by Greg McGee
‘Bread?’
‘Yeah. And there was another one: lettuce. Let’s you and me make a ton of lettuce.’
***
LATER, walking from Will’s place up onto Great North, heading along to Kook A Chew to meet Ellie, Stan’s overriding impression of Auckland was of happiness. Ellie seemed happier than he’d ever seen her, and Lila at the airport, and even Will, confirmed when they’d arrived at the Ariki Street villa, with Claudia patting Will’s nascent little pot belly fondly as if it was a flower she’d nurtured. And everything that followed: a contented Will with Kristin sitting on his knee telling him about her day, Archie demonstrating to Stan how his yellow plastic digger could pick up blocks and drop them. Stan marvelled at the change in dispositions since he’d last been here. Had someone slipped some ecstasy into the city’s water supply? The only potentially discordant note came when Will told him the undertaker had couriered over a USB stick she’d found in Den’s Rainbird jacket, his favourite, the one they were dressing him in, in case the family wanted to see him.
‘I don’t,’ said Stan. Someone – it must have been Den – had thought he should view Carol. She was cold as marble, unrecognisable, with the ghost of a smile that looked like a grimace of pain the undertaker had tried to airbrush.
‘Nor me,’ said Will, ‘and Ellie’s already said her goodbyes.’
‘He’s not going to have an open coffin at the funeral, is he?’ asked Stan.
‘His will said specifically that he didn’t want that.’
Bully for him, thought Stan, pity about Mum. ‘So what’s the point of dressing him up?’
‘I think,’ said Will, ‘that’s just what they do. Dressing for dinner even if you’re eating alone. Old school.’
Stan picked up the USB sitting on top of an opened yellow and red courier envelope on the coffee table. ‘What’s on it?’
‘No idea. Probably nothing, we’ll open it later, if we can.’
As he worked his way east on Karangahape Road, past rebuilt Victorian shopfronts and apartment conversions that used to be office blocks, Stan realised that not all Aucklanders were drinking from the same happy tap. Quite a few of the newly renovated shopfront entrances contained misshapen, often faceless bundles of clothes, sometimes with a hopeful tin out front for coins, sometimes supported by a plaintive handwritten cardboard sign. He couldn’t remember there being so many homeless. On the other hand, the woman working the corner of K Road and Hereford opposite Joy Bong had been plying her trade there when he was still at school, in what looked like the same ski jacket and short woollen skirt. Stan’s new outfit and shiny shoes increased the guilt. By the time he reached the new Tesla showroom – Will wouldn’t have had to come far for his new car – Stan had cleared his pockets of change.
He crossed the overbridge and looked across the road to the lights of Kook A Chew. It was early evening, but the Saturday-night party had already started out on the footpath, the stand-up tables lost within circles of happy drinkers. Stan contemplated the evening ahead with a mixture of trepidation and resolve. It had already been a long day with more new people in it than four months of winter at Te Kurahau would bring. He was accustomed to big holes of solitude, patched by contact with the few and familiar. He felt emotionally exhausted, but that was outweighed by the prospect of being with his guarding angel.
He didn’t see Ellie until he was among the throng. She was at a leaner with a couple of others. He recognised Yelena, but not the dark beauty she was with, and not the guy in what looked like black overalls with his back to Stan, and his arm around Ellie’s waist. Yelena saw him first, and did an exaggerated double take, calling ‘Stanley, is that really you!’ as she slid off her stool and came over to take his hand.
‘Will got me a makeover.’
‘Did he ever!’ Yelena grabbed his hands and smooched him on the mouth. ‘Fuck all that French air-kissy stuff.’ She held him away, to appraise him. ‘You used to be soft and rounded, now you’re all edge.’
‘Will wanted sharp.’
‘Now why would he want that? You’re not letting him in on the lettuces, are you?’
Fuck, thought Stan, Ellie’s told her. It’ll be all over Auckland soon: Stan and the Lettuces, like a children’s book. Before he could answer, Ellie was there, taking one hand away from Yelena, reading him. ‘It wasn’t a secret, was it?’
‘Nah,’ said Stan. But enough about the fucking lettuces.
Ellie kissed him and she and Yelena led him back to the leaner. Yelena’s friend was closest: she introduced the exotic-looking Asian as Lavinia. Stan shook her hand politely, thinking maybe part Filipina, maybe Malay, as Ellie turned him towards the smiling man in black. ‘My friend Henry.’
Henry’s handshake was firm and friendly: Stan didn’t feel the need to macho it up, a good sign. Stan was also relieved to see that Henry’s black look was entirely professional: a double-breasted chef’s tunic, with matching trou and black Crocs. Crocs? Henry saw him looking, laughed. ‘Don’t tell Nike and adidas,’ he said, ‘but if you need to be on your feet for six hours, these are the go.’
Stan liked that, but was still thinking of a rejoinder when Henry turned back to Ellie. ‘Speaking of which, I better get back to my hot stove.’ He kissed Ellie. ‘See you later.’ Turned back to Stan. ‘My condolences about your dad. I’m glad you’re here – Ellie’s been pretty cut up.’
Stan was watching Ellie watch Henry go, weaving through the tables, a word for everyone he passed, until he disappeared inside the restaurant proper. Ellie was still watching the air he’d displaced.
‘Will sends his apologies,’ he said. Ellie wrenched her eyes back to him, but took a moment to focus. ‘Said he was still on the wagon, didn’t want to risk it.’
‘Good on him,’ said Yelena.
‘It’s kinda weird round there – happy families. He’s a changed man.’
‘Yes and no,’ said Yelena.
Yelena’s comment seemed to galvanise Ellie. ‘He’s been fantastic around the whole Dad thing,’ she said.
Stan wanted to follow up the intriguing ambivalence of Yelena’s comment, but she slid off her stool and took Lavinia’s hand. ‘We’re going to mix and mingle. You guys have a lot to catch up on.’
‘She’s great,’ said Stan.
‘She’s my best friend in all the world,’ said Ellie.
‘So,’ he said, ‘nice man.’
Ellie was hopeless at hiding her feelings. Her eyes spilled love. ‘He’s the one,’ she said. ‘Sounds so simple, seems so easy. He’s just a lovely man.’ As she described Henry, a separated father of one, with a five-year-old, Frieda, just started school, and their plans to open a deli cafe on Te Atatu Peninsula where Henry lived, a western branch of Kook A Chew resourced by Kath and the team, Stan felt something he’d never encountered before with this shining-eyed sister, a small envy, that he’d belatedly been supplanted in his sister’s affections. This made Henry real, in a way no previous boyfriend had been. Stan kissed her and raised his glass, another thing he’d never really done before with any degree of sincerity. ‘To you and Henry, sis. How wonderful.’
***
STAN hardly ever drank alcohol. There was none at Te Kurahau, not because of any edict, it had simply become irrelevant to their lives. One summer Malcolm had developed an enthusiasm for making mead from a big honey harvest, but it had been undrinkable. He’d talked about making cider, but when he researched it, their orchard had the wrong variety of apples. So by the time he’d drained his second tall G & T, Stan was already feeling pissed and told Ellie he’d better not have a third. The tables were heaving, Yelena and Lavinia had disappeared, and there were no stools left for them anyway. Stan was feeling animated, less self-conscious, more connected to everyone around him, part of this noisy, friendly little nexus of humanity. Ellie was encouraging him to have another G & T. ‘What the hell,’ she said. ‘How often d
oes this happen?’
Them being at a bar together? Their father’s demise? Ellie had drunk more than him, yet didn’t seem unduly affected. ‘You’re used to it,’ he said.
In reply, she slid her tall glass across to him to try. Bitters and lemon. ‘You’ve gone the Yelena way?’ he asked her. ‘Hopefully not for the same reasons.’
She smiled at him and said, ‘Cone of silence?’
The words instantly conjured up the closeness of their childhood and teens. Inspired by watching reruns of Get Smart, Maxwell and 99, wonderfully naive stupidity which they’d both loved, they’d created an equally silly but protective protocol. They would lean forward until their foreheads touched, so neither could see the other one’s eyes or facial reactions, and any words they whispered to each other were more like transference of thoughts, which evaporated harmlessly into the air and were lost, but still known. He and Ellie could say anything under the cone of silence.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
Stan turned and swayed forward. His forehead touched hers. And yes, it was a silly thing to do at their age, particularly in a crowded bar, and he was more than a bit pissed, but he closed his eyes and breathed Ellie in and the magic seemed to work: the background noise faded and he inhaled her whisper as much as heard it. ‘I’ve missed my period. For the first time in my life, I’ve missed my period. You’re the only one who knows.’
Stan sat back, smiling. A couple of years ago, Ellie had told him about the frozen eggs. It was such a big moment. He knew he wasn’t supposed to respond – that was the deal – but he was allowed to grin.
‘It’s been the most awful couple of months of my life,’ she said, trying to smile. Now the words tumbled from her, out into the noise around them. ‘Before the coma, Dad had just enough brain left to know that he ought to be making connections with what you were saying, but for the life of him he couldn’t make any. So he was in agonies the whole time, hearing this stuff sliding past him that he knew had some meaning, but just wouldn’t stick. Knowing that he was under lock and key, but not knowing why. Knowing that something dreadful was happening to him, but not knowing what. It would have been better if his brain had been obliterated in one fell swoop, than the bit-by-bit dismantling of everything that made him who he was.’ Ellie seemed determined not to cry, which made it worse for Stan. ‘That’s what happened in the end, of course. One huge stroke . . . I wish it had happened sooner.’
Stan took her hand in his. He’d been protected from all of this, down there at the school of vital essence.
‘And I couldn’t cut it at the agency any more. Couldn’t. Had to resign.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Stan. ‘What happened? I guess Dad’s situation . . .’ He felt sorry for his sister. Will wouldn’t have been a lot of help, though clearly he had been some. Ellie losing her job. His father losing his vital essence. He should have been here, helping his beloved sister bear the load.
‘Not because of Dad.’ Ellie looked at him for a couple of beats and Stan thought she was about to call on the cone of silence again. Instead, she just shrugged, then continued. ‘I’d decided to use a sperm donor,’ she said. Stan felt he might be missing connections because he was pissed. ‘But when I met him–’ She began shaking her head. ‘He wasn’t a bad man, but he wasn’t the right man. He wasn’t my man. And in the middle of all this darkness and despair, Henry. And maybe, a baby.’ She was crying now, but smiling. ‘I can’t believe my luck.’
***
BY the time Ellie dropped him back at Will’s, Stan had had another G & T and was feeling no pain – or anything much at all. When he waved Ellie goodbye, climbed the front steps and stood on the wooden veranda, he couldn’t remember the combination for the door lock. It was a typical villa, big bay-windowed bedrooms either side of the front entrance, so he was trying not to make a noise, unsure what time anyone went to bed in the city. Judging by the heaving bars along K Road, never. But he didn’t want to wake the kids. He was still standing there, trying to remember the number Will had told him: it was a year, 19 something. He was thinking that maybe it was the year Will was born – what year was that? – when his brother opened the door.
The happiness drug had worn off. Will was edgy and brusque, as he asked Stan to follow him down the hallway to the big open-plan area at the other end. He was barefoot, in T-shirt and shorts. There was something terribly wrong, Stan thought, in dressing for summer in the middle of winter. His yurt had been cosy enough with the log burner going, but he still had to wear some serious fucking clothes!
‘You need to see this,’ Will said. He was indicating his laptop, open on the kitchen table.
‘What is it?’
‘A suicide note.’
‘A what? Whose?’
‘Your father’s.’
My father? thought Stan. That was a worry. Will seldom referred to his father as anything other than Den. The way Will said it made it sound as if whatever their father had done was going to be dropped at Stan’s feet. But, a suicide note? Ellie had been very clear: his father had died naturally, in a coma as a result of a massive stroke. What the fuck was Will talking about?
Will had pulled out a chair for Stan, so that he could sit in front of the screen. All he could see was a big red arrow. ‘Ready?’
Stan was still struggling up to speed. ‘Dad left a suicide note on your computer?’
‘On the USB the courier delivered,’ said Will. He pressed the arrow on the screen and the pixels quickly crystallised into a beautiful view of the harbour. Stan pointed to the screen in recognition. ‘Yes,’ said Will testily, ‘it’s from Den’s loft. Just watch and listen.’
‘It’s the magic hour,’ said Den’s voice, over the rich imagery, the sun so low that the water was a purple river. ‘My last.’
Stan looked across at Will, unsure whether he was up for this. Will had flopped into one of the huge overstuffed armchairs and was staring resolutely out the window to the water feature at the edge of the deck, lit blue-green like a waterfall in a grotto.
When Stan’s eyes returned to the screen, Den was speaking straight to the camera, looking younger and healthier than Stan remembered him, standing four-square in that way of his, in front of the balcony from which he’d shot the previous sequence. ‘I don’t wish to be melodramatic,’ he said, ‘but by the time you see this, I’ll be gone.’
Stan suppressed the urge to giggle. I don’t wish to be melodramatic, but . . . A quick glance at Will confirmed that he should take Den’s words seriously. What could he have possibly said to have so upset Mr Light and Sweetness?
‘None of us know how we’re going to finish,’ Den continued. ‘How it’s going to end, though end it will – as they say, there’s a tragedy in wait for each of us, sooner or later.’
That did the job. Any urge to laugh drained out of Stan, as Den proceeded, quite formally, with a speech he’d clearly put some time into preparing.
‘My time has come, sooner than I would have wished, but I suppose that’s a common complaint. In so far as I thought about it at all, I wanted my demise to be peaceful and dignified, replete with all the things I needed to say to you, my nearest and dearest. But if Dr Jeetan is right, that probably won’t be the case, and by the time I get to my natural end, I may not even understand what’s happening or who I am, or, dear children, who you are. What a bugger that would be, eh, to follow my story for seventy years and not know the ending!’
Den’s attempt to chuckle at his little joke became a catch in his throat and the screen went to black for a moment. When his face came back, he was composed once again, though in a different part of his loft, now sitting in his big chair beside the bed. ‘I don’t want that. I don’t want to die in ignorance and terror. Selfish and controlling to the end, I know. I’m sorry if it’s a shock when you find me, and I’m sorry for any distress my taking matters into my own hands, as i
t were, might cause you. But believe me, the lingering alternative would be so much worse, for you and for me.’
There was another cut, and Stan had time to think about what Will and Ellie had told him about the final days, which Den had prefigured exactly. Christ, if he’d known what was about to happen, why didn’t he go through with whatever he was planning? Had he panicked, lost his nerve?
When Den’s face reappeared on screen, it was jerky. Den was holding his mobile, still in selfie mode, and moving, walking back and forth across the loft, the picture careening in and out of focus, and the words that tumbled out of him seemed more like an impromptu postscript to what he’d planned to say.
‘I got so many things wrong, and my worst sins were visited upon my children. I don’t know why I couldn’t see that when I needed to, but, unfortunately for you, I was an egotistical idiot long before I became a father, and had trouble changing. Then there was Carol, darling Carol, whose death was the single worst thing that has ever happened to me. In my grief, I became lost in my own selfish little hell and was incapable of being the surviving parent and adult that you needed me to be. For that, I am so sorry. It may be a complete waste of time to say that at this late juncture, far too late, but I want you to know that I know what I was.’
Stan was both moved and angry. Where had this man, this father, been?
‘Part of my decision, of course, is pure vanity. I want to be remembered as I am, not as what I would have become. But much more than that, I don’t want to die in terror, understanding nothing of what’s happening, not even understanding my own demise. Does that make me a coward? I can’t answer that. None of us can, until we’re in the same position. I hope that time never comes for any of you, but it’s certainly come for me. I can only hope you remember me fondly. As foolish, yes, but fond.’
