by Finn Bell
“You’re right, you know, this is the Zoyls. This is what they would do. Even back when they were younger and they still came to school there was a wrongness to them. It wasn’t just the three brothers, there’s been things happening for years—it’s like all the generations of Zoyls just somehow have the opposite of mercy in them. They always know how to really hurt people. We all heard things. Sean was that crazy kid in school everybody stayed away from,” Tai says, staring at the five nail holes in my door.
“Shouldn’t somebody do something then?” I ask.
“Nah, bro, that’s because you don’t understand how real badness works. The Zoyls have been here a long time. You think people haven’t felt like you before now? Haven’t tried to do things? See, badness, real badness like this, is just part of the world. You can’t stop it or fight it or make it better. The more you try, the more it turns you into something similar to it. People end up becoming like them,” he says.
“We haven’t known each other that long, bro, but I can see you’ve got enough broken in you that this is not a good idea. Don’t do this no more, bro. Leave the Zoyls to themselves and start building something good in your life. There could be a place for you here, if you want to belong, to be part of things again,” he says.
I know what Tai is saying is probably good advice, and that he’s being a better friend to me than I deserve. But then, looking at my life—I’ve never been particularly well known for taking either seriously. The way I feel right now, there’s no way I’m letting this go. But I don’t want to argue with Tai so instead I say, “Thanks, Tai, you’ve been a good friend to me ever since I came here. I’ll pay you back.”
But Tai just laughs when he hears this and says, “Being friends means you don’t have to, bro. That reminds me, that’s not why I came out here in the first place. I came to tell you we’ve got a tournament. Murderball in Christchurch against some big bastard teams and you’re playing. John-John broke his thumb so he’s a no-go. We took a vote, and even though the boys think you’re still green, they’re hoping what with you not drinking anymore and not having a woman, maybe you’ll compensate with being pissed off enough,” he finishes with a smile.
Despite my dark mood, I feel a slow smile spread across my face, too.
“You know, Tai, playing a lot of Murderball sounds pretty good right now,” I say.
It’s only later, after Tai’s left and I’m alone in the house watching the shadows lengthen, that I realise how full the house had become with the cats everywhere.
Now it feels like it’s just me alone again with the ghosts of Alice and James. But then, if that’s what really happens to us—then I guess I’ve also got ghost cats now.
I’m jerked out of my reverie by a phone call from Betty, who’s grumpy because I had forgotten about my therapy session.
I apologise and explain what happened to the cats and that it just slipped my mind, and that now just wasn’t a good time.
“So you’re saying that when things are going badly is a bad time for therapy—what do you think therapy is for, Finn? Have you buried the cats?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Then get in your car and get over here for your therapy session,” Betty says.
“Betty, look, I’m just not there now. I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I reply.
“That’s what you think, is it? With the same mind you’ve been using the past few years. The one that made you think drinking was a good idea, the one that made you think pushing your wife away was a good idea? The one that put you in a wheelchair?” Betty asks, and I can tell that she’s getting angry—aren’t therapists supposed to be all calm and stuff?
“You’re in counselling precisely because your thinking can’t be trusted. Trust mine, Finn. Get in your car and come down here or I swear I’m coming out there,” she finishes firmly.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say tiredly as I realise that again, she’s right.
First Tai and now Betty—in a small, petty way, I sometimes wish I wasn’t always the dumbest person in my life.
What was I going to do that was so useful, anyway? Sit here feeling angry? Get drunk again? Go and pick a fight with the Zoyls? Betty’s right—my best thinking and plans got me here.
I don’t want to be here.
CHAPTER 16
FEBRUARY 8, FOUR MONTHS AGO . . .
I finally get settled in front of Betty’s big desk half an hour later—arriving slightly late because I had to take the long route, which avoided driving by any open liquor stores. The sad thing is, if I wasn’t being fuelled by my anger at the Zoyls, I don’t know if I would have been strong enough to resist. Yeah, I’m a picture of mental health.
“So what happened?” Betty asks without preamble.
I go through it all again, filling in the gaps of what I have been up to since she’s been gone. The people I have been talking to and what I found out, and then finishing with finding the cats.
“And what are you going to do now?” she asks then.
“I don’t know yet. Tai asked me the same thing—he said what I do now is more important than what I feel now,” I answer, and upon hearing it, a rare smile crosses Betty’s face.
“You’re lucky to have him as a friend. Tai’s got some wisdom, but he’s not really that smart, you know. You’re actually a good deal brighter than him. But he’s not scared of pain, so he just does the right thing and his life is simple. You, with all your thinking, are still scared. It makes you do the wrong thing, which makes life complicated,” Betty states.
I don’t really know how to respond to that so I shrug and ask, “What should I do, then? What do you suggest to make things better?”
“First off, don’t try to make things better. You can’t. Stop trying to change the world so it doesn’t hurt you. Stop trying to work out a way where everything is under your control and you’re finally safe,” Betty says.
“And above all, stop trying to find reasons for everything—you’re just doing that because you think if you understand things, somehow you will have more control over them. But we could figure out every dark little why in your life and it wouldn’t change a thing. In fact, let me just get that out of the way for you: So what if you’re an addict because of your genetics. So what if you can’t properly love someone because of what your parents did to you. So what if you’re depressed because of chemical imbalances in your brain. The reasons don’t matter because they don’t change what is. So what if it’s really not fair and it’s really not your fault. It’s just the world,” says Betty, and the intensity in her voice makes me think that maybe this is advice she’s not only giving to me but really believes in for herself.
Somehow it gives it more weight. It’s not just jargon now, it’s a piece of what she’s figured out about being alive and not going crazy in this world.
Then after a pause Betty says, “You can’t change what the world gives you, but you can change what you do with it. This is the tragedy of your life, Finn—the one thing you need to learn,” she says slowly. “The bad things that happen to you don’t matter. It’s what you do with them that does. That’s what has made you who you are. And you’ve done all the wrong things,” she finishes.
I don’t have anything to say now. I’m tired and still pissed off and confused.
And I notice that the more she talks, the more I feel that I really need a drink.
I guess that means she’s onto something.
“Everything you’ve done in the past three years has been about fear. It’s all been about avoiding pain,” and here she starts ticking points off on her fingers.
“Not being honest with yourself about how much pain you still carried from when you were young. Not showing people who you really are. Not really talking to your wife. Pretending everything is okay. Starting drinking. Not asking for help. Pushing all your friends away. Leaving everything and coming down here,” she finishes. “Every one of those decisions has been about avoiding pain. And here’s the kicker, Fin
n—every time you try to avoid pain instead of dealing with it, it makes things worse. Every time.”
Then Betty looks almost sad as she says, “We’re back to where we started, Finn. Are you a dead lemon?”
CHAPTER 17
June 4, PRESENT DAY . . .
I’m making slow progress but it’s coming at a price.
The faster I try to drag myself over the rocks, the more tired and nauseous I get. I’ve already started to drift in and out again, and I really don’t want to pass out anymore. But then the slower I go and the more I rest, the more time I’m wasting bleeding while not moving. Seeing as the bleeding is happening regardless, and I have a limited supply, I’m trying to find an unhappy balance.
My vision is now so blurry I can’t really make out much in front of me, even though it’s still broad daylight. The one good thing about that is when I look back over my shoulder, I can’t see Darrell anymore.
I have the thought of maybe trying to leave a message. Something about the truth of what happened out here, in case I die. But nobody would find it but the Zoyls. I don’t know when or where exactly I lost my phone, either.
Reaching the sand feels like a major achievement and I celebrate with only mild vomiting. The going suddenly gets so much easier on the sand that my spirits lift all the way to merely morose. So with nothing left to occupy me but the pain and the anger, I turn my mind to something that goes well with both—mathematics.
I reckon it’s about 600 or so paces from the beach up the hill, and then maybe another 400 back to the house. If each pace is about four of my elbow pulls along the ground, then that’s only about another 4,000 elbow pulls.
So with nothing better to do, I start my count. Four thousand. Three thousand nine hundred ninety-nine. Three thousand nine hundred ninety-eight . . . yeah, I can do this.
I’m at 2,115, still making my way up the hill, when I clearly hear the car doors slam and the voices.
The Zoyls are back.
CHAPTER 18
FEBRUARY 8, FOUR MONTHS AGO . . .
When I again don’t answer, Betty continues, “See, like I told you before, whether it is animals or people—dead lemons don’t change. They’re a lost cause from birth to death. That’s because they can’t learn, can’t change. They just keep doing the same wrong things, every time hoping for a different result. And the worse things get, well, the faster and harder they do those wrong things. Now with you I’m not so sure—maybe it’s can’t, maybe it’s won’t. And I can’t tell because you’re so scared of getting hurt.
“But for learning—not just book learning, but learning to be a real person, real change needs pain, Finn. Pain tells you when you’re doing something wrong. It tells you when you’re making it worse and when you’re making it better. And you know you’ve cracked it when the pain stops.
“But you’re too clever for you own good, Finn. You don’t try and solve the problem causing the pain; no, you just find a way to avoid the pain itself and just keep going as you are. Something hurts for you and you just find a way to stay the same and not feel the pain. And the more you avoid the pain, the worse things get,” she finishes.
The things Betty are saying make a horrible kind of sense, as if I know deep down that it’s all true—like someone is just reminding you of something you momentarily forgot. I guess it’s good for me, but I really want her to stop talking now.
“That’s why you feel so old, Finn—it’s because you are. You’ve been this way, not changing, not learning, for years. Nothing about you is new. It’s why you feel bored most of the time, and nothing feels as good as it used to. It’s why you can’t sleep,” she continues.
“Betty, just stop . . . stop for a bit, please,” I respond, and thankfully this time she listens to me. I turn away from the desk and roll over to the window, staring out at the sea.
I know it’s just words, just things people say. You’d think I probably shouldn’t be taking it this hard. But you try it, see if you can sit through the worst things about you. Knowing that they are all absolutely true. Knowing that you’ve already fucked things up so badly that you can never get it all back. Finally knowing now what you didn’t want to know back then.
The tight, confusing sickness of being your own violator and victim.
“You know, I used to be a good person. I think back, and I’m sure I was . . .” I say, still looking out the window, shaking my head, not sure if I ought to be laughing or crying.
“I didn’t start out this way,” I say, but then I think, there’s probably a lot of people who have said the same. I don’t know what’s sadder—that this is who I am or that it happens so often that I’m actually a cliché.
Then Betty surprises me by saying, “That’s it for today, Finn. I want you to go away for a month. No therapy, no homework, nothing. Do whatever you want or do nothing—it’s up to you. In four weeks I’ll call you and we’ll set up another session.”
“Is this some kind of test? Or lesson?” I ask.
“That’s not how this works, Finn, not for you. That’s the bugger with being an adult. When you’re a kid, you can’t help but learn things all the time; good things, bad things, we just suck them up like sponges without even knowing we’re doing it. But once we’re grown up, actually learning anything becomes so hard, and just because you’re grown up doesn’t mean you’ve learned everything you’re going to need to know to get on in life, just that everybody else stops trying to teach you,” she says.
Then Betty asks me to drop off a box of honey at Patricia’s hair salon and plonks it on my lap without asking, all business-like, as if she hadn’t just said all those things. She heads back through the house to the vegetable garden without a second glance, but then I guess it’s all in a day’s work.
And inner crises of being aside, people still need their honey.
I’m on the way to my car when I see Pruitt Bailey leaning against the passenger door, smoking a cigarette.
“Hello, Finn,” he says. “Long day?” I recognize the knowing tone in his voice. Damn all small-town gossips.
“Yes, it has been that, Pruitt,” I say as I roll to a stop next to him. “So, are you going to do a story about what happened to my cats? It would be kind of hard not to say anything about the Zoyls.”
“No, we’re not going to run the story, Finn. Although we hardly need to; by tomorrow, half the town will have told the other half,” he replies in an even tone, ignoring my jibe.
“How did you find out? It only happened a few hours ago,” I say.
“It’s a small town, Finn—just accept it.” But then he relents and adds, “And people will always take an interest in you, because you don’t fit, you don’t belong. You come to live out here all alone, no family here, no friends, no job and in that cottage, no less. And then you start asking questions,” he shrugs.
“So why are you here?” I ask.
“When I heard about what happened to your cats, I decided to give you what you want. I’ll tell you about the story. Show you the files; you ask anything you want. I reckon once you see it all, maybe you’ll have satisfied yourself that there’s nothing left to do or know, and then maybe you’ll be able to let this all go,” he says.
“I didn’t know you cared, Pruitt,” I say.
“Oh, it’s not for your sake, Finn, I don’t know you. But I’ve lived in this town most of my life; many of us down here have. Spend 50 years with people and they become a part of you, there’s no helping it. And I don’t want the old horrors brought to life again. Emily Cotter is . . . was my sister.”
We’re back in the warm, busy, printer room of the Western Star, in amongst the heady scent of new news, coffee in hand, when Pruitt finally picks up the tale again:
“I’m going to give you what you want. Hopefully that’ll help you realise you don’t actually want it. See, here,” Pruitt says as he stands up and steps next to his desk. Then he feels along the side panel of the desk and pushes at a certain point and the whole panel quietly
hinges open.
“Pretty good, huh? It’s like a little secret compartment. James built this desk for me, he said it would suit my line of work to have somewhere secret to keep my secrets. He was always doing things like that,” he says, smiling, then the smile fades again as he reaches inside and brings out a bulging folder tied off with twine.
“This is everything I have. The whole story. You know, it’s the only thing I’ve ever kept in there,” he says as he moves around the desk and sits down, putting the bulging file in between us.
“You can have it if you want, but believe me, there’s nothing in there that’ll make reading it worth it,” he says, giving me a tired smile.
Part of me wants to reach out and grab it, but now that I’m faced with it, I hesitate.
Then Pruitt lights up another cigarette and says, “We grew up here, me and Emily. Even though she was older, we were always close. She loved music, played piano. She was a music teacher and did performances on the side. She had real talent; could have done more with her life, but then she met James. They were already older by then. She’d never even really had a relationship before him—kind of in her own world of music, you know. James came down here to be boat builder; I actually introduced them. He was a quiet sort, but good to her. You could see they had that kind of love that meant they didn’t have a choice anymore. She wrote him songs and he re-built that cottage just for her, kept on adding little things to surprise Emily and Alice, never done, always another thing in another nook,” Pruitt says, and the smile on his face makes him look young again.
“And Emily still played, at school concerts and on Sundays. She wrote such music, beautiful things to hear—made you miss people you didn’t even know,” he says in a wistful tone. I realise that perhaps the telling of this story, one more time, is not just for me.
“They say that real tragedy either makes the artist great or makes them stop. In Emily’s case it was the latter. She never touched a piano again after Alice. She even tried a few times but the music wouldn’t come out. And then when James went, it was really the end of her. It was like she became someone else, just the memory of herself. I still went out to see her out there. Did everything I could to convince her to leave, but she wouldn’t listen.
