by Carrie Cox
This he now understands: something got stuck all those years ago. Something broke in a way that no-one deemed reparable, like one of those old cars left to rust in the outback.
Beam’s shoes are beside him and his feet are buried deep in the rough, wet sand. The hairs on his arms look brassy in the sun and the top of his head is burning. He should have worn a hat. Always forgets hats. Lionel Beam had once belted him into a half-open cupboard, his ear splitting on the handle, for forgetting to bring his hat home from school. Like a dog with a practised nose, Lionel had looked only in Harvey’s schoolbag, one of four lined up like sandbags near the front door, certain if not hopeful he would be the errant child again. In the hours when some men reached thirstily for a beer, Lionel Beam had looked to Harvey as his transitional activity between the working day and the quiet terror of sleep.
Now he is dead. And this, Beam thinks, is more than he can process today. More than he can process alone anyway, and certainly more than he can make sense of with his family. Not yet.
He lets his head burn. It’s going to hurt tomorrow.
‘Suze,’ Beam says finally, sloppy tears punctuating his voice down the phone line to Sydney. He had promised to call her when it happened, but he is really doing this for himself. Suze doesn’t always say the right thing, but it usually becomes the right thing at some point. And she has always been able to bring him back to the present.
‘Is he gone?’ she says, the roar of inner-west traffic buffeting her clipped syllables.
‘Yes,’ Beam says. ‘Last night.’
‘Well. About fucking time.’
31
For someone who shunned levity and coveted order, Lionel Beam had made surprisingly few stipulations about his funeral plans. No song requests. No preference or otherwise for a wake. No dying wish to be ultimately ignored by well-meaning family members. What few demands he had made resided in the care of Bryan, or so Bryan makes clear to his siblings as they sit around Naomi’s kitchen table the following morning.
It is a scene, Harvey thinks, surreptitiously touching his seared scalp, that any other family might assemble every day when a far-flung sibling visits town: coming together to reminisce and laugh and jibe and rewrite history as only people who share a childhood can. But it has taken the death of their father to put Naomi and Penny in the same room again and for all of them to witness Bryan in any setting that could be construed as familial.
Hovering about the edges this morning is Lynn, present only (she insists) to feed and water the gaggle of cousins gathered around the Xbox in Naomi’s lounge room. ‘Seriously, I’m not even here,’ she says, singularly omnipresent with her constant darting in and out of the kitchen. Possibly, Harvey reasons, Lynn can’t quite believe what she’s seeing: all her children gathered in one place at the same time. It’s either warming her heart or triggering an anxiety attack, he can’t be sure.
Matt is here too, bouncing the youngest boy on his leg and pretending to be engrossed in a magazine about small indoor flowering plants. Beam muses at the obscurity of the title, having once fielded a zingy morning of calls about listeners’ most niche magazine purchases: Keeping Goats Happy, Wind Tunnel Monthly and Harvey’s favourite, Newly Retired Indoor– Outdoor Croquet Enthusiasts.
Simon is absent, away again at work, his roster being one that works conveniently around nothing, ever. And Penny is unmistakeably miffed and uncomfortable as a result, outnumbered by her sister, no father’s knee on which to bounce her children. As far as Harvey can see, his sisters haven’t yet made eye contact since they all sat down about thirty minutes ago, each having mastered a hundred or more different eye movements and angles, the likes of which he would secretly love to see drawn up as one of those computerised batting graphics on the cricket.
Just as Harvey considers suggesting an obligatory glass of red wine to lighten the mood, the mood having not yet reached midday status, Cate walks into the room and pulls up sharply at the scene before her.
‘Wow,’ she says. ‘Awkward.’
And Beam loves her for calling it—this room of palpable unease that no-one, except perhaps their mother, really wants to be in.
‘Let’s continue with the planning,’ Bryan says, apparently oblivious to the room’s new arrival.
Harvey bristles. ‘Remember Cate, Bryan? My daughter. Your niece.’
And Bryan says, ‘Well, yes,’ and the sides of his mouth quiver awkwardly as though recalling a smile response. But the gesture falls just shy of Cate, who sits down on a stool and shrugs at the universe and all its stupidity.
Matt flashes her a smile and a wink.
Bryan resumes, his brow now deeply furrowed, the pen in his hand at considerable risk of snapping. ‘Time is important here, Harvey,’ he says. ‘The funeral company would like all of our requests by tomorrow.’
‘Why the hurry?’ Naomi asks. ‘Is this like the busy season for death?’
Cate spits out a mouthful of lemonade.
‘I’m serious,’ Naomi says. ‘Shouldn’t families have more time to make these decisions?’
‘We’ve had plenty of time to make these decisions,’ Penny answers, directing her comment to Bryan.
‘What Naomi means,’ says Matt, releasing the boy on his knee and pointing him towards the lounge room, ‘is that we’ve never all got together like this and talked about what should happen.’
‘There’s been no need to,’ Bryan says. ‘Dad told me what he wanted and it’s relatively straightforward. Just a non-religious service in the big church in town. Dark wooden casket. All donations to the National Library of Australia. All we need to decide is—’
‘A non-religious service in a church?’ Harvey cuts in. ‘What? For irony’s sake?’
‘Because the Edward Street church holds a lot of people,’ Bryan says, eyes trained fiercely on the leather-bound notebook in front of him. ‘More than the town hall.’
Harvey can’t help himself. ‘But why was he expecting a lot of people, Bryan? I mean, no offence, but he was hardly Joe Social.’
‘You wouldn’t really know, Harvey. You weren’t here.’
Beam is caught off guard. He hadn’t expected this from Penny. Bores his eyes now into the tablecloth, no longer sure where safety resides.
‘We all know a different version of Dad,’ Penny adds. ‘We’ll probably be having this same sort of conversation when Mum dies too.’
At this moment, a familiar voice calls out from the lounge. ‘I’m still here,’ Lynn Beam trills.
Cate laughs broadly again, clearly enjoying herself despite the meeting’s purpose. Bryan waits for her to stop, a primary-school-worthy pause to restore quiet.
‘The casket has been ordered and paid for,’ he continues. ‘It will arrive tomorrow. The funeral director recommended an open viewing before the service, but I said no. I didn’t think there would be any objections.’
Harvey glances about the table, willing there to be no counterarguments on this front at least. He had seen his grandmother’s body in an open casket several years ago and it was a sight that returned to him with alarming clarity at inexplicable moments. The white horror of those sharp bones scaffolding crepe-paper skin, eye sockets retreating like sinkholes. The indignity of it all, just to show that death had occurred. That a mortician had done their job.
‘No argument from me,’ says Naomi. Penny shrugs in halfhearted agreement.
An uneasy silence engulfs the room. Harvey pictures himself pushing a button to issue a song, a promo, anything to kill it.
‘I’ve actually never seen a dead body,’ Cate says, glancing up at Harvey. ‘I mean, I’m not saying I want to, but you know, it’s one of those things. Not a bucket list thing. But it’s kind of … something. To talk about. When people say, “Have you ever seen a dead body?”, you can say, well, I have actually. Like, it might not be weird at all. It might be kind of cool and … important. I’m just saying.’
Harvey looks back at her, wide-eyed in the manner of what the actual fuck
?
‘Just watch old episodes of Six Feet Under, Cate,’ says Matt with a sympathetic grin. ‘Or that old woman who judges Dancing with the Stars. I mean she’s sitting there, sure, but I think she actually died a while ago and the other judges are just propping her up, like Weekend At Bernie’s, until the end of the season.’
Cate feigns a laugh. Harvey looks at Matt gratefully. His daughter is clearly flying well above the gravity of the situation, but then so is he. The entire scene feels as though it’s already happened and he’s simply revisiting it now to note any missed subtleties. Like flicking back through a complicated part in a movie.
Bryan continues to move through a raft of minor details, not once looking up to notice his audience drifting away, until the matter of music comes up. ‘We can choose one or two songs,’ he says, ‘or just go with the funeral company’s recommendations, which I am inclined to do.’
‘Didn’t he have a favourite song?’ asks Naomi. ‘Everyone has a favourite song.’
‘I can’t remember him ever listening to music,’ says Penny.
‘I think you’ll find he enjoys the classics,’ says Bryan, as though describing a visiting dignitary they would soon play host to.
‘Classic what?’ asks Harvey. ‘Classic rock? R&B? Australiana? Never-play death metal?’
He is rolling through the playlist categories at his former station, can still see them all as though he’s sitting in his old chair, sailing back and forth between screens and panels, master of his soundproof lair.
‘Classical music,’ deadpans Bryan. ‘Dad would listen to it when he was researching.’
Beam looks out the kitchen window to mask a slow roll of his eyes.
‘Any particular classical music?’ asks Matt. ‘Any one symphony or composer?’
Bryan says nothing, and in this Harvey sees an instant resemblance with his father: the use of silence to evoke superiority. I answer the questions I think worthy.
‘Should we choose a song that reflects his love of study?’ suggests Penny. ‘Something kind of academic?’
Cate starts typing and scrolling on her phone. ‘Let me have a look,’ she says. ‘I have an app for this.’
‘An app for finding relevant funeral songs?’ laughs Matt.
‘No, for finding songs about a particular theme,’ Cate says, her eyes trained on the soft glow of her phone.
‘You know,’ says Matt, ‘I read the other day that there are now more apps available than there are beaded necklaces for sale in Bali.’
‘What?’ Harvey grins at his brother-in-law, easily the most likeable person in the room right now. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely. I read it on the Bizarre Comparisons app.’
‘Okay,’ announces Cate. ‘There’s “Education” by Pearl Jam. There’s “Don’t Stand So Close to Me”. No, that would be weird. How about “Mass Nerder” by The Descendents, but you know, “nerd” in a good way?’
Cate keeps scrolling as Penny begins to giggle and Naomi looks nervously at Bryan. Matt’s face is a beacon of pure delight.
‘“School Boy Heart”,’ Cate continues. ‘That’s Jimmy Buffett. “Another Brick in the Wall”, Pink Floyd. But I think that might be ironic. “College Man” by someone called Bill Justis.’ Cate looks around the table hopefully: ‘Well, that’s a possibility, right?’ she says. ‘Okay, there’s “Brain Damage” by Eminem. Probably not. “Don’t be a Dropout”, James Brown. “Fifth Period Massacre”—um, no. “One Angry Dwarf and 200 Solemn Faces”. Look, I think these are mostly about school, not uni, and they’re all pretty negative. Maybe there’s another app …’
‘We could always adapt an existing song,’ says Harvey, secretly thrilled the conversation has led them to one of his favourite time-wasters. ‘So the AC/DC classic “TNT” becomes’—and Harvey begins to sing with gritty emphasis—‘P.H.D. It’s dynamite!’
‘God, Dad,’ says Cate, still swiping her phone screen. ‘That is so lame.’
‘I think you’ll find that’s comedy gold, Cate.’
Penny looks hard at the table. Harvey can’t decide if she’s trying to think of a song or willing the floor to open up beneath them all. Why didn’t she just get the hell out of Shorton too, he finds himself thinking.
‘“Thesis of Suburbia”,’ offers Matt. ‘You know, from that Green Day song about Jesus?’
‘Oh I know!’ says Penny, suddenly animated and switching into a Beach Boys lilt. ‘Good, good, good … good citations.’’
Harvey adds the requisite ‘bop, bop’ at the end and everyone at the table besides Bryan laughs loudly.
‘I can’t think of one,’ says Naomi disappointedly, just as Matt kicks out his chair, throws his hand to his hip theatrically and pouts “I’m Too Texty for My Shirt”, then proceeds to swagger about the room like a misunderstood male model.
Harvey is mid rapturous applause when his mother appears conspicuously at the doorway, Naomi’s youngest on her hip. She appears to wait for quiet.
‘You know,’ Lynn Beam announces to the room, ‘your father’s favourite song when we met was “Groovy Kind of Love”.’
Obedient silence, a sea of incredulity, laps before her.
‘It really was,’ she continues. ‘He sang it to me on the night he proposed. It was beautiful. I think he was a little high at the time.’
‘High?’ chokes Penny.
‘He sang it?’ says Naomi.
Harvey looks at his mother as though for the first time. She seems lost in a moment, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere between the kitchen bench and an entirely different life. Beam has never before seen his mother looking wistful, never heard her speak of a time before children, and he realises with a measure of shame that Lynn Beam is more than entitled to be in this room, discussing this death and this funeral. She knows their father better than any of them.
‘Yes, he sang it to me,’ Lynn continues. ‘He sang it beautifully. He was such a catch, your father. Such a handsome man and so … unexpected. I see him in each of you all the time. Every day.’
‘Gosh, Mum,’ says Penny. ‘That’s … wow.’
‘And then,’ Lynn Beam says, putting her hands over Jamie’s little ears. ‘Then your father turned into a complete arsehole.’
32
Beam had once fielded a talkback session about funerals. Prompted by a quirky news story about Sweden having the world’s longest waiting periods between death and funeral (twenty-three days on average), listeners had called the station for four manic hours, all desperate to share their own experiences of the gap between checkout and goodbye. Some described the period as being too short, a frenzy of half-formed decisions. They said important things had been overlooked that had ultimately ruined a funeral and compounded grief, like not having wheelchair access for Great Aunt Mavis (who had been forced to sit at the exit of the church where she was stung by heartless bees) and time for the deceased’s daughter’s giant hickey to fade.
But most people, the vast majority, had felt that the wait for a funeral was interminable. While a handful of people busied themselves with the heady minutiae of event organisation, the rest were left suspended in a slow dance through emotional space dust. Waiting for the end. For the beginning. For permanent grief to show its face. For a green light.
Four days, they said, is right. Five at most. Another couple for significant overseas guests to arrive. But no more. Make it stop, they said. Enough already.
And Harvey feels this now. It’s been two days since the family meeting at Naomi’s kitchen table. Two days since Bryan marched out of the house without saying a word. Since their mother upgraded her position from ‘extra’ to ‘key protagonist’. Since Matt made Beam laugh harder than he has in a very long time.
He is lost. Doesn’t understand the rules about recent paternal death and doesn’t want to. Bryan is presumably making whatever decisions are left to be made, Penny is organising the funeral booklet using stationery from her store, and Naomi is taking care of the wake. That
leaves Harvey with nothing to do. Nothing he can even pretend to do. He’s an outsider here. The One Who Left. And he would feel punished by this fringe-dweller status if he didn’t also feel relieved to be excluded from activities easily buggered up through lack of insider knowledge.
Still, Beam feels obliged to stay close to the light for now, the family bug-zapper of activity. He nods at the right times, makes inappropriate jokes, pitches in money, offers to take his various nephews on walks and park excursions, all the while watching the clock on his phone, those long hours aching by until 10am on Friday when this will all be over. Each day feels like a game of inches.
And really, he just wants to be with Grace.
Achingly, he wants to be with her now, even though she has made it clear he should be with his family at this time. Maybe because of that.
Lost.
The funeral is in two days’ time. Two long, long days if he doesn’t see Grace. Suze and Jayne arrive in Shorton tomorrow morning and while their presence will help soak up time, he also suspects it will add to the weight of things, for nothing short of a funeral would bring his ex-wife back to Shorton. And Suze will, he knows, infuse the air with the echoes of Beam’s own hurt and resentment, and he’s not sure he’s up for that. Just wants this to be over, for Lionel Beam to be buried, and to know how that feels.
He calls Grace. ‘What are you up to? Are you at work? Can I see you?’
Grace says she’s finishing work shortly. Would he like to join her at the beach?
His chest tightens. His heart literally races. He is sixteen again. God, yes.
They drive to Shorton’s most out-of-the-way beach via a dirt track through a mess of bush. And the water is brochure-blue and glass-topped and they are the only people from here to the horizon.
Grace moves into the water and Harvey follows. She throws questions over her shoulder at him, questions about the funeral plans, about Bryan, about how Harvey is feeling. And Beam doesn’t answer any of them but instead dives forward and pulls Grace under, wrapping his arms around her and spinning her to face him as they surface together.
