What To Do about Rita

by Tara Brench

  What to do about Rita

  Tara Brench

  What to do about Rita

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2016 Tara Brench

  All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Booktango

  1663 Liberty Drive

  Bloomington, IN 47403

  www.booktango.com

  877.445.8822

  ISBN: 978-1-4689-7228-3 (ebook)

  Contents

  Part one

  Part two

  Part one

  It’s all wrong. Provoking. Irreverent. Bloody Rita! She killed my husband and now this: her things tossed out on his space. The bathroom, the sink—a tantrum mess. The side belonging to George was neat, bare. Just his shaving things and a bottle of cologne. Now her perfumes and make up litter the counter. Her cleansers and creams are scattered in disarray. Scarlet rouge is smeared on the fine porcelain, and there is a muddy pool of beige where the foundation has been spilt. In the sink are tissues blotted with scarlet lipstick, some have spots of black—mascara flavoured tears. It looks like the scene of a violent crime.

  ‘What have you done with him!’ I had yelled, hours before. I had flown at her like a witch. My voice, so often steady, was high and cracked. My hands, soft and useless things, were clenched in weak little fists. The sight of her in his old dressing gown, comfortable and warm, had released something hot and dark and sharp. I struck at her face. She tried to push me away as I hit and hissed and spat. ‘You slut! You slut!’ She was crying like a man—silent guilty tears. At last I was spent, I backed away. Rita retreated to the bathroom and locked the door. I hid in my bedroom and wept.

  Now Rita has left for work and I’m left staring at the mess. My bathroom is debased by her things; objects have been thrown down, spilt out and cast over. Her perfume pervades the air, with its notes of jasmine, cinnamon and pear, yet beneath the sickly sweet smell I can detect a trace of smoky sandalwood: George’s scent. In a frenzy I grab the objects, the perfumes, make up, cleansers, creams, and I throw them into drawers and into cupboards. I wipe the bench with her purple face cloth, and throw it, and a pile of dirty tissues, into the bin. It’s only as I’m blowing my nose into a handkerchief that I notice the witness: the stranger in the mirror. She both looks like me and she doesn’t—like a photograph taken in poor lighting.

  My portrait. My face. Familiar shapes and tones. Contorted. The fury in my eyes begins to dim. The sight of my Medusa hair, a tangle of brown and grey snakes, chills my skin. My pale lips, mouth gaping open, are split and dry. ‘Look at you, Jennifer. Pathetic.’ My voice is hoarse, strained from shouting. ‘No beauty. No youth. All your best days are spent.’ The greatest moments in life are like fireworks: a glory of fire and colour that bursts and explodes into the night sky with cracks and pops, blazing and cascading, shimmering—fading. ‘There is nothing left for you in life,’ I tell the stranger. ‘Rita has ruined all.’

  I look away. I mustn’t see myself like this. Beaten. Low. I look at my hands. They seem like small and delicate things, light-boned birds. I turn on the tap and wash them hard with soap and water. Lather. Rinse. Lather. Rinse. I dig my nails into the creases of my palms, scratching at dirt and grime that isn’t there. I rinse my face and neck, splashing the water onto myself with cupped hands. It spills onto the counter and down to the floor. I open the drawer and reach for my brush, but what I pull out is a plastic comb that belonged to George. Such a practical thing, a man’s comb, solid and without decoration.

  Combing my hair in long wide strokes, I walk in a daze from the room, and through the house, until I find myself in the hall. I stand near the front door. I could be a visitor who’s just come in off the street. On the walls are framed prints: portraits of women. They are old and young. Painted in different styles and from different times. All done by men. I stop brushing my hair and put the comb in my cardigan pocket.

  My favourite portrait is the lady in the red hat. She hangs between a Klimt and a Van Gough. She sits sideways with her hands on her hips. A refined woman. Rich. Soft. Sensual. She exudes confidence. Her white suit never gets dirty. She has a red scarf draped casually around her neck, it serves no practical purpose, it’s merely decorative. The scarf is scarlet, but the hat is merlot and it has a wide rim and a white ribbon.

  What was her name? Certainly not important enough to attach it to the title of the artwork. Rebecca? Elizabeth? Persephone? A name with at least three syllables and no one ever shortens it. And a nickname, something boyish. A nickname for a woman of the British aristocracy, a lady that rides and shoots and hunts. Chummy or Pal or Rider. This woman knows who she is and what she wants, it’s there in her wistful eyes, the elegant tilt of her neck, the suggestion of a smile on her ruby lips. This woman isn’t troubled by the portraits to her left and right: A Girl in White and The Woman in Gold. They are present—that is all.

  I’m troubled by them. These faces seem to stare down in silent judgement, these past women, the ghosts on my wall. Hear us, they say, learn from us. But how can I? They are long dead. They have left nothing of themselves but a perfect image, made with the long and short strokes of an artist’s brush. Their trials have come and gone and are meaningless now. Only my troubles remain. Yet I face them: my judges. I lean my body against the wall and imagine I can disappear inside a portrait.

  In my own portrait I am nineteen. Physically a woman—emotionally a girl. At nineteen I had the gentle, serene and unconscious face of a girl who had never known hardship. I was pretty, everyone said so. I wore mini skirts and peasant tops, and my thick chocolate hair rippled to my waist. I smiled freely at everyone in those days. The sun was warm on my back, the path under my feet was smooth. I had a plan for my life sketched out in black and white; it looked like a map drawn by my mother, and my mother’s mother, and all the women down our line. It was nothing that set me apart.

  I was nineteen when I met George. I was sitting on the bench in front of the university, waiting for the bus. In my hands I was holding a daisy, twirling it with my fingers.

  ‘Is that for me?’ His voice made me start. Caught up in my daydream, I hadn’t heard him approach. He looked like one of the dirty farm boys that come to town to study agriculture. His clothing was too big for his body, rolled up at the sleeves and ankles, with stains of oil and grease, liquids that slop from cars and utes and tractors. His black boots were coated in mud. His backpack was too small for the many books poking out the top. ‘Is that for me?’ He said again, amused by my surprise.

  ‘No it’s not,’ I said. I gave him a cold look. The ‘agi’ boys, as we called them, had a reputation for being rough and rude. They would shout from cars at girls from school, but they drove so fast that their words were blurred.

  His face fell into a comic display of disappointment. My mouth twitched. ‘You can pick your own. Over there.’ I pointed to the ditch by the roadside where the wild daisies grew.

  He went over to inspect them, stooping over with his back towards me. My mind ran to Deborah, my best friend, who in my shoes would have judged and rated that masculine figure, but I was not not Deborah—I averted my eyes.

  When he was finished looking, he came back over. ‘I still want yours,’ he said. ‘Those ones are inferior. You have picked the best one.’ He kicked at a rock near his feet and looked around. I took the opportunity to study his face. He was handsome, like an actor in an old movie, a Roman soldier. He had olive skin, bushy eyebrows and a chin covered in black stubble. He looked like a real man’s man.


  ‘Are you studying to be a farmer?’ I said.

  He glared at me with serious black eyes; his bottom lip protruded like an insolent child. I’d never seen a man pout before, it made me want to laugh.

  ‘Do I look like a farmer? I’m studying viticulture. My family owns a Vineyard.’

  ‘Are you Greek?’ I wanted to say Roman, but I knew that wasn’t quite right.

  ‘Italian.’

  ‘Italian!’ I was delighted. ‘That’s what I meant to say. So is the vineyard in Italy or Australia?’

  ‘Italy. Barolo. Heard of it?’

  I shook my head. The only places I’d heard of were Rome and Tuscany, but I wasn’t about to admit that.

  He shrugged as if it was of no importance whether I’d heard of it or not. He looked more thoughtful suddenly, sober.

  ‘When are you going back there?’ I said. My voice sounded shrill and strange. I wanted to ask all sorts of nosy questions about his life and family and culture; I felt an urgency to get the answers.

  He gave me another long penetrating look. I blushed and looked down at my flower. When he didn’t respond after what felt like an age, I looked up and was amazed to see him grinning and looking happy again. ‘Never, if I can help it,’ he said.

  I could see the bus approaching and got up to stand near the bus stop. I was holding the daisy with both hands, as if it were a talisman or a sacred object. Then, on an impulse, I gave it away. ‘You don’t deserve this,’ I said, as I handed it to him. I tried to look dignified and firm but my severity failed and fell into a smile. ‘I’m Jennifer.’

  He signalled for the bus to stop with a wave of a hand. When the bus had pulled over, and the doors had opened with a hiss and a jolt, he gestured for me to hop in first. He waited until we were seated side by side, and the bus was rumbling along the old road, before he told me his name was George.

  ‘George.’ I speak the name aloud to the portraits on the wall. They do not blink. ‘How can a young person love so much?’ They do not answer. ‘How about you, God?’ I lift my gaze upward, to the ceiling, to the light fixtures. ‘What do you have to say on the subject?’ The house is cold and dark and still. Outside it is raining.

  I push myself away from the wall and out of the hallway. The time for resting, if it can be called that, is over. I go into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea, rooibos with a teaspoon of fresh honey. I take it into my office and stare out the window. The day is sullen and grey and the rain is beating hard against the glass.

  We built this house by a reserve and the air is often heavy with the scent of pine. You get used to it after a while. I can’t smell it at all today, but when the rain has stopped the scent will be strong in the air. It will infuse every corner of the house.

  Rita says she can’t stand the smell of pine. I’ve seen her pinch her nose with her fingers and carry on like someone had farted. ‘That smell! What a god-awful smell!’ she said. I found her behaviour strange; George never complained about the pine scent, not once.

  ‘Some people like it,’ I said. ‘They spray it in their houses. They hang it in their cars.’

  She shook her head, as if she couldn’t possibly imagine how I could stand it.

  On my desk are assignments that need marking, a tower built from rugged pages of teenage scrawl. Numbers and words. I want to shred them all by hand, to tear the pages slowly and carefully in order to prolong the sound of the rip. I don’t know why I became a teacher. It was a mistake, like so many other decisions. I sink heavily into the chair with a dramatic sigh. Too dramatic. A Rita type sigh. I pick up a red pen.

  My sister and I found a couple of metal boxes at the tip when we were girls. We stuck faded floral wallpaper on them and painted the insides yellow. Kate used her box to store Barbie dolls. When she was a girl she wanted to be a doctor, actress, pilot, model or archaeologist. Her Barbies lived out her fantasies, jet-setting around the world in designer clothing. My metal box became a glory box. A glory box is where a girl stores her hopes and dreams for the future in the form of objects. Mine contained an assortment of household odds and ends: cookware, cutlery, utensils, blankets and linen, all given as awards for good grades from proud parents. Kate eventually grew out of her box and went to throw it away, but I claimed it—I needed more room for my wifely things. When Grandma died I added a sterling silver cutlery set from the 1930’s and a baby’s christening gown.

  I leaf through the papers on my desk, glimpsing doodles of hearts, birds, breasts and genitalia. Rita would be at work by now. No doubt she is perfectly groomed, hair and make up flawless, no sign of this morning’s drama about her. I picture her sashaying in, swinging hips that aren’t rounded. ‘Good job on the sale, Jim,’ she’d say. Her body would be leaning over a desk so she can show off her expensive cleavage. They all love her there. They don’t think it’s strange. It makes them look modern, having someone like Rita there. And she excels at it, like she does at everything. She excels at selling houses, but she hasn’t managed to sell this one.

  We have made a trap for ourselves, Rita and I. Or should I say George and I? I still get them confused. One of us should have left at the beginning of all this—and it should have been Rita—but she refused to leave; she said she could sell the house quicker if she lived here. That would be good for us both: to sell the house, to split the money and move on. I will buy myself a cottage and plant a rose garden. Rita may buy a penthouse in the city and look down on us all, for all I care. But I’m not leaving this house to her. George has left. George is dead. Rita is nothing to me—I will not negotiate with her.

  We have our separate sections of the house. We use the shared spaces with great care. At least, I do. Rita’s sense of boundaries has always been average. Her personality doesn’t conform itself to small spaces. She is too large, too loud.

  I will be reading on one end of the sofa and Rita will perch herself on the other end, even though she could have an entire sofa to herself. Rita isn’t like me, she doesn’t like to be alone. She’d rather be with her enemies than no one. She turns on the television because it feels like having company, and I don’t mind that, I can read with the noise in the background, but she only manages to sit quietly for a few moments, painting her nails or flipping through a magazine, before she starts talking. ‘Can you believe? Guess who I saw? Did you happen to—?’ Rita talks to fill in spaces because peace and quiet disturb her. She will talk about anything and nothing, she will talk to herself if no one is listening. I will listen because listening is what I’ve always done. I must be polite. I must be gracious. ‘Yes, Rita. Really, Rita? Oh dear!’

  I don’t know what to do about Rita. I don’t know what to think. The whole thing gives me a roaring headache. My friends ring me day and night. ‘Jennifer,’ they say, ‘what are you doing living like that?’ But they don’t want to hear my opinion, they just want to hand out advice.

  ‘You should kick her out.’

  ‘Speak to a lawyer.’

  ‘Burn the house down.’

  I really don’t want to hear it any more.

  ‘Jennifer, you really must get out of there, it can’t be any good for your health.’

  ‘It’s really quite shocking, Jennifer. Do you actually condone it?’

  I don’t know what to tell them. It’s messy. You grow up with an idea of what normal is, but everyone’s idea is different.

  My childhood was what most people considered normal. A mother and a father who were reasonably happy. A moderate income. A house in the suburbs. Everything about my childhood was good and straight. As a girl I stood in my Mary Jane shoes on the steps of the church and shook the minister’s hand before every service. ‘God bless you, Jennifer,’ he’d say. And he’d smile and pat my head like I was a faithful pet, and I’d skip inside feeling safe and liked. For over forty years the walls in the church were white, and the songs we sang were all the same, and the sermons were about loving your neighbour or forgiveness, and only the collection plates were replaced. Th
e children grew up and the adults grew older, the old people died and we’d miss them, but apart from their loss nothing much changed. Occasionally I’d run into someone through the week, and it would be odd to see them in their regular clothing, the women wearing their make up in a different way; we’d exchange a ‘how do you do’ and some remark about the weather, both of us eager to continue our separate ways.

  Now, I don’t know who that woman was, that woman who went to church on Sundays and used to sing in the choir, but she’s been replaced by me. And George, my Italian husband, has been replaced by Rita.

  I have to force my focus back to the task at hand: the grading of papers, the ticks and crosses. I put dashes through errors and write comments in the margins.

  Everything changed the night I caught George trying on dresses. It was spring. I knelt in the dirt outside our bedroom window. He stood in front of the mirror in a dress of ocean blue chiffon. I had worn that dress in Paris. I could no longer wear it—it no longer fit—it was a relic of a past life. Other articles of clothing lay strewn on the bed, awaiting their turn. They were all dresses, lovely female things. My body had once been a smooth and slender object. I could run my fingers over my flat stomach and marvel at how it felt both soft and hard, like clay. On George, whose limbs and torso were shaped like fine wires, the dress sat with easy grace. In my cupboard it had sagged sadly, being of no use but to hang as a stale reminder of my lost youth. On George it looked revived. Elated. Like it was doing what it was made for, finally. He twisted and turned in front of the mirror, seeing how well it looked from every angle. Then, with a gentle sweep of his fingers, and a shrug of the shoulders, the garment fell freely to the floor. He stepped out of it with ballerina pointed toes. He picked the dress up and placed it on the bed.

  One by one, and with great care, the dresses were tried on. Gingerly he lifted each over his head, and with a wiggle and a shimmy: they fell to his form. I felt like a sparrow clutched in the talons of a hawk, its small body paralysed with fear, a passenger about to be pecked and torn and swallowed.