The Wrong Hand

by Jane Jago

  ‘Is that John Scott Douglass?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My name’s Catherine Douglass. I’m trying to locate my husband’s father.’

  ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about, love.’

  ‘I’m trying to locate John Douglass, John Scott Douglass. My husband’s name is Liam.’

  ‘You’ve got the wrong number.’

  ‘Do you know of another John Douglass?’

  ‘Double s?’

  ‘Yeah, they lived in the Richmond area about ten years ago.’

  ‘That’s a while back. Look, I’ve never heard of a Liam Douglass, not in our family. It’s a common enough name.’

  ‘Thanks anyway. I’ll keep looking. Sorry to have bothered you.’

  Catherine felt suddenly silly. Liam’s father could be anywhere, and if he was as big a no-hoper as Liam said he was, then he probably wouldn’t welcome being found. For all she knew the unforthcoming John Douglass she had just spoken to might have been Liam’s father. She only had his word for it that he wasn’t. She looked at her watch. Her amateur-detective efforts had not only made her feel foolish but now she was in danger of being late for her doctor’s appointment in the city.

  She gathered up the labelled envelopes and took them to the bottom of the ramp, opened the drawer on the red mailbox and dropped them inside. With any luck she would soon know more about the Scottish side of the family.

  A light rain began to fall as she drove across the Argyle Street bridge. She turned the wipers on and strained to see the car ahead through the grey-white slurry on the unwashed windscreen. She felt instantly irritated with Liam. Why didn’t he take care of the little things any more? Since she’d fallen pregnant she’d felt that she was nursing his sensibilities rather than the other way around. She pulled the wiper lever forward and a jet of water squirted onto the windscreen. The wiper blades sloughed it away.

  Traffic in Carlyle Street was thick. Cars crawled along through the now-heavy rain. She scanned the street for available parking but all the spaces were taken. She turned left towards the Macquarie Business Centre. The traffic came to a standstill as a stream of pedestrians entered the crossing. Catherine rubbed at the condensation now forming on the windscreen with the end of her sleeve. Through a clear patch of glass she thought she saw a familiar face. Was that Liam? He was seated near the window in the café opposite. The face turned away. She rubbed at the glass again. The man turned back. It was Liam all right, sipping coffee and talking to someone she couldn’t see. Probably a client. She grabbed her mobile and fast-dialled his number, smiling at the joke she was about to play, but when she saw Liam pick up his phone, look at it and switch it off, the smile vanished. A car horn sounded behind her; she saw through the windscreen that the road ahead was clear. Reluctantly she pulled away.

  A few minutes later, as the doctor palpated her abdomen, her mind was elsewhere. He wrote notes in her file and listened carefully to the foetal heartbeat. The stethoscope was cold as it pressed against her stomach. The baby gave a little kick of protest. ‘Someone’s getting plenty of exercise,’ said the doctor.

  She pulled up her maternity jeans and buttoned her cotton blouse. Liam had probably been in the middle of an important conversation, she told herself. But what was so important? They both constantly answered mobile enquiries while they did other business. He had seen her number come up and he had blocked her call. So what? He was in the middle of something. She would just have to stop being stupid and ask him.

  In the busy food hall, she browsed the counters of fresh noodles, sushi and pressed meats, and picked out a selection of cheeses and antipasti. As she stowed the bags of food on the back seat of her car, she remembered Liam’s dry-cleaning and rushed back into the shopping centre. The proprietor was reaching to pull down the shutters when Catherine appeared, waving her ticket. He cheerfully slid hangers across a long rack until his hand found a jacket with the corresponding number.

  On the drive home the stale-chemical odour of the dry-cleaned jacket and the cloying smell of warm shallots rising from the back seat combined to make her feel mildly ill. When she pulled into the driveway at home, Liam’s green BMW was already parked on the verge.

  She got out of the car, opened the rear door, gathered the few bags and reached across for the jacket. As she pulled it towards her, holding it through the flimsy plastic, it slipped from its hanger. She gathered it up under her free arm and kicked the door shut. Inside she dumped the load on the kitchen bench. Liam’s keys were in the fruit-bowl. Strains of the instrumental guitar music he liked so much wafted into the kitchen from the front room.

  ‘Liam?’ Catherine took hold of the crumpled jacket and flicked it out flat onto the counter. As she did so a tiny yellow square of paper fell out. She picked it up and carefully unfolded it. Written on the inside of the Post-it note was what looked like an email address. It had been scribbled out with several lines of dark blue ink. Hotmail.com could still be clearly seen, and she could easily make out @. She held the scrap of paper up to the light and was able to read ‘She’, preceded by xX. ‘xXShe@hotmail.com’: that was it. Puzzled, she refolded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of her jeans.

  Carrying the jacket with her, she climbed the stairs to the first landing and opened the bedroom door. Liam sat in front of his computer with his back to the door, typing.

  ‘Hi!’

  He jumped. He hadn’t heard her come in. ‘Scared the hell out of me,’ he said, recovering. ‘I’m trying to get this paperwork out of the way before your parents get here.’ He clicked a button and stood up.

  Catherine’s eyes involuntarily scanned the screen and saw only an innocuous set of property listings that he was apparently compiling. ‘I called you this afternoon,’ she blurted out.

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  Catherine felt herself relax. For some reason she had been afraid he would deny having seen her number come up.

  ‘I couldn’t pick up because I was in the office with John and he was in full flight about the new advertorial deal he wants to run in the Advocate.’

  She watched his lips move as he elaborated on the lie. The saliva in her mouth dried and acid trickled into her stomach. It already seemed too late to cry, ‘But I saw you! Why would you lie?’

  Something stopped her speaking. She wanted to know what had he really been writing on the computer when she came in.

  ‘What are we feeding them?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your parents.’

  Catherine’s hand slipped into her pocket and closed around the folded paper square. Who was ‘xXShe’? ‘I thought we’d just have a platter. I bought some cheeses and other stuff. Maybe you could go and get a good bottle of wine.’

  In the time that it took Liam to drive to the nearest store and buy two bottles of decent Shiraz, Catherine arranged the cheeses, olives, stuffed vine leaves, marinated vegetables and salads on a large oval platter and covered it with plastic wrap. She then went to Liam’s computer, which was still running, and clicked the space bar: the screensaver of flying shapes shattered like a pane of coloured glass to reveal the real-estate listings he had been working on. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but she was convinced that Liam had been working on something else when she had come into the room. Maybe she was being an idiot. But why had he lied to her? She remembered the email address and took it out of her pocket.

  She reduced Liam’s document and clicked the internal email icon on the screen. She scanned the lists of received mail for ‘xXShe’ but found nothing; she checked the deleted files and file drafts. She closed the program, opened the Start menu and Search. She glanced at the paper and typed the letters into the search line. The computer began to sift through all the data in the hard drive, searching for documents that contained the same phrase. The search-in-progress meter flickered on the screen. ‘Come on!’ Liam would be back soon. A file listing ‘xXShe’ appeared in the results window. She double-clicked the listing. A W
ord document located in a sub-file of his ‘My Documents’ folder.

  Dear M

  Being able to talk to you helps. Baby changes everything – have to be so much more careful. Can never tell C. June meeting impossible. Get back to you when I can.

  xYHim

  Catherine tried to digest the message. ‘Can never tell C’; ‘be so much more careful’; ‘Baby changes everything.’ My God! No wonder he didn’t want a baby. Catherine blinked away hot tears. She opened the file menu and checked the properties of the unfinished document. ‘Created: 13 May 2008 4.02 p.m.’ It was not what he had been writing before she had come in, but it was enough to confirm her growing suspicions.

  A car door slammed outside. She closed the program, leaving only Liam’s opened property listings on the screen.

  When Liam came through the door carrying the wine, she was setting the table with four places. She watched him open a bottle, winding the screw all the way through the cork, concentrating as he pressed down on the little arms, and withdrawing it with a soft plop, then setting it aside to breathe, just like she had taught him. She was amazed at the charade, the way he appeared to stumble inconspicuously through life, following the map she had given him. Could Liam, unassuming, unworldly Liam, have a secret life? She couldn’t quite wrap her head around it. Liam was supposed to be her creation.

  ‘You want me to do that?’ he asked, taking the cutlery from her.

  She looked at the wine standing on the shelf above the fridge, its gold and maroon label, the florid copperplate lettering ‘Yalumba Family Reserve Shiraz’. ‘That’s a pretty good wine, isn’t it?’

  ‘It was on special for nineteen dollars.’

  ‘How did you know it was any good?’

  ‘You always ask for Merlot, Shiraz or Cabernet.’

  ‘You’ve never tasted it yourself?’

  He looked at her incredulously. ‘I don’t drink, remember?’

  ‘No, of course you don’t.’

  ‘What? You think I have a few drinks on the side, do you?’

  ‘No. I just wouldn’t presume to know everything about you.’

  Liam had no idea where any of this was coming from.

  ‘You’re such a quick study really, aren’t you, Liam? I suppose anybody you know could have ordered that wine and you’d have filed it away as a recommendation.’

  ‘Look, the bloke at the bottle shop said it was excellent. If you want something different I’ll go and get another one. Just tell me.’

  Catherine felt close to hysteria. She didn’t want to reveal her hand but she couldn’t stop herself pushing the issue. ‘You were having coffee with someone in Macquarie Street today.’

  ‘So what?’ Despite the dismissive words, he looked alarmed.

  ‘I called you from the car, on your mobile, Liam. I was driving past. I saw you pick it up and turn it off!’

  ‘I was with a client.’

  ‘You said you were with John. Remember? Why would you lie?’

  Liam didn’t speak. His mind was working hard, trying to untangle the threads.

  ‘You lied because you had something to hide and you didn’t know I saw you.’

  ‘What? Are you following me now?’

  ‘Who’s the client, Liam?’

  Liam sighed. ‘Look, I wasn’t with a client. I met my counsellor there.’

  ‘Your counsellor? You expect me to believe that? Why would you meet your counsellor in a coffee shop?’

  ‘I was having a bad day.’

  ‘A bad day?’ She opened her eyes wide and pulled a forced smile. ‘Oh, and by the way, Liam . . .’ She reached into her pocket and pulled out the yellow square. ‘You left this in your jacket.’

  Liam looked at the scrawl on the paper. His eyes narrowed as he tried to read the words.

  ‘xXShe. Who’s that, Liam?’

  Liam shook his head. ‘I don’t know, it doesn’t ring a bell, maybe a contact . . .’

  Catherine threw the note at him and laughed. ‘Surely you remember who “She” is? Talking to her makes you feel so much better. Of course, the baby changes everything, doesn’t it?’ Catherine’s voice became high and thin. ‘You’ll never be able to tell Catherine now!’ The blood drained from Liam’s face. ‘Tell me what, Liam? That you’re a fucking fraud? A complete fucking impostor. Who were you with today?’

  ‘I told you. I was with my counsellor.’

  ‘What is it that you’ll never be able to tell me, Liam?’ she cried, striking him in the chest with her open hand. He looked at her distorted face as she pleaded to know the answer. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘The counsellor and I, she . . .’ Liam was groping for words. ‘We’ve been s-s-seeing each other.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t want to tell you. I tried to end it today. That’s who “She” is. That’s who I was writing to.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Catherine grabbed hold of his shirt and began striking him with her fists. ‘What are you fucking saying? You fucking bastard, Liam. What the hell are you talking about? I’m having a fucking baby, for God’s sake.’ She began to sob.

  ‘I know, and that’s why I was trying to end it – before things went too far . . . We never slept together – you have to believe me . . .’

  ‘Believe you?’ Catherine slumped into a chair at the table. ‘I’ll never believe a word you say again.’ Liam tried to put a hand on her shoulder but she wrenched her body violently away.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll never see her again. I’ll get another counsellor.’

  Catherine turned and looked at him with wild eyes.

  The phone rang. Liam went to the kitchen and answered it. Catherine pulled several paper towels in a row from a dispenser and wiped her face. ‘All right, we’ll see you soon.’ He hung up. ‘Your parents, they’re going to be late.’

  Catherine didn’t answer or even look in his direction. She left the room and walked up the stairs to the bedroom. He followed as far as the landing and saw through the open door that she was packing a small suitcase. He watched as she folded a pair of white linen trousers and added them to an orderly pile. He wanted to take hold of her and tell her it was all a lie, that there was no one else, but how could he do that without offering her the truth? The whole truth and nothing but the truth. That he had spent the morning with his parole officer, as he was required to do once a month for the rest of his life. That ‘She’ was not his secret lover but the woman who had given birth to him, his real mother. That his whole life story was a pack of lies, lies told by the minute, every hour of every day, an elaborate invention of mundane fabrications, constructed to hide a single deed that would never be erased, no matter how deeply it was buried.

  Catherine zipped the suitcase shut and heaved it off the bed. She carried it to the head of the stairs.

  ‘Catherine?’ He tried to take the suitcase from her. She stared at him for several moments before pushing past. ‘Catherine,’ he pleaded. ‘What about your parents?’

  She gave a hollow laugh. ‘Where do you think I’m going?’

  He sat on the steps as she opened the front door and disappeared.

  Alex Reiser, 2008

  The coffin lay at the front of the small Edwardian funeral chapel, raised on a grey and white marble platform. A single spray of wattle decorated the simple mahogany casket. An elderly Uniting Church minister stood behind a plain white lectern. He spoke in a quavering voice about God’s higher purpose and how he beckoned some to a special calling. He read briefly from the Bible in his hands: ‘“I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me, though he may die, he shall live.”’

  The mourners in the packed chapel sat in respectful silence. Despite her firm promise to her father, Lauren Kendall began to cry. At last he was at rest, liberated from his pain-racked body, but in a world without his gently guiding light she felt suddenly bereft.

  Alex Reiser sat to her left, his long legs uncomfortably folded under the narrow wooden pew. He touched her shoulder.
The stoical but sympathetic look on his unshaven face reminded her that her father would not want her to weep for him any more than he had wanted the police funeral he was entitled to. She had dutifully fulfilled this last request but it hadn’t stopped them coming. The front row of the chapel was full of dark-suited men who bent their heads low in honour of their calm, compassionate colleague.

  Outside in the street a group of uniformed men and women, hats off, were clustered around the chapel’s entrance. As the coffin was carried outside, by steady hands, into the harsh sunlight and lifted into the back of the waiting hearse, the voice of Maria Callas singing ‘La Mamma Morta’ floated out to them from the chapel.

  Lauren held her head high, determined not to cry again. It was her father’s favourite piece of music, sung by his favourite singer.

  Alex Reiser held a ridiculously small triangular sandwich between his thumb and forefinger. What was it about funerals? Someone might be dead, but did it really mean that the survivors should be put on rations? He lunged for another morsel as a tray floated by at eye level.

  He recognized many faces in the crowd, the cream of the state’s police force. Even the hard-boiled and the corrupt had had real respect for Kendall: his incorruptibility, the part he had played in the state’s biggest ever ‘man’ hunt and most notorious crime. Not one of them doubted that the case had eventually killed him.

  ‘Alex?’ Lauren Kendall touched his sleeve. ‘Thank you for coming. My father had a great deal of affection for you and he admired your work.’

  ‘I had the utmost respect for him. He was a good man.’ The adjective seemed to Reiser wholly inadequate. ‘An outstanding man,’ he added. Then, ‘Look at me. I’ve turned into some sort of American – a fate worse than death. Sorry.’ He pulled a face.