by Phyllis King
Charlotte loved the character.
‘If I wasn’t mad, I’d be her,’ she said
‘a caustic, sexy, literary academic’.
Instead, this is her legacy.
A place on the beach.
Taped windows.
Op shop books
and a cold body in Kavanagh Street.
Matthew’s Book
‘The kitchen is so clean,’ says Mum, checking the fridge.
There are no signs of anything
except a small life,
lived even smaller
Food for one, a small carton of milk curdling,
Not even left overs.
I check the bathroom for evidence –
There is nothing.
Her tablets are lined up in the cabinet
suspiciously full.
But when I open the bedside table
I smile.
Condoms. A tube of lube.
A book by Matthew McKee.
I turn over the cover. His photo on the dust jacket.
I recognise him.
The last person my sister held,
even if it was his photo.
I sniff the glossy new pages.
An inscription reads:
‘My darling Charlotte
To all the good times...‘
Matt.
The Author’s Trail
The private school run.
Hawthorn at 8.15 am.
I fight the throng of four wheel drives,
jostle for a space
along Barkers Road
Money is the perk of the job
that only asks for my soul
I book the kids into aftercare. ‘But Mummy, I don’t want to’
I tell them I have important things to do.
Someone to find.
A word to the teacher, watch Tommy - nightmares about his aunt.
The older one tells me
‘at least the cat was outside or it would have eaten her face’
So much for the
Discovery Channel.
Call in sick. Grief. They understand. For a day at least.
Catch sight of my puffy eyes in the rear vision.
I drive
to the other side of the river.
‘We don’t give out the details
of our authors’ says the publisher’s assistant
I leave my card.
Brunswick Street
They don’t do skinny lattes in Marios
I am told.
My Chanel bag
feels uncomfortable here.
I sip a long black
not sure what to do next.
This place reminds me
of university,
of youth,
of time before
partnership at the law firm.
I drop gold coins into the chipped mug
near the cash register
‘Gee thanks!’ glows the twenty-year-old
face covered with piercings.
Then I see it.
Matt’s face.
A flyer pinned to the notice board as I leave.
I rip it from the wall.
Short Stories
Matthew McKee will be reading
from his new novel ‘War is Kind’
at Readings in Carlton
Thursday 6.30 - 7.30 pm.
Book signing to follow.
Do I take my husband?
My hand on the phone, I text the babysitter.
I will go alone
and not be judged.
No time to make excuses anyway.
He flies to Sydney.
Another conference.
I am left to organise the funeral.
My mother calls.
‘They have released the body,
there will be a viewing.’
The Coroner says Charlotte’s heart
simply stopped.
It is common.
With schizophrenia comes
Arrhythmia
Anderson & Sons
At Anderson & Sons the chapel smells
of a scent to cover
decay.
Boxes of tissues
thoughtfully
on red velvet chairs.
Charlotte
in an open coffin.
‘Like she is sleeping’ says my mother.
But her hands are weird,
puffed and like sausages.
I look at them too long.
Her nail polish applied beautifully.
She always had chipped polish.
So who painted them?
She is wearing the dress Mum chose.
With little flowers.
Thirty winds back to thirteen.
My mother asks me to stroke my sister’s face.
When we were little
we’d close our eyes,
feel the sameness.
Now I look at my death mask.
We are identical to the end.
Only life separates us now.
In the bathroom, I wash my hands thoroughly.
Soap thoughtfully provided.
Readings
I meant to get there early
but the babysitter is late.
I stand at the back
next to a man with a beard.
‘Sorry’ I mumble as I nudge past him.
I pick up a copy of Matt’s book
for the signing.
The publicist speaks
glowingly.
Exults us with Matt’s talent.
‘Wunderkind, this young man will go far!’
The book is just released tonight.
In my hands the first copy.
I know this is not true,
I have read it already.
Charlotte’s book
underlined in yellow highlighter
I watch Matt and wait to hear
his voice.
Confident.
Funny.
His dark hair tousled.
A wedding ring on his finger.
‘I’d like to thank first my wife Rachel. It was she
Who introduced me to Melville.’
A woman older than me, face drawn, smiles.
I glance to her and back.
The older woman.
She must be fifty
if she is a day.
I stand too long next to
shelves of parenting books
waiting my turn.
The book signing
is lengthy.
Matt talks to all.
My turn and I hand his book to him.
‘Make it to Charlotte’s sister’ I say.
He looks at me.
He drops his pen.
I have pulled my hair back so he can see
we were two peas in a pod
separated by birth and sanity.
Squint and she is me.
If I do not dress as a lawyer,
if I wear big earrings,
if I pull my hair back.
He sees a ghost.
He sees me.
‘I am alone now,’ I say.
‘The first time in forty-two years.’
I realise he doesn’t know.
Hasn’t been waiting for her phone call.
He blinks.
He is white.
And then maybe I think he knows.
And has seen a ghost.
‘Charlotte?’ he asks.
I hand him my business card.
‘Call me’.
Merton, Smyth & Grant
My secretary put the call through.
‘Can we meet?’
Matthew chooses a hip bar
on Warburton Lane
I’ve never been to.
‘It used to be a boxing ring, they do
Wagu pizza’
I feel my age.
My Christian Louboutin patent red stilettos
trip me up down cobbled lane.
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He orders sake.
I have mineral water.
‘I knew your sister through the Rosebud Community Centre.
I was there on a writer in residence program.’
I thought of Charlotte’s poems,
short and passionate.
The ones she wrote in her school exercise book.
Awards won,
a future juicy with promise.
Until the demons surfaced.
I pull his book from my bag,
the one Charlotte had when she died
‘Did you love her?’
He laughs, swigs sake,
a droplet rolls
down a firm chin.
‘I’m married.’
I point to the inscription.
‘Look, she was sweet.
Her work was self indulgent and juvenile, but a lot better
than the peninsula pensioners I had to deal with.’
I pay the bill.
Back to glass and steel.
And litigation.
I spit on the cobble stones.
Bile and anger.
Eulogy
I work on the words to say.
My mother shakes her head.
‘That’s not how she was’.
And
‘You can’t say that, not now’.
So Charlotte becomes
private and complicated,
not paranoid or mad.
Will anyone know of whom we speak?
I turn to Matthew’s book
to look for words
as he has
so many.
The book is on war
and the art of killing.
A young man looks at death
before it kindly stops for him.
I scan the index.
Interviews with soldiers.
During war they must be taught to kill.
It goes against the instinct
to plunge a bayonet,
release a bullet.
Good soldiers are fine killers.
Up close though
sorts the men from the boys
I read of a pressure point on the neck
that kills,
leaving only the slightest bruise
Mathew knows this
and now
I do as well.
Detective Martin Welsh
I drive to Rosebud to see him,
Detective Martin Welsh.
The country station,
cream brick fortress,
modern and imposing.
My office thinks I am having a spa treatment.
That’s acceptable.
Not
chasing ghosts.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ I say.
He looks me over.
Tailored suit, gold jewellery thick and expensive.
Outside, I see the ti-trees bend in a wind
that chases the white clouds
across the blue sky.
It doesn’t feel like a holiday.
I show him the book.
The passage about the pressure point.
‘You’re upset,’ the detective says.
‘But this Matthew is a writer, not a killer.
Your sister
was a schizophrenic.
I’ve got the reports.
Her heart
just stopped.’
Rosebud Plaza
I need a coffee.
There’s a Gloria Jeans at the Rosebud Plaza
before the drive to the city.
Young mums with toddlers
push strollers.
Chat.
I was never like that.
Rushed back to the firm.
A nanny took them to Gymbaroo.
I was never young either
it seemed.
My eulogy is stilted.
I read over my notebook.
A glob of cream falls off.
The mug
marks the keyboard.
I hear it in my head.
War is kind.
I see Mathew smirking,
‘Your sister’s stuff was better than most’.
I have a plan to
prove him wrong.
She was better than him.
No 3 Sandy Drive
It’s a neat unit, wire cut brown brick.
The end of a sweeping court.
‘It used to be a retirement home’
said a man in number 5.
He sees me go in and hurries to query.
When will the funeral be?
‘Soon,’ I say ‘my mother needed to sit and grieve,
hold her daughter’s hand,
day after day.’
A look of horror over a face
used to the Anglican way of death.
All disposed of quickly.
Inside Charlotte’s house
we have not moved a thing.
Dust has yet to settle.
Even the imprint of her body
on the bed
fills the place with her presence.
Clocks do not need winding
anymore.
They tick on.
The fridge hums.
Life goes on
for the inanimate.
What am I looking for?
This time a clue.
I search drawers, the bookshelf.
Under the bed.
Not for tablets or photos.
I am looking for words.
Charlotte’s words.
The Community Centre
The squat building features
a wide concrete ramp,
wheelchair access easy.
My phone rings.
‘You’re in court tomorrow’
says my assistant.
I text the nanny.
Instructions; make dinner, work on the school project.
‘I enter a parallel world.
Health posters on the wall.
Messages urging
updates for resuscitation certificates.
Mammograms.
Bowel cancer check ups.
Special pensioner Christmas in July roast.
Gold coin donation.
Marge is in her office.
‘We all miss Charlotte’ and gives me a hug.
My broach snags her home knit cardigan.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that!’
I accept tea.
A high tide ring
shows others have been here before
and no one rinsed up.
I ask about Matthew.
‘A nice young man,’ she says.
I ask her about dates. I have my blackberry to log in the numbers.
And it doesn’t add up,
it just doesn’t.
Opportunity Knocks
They play Glen Campbell,
Wichita Linesman,
and have the heater on.
The little bell above the door
ping ping.
I thought I’d be the only one
but the place is full.
Everyone is sifting through
racks of ‘eighties clothes, old stuffed toys
unmatched floral tea cups and
knitting patterns.
At the front counter, a glass unit
keeps the treasures safe.
Some rhinestones and gold plated broaches.
I ask to see Dot or Maurice.
His hearing aid lets out a soft whistle.
‘So sad, so sad I lost my wife five years ago
to skin cancer. It was quite quick and
now I spend my time here
helping out.’
Dot pushes me into the back.
A vinyl TV chair for a seat and she puts down a mug of
brown liquid.
International roast.
‘You need a coffee, love.’
I sip and smile.
‘Did Charlotte ever talk about her b
oyfriend?’
I ask
‘I would like him to speak at the funeral.’
Dot smiles. ‘Of course, her boyfriend the writer
- he would write a lovely poem.’
They met Matthew once.
He came to pick up Charlotte,
took her to the wineries around Red Hill.
Very romantic.
War is kind
Do not weep, babe, for war is kind
Herman Melville wrote.
Matthew McKee took his words.
He took my sister.
Did he take her words?
Pages covered the car
comparing her exercise book
with his impressive hard bound tome.
So many similarities.
In a court of law
I could defend her.
He took her words.
Did he take her life?
Chardonnay
I soak in the bath.
Free standing
shaped like an egg.
Architecture magazines
featured our bathroom
under ‘you wish’
My husband pours me a chardonnay.
Perches on the Eames chair.
A conceit in a wet room.
But this is our adult space
off our parental retreat.
The kid’s bathroom is downstairs.
‘Tommy made the school band,’ he informs me
‘and Mae read the word ‘surface’.’
But in my mind
I am looking out to sea.
Watching the ships move across Port Phillip Bay
from where I sat on Red Hill.
‘He killed my sister, that writer, I know he did.’
‘Why?’ my husband asks.
His tone is even
but I can tell
the professional edge.
