After the Darkness

by Brown, Honey

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ he said. He walked on through to the pantry. ‘Glad you’re still alive,’ he said casually over his shoulder. ‘Mum told us what happened.’

  Renee and Summer stood staring at Bruce. Their gaze flicked between the two of us. I’d stopped in at the chemist for eye drops and painkillers. I’d also bought the day’s newspapers. I put the things in a pile on the table.

  ‘I think you girls have grown,’ Bruce said. His voice was strained. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

  Renee put her arms around him. She tucked her face into his chest and hugged him tight. He was stiff in her embrace. I could tell he was trying not to show pain or emotion. He touched the back of her head.

  ‘Okay, okay – we’re fine.’

  ‘Look at your hands,’ Renee said. She cupped them in hers. ‘Oh my God, Dad …’

  Bruce had his shirtsleeves pulled low, buttoned at the wrist. Beneath the cuff there was heavy bruising. Renee turned his hands over and the left shirtsleeve rode up. Bruce closed his hand quickly around the cuff, but not before Summer, standing off to the side, saw the ligature marks. Her eyes widened in shock. A look of confusion and hurt passed over her features – I wasn’t sure whether she understood the marks, and was hurt for what had happened to us, or whether she was hurt to discover her parents were keeping something from her.

  ‘What did they look like?’ Renee was asking with a soft smile, referring to the state of Bruce’s banged-up fingers and split knuckles. Bruce had been able to tug his shirtsleeve low again, and had kept Renee from seeing his wrists.

  He pulled away.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Steven said. He had come out of the pantry. He positioned himself to eye his father up and down.

  ‘Well done on getting selected,’ Bruce said, and forced a smile. It was odd to see his smile, as though I’d resigned myself to not seeing it for a while.

  ‘Thanks, Dad. There’s fifty going. I’m probably a long shot to make the team.’

  It looked as though Bruce wanted to say more, but wasn’t sure how to string the words together. It was just as well the children couldn’t see past his injuries. If they looked into his eyes they would see the significance of what had happened written there, as bold as black letters on a sheet of white paper. Bruce was unable to mask his feelings. It was amazing how much he could say without speaking. His eyes really did spell it out.

  There was an awkward moment where we stood apart, none of us knowing what to do next. Summer was holding the cake container, too stunned to have yet put it down. We were suddenly very separate human beings. It was as though there were no blood ties between us.

  I took off my sunglasses. My eyes were still swollen and red. The clear fluid that seeped from them had stuck to my lashes and dried. That morning there had been no ‘whites’ to my actual eye, only red. I squinted and shied from the sun coming through the window. It reminded me of how I’d shied from the light in Reuben’s garage. My mind grew dull with the strangeness of what had happened.

  ‘Jesus, Mum,’ Renee said. ‘Can you even see?’

  I put the sunglasses back on. ‘They look worse than they are.’

  ‘Will they get better?’

  ‘They’re already getting better.’

  Summer put down the cake container and stepped up to Bruce for a cuddle. As a family we grew quiet and curious. Summer was a pure soul, and her reaction was a barometer. If she was fearful, then it meant there was cause for fear; if she was sad, then it meant a sorrowful thing had really happened.

  She touched Bruce with trepidation. Her hands hovered and didn’t settle. She wasn’t sure. It was as though she felt that the bad thing hadn’t happened yet.

  Bruce cleared his throat. He gently pushed Summer away from him.

  ‘Did your mum explain how we aren’t going to talk about it?’ He was addressing Steven and Renee. He couldn’t look at his youngest daughter. ‘We’ve got things to catch up on with the business and we don’t want to be hammered by phone calls from family and friends. It’s important you don’t talk about it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Renee reluctantly agreed. ‘You shouldn’t be so worried, Dad – getting mugged gives you street cred.’

  ‘It was a very tough thing for your mother to go through. I want you all to respect our decision to keep it quiet.’

  On the TV in the lounge room there was the sudden burst of tense music that accompanied breaking news. Bruce’s expression grew blank as he listened. Summer was watching him closely. I heard the woman newsreader announce, ‘In a shocking story, just to hand —’

  ‘All schoolbags away,’ I said. ‘Lunchboxes on the sink, and then unpack your bags from Grandma’s, please, don’t just dump them in your rooms for me to do.’

  I looked at my youngest daughter. ‘Summer, let’s go.’

  Summer’s gaze was fixed on Bruce. I went over and took her hand. Bruce walked through into the lounge room while I went with the children down the hall.

  As soon as I could, I returned to the lounge room. I stood beside Bruce. An old news story about the mounting cost of aged care was on.

  ‘Was it … ?’

  ‘A man was attacked by a crocodile in the Northern Territory.’

  ‘The garage door was open,’ I whispered. ‘Parking you’d be able to see?’

  ‘It’s mid-week,’ he whispered back, ‘not a lot of tourists would be travelling the road.’

  ‘We’re going to have to be more careful around the children. Summer saw your wrists.’

  ‘Summer already knows.’

  7

  Fortunately for us, while we’d been away Summer had decided what she wanted to be when she grew up. She’d found her passion, and was distracted, caught up in that. If either of the other two children had declared they now knew what they wanted to do as an adult, I wouldn’t be so quick to assume it was true. With Summer though, I knew. Up until that point she had liked everything – horse riding, swimming, surfing. She had fun doing all those things, but she could take them or leave them. Nothing had grabbed her. When she came and sought me out later that afternoon, I saw in her face she had something momentous to tell me.

  ‘I know it’s not the right time to tell you …’ The ‘mugging’ had taken the wind from her sails. ‘But I have to, because I want to cook dinner tonight.’ A warm spark entered her eyes and her lips curled up shyly, as though she was about to declare her love for a boy. ‘I want to be a chef.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ I picked up the chemist’s paper bag from the bedside table and screwed it up into a tight ball. Bruce was in the bathroom. The TV in the bedroom was on. ‘That’s really good.’ Then I remembered myself. ‘Sorry, darling. Tell me. I’m listening.’

  During her time with Grandma, Summer had helped in the kitchen. Together they had pulled out the old family cookbooks and made mini feasts. My mother had tried to instil a love of cooking in me, but only the eating part of the process had piqued my interest.

  ‘We did twists on recipes,’ Summer explained. ‘This one dish, we made it five times. Grandma said I now make ravioli better than anyone in the family, even better than Aunt Collette. We’re going to have a cook-off next time Aunt Col’s in town. I want to make big food,’ Summer said, and she spread her fingers wide. ‘I want to make big food in a small kitchen.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  She faltered. ‘It felt like I had to tell you.’

  ‘I want you to tell me. Sorry. What’s big food?’

  ‘Rich and full with real proper ingredients. Grandma says food should make your heart sing when you eat it. No fiddly little fussed-over thing will make you feel that. Mum, I never knew before why I got excited going to Grandma’s – I thought it was just because she was Grandma, you know? That’s how you’re meant to feel going to your grandmother’s house. But I realised I was excited about what she was going to cook for us. I was excited about watching her do it, and the smells and helping and seeing how it turned out.’ My daughter’s eyes were wet. Her hands came together
and clasped under her chin. ‘I want to make food that makes you smile when you eat it. It’s like you and Dad say – the love. I want people to taste the love in what I cook.’

  My forehead creased. It felt like someone had knelt on my chest.

  Summer’s mouth turned down.

  I reached out and touched her. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m happy for you, Summer. I’m crying because I’m happy.’

  ‘That’s not why you’re crying, Mum.’

  Summer cooked an amazing meal that night. Renee came in from the horses and set the table. Steven put aside his computer and watched Summer ‘plate up’.

  What I found remarkable was the thought my daughter put into the dish. She was desperate to show off her new skills, yet she toned it down for Bruce and me. The night couldn’t be a celebration, not after the mugging. She dished up a meat-laden stew with dumplings – comfort food. I’d never served dumplings in my life. She insisted we have it in the lounge room and relax in front of the TV, when all she really wanted was for us to sit at the table so she could watch us eat. She gave us small portions and denied herself the joy of filling our wide bowls to the top. Steven and Renee had already eaten Summer’s cooking at Grandma’s. They sat at the table and critiqued the meal, comparing it to her other dishes. But her brother and sister weren’t the ones Summer wanted to impress – she was pacing in the doorway, waiting for her parents’ reactions.

  Bruce and I weren’t hungry. No news on TV of a wealthy artist found dead in his workshop, but it wasn’t the sort of story to slip under the radar. It would make the news. I massaged my temples. Bruce held the cutlery uncomfortably in his sore hands. He was breathing short and sharp. He’d bruised some ribs, maybe even fractured them.

  ‘When did you have the last lot of painkillers?’ I asked him.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m all dosed up.’

  ‘They’re not working? It is your ribs that are giving you the most trouble?’

  ‘Not really.’ He didn’t elaborate on what was hurting.

  ‘I’ll get you something stronger tomorrow.’

  Summer grew impatient, hovering by the door.

  ‘We’re so sorry,’ I said. ‘We’re not very hungry, darling.’

  ‘I knew that,’ she said in a high voice. ‘It’s okay. You tasted it, though?’

  ‘It’s beautiful – the broth is like velvet. How did you do that?’

  ‘Butter. Did you try any of the meat?’

  ‘I didn’t. I’m sorry.’ I passed her my plate and bowl. ‘Do you know how proud we are of you?’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  Bruce hadn’t touched his meal. I could see that the thought of eating had made him feel sick. He lifted his hand to his mouth. The smell of food was too much. He was silent, fighting off a wave of nausea. Summer took the food away.

  When she was out in the kitchen, Bruce breathed deeply. He called, ‘Summer, will you please make that for me again?’

  ‘Sure, Dad.’

  It sounded like she was crying.

  ‘Next week?’ he said.

  ‘Okay.’

  Bruce went to bed early with the newspapers, even though a journalist would have needed to be in Reuben’s garage with us for the story to have made the next day’s paper. When I went in to check on him, he’d left the papers unread in a stack on the floor. He was sleeping, in his jeans and shirt, with his socks on. I sat on the bed.

  I didn’t feel in shock, but there was every likelihood I was. Would Bruce and I look back with disbelief at our actions? Could a person’s shock be used in a court of law as a defence? Surely victims were allowed to act irrationally? The law should be that a victim can’t be blamed for anything.

  I listened to the sounds in the house. Summer was in the kitchen. Renee was watching TV in the lounge. Steven was outside shooting hoops in the half dark. The horses were quiet.

  The cats were curled up in their favourite chairs. I closed the blinds on the bedroom windows, went into the walk-in robe and pulled the plastic bag of soiled clothes from where I’d stashed them at the back of the cupboard. Bruce’s boots made the bag heavy. Through the plastic I could see the stained items. Blood had turned brown on my Carrie skirt. The swirling print was disturbing. The skirt seemed like a forgotten item from my childhood, something a strange lady visitor had worn, whose fabric, the colours, had been etched indelibly into my young mind. I felt as though I’d been a child the last time I’d looked at the skirt.

  The highest shelf in the walk-in robe was home for our old tax records. Each year had its own box with the relevant years written on the front. The boxes formed a neat row all along the top of the small room. I liked that they were out of the way, but visible to me each day. If I took my finger off the pulse financially, and let things slip, tax time would come crashing down over my head, swamping me. The boxes were my constant reminder to keep on top of things.

  I kept the records for ten years, and then I burned them. I was religious about it. Late July, I would carry in the new box, sit it on the floor, and out would come box number ten. I would shuffle each box along, so that the records remained in chronological order. Then I would lift the latest tax records into place. The routine made me happy. If I had control of our tax, chances were I had control of other things too.

  The ten boxes ran from wall to wall, fitting the space perfectly. I walked to the end and slid out the box marked 99/2000. I made a gap. Tax time was three months away. I put the box on the floor and opened the cardboard flaps. That year’s paperwork came right to the top. A4 envelopes bulging with receipts were shoved down the sides. That year had been an eventful one.

  The business had taken off. We’d made a profit; enough to build the house we were in. Summer had turned two. Renee had started kindergarten. Steven had started school. Bruce and I got back some personal space, and with that our sex life had rekindled. At the New Year’s Eve party we’d kissed like young lovers, and been told by our friends to get a room.

  I pulled out the A4 envelopes and set them to one side. I put the plastic bag of bloodied clothes on top of the paperwork, and pressed the envelopes down, obscuring the bag.

  When I carried the box out the back door, I saw it was a clear night; the moon was almost full, and the lights from upstairs helped illuminate the way.

  In the shed, I turned on the fluorescents and went across to Bruce’s workbench. I took the small can of accelerant and found a box of matches.

  Outside, against the shed wall, was a makeshift incinerator. A forty-four-gallon drum had been lined with cast-iron plates and raised on bricks. A door had been cut in the front, and a flue fitted to the top. I put the envelopes in the bottom of the incinerator, and topped them with a thick slab of stacked paperwork – bills and bank statements – and then I undid the plastic bag and took out each item of clothing. Maybe I chose to do it in the dark so that I couldn’t see what I was touching. I was careful handling Bruce’s boots – I feared there was brain matter on them. Once all the clothing was in, I squirted on the accelerant, making the clothes wet with it. I wanted the fire to burn hot. I pushed in the rest of the paper, lit a match and tossed it in, and shut the small door. The vents down the bottom were already open. I stepped back. The fire quickly took hold. Bits of blackened paper flew up the chimney and lifted into the dark sky. The incinerator began to hum with the blaze contained within it. When the smoke billowed grey and thick from the chimney, I knew that the clothes were getting scorched, burning up.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I jumped. The voice was my son’s, coming from out of the darkness. He walked up with his basketball held against his hip and stood beside me.

  ‘What are you burning?’

  ‘Tax. Paperwork. Nothing.’

  The empty box that had held the paperwork was by my feet. He looked at it. ‘Why are you doing it now?’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to do it. I couldn’t relax. I’ve got to go to work tomorrow. Your father can’t do it. It seemed like as good a time as
any.’

  ‘O-kay.’ He cleared his throat and watched the incinerator a moment. ‘Does it always get that hot?’

  The flue was starting to glow red. The drum itself seemed to be throbbing.

  ‘I might have been a bit heavy-handed with the accelerant.’ ‘You think?’

  The contained fire began making the sound of a jet engine starting up.

  ‘Can’t you shut the vents and cut the air or something?’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘It’s going to take off, Mum.’

  I moved forward and used the toe of my shoe to slide the vent across. The sound of the fire diminished but the steel drum made creaking and cracking sounds. I returned to my son’s side.

  Steven was taller than me. At school he was one of the popular kids. He ran with a pack of charismatic boys and girls.

  None of his male friends were particularly macho. Sensitive boys seemed to have replaced footy lads as the hot ones to watch. Girls had got curvier, bolder, more aggressive, and the boys thinner, funnier, and more anxious. I believed that Renee would have sex before Steven. Unless Steven already had, but I doubted it. He wouldn’t be able to last the distance without morphing into a spoilt brat and cracking the shits because it wasn’t as straightforward as he’d imagined.

  ‘I came to say sorry for swearing in the car,’ he said. His hair was flattened, now shaggy and heavy over his eyes. ‘It was crappy of me. I was in a bad mood.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Have you and Dad embezzled money or something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is Dad in trouble with the Building Mafia?’

  ‘What Building Mafia?’

  ‘There probably isn’t one, but you know what I mean. Is that who he had a fight with?’