August Falling

by Les Zig

‘Yeah, you didn’t look too good at Ronnie’s birthday,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not sure what’s going on.’

  ‘You take care of yourself—get yourself checked out,’ Boyd says. ‘Give me a call tomorrow if you’re unable to come in again.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I hang up and lie in bed. Outside of my bedroom, the world moves on. Everybody else is going to work. Everybody else is starting their week. Everybody is moving forward through time. But I’m stuck here. This is what it was like after Lisa—that feeling of a horror I was stuck inside, until it all unravelled around me. I remember sitting in emergency with Gen, clutching my bloodied wrist. I thought I’d been coping. I’d told Gen and Pat that I was, but I guess I wasn’t trying to convince them but myself.

  Hopping out of bed, I decide I need to push through the day, and even consider going to work—I’ll be late, but at least there’ll be a sense of normalcy. But I can’t face Ronnie, or Sam, or Boyd, or the whole floor in general. They’ll read this in me. It’s humiliating.

  I have breakfast, wash up, then prowl around my novel, and then my play, but know I’ve fallen right back into the groove of pretending I’m going to write. It’s a dumb waste of time. I can’t pretend this is like any other day. Now the confusion hits me. What am I waiting for? To come to terms with this? To hear from Julie? To find some resolution for what I’m going to do? I don’t know. The walls close in on me. I grab a shirt and charge outside.

  On my doorstep, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The neighbours are quiet—they must be at work. The wind whips and weaves through the branches of the gums. Then warmth and light—sunlight—bathes my face as the clouds tumble by. And, behind me, a maw opening up that threatens to claim me.

  I hurry down the stairs and walk, again—as I do so often—planning to circle the block, but about halfway, I know where I’m heading, although I don’t know why. When the branches of gums rustle and part to reveal not only Eden Park Primary School, but the kids in the playground, I know I should turn around and head right back where I came from.

  I keep walking.

  I watch the kids—streaks of colour and cries of enthusiasm—shoot around the playground like fireworks. As I cling to the mesh fence, I try to spot Bobby. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t let him see me. It would only confuse him. But he’s an anchor to a future I wanted in my past, which I’ve clung to in my present, but has dissolved under me and left me falling. It’s unfair, but life is unfair—just like what happened to Julie; just like what happened to Mum and Dad; just like what occurs with so many people trying to make something of their lives, only to have some sudden tragedy derail them.

  The scar on my wrist gleams at me—a brand that often embarrasses and repulses me, but which I now only see as a possibility. I hate that the thought pops in. People have it much worse than me—Julie did, to be forced into the course she took. But sometimes I think it’s not about what you go through, but your capacity to deal with it.

  Julie’s a fighter.

  I’m a jellyfish.

  Some of the kids point at me, and whisper to friends. Others gape at me curiously, like I’m an animal in the zoo staring back out at them. It only heightens how out of place I am, and it should be the cue to leave, but it’s also a challenge to fit in.

  ‘Hey,’ I say to a couple of the kids gaping at me, ‘do you know Bobby?’

  ‘Bobby who?’ asks a thin boy.

  ‘Bobby …’ My voice trails away. Lisa would’ve used her maiden name. ‘Bobby Kinley.’

  The thin boy shakes his head. I search for other candidates, but now this sphere—a no-go zone—has formed from where I cling to the fence, kids pointing at me and whispering. Others traipse over to join their perimeter.

  A strong hand grabs my forearm. The man who holds me wears sweats and a T-shirt that highlights the sculpted definition of his torso. He’s lean—not thin, but hard-bodied—with bulging shoulders and forearms.

  ‘Could you come with me?’ he asks. His fingers claw into my forearm until they’re pinching.

  ‘Who are you?’ I ask.

  ‘Please—come with me.’

  He leads me into the school, through the courtyard and into the central building. Kids flock behind us, never getting too close, but packing together until they’re crowded behind us. I hope now Bobby isn’t here. He’d never survive the embarrassment. It hits how stupendously fucking moronic this was, and I have to resist the urge to flee. I see myself chased and tackled, my arm twisted behind my back—if I could even break this guy’s grip.

  We arrive at what must be administration—a series of offices surrounding a central complex. Other teachers regard me, expressions stony. I lower my face as the possibilities open up to me—it’s likely that they think I’m a paedophile or something and called the cops.

  The guy holding me pushes me to the biggest office. A short man in a beige sweater and grey slacks sits against the corner of his desk, arms crossed, as if this were the most casual pose in the world. He has a square moustache which he may have cultivated to give his face some austerity, but looks almost comical. Certificates on the wall identify him as Lionel Deakin. My captor releases me, but remains behind me, positioning himself in the doorway.

  ‘I’m Mr Deakin, the school’s principal,’ Shorty introduces himself. He gestures expansively to my chaperone. ‘You’ve met Mr Nash, our physical education teacher. And you’d be …’

  ‘August,’ I say, knowing withholding anything at this point is only going to make me look like I have something to hide. ‘August Priddy.’

  ‘Pretty?’ Mr Nash says.

  ‘Priddy,’ I say slowly, then spell it for him.

  ‘That’s your real name?’

  ‘Would I make up something like that?’

  ‘Sit down, August.’ Deakin points at the chair opposite his desk.

  I sit down, only to realise that it’s a mistake—Deakin now towers over me, and Nash is positively hulking behind me. I clench the armrests, ready to push myself up, but see in my head Nash grabbing me by the shoulder and shoving me down.

  ‘Can you tell us why you’re standing at the fence, scaring the children?’ Deakin asks.

  ‘That wasn’t my intention,’ I say. ‘I wanted to see if … I was looking for a particular boy.’ I cringe at how that sounds coming out of my mouth. ‘My … my …’

  ‘Son?’ Nash says.

  I plant my elbows onto my knees, drop my face into my hands, and let out a slow breath. ‘No, not exactly.’

  ‘Would you care to explain that?’ Deakin asks.

  Now it crashes down around me, everything shattering like it’s made of glass and showering my feet in innumerable shards of failure. Julie pops into my head—like she did when I saw Lisa and Bobby in the city. Not Gen, who’s been my support for so long. But Julie. I want to call on her. Lean on her.

  ‘Mr Priddy,’ Deakin says, then amends, ‘August—I am perfectly entitled to call the police, unless you explain to me why I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Bobby Kinley,’ I say. ‘Do you have a Bobby Kinley at this school?’

  Deakin frowns and looks up at the ceiling as he tries to recollect—he’s probably the sort who memorises every kid in the school before the year begins.

  ‘Maybe Robert Kinley,’ I say, ‘or—’

  ‘We had a Robert Kinley-Weaver enrolled at the beginning of the year, but his mother decided, at the last minute, to send him to a different school—to a private school. Is that who you’re talking about?’

  I blink, nod.

  ‘So this boy is what to you exactly if he’s not your son?’

  ‘He’s … he’s …’

  ‘What?’ Deakin asks.

  ‘What?’ Nash says, and shoves me in my back.

  Deakin picks up his phone. ‘Should I make this call?’

  I run my forearm across my eyes. ‘His mother—Lisa Kinley, right?’

  Deakin nods, still holding the phone.

  ‘She was my w
ife and Bobby, I thought, was our son,’ I say. ‘I thought that for four years.’

  Deakin, seeing where this is going, puts the phone down. I cast a glance over my shoulder, and Nash can’t meet my gaze.

  ‘She cheated on me and I found out Bobby wasn’t mine, so … so … we split up. Today’s been a bad day. I wanted to see him.’ My eyes grow bleary, and now when Nash’s hand comes down on back, it’s assuring—propping me up. ‘I wanted to see him and the life I missed out on. He’s not my son but … he should’ve been.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Priddy,’ Deakin says, and now he crouches by me to meet me at eye level. ‘I truly am. But you understand we can’t have you loitering at the fence.’

  I nod.

  ‘Let’s wait until the bell goes, and then you can leave unnoticed. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee while you wait?’

  ‘I’m okay, thanks.’

  Deakin smiles and pats my arm.

  22

  As I sit there, I wonder how pathetic I’ve become that two people who saw me as a threat now regard me with such pity.

  The ten minutes until the bell goes stretch endlessly. Nash excuses himself at some point, and Deakin sits down to file through some paperwork. But my very existence must make him uncomfortable, as he gets up and leaves his office. When the bell rings, I sit up straight, seeing people in the foyer hurrying to wherever they’re going next. I wonder if I should leave, but also worry about stumbling into somebody. I get up, pace back and forth, poke my head out the doorway, then pace around some more. Deakin comes down the hallway and ushers me out. As I’m passing him, he puts a hand on the middle of my back.

  ‘I’m sorry—it must be difficult,’ he says.

  Forcing a smile, I nod.

  I hurry from the school, feeling eyes follow me from every window. They’re not there—I know that—but I can’t dismiss the feeling. It’s not just the school now, but everything and everybody. Gazes belittle me, mock me, condemn me. There’s no escaping them.

  My hands tremble as I tug my phone from my pocket. With shaking fingers, I type out Julie’s name. I wanted her there. That’s got to be worth something. I might recoil at what she does, but I have to see her, be with her, to try and sort out what’s going on inside my head, to put it in some perspective—if perspective is possible. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s just something that exists, like rainbows, faith, or unicorns. Like Lisa having another man’s baby.

  I send one word: Hey.

  That’s it. The entire situation has been diluted to that single tentative word. I don’t expect her to answer immediately, and I’m shoving the phone back into my pocket when it vibrates.

  Hey, she writes back.

  Now I don’t know what to do—ask her over? Ask her out? I’m terrified of being alone with her. Then I think of Gen’s invitation for dinner. Gen and Pat would work as buffers. It’s cowardly, but perhaps it’ll offer perspective—I can see how Gen and Pat interact with her, see if I’m overreacting.

  My sister’s dinner offer still stands, I write back.

  Her response is immediate. Sure!

  About 7?

  See you then!

  I already feel like I’m diving through a tunnel of impenetrable darkness, and for several seconds consider reneging, but the way Julie popped into my head when the principal was questioning me shines bright. I have to see this through.

  If dinner’s still okay, Julie and I will come over, I text Gen.

  The phone rings seconds later—Gen, obviously.

  ‘You two have made up?’ she asks.

  ‘No—it’ll be the first time I’ve seen her since … since I found out. But I think I need to do this.’

  ‘You sure you want to do it with us?’

  ‘I need to do something normal.’

  ‘All right—about seven-thirty, okay?’

  ‘See you then.’

  When I get home, I grab a small bottle of water and gulp it down without pause. It’s 6.00pm now, so there’s still time before Julie comes over. Restlessness bubbles up inside me. I want to be moving. I feel it in my legs, like they’re coiled too tight, ready to spring.

  I pace back and forth through the lounge, ignoring the pretence that I might write. That is a pretence. Facing it is a relief. And maybe that’s not the only thing. Everything now seems a pretence of one kind or another—that I was rebuilding my life, that I’d dealt with everything that had happened, and that I’d been moving forward.

  That realisation is almost crippling, until nausea rises up in my chest. I rifle through the cupboards, then charge into the bathroom. The scotch lies in the tub. I sit on the rim of the bath by the toilet—in case I vomit—and pick up the scotch. I don’t know why I drink scotch—my chest burns with the first gulp, and a second does nothing to extinguish it. This hasn’t been the best idea.

  I rest the bottle on the floor of the tub, and—although my arms and legs feel uncoordinated—force myself to take another shower, standing under the hot water until there’s nothing but the fire that engulfs me. I change into a fresh set of clothes, then go wait on the bottom step outside until Julie’s car comes puttering along.

  She gets out, dressed in jeans and her leather jacket, hair tied back in a ponytail, looking tired and drawn. I pop up from my step as she’s about to come over. She stops. I smile. She leans in and I kiss her quickly, but miss her mouth and kiss her cheek, then dive into the car and scramble across to the passenger seat.

  The drive is quiet. I want to say something, to talk like we normally would, but all the questions that occur to me revolve around her career choice. She volunteers nothing, other than to ask me for directions. Her large eyes are dull, she fiddles with the radio, and, on one occasion, she sighs.

  ‘I wish I could handle this better,’ I say.

  Julie lifts one shoulder, as if to shrug it off.

  ‘I’m trying,’ I say, but it sounds tinny and pathetic to my own ears.

  Gen’s place sits in a row of squat brick houses sandwiched together, weeping willows swaying in front of each. It’s a nice little area, quiet and rural, but still close to the city. The branches of the willow drape over the windshield of Julie’s car. She kills the engine.

  ‘Is it worth trying?’ Julie says. ‘Maybe this is too hard. I don’t want to force you to deal with something you can’t deal with.’

  ‘I might surprise you.’

  Julie takes my hands in hers. Her hands are warm, her skin smooth, but what I think about is the men she’s held in her palms, whom she’s masturbated, and I jerk my hands back, then stop myself, and tell myself that she’ll think I only responded in surprise, rather than revulsion.

  She flips my hands over to bare my wrists, my unblemished left wrist, the jagged, gleaming scar on my right wrist.

  ‘You don’t know the circumstances of that,’ I say.

  ‘It tells me you got to the point you gave up.’

  ‘I gave up, slashed that wrist, and then realised this wasn’t what I wanted to do—so I gave up … on the giving up.’

  ‘I’m not judging you, August. I don’t mean to. We have things going on in our lives, and they might be mutually unhealthy. That may be the reality of it. I understand. I come with a caveat the size of Everest. I’ve always known it would be an issue in whatever relationships I face.’

  My breathing locks up, along with my words, and even the function of being able to respond.

  Julie squeezes my hands. ‘It’s okay. You need things to be safe. Predictable. And I’ve got … this.’

  I want to assure her, yet I also want to take the out she’s offering me. A light comes on at the front of Gen’s house. The door opens. Gen stands there. Then it’s Jet, waddling down the short brick path from the front door. She hits the front gate, rears up on her hind legs, and barks.

  ‘Let’s eat and we can talk later, huh?’ I say.

  We get out of the car, and Julie smooths out her jeans and her blouse under her leather jacket, and runs a hand over her
hair as we approach the gate. Jet barks at her, but her tail and whole backside waggle, and when I open the gate, she scoots past me and wiggles around Julie’s ankles. Julie kneels to pat her, but Jet writhes so much and licks at Julie’s hands it’s impossible to give her any affection.

  ‘Don’t be frightened to shoo her away,’ Gen says.

  ‘No,’ Julie says, as Jet rolls over to offer her belly, ‘I love dogs. I want to get one someday—something big and shaggy.’

  Jet gets up and darts around Julie, licking at her, whining, and not settling so she can be patted again.

  ‘Probably the signal to come inside,’ Gen says.

  The house is a railway carriage that Gen leads us through until, panting, Jet trots past her, paws clopping on the hardwood floors, as if to forewarn everybody else of our arrival. A hallway adjoins all the rooms—the lounge, with its leather couches and abstract paintings, a stark contrast to Gen’s array of sporting trophies from her teens; the bedrooms, with an adjunct into the bathroom, laundry, and toilet; and finally, the kitchen, where Pat is feeding Oscar.

  Pat is a rectangle of a woman with short, cropped hair that boasts an absurd duck’s tail and a round, youthful face from which her grey eyes positively twinkle—you’d think she were sizing you up for a practical joke the way she looks at you. She hugs me, kisses me on the cheek. ‘How’re you?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ I say, but Pat is already moving.

  ‘And you must be Julie,’ she says.

  They kiss one another on the cheek, both warm and smiling, but I feel their reservation. Then I realise it’s not their reservation, but mine—they’re adhering to my expectations because of everything that’s gone on.

  ‘Anybody for a wine?’ Gen asks. She has a bottle of red out, and Pat draws four glasses from the rack that hangs above the kitchen counter. Neglected, Jet sighs and troops into her bed in the corner.

  We sit at the kitchen table as Gen pours the wine. Wide eyed, Oscar tries to work out who Julie is.

  ‘Hello,’ Julie coos, running a finger up and down his chest.

  ‘I just finished feeding his majesty,’ Pat says, lifting Oscar from his high chair. ‘Here, meet Oscar—hold him, will you?’