromptu command performance. I remembered also the feelings I had experienced after my father left Crazi-Cheep. That small, fleeting twinge of regret.

  Maybe I had been too hard on him. After all, the nastiness was in the past. By spurning him so completely and ruthlessly now, I was giving the impression he still had the means to inflict suffering. If I treated him politely, as a stranger, then I would show him he no longer had that power. In fact, politeness would be more humiliating for him, to be treated like some poor bugger at the front gate, trying to sell real estate, insurance or everlasting salvation. And what if he was going to beg for forgiveness, try and worm his way back into our affections? That didn’t mean he would succeed. I could hear him out and then politely tell him to go forth and multiply. It was the mature way of proceeding.

  That left Jason. I couldn’t tell him about Vanessa. I couldn’t tell anyone about Vanessa, let alone a guy I had known for about five minutes. Yet I wanted him to be there when I confronted her father. As moral and, maybe, physical support. Was that fair? Probably not, I thought. But perhaps it would be a test of his loyalty and good faith, to do something because I asked him, without reasons or explanations. Hmmm. I suspected I was rationalising my own dubious behaviour, but I couldn’t see a way round that either. I liked Jason. A lot. But I didn’t know him at all. I hoped I would get the opportunity, when all this was done.

  I tell you, with this degree of thinking going on, it was a muddle-headed Calma who opened the door to greet Jason when he turned up at five-thirty. It was a Calma who felt like going for a drive, maybe picking up a lump of fried mutant chicken and a bucket of greasy chips from the local drive-through, and having a pash in the front seat of the sports car. Not a ninja Calma preparing for battle.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ Jason asked, jingling the car keys in his hand and looking preternaturally spunky. ‘The world is our oyster. Provided we’re back by seven-thirty. There are highlights of the Premiership weekend fixtures and Liverpool kicked butt.’

  ‘Two hours to explore the oyster of the world and then back to watch football? Boy, you’re a real smooth operator, Jason. You could charm the birds out of the trees, you know?’

  His face fell.

  ‘We don’t have to watch football,’ he said, earnestly. ‘Not if you don’t fancy it.’

  I squeezed his arm.

  ‘I’m kidding,’ I said. ‘I’d love to watch soccer with you. There are some pressing questions you can answer about gonads, the offside trap and the role of flying snot.’

  Jason parked in the CBD and suggested we go to one of the cafés on the main strip. I suggested a walk. I had to get this done. I couldn’t sip hot chocolate and make small talk. My stomach was doing flips and they were getting worse the longer I delayed.

  I led Jason up Smith Street, a road running parallel to the main street. It was a good neighbourhood. Expensive units, with balconies and views over the city and ocean, lined the well-kept nature strips. Carefully tended palms arched over us as we walked. There was a chatter of lorikeets in a nearby tree and the sky was flushed with the first brushstrokes of sunset. It was peaceful.

  Number 37 was a block of apartments like the others, well-tended, with gleaming screen doors and taut shadecloth in intricate geometric patterns. I was dismayed to see the entrance to the apartments was through a locked gate – one that operated electronically, with an intercom. I didn’t want to ring Mr Collins. I wouldn’t know what to say. Can you let me in so I can insult you?

  As it turned out my luck was in. Or out, depending on your viewpoint. A woman came down the steps of the apartment block and pointed a remote control at the gate, which slid noiselessly open on its tracks. What a fantastic gadget! If you got bored with the TV remote you could always slip downstairs and get the gate to open and close continually. Maybe trap an unsuspecting old person in the mechanism.

  I left this little fantasy for future scrutiny and grabbed Jason’s hand. We ran the last twenty metres before the gate closed. If I’d thought about it, I’d have worried that Jason would be getting seriously bothered by my habit of running for no discernible reason. Maybe he thought I was suffering from an illness like Tourette syndrome, but instead of involuntary swearing, I had this overwhelming, sporadic urge to turn into an Olympic sprinter. I didn’t give him time to ask.

  We managed to slip inside the gate with seconds to spare. Jason gave me an odd look. His cigarette had fallen out of his mouth and he glanced back at it, smouldering on the road, with longing and regret. I made a resolution that when this was done, I’d turn my attention to his unsavoury addiction.

  ‘What’s going on, Calma?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing,’ I replied. ‘I just have to make a quick visit. Stand here. Don’t move. Watch me at all times.’

  The door to apartment five was on the ground floor, facing the gate. Convenient. Jason was clearly puzzled, but once again I didn’t allow him the opportunity to give me the third degree. Firming up my resolution, I marched to the door and knocked loudly.

  I am not ashamed to admit it. I was praying no one would be in.

  The door opened almost immediately and a man filled the available space. I opened my mouth to speak, but forgot how you go about it. Nerves, probably. All I could manage was a strangled grunt.

  While I waited to see if my nervous system could resurrect the correct procedure for speech, I took the opportunity to examine him more closely. He was in his forties and his most distinguishable feature was long, wavy hair. It had probably been blond at some stage but now it was streaked with grey. The word is ‘distinguished’. He had a Richard Gere look – that old actor who still manages to give women over the age of fifty palpitations. The Fridge would probably have been putty in his hands, but I reckoned he was in desperate need of a haircut. If I got the opportunity, I’d recommend Allessandro’s. I can’t stand ancient guys who think they’re hot crap because they still have flowing locks. Of course, it could have been worse. He could have had a ponytail. Tearing my gaze from his hair I met his eyes. They were blue and weak and sitting too close to his nose. Maybe it was my imagination, but I could see cruelty swimming just beneath the surface.

  He was well-dressed in a white, sleeveless shirt and grey flannel pants. He had a fairly good physique. He gave the impression of having lifted weights, but in the past. His jowls were just a little loose. Even so, he could probably blow me away with a sneeze. Suddenly, the presence of Jason behind me didn’t offer any comfort. It felt like I was confronting a charging rhinoceros with a koala for back-up.

  There was something familiar about him, too – apart from the similarity to a tired old actor. Maybe it was the family resemblance to Vanessa. There was something about the set of his eyes and the way his nose turned up slightly. Plus, he had freckles.

  All this observation took place in less than a second. I tried the mouth again and, to my surprise, it had finally reported for duty.

  ‘Mr Collins?’ I said.

  ‘Yes?’

  This was my chance to say something like, ‘I was wondering if I could interest you in
a time-share opportunity in a new building development on the Gaza Strip.’ But I didn’t take it.

  ‘I’m a friend of your daughter. Vanessa Aldrick.’

  ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘I know. It was you I wanted to see.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I wanted to tell you, Mr Collins, that I know what you’ve been doing to Vanessa. And I’m telling you to stop it. She doesn’t know I’m here. She doesn’t even know I know about it. She kept it to herself. But I do know. And if you lay a finger on her, ever again, then you will be sorry. Keep away from her, Mr Collins.’

  I didn’t have a clue what would happen next. To be honest, I was so glad to get the speech off my chest, even if it was a crap, weak-kneed speech, that I didn’t care too much. If he punched me, so be it. At least I’d had my say.

  He didn’t punch me, though. He stared at me. The feeling of familiarity grew. Something about his expression. He gave a tight smile. It was scarier than a punch.

  ‘Tell me, Calma,’ he said finally. ‘What makes you think you can come to my house and make wild, reckless accusations? What gives you the right?’

  I straightened my back and kept my eyes fixed on his. I couldn’t let him see any weakness. Did he call me Calma?

  ‘I will not hesitate to call the police, Mr Collins. Even without Vanessa’s knowledge or permission, I will notify the authorities.’

  The thin smile was still there and when he spoke it was with a terrifying softness.

  ‘Well, that should be interesting. You see, I am the police, Miss Harrison. I’m surprised you don’t remember me.’

  And that was the moment it all fell into place. The plainclothes officer in the interview room. The guy who was mentally undressing me while his colleague was off typing up my statement about the robbery at Crazi-Cheep. The realisation clubbed me on the back of the head. It left me feeling sick, angry and defeated. I stared blankly at him, only dimly aware of a woman’s voice coming from the depths of the apartment.

  ‘Mike? Who is it?’

  Vanessa’s dad turned to the side and I could see into the room behind. This whole experience had made me sick, but things suddenly took a turn for the worse. The Fridge walked out from a room and moved towards the front door, her expression changing from mild concern to shock as she recognised me.

  I turned and ran.

  See Calma run.

  Chapter 23

  Trying to move the Fridge

  I sat on the floor in front of the television, watching a program on the mating habits of the lesser-spotted aesthetically-challenged newt. The male of the species, despite its appearance, didn’t have problems attracting females. It cavorted around, waving disfigured limbs and inflating cheeks until it was touch-and-go whether its head would explode, and the females were falling over themselves, getting all hot and bothered and clearly thinking, ‘Phwoar, what a spunk!’ It’s a strange business, nature.

  Mind you, there were boys in my year who were similarly hideous yet also had no problem scoring.

  I was waiting for the Fridge to get home.

  Fact File

  Common name: The Fridge

  Scientific name: Rustus Westinghousius

  Habitat: Not often found in domestic houses, despite its common name, the Rustus Westinghousius is most comfortable in undesirable places of employment where it will remain for long periods of time, often to the detriment of its offspring. An elusive creature, it can occasionally be sighted during those infrequent moments when it rests.

  Mating habits: Mates once and then gives up the whole business as a bad job [see Baldus Shortarsius]. However, recent research indicates its libido can hibernate for years, springing back to life when placed in close proximity to a hairy slime-ball.

  Appearance: Careworn, solid, given to dowdy outfits from cheap department stores and in desperate need of a makeover.

  Toxicity: Can occasionally paralyse with one blow of its tongue at distances of up to twenty metres, but generally harmless.

  Status: Deeply worrying.

  Jason had come round, but I’d refused to answer the door.

  After the grisly appearance of the Fridge at the home of Vanessa’s father, I’d simply run. I can’t remember pushing past Jason at the gate. I can’t even remember how I’d got through the gate. Maybe I’d vaulted it. Maybe I’d run right through it, like they do in cartoons. All I could recollect was sitting at the side of a road, head in hands, my lungs screaming for air. People walked past me like I was invisible.

  Eventually I got the bus home. I still didn’t have keys, but there was a window round the back that was slightly open and I wriggled in. Jason turned up half an hour later. I wasn’t ready to talk to him, though I knew he deserved an explanation. It would have to wait.

  The phone rang a couple of times and I heard the click of the answering machine. Eventually, in case it was the Fridge ringing, I went and played back the messages. Two. Both from Jason. Both asking that I call him as soon as possible. I turned down the volume and went back to the living room. Waited.

  I was angry. I had plenty to be angry about. Nothing was working out at all. Everything was falling apart. And at the centre of the chaos was the Fridge and Vanessa’s dad. The trouble was, I didn’t have much in the way of hard information. All I had were questions. What was going on between them? Was it romance? How could the Fridge, even with her tragic history of choosing the wrong guy, go for someone like that? And what if I was wrong about Vanessa’s dad? There was no evidence. Nothing, as the saying goes, that would stand up in a court of law. All I had were feelings. The sensation when I felt his eyes running over my body in the police station. The coldness when he looked at me outside the apartment. Scratches that could have happened in a number of different ways, but which felt wrong. The atmosphere of nervousness in Vanessa’s house, a chill history of repression and violence you could taste.

  Only feelings. But sometimes, that’s enough. The feelings swirled in my head now, dark clouds building to a thunderhead. And one thought circled, again and again, splitting the brooding darkness like a flash of lightning. The Fridge had seen me at the apartment. She had seen me running. But that had been two hours ago. Didn’t I matter to her at all? By the time I heard tyres on the driveway, the clunk of a door closing and the grate of a key in the lock, I was a tight ball of resentment. I didn’t get up. I stared at the television screen, though I’d long since stopped watching. There was an explosion bottled within and I knew the slightest thing would trigger it.

  I sensed the Fridge behind me, but didn’t turn.

  ‘It’s about time we had a talk,’ she said.

  I pressed a button on the remote and the screen blinked into darkness. There was silence. I got up from the floor and sat in a chair. I didn’t look at her. The Fridge slung a bag off her shoulder and sat down wearily in the chair opposite. She sighed and rubbed at her eyes with both knuckles. I could pick up a lot from the edges of my vision.

  ‘What’s going on, Calma?’ she said eventually.

  ‘You tell me. I’m in the dark. Just where you want me to be.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. I haven’t got time for stupidity.’

  The trigger had been squeezed. I stood up.

  ‘No, of course you haven’t,’ I said. ‘You never have time. It’s in very short supply. Hey, if you’ve got somewhere to go, don’t let me keep you. I never have in the past.’

  ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘Yes you did, Mum. You did.’ I was pacing now. I needed movement. Energy sparked from me and I couldn’t control it. ‘It’s exactly what you mean. And I’m supposed to be grateful you can spare me a few precious moments. I’m your daughter, for Christ’s sake. Your daughter. What am I supposed to do? Make an appointment?’

  I couldn’t stop the tears pricking my eyes. I hated that. It made me angrier.

  ‘Calma, you’re right. You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. All right?’

  I kep
t pacing, but the Fridge was at the centre of my vision. She seemed smaller somehow. Maybe it was the size of my anger that made her appear that way. I forced my tears to stop.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere, okay?’ she continued. ‘Not until we’ve talked everything out. That’s a promise. I know I haven’t been around enough. I know I should have talked to you before. You deserve that. I’m sorry. All I can say is I’m sorry. Can we talk, Calma? Please?’

  I didn’t say anything as I paced. Apologies are so annoying. They chip away at your anger. I let the silence stretch. The Fridge leaned back in her chair and scratched at the palm of one hand, her eyes downcast. Little lines of worry were etched into her forehead.

  ‘I’ve been seeing Mike for about three weeks now. I wanted to tell you about it. I was going to tell you about it. Tonight, in fact.’

  I snorted.

  ‘It’s the truth,’ she said.

  ‘Out of curiosity,’ I said, ‘why didn’t you tell me before? I mean, it’s a fairly big deal, isn’t it? I’m assuming that when you say “seeing”, you mean a romance. Yeah?’

  The Fridge didn’t reply and my stomach lurched at the tacit admission. I hurried on.

  ‘So what is it about me that meant you couldn’t say anything? Come on, Mum, I can handle it. What huge character flaw do I possess that makes it impossible to share important information with me?’

  She didn’t stop the palm-scratching.

  ‘You’re not the easiest person in the world to talk to, Calma.’

  ‘I suppose I’m not. Talking requires people to share the same space. Or are you saying it’s difficult to be around me? Is that it? You can’t even bear to be in the same room as me?’

  She snapped her head up.

  ‘Of course not. I’m not saying this is your fault. It’s not. It’s mine. But at the same time, you’ve got to admit you make judgements quickly, and they’re not always nice or fair. I should have told you. But I wanted to find the right time. I’msorry.’