It's Not All About YOU, Calma!

by Barry Jonsberg

  It took a moment for the Fridge to recover her composure. She looked faintly sick and her brow was rumpled as if with a migraine. She placed her knife and fork slowly down onto her plate.

  ‘Not now, Mike, please. This is my daughter’s birthday meal. I’ll call you later.’

  He grabbed her wrist.

  ‘Not “later”, Jean. Now. Outside.’

  Jason was on his feet immediately. Nessa’s dad turned his head slowly and looked at him like he was something you’d find on the bottom of your shoe.

  ‘Can I help you, sonny?’ he said.

  There was silence. I could feel tension knotting my muscles. The Fridge twisted her hand to break the grip. She kept her head lowered.

  ‘I’m not going outside with you, Mike. I’m not going anywhere with you. It’s finished. Don’t you understand that?’

  The expression on his face darkened. Rage writhed across his features. He slammed his fist down on the table and a jug fell over. A stream of water flowed across the tablecloth and onto the floor. The only noise in the whole restaurant was the sound of dripping. He bent his head towards the Fridge.

  ‘No one does this to me. Do you hear me? No one.’ His voice was low and tight with malice. ‘I decide when things are over. I decide. And you are going to regret this. Trust me. You are going to seriously regret this.’

  ‘Dad, please . . .’

  He jabbed a finger towards Vanessa and she cringed back in her chair.

  ‘And as for you . . .’he said. ‘You are going to wish you were never born.’

  ‘It’s too late for that, Mike,’ said the Fridge. ‘She must already feel like that, thanks to you. But it’s finished. You are never going to hurt any of us again.’

  It was like she had slapped his face. He took a step back and then the storm he carried within broke. His voice crashed over us, like thunder.

  ‘You bitch!’ he screamed. He clenched his fist and drew it back. At that moment I wasn’t aware of doing anything, but I stood and my hand gripped something. In the second before his fist would have slammed into my mother’s face I brought forth lightning to match his thunder. The flash froze him. I held my phone up. The image was small but clear. You could see the arm raised and poised to strike, his features snarled into a grimace of dark joy. And there, cowering under the fist, a tired, frail and scared woman. I pointed the phone at him like it was a crucifix and he was the devil. He even stepped back a pace or two.

  ‘I’m calling the police,’ I said. ‘You’re through, Collins. We have witnesses,’ I pointed around the restaurant, ‘and we have photographic evidence.’ I dialled the number. ‘You have a couple of minutes to run for your miserable life. Enjoy those minutes, because I promise you’ll pay for your crimes. Calma Harrison will never rest until you pay.’

  He glanced nervously over his shoulder, as if realising what he’d done. He didn’t look so menacing now. As I talked to the police, he dashed to the front door, changed his mind and ran towards the restaurant’s toilets. He was going for a back door, but it wouldn’t do him any good. I had meant every word.

  We sat at the table and waited for the police. The customers around us had started talking again. Shock was starting to bite. I kept my head down and tried to suppress the tears threatening to overflow. I felt a hand on my arm.

  ‘Thanks, Calma,’ said Vanessa. ‘I feel safe now, safe for the first time in years. And it’s all because of you.’

  I smiled and glanced over at the Fridge. She was smiling as well.

  ‘I was a fool,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t see it. I probably didn’t want to see it. Thank God you were watching over me, Calma.’

  I couldn’t say anything. My emotions were too tightly wound. Jason looked at me and there was admiration in his eyes. Admiration and . . . something more.

  We held hands, the four of us, and waited for the police to come. A siren droned in the distance. It was getting closer. I felt at peace.

  Manuscript ends

  Manuscript starts again . . .

  I remember Dad reading me a bedtime story, Little Red Riding Hood, when I was four or five. I hated that story. I didn’t want Granny to be eaten. I didn’t want the wolf to die. The best ending, it seemed to me, was for them to sort themselves out and become friends. Maybe the wolf could enrol in an anger management program, Granny could get hormone replacement therapy, Little Red Riding Hood could grasp the basics of stranger-danger and they’d live out their lives happily, going on picnics and playing lawn bowls. Each time Dad read me the story, I’d hope for a different ending. But it never happened. The story had its own inflexible pattern. Maybe that’s where it started – this disappointment when nothing turns out as you expect.

  I tried, but it didn’t work. You can’t mess around with story. You can’t mess around with life. I’ve learned so much recently. And one of the things I’ve learned is this: there is a difference between an unreliable narrator and a narrator who turns her back on the truth. You can like the first, but the second is contemptible. I can’t expect you to like me. No. I can’t expect that. But I can’t bear your contempt.

  So. I need to tell you what really happened, and to do that, we must revisit the restaurant. Even – especially – if the visit is painful for the narrator.

  ReWND™

  Once we’d ordered, Jason showed me how to use the camera on the phone and I snapped away happily. I took pix of the three of them, the Fridge in the middle with her arms around Jason and Nessa. I took pix of my pressies. I even got Jason to take one with his phone of my phone. I balanced it up against the Buddha so it appeared that the divine one was ordering a pizza. Boy, this wine was strong.

  Halfway through the entree, a waiter tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your meal, madam, but there is a gentleman asking to speak to you. In the takeaway area.’ He pointed towards a glass door next to the bar. My expression must have been puzzled, because he added hastily, ‘He apologises, but assures it won’t take a moment.’

  I raised my eyebrows, but no one offered any advice, though I noticed the Fridge kept her head over her plate. I followed the waiter into a small area with a counter and a few chairs against the wall. There was a large takeaway menu above the counter, next to a television mounted on a bracket. A news-reader was talking earnestly, but I didn’t pay attention. The waiter gestured towards a man standing by the outer door and then ducked back into the restaurant.

  My father.

  I noticed, on the periphery of my vision, a woman sitting on a chair, flicking through a magazine while she waited for her food. I kept my eyes fixed on my father. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe I resented the intrusion into an intimate occasion. Whatever. His face irritated me. I folded my arms and glanced pointedly at my watch.

  ‘Hello, Calma,’ he said.

  ‘This is a private function,’ I replied. ‘If you’ve got something to say, be quick. I need to get back to my guests.’

  He shifted nervously on his feet and placed the tips of his fingers together.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Your Mum told me you’d be here. And I wouldn’t have come but...’He waved his hands vaguely. ‘I’ve run out of time. We’re leaving tonight. Back to Sydney, on the midnight flight.’

  I said nothing. We?

  ‘We never got the chance to talk,’ he continued. ‘Maybe your mum’ll tell you what I wanted to say. If nothing else, I want you to know I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused.’

  I snorted. Words are so cheap.

  He made a movement towards me, the stirring of an embrace choked before it found life. For a brief moment, he stood there, arms stretched tentatively, before he dropped them to his sides.

  ‘Goodbye, Calma.’

  The woman stood and threw the magazine on a littered coffee table. She moved to my dad’s side and put an arm around his waist. It was so unexpected I felt paralysed, even as I recognised her. The woman from Crazi-Cheep. The woman I had overcharged. The woman with the laug
h. Kindness was still printed on her face, but overlaid with a patina of sadness. She looked into my dad’s face, smiled and brushed something from his cheek. My stomach lurched at the pure affection in the gesture. She turned her eyes to me.

  ‘It’s been lovely meeting you, Calma. Thanks again for the laughs. I had hoped we . . . well, maybe under different circumstances . . .’ She smiled, and it was warm, genuine. I didn’t hear the door open behind me. I didn’t know the Fridge was there until she moved past and into my line of vision. She hugged my father and then the woman. They kissed cheeks.

  ‘Goodbye, Bob. Sally. Great to see you. Have a good flight and stay in touch.’

  ‘Thanks, Jean. Look after yourself. And Calma, of course. We’ll ring.’

  ‘Do that.’

  I couldn’t move. It was as if my muscles had locked while my brain grappled with things I couldn’t understand. They moved towards the door and I did nothing to stop them. The woman had her hand on the doorknob when my father turned. He was smiling slightly.

  ‘Just thought I’d tell you. Love the hairdo. Very chic. Very New Age.’

  My reply was out before I knew it. I noted, distantly, that my voice was low and brittle.

  ‘Shave-for-a-cure. The Leukaemia Foundation.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’His smile widened. ‘And I appreciate it.’

  And then they were gone, swallowed by darkness. The glass door reflected the wood panelling on the wall. It shimmied slightly until the latch caught. Everything was still, apart from the drone of the TV. The Fridge put an arm around my shoulder. I stared at the door.

  ‘Who was she?’ I said.

  ‘Sally Harrison. Your dad’s wife. Your step-mum.’

  ‘She’s the barmaid?’ I didn’t get it. The Fridge sighed and sat me down in a worn chair. She took the seat next to me.commercials jingled on the TV.

  ‘Calma,’ she said. Her voice was quiet, soothing. ‘There was no barmaid.’

  ‘But you told me . . .’

  ‘No. I never said she was a barmaid. She was the service manager in a hotel here. I told you that. Many times. But you wouldn’t listen. You had an image in your head and nothing would budge it. Not even the truth.’

  I shook my head. This was seriously weird.

  ‘He didn’t contact me. He never tried to tell me . . .’

  The Fridge took my hands in hers.

  ‘Calma, he sent you letters. You ripped them up. He phoned. You refused to take the calls. Eventually he gave up. But he tried. He tried for years. The sad truth is, you didn’t.’

  I stood up, and paced. What the Fridge was saying didn’t gel with my memories. I was confused. I stopped under the TV and faced her. Something strange rose from the turmoil of my thoughts.

  ‘He didn’t come back for a reconciliation,’ I said.

  The Fridge laughed.

  ‘He’s happily married, Calma. I’m happy that he’s happy. And, no, he never wanted that sort of reconciliation. Bob and I were reconciled long ago. All he wanted was to talk to you. Simple as that.’

  ‘I was wrong.’ It was a disturbing conclusion. I had difficulty even uttering the words. The Fridge smiled.

  ‘You were wrong.’

  There were too many things churning in my mind. I sat down again, head in hands, and dimly heard Jason come in. He talked to the Fridge, asked if I was okay, and the Fridge told him to give us a couple more minutes. The door closed. The wine didn’t help. I was trying to pin things down, get them arranged neatly in my mind, but the alcohol swirled them away. At least I’d helped the Fridge and Nessa. That was a comfort and I clung to it like a lifeline. We didn’t have to worry about Mike Collins. Inspector Mike Collins.

  Wait a moment. I hadn’t thought that. The words continued and they were out there somewhere. In the room.

  ‘Inspector Mike Collins was unavailable for comment, but it is understood he led the investigation, codename Royal Flush, which resulted in the arrest earlier today of four senior employees at the city casino. Charges of fraud are expected to be laid and sources at the casino indicate the alleged scam involved hundreds of thousands of dollars. And now for sport . . .’

  The television presenter gave a smile and the screen changed. I turned, slowly, robotically, towards the Fridge. She gazed at the floor and scratched her nose.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘You were wrong about that, too.’

  We didn’t finish the meal. We didn’t even get through our main course. To be honest, I don’t remember much. The Fridge and I went back in, but I didn’t have an appetite. Jason asked me if I was all right and I shouted at him. Told him to mind his own business. Something horrible, anyway. He left. Pushed his chair back and stormed out. I didn’t stop him. Nessa was biting her nails. She looked terrified. No one objected when the Fridge suggested we go. She paid the bill and we left. I sat in the back of the car. The Fridge dropped Vanessa off at home and we watched as her mum let her in. I said nothing the entire trip. Too much mental chaos.

  It’s strange. Sometimes, a little thing can stick in your mind, demanding attention. Even if you are overwhelmed with other, more important, thoughts. It was like a mental splinter. Whenever my mind brushed it, it pricked. We were pulling into our driveway.

  ‘What did Dad mean by appreciating it? My shave-for-leukaemia?’

  The Fridge turned off the engine and sighed. I watched the back of her head. The engine ticked as it cooled.

  ‘We need to talk,’ she said.

  ‘What did he mean?’

  ‘He’s dying, Calma. That’s what he came to tell you.’

  From: Miss Moss

  To: Calma Harrison

  Subject: Improvisation

  Calma,

  Do you remember the saxophone? I sometimes bring it to class to make a point about writing. Too many people think they know words, simply because they use them in everyday situations. They never learn what language can and cannot do. My analogy is that it is impossible to create unique, meaningful music from a saxophone, unless you know the rules of music first and have practised extensively. Only then can you improvise, find your own voice, maybe by breaking those rules.

  You have put time into your scales, Calma. Now compose your own music, in your own way.

  Play for me.

  Miss Moss

  The blank page

  The blank page lies before me, still:

  White space that I can fill

  With worlds and lives within them.

  I aim to share this God-like stratagem,

  To unfold all from nothingness to being

  And, in black ink, reflect what I am seeing.

  Yet words are fires against my dark self-doubt,

  I write to flush the shifting shadows out.

  And if I stop to think, it seems

  Tomorrows are a set of different pages

  On which to write. The future teems

  With what might be. Though story’s torrent rages,

  Sweeps characters from was to will be,

  I know I have the mind and heart

  To plot my course and follow where it leads me.

  I start where all the worthwhile journeys start:

  White space that I can fill – The blank page lies before me still.

  Chapter 26

  Fallout

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

  We sat in the kitchen. A box with a birthday cake in it was on the table between us. The restaurant had kept it out the back, waiting for the signal from the Fridge to bring it in, ablaze with seventeen candles. The signal never came.

  ‘I couldn’t, Calma.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Your father wanted to tell you himself. He said he had messed up the last time and it was his responsibility to repair some of the damage. I couldn’t take that away from him.’

  I was drinking water to wash away the alcohol and the confusion. It wasn’t working. There were so many questions and I didn�
��t know where to start. So I just let them pop out by themselves.

  ‘What about Vanessa? Those cuts and scratches. Her dad did them. Her mum more or less told me.’

  Mum topped up her wine glass. She’d opened a bottle as soon as we got in. There wasn’t much left.

  ‘I talked to Vanessa’s mother,’ she said, running a finger around the rim of the glass. ‘She came to see me at the end of my shift. That’s partly why I was late for the restaurant. She was almost hysterical. Poured out all this stuff about you coming round, making outrageous accusations.’

  ‘But she didn’t deny them. She just sat there. Her silence told me all I needed to know.’ I was working up some indignation. I wasn’t completely wrong. I couldn’t be.

  The Fridge looked so tired. She tipped her glass and contemplated the liquid swishing around.

  ‘I’m sure her silence spoke volumes. Trouble is, you weren’t listening. She was stunned, Calma. Look at it from her point of view. She opens the door and there’s her daughter’s best friend, who casually informs her that she – the wife – has been physically and emotionally abused by her ex-husband. Worse, that he is now abusing her daughter. She knows it’s nonsense, but she doesn’t know how to react. She just wants you out of the house. Of course she kept quiet. It was the quickest way to get rid of you.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘That can’t be right. What about the cuts and scratches? I saw them, Mum. They didn’t happen by themselves and they didn’t happen by accident. Someone did that to her.’

  The Fridge finished what was in her glass and went to pour another. She examined the contents of the bottle and thought better of it.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re right. Someone did. That was another reason I was late. I talked to Mike. He wasn’t keen to discuss it, but I pushed him. There’s a long history, Calma. It’s been happening for years. Vanessa does it herself. She’s a self-harmer.’

  We talked for hours. I brought up the episode in the police station, when Nessa’s dad had undressed me with his eyes. Slime-ball.

  ‘No,’ said the Fridge.

  He was staring at me. He recognised my name. There aren’t many Calma Harrisons, after all. He was curious. In fact, he volunteered to interview me, even though robbery wasn’t his area. He was in the fraud section. I was distraught. I was mistaken. Could I have been mistaken? I thought back. I hadn’t looked directly at him, just felt his eyes on me. It was possible.