But what if Jason had lost my phone number and was even now desperately trying to track me down? Maybe he had been mugged on the way home from work and his wallet, with my number in it, had been snatched. Perhaps he was somewhere saying, “I don’t care about the credit cards and the two hundred bucks, but Calma’s phone number is an irreparable loss.” Maybe he was frantic with anxiety.
Eventually, at 2:35 p.m., I called him.
We arranged to go to the movies on Friday.
I forgot to stay mad at Vanessa.
Chapter 7
Keeping the Fridge up to speed
Dear Fridge,
I am writing this slowly because I know you can’t read fast.
It is spring and the sap is rising. I am not referring to your ex-husband, incidentally. No, I am merely identifying the season and its signifiers: primal juices are abundant within nature, new shoots appear, blossoms unfurl. So too beats the primeval rhythm within the human breast, a beat to which I am not immune. In short, dear Fridge, this Friday evening I am following the well-trodden path of romance, whereby a young English gentleman, the classically named Jason, with accompanying Greek god looks, will escort me to a place of entertainment and possibly thereafter to realms of amorous bliss.
Thought you should know.
Love,
Calma
Dear Calma,
About time you got a date.
Incidentally, it might be spring where your young man comes from, but in the tropics it’s too bloody hot for rising sap, new shoots, or unfurling blossoms. Sorry to be practical.
Have a great time on Friday. Watch those primal juices. Haven’t they told you about them in Health Education?
Love,
The Fridge
Chapter 8
Finding the Fridge is a fibber
The Fridge was up to no good.
Now, this might be news to you, but I have a reputation as an amateur sleuth. Not an undeserved one either, if you’ll forgive me inserting my own trumpet and giving a resounding rendition. Call it a gift, but I can spot duplicity (what a brilliant word that is) from twenty miles without a road map. I can smell a lie. I can taste a half-truth. I’m allergic to deception. I’m part bloodhound. In fact, only last year I helped solve the mystery of the unmuzzled pit bull…but that’s another story and I don’t want to revisit it.
Anyway, it was but the work of a moment for me to piece the parts of the jigsaw together and come to the conclusion that the Fridge was telling me whoppers. However, the pieces of that jigsaw came in subtle ways. And the problem I’ve got is how best to tell you the details without boring you senseless. You see, if I’m going to be honest, the separate events are not in themselves of stunning dramatic quality. Plus the evidence accumulated gradually, over days.
So…I’ve decided you are going to have to do some work as well. Don’t worry, it’s not physically demanding. All I ask is that when you see the word FastF™ (Calma Harrison, patent pending) on the page, then you mentally press the fast-forward button on an imaginary remote control. Listen, use a real remote control if it makes you feel better, but not much is going to happen unless you’re reading this when the rest of the family is watching a movie, in which case you’ll find your popularity suddenly plummets.
It’s a narrative device I’ve just invented, where we can skip the dull bits of normal existence and focus on the relevant stuff. I can tell you’re dubious, but give it a go. Okay?
Let’s practice.
Well, it’s Sunday night and getting dark. The rain is coming down like stainless-steel rivets and the tree frogs are carrying on like foghorns. I think I’d better do that homework….
FastF™
Slap me round the face with a wet fish! It’s Monday morning and my homework’s done. The sun is boiling the blacktop and…
Get the general idea? Okay. Let’s give it a go with “The Strange Case of the Dissembling Fridge.”
I told you earlier that the Fridge was out when I got back from Vanessa’s on Sunday afternoon. I didn’t give it much thought. She’s always out, doing one of her two jobs. She works in a supermarket in the next suburb. It’s a better one than Crazi-Cheep. They’ve got two Muzak CDs and they can spell the name of the store properly. Positively upmarket. Anyway, she does strange shifts in the supermarket.
When she’s not there, she’s at her other place of employment—the casino on the Esplanade. She used to work in a pub but got tired of the relentless insults and sexual harassment. And that was just from the other employees. So now she deals cards for grim-faced tourists who, even when they win, look as happy as if she was performing a colonic irrigation on them. The hours are weird there too.
Look, all this is just background information. If I was wondering where the Fridge was on that Sunday afternoon, I probably assumed she was at one of those places. Actually, I wouldn’t have given it a moment’s thought. After all, I had arranged a date with Jason. I was basking in a mellow glow, almost certainly humming while skipping blithely through the garden, scattering rose petals. The Fridge was not high on my list of priorities.
There weren’t even alarm bells when Mr. Moyd from the casino called. For a moment I thought it might have been Jason calling back, just to hear my voice, and I got to the phone before it had rung twice. Mr. Moyd, an American with an accent you could sharpen a cutthroat razor on, asked me to pass a message to the Fridge. It went something like: “Tail yer mom that aim shoor sorry thet she’s failing seek too day. Ai hev gotten coveh for hair sheeft tonite, so she musn wurry. Send mah baist re-guards.”
Even without the benefit of subtitles, I got the gist. The Fridge was crook and had the evening off. Selfish and preoccupied as I was, I forgot about it in an instant….
FastF™
Monday afternoon and Jupiter must be in conjunction with Saturn or something, because when I get home from school, the Fridge is parked in the kitchen. Next to the fridge, actually. We pass a few pleasantries.
“How was school today, Calma?”
“Crap. How was work last night?”
“Ditto.”
“You in again tonight?”
“Leaving in five minutes. There’s a casserole in the oven.”
“I’ll take a shower first.”
FastF™
I’m standing in the shower, trying to cover myself completely in soapsuds, when a small, niggling thought at the back of my mind bursts through to consciousness. Mr. Moyd. The message. What’s going on?
FastF™
It’s late at night and I can’t concentrate on math. Actually, that’s a normal state of affairs for me, but this time I have a reason. The Fridge told me she was at work last night, but Mr. Moyd specifically said she hadn’t been in. If she chucked a sickie, then where did she go?
I call the casino. She isn’t in. Reception tells me she has called in sick again and won’t be in until Friday. I hang up and return to the math problem on my graphics calculator. It has something to do with box plots, statistical functions, and standard deviation distribution graphs. Don’t worry. It doesn’t make any sense to me either. Anyway, the only standard deviation I’m worried about is the one involving the Fridge.
FastF™
It’s late Wednesday afternoon and the Fridge is leaving the house just as I’m coming in from school. She is carrying car keys and a vexed expression. I get between her and the driver’s seat. I was tempted to leave a note but decided against it. If something funny is going on, I don’t want to give her the chance to polish a lie. I want to look her in the eye.
“Where do you think you’ve been, young lady?”
Actually, I don’t say that. I want to, mind. I want to stand there, hands on hips and a pissy look on my face, like I’m getting in serious preparation for parenthood.
“Mr. Moyd from the casino called on Sunday. He said you had called in sick. And you weren’t in Monday night either. What’s going on, Mum?”
The Fridge looks at me and I think I detect a shifti
ness in her eyes. It might be annoyance at running late, though. I can’t be sure.
“Caught me ditching, Calma?” She is trying to lighten the tone, but I’m having none of it. I give her my steely gaze.
“Look,” she says, “I had to work at the supermarket on Sunday and Monday. I’d double-booked myself, but I couldn’t tell the casino that, could I? So I called in sick. Shoot me! Now I’m sorry, Calma, but I’m late and unless you get out of my way, I’ll drop you with a karate chop to the neck.”
It sounds reasonable. The explanation, that is, not the threat of mindless violence. I stand aside and she drives off. I feel easier in my mind.
FastF™
It is Friday evening and I am waiting outside the cinema for Jason. I’m tingly with nervousness, scanning the crowds of people, looking for his face. I am thirty minutes early and worried I’ll seem too eager. I tried to be late. My brain had issued firm instructions to the rest of my body that a lateness of at least ten minutes was required, on the grounds that this would ensure Jason would be tingly with anticipation and scanning the crowds of passersby for my face. Unfortunately, the rest of my body had performed a bloodless coup and propelled itself to the cinema with unseemly haste.
I see the Fridge.
The cinema is part of a large shopping and entertainment complex. There are many restaurants and bars. I catch a glimpse of a woman’s face as she enters a restaurant. She has her back to me and is partly obscured by passing traffic. But she turns her face briefly to the side and smiles at someone next to her. I can’t see who it is. It is over in a flash, a fraction of a second, a single frame in the spool of time. Too quick to be sure.
But I am sure. It’s the Fridge.
I move toward the restaurant, but Jason separates from a crowd and I stop. It wouldn’t take much to go over and check, peer in through the window, but suddenly I’m scared of knowledge and its implications. I smile at Jason and we collect our tickets.
FastF™
“Did you have fun last night?” says the Fridge. “And why are you wearing that towel around your head?”
It is Saturday morning and I’m picking at a round of toast. The Fridge is drinking coffee.
“Yeah, great,” I reply, ignoring her last question. “How was work?”
“Oh, you know. Work is work. Nothing to write home about. Tell me about your evening.”
But I don’t. Not really. My heart isn’t in it.
I want to know why she is lying to me but don’t have the courage to ask. I’m not sure if I can handle the truth.
ReWND™
I forgot to tell you about the rewind function, didn’t I? Well, it’s a logical extension, after all. I’ve skipped over some pretty important stuff, not the least being the big date with Jason, and we’ve got to engage in some literary time travel if we want to get it all in.
Anyway, wait until you get to the ReCRD™ button. Trust me. It’ll blow your mind.
Chapter 9
Just your average week
Actually, when I think about it, I’m not sure I want to go over the events of the week. If I’m honest, it wasn’t the best week I’ve ever experienced. Not that anything went terminally wrong, you understand. But not a whole lot went right, either.
You know I said I had missed some important stuff and that’s why we had to go back in time? That’s not strictly true. Sorry. It was a cheap narrative device to keep you focused. Of course, the date with Jason was interesting and I will give you a full run-down later. But the rest of the week was not high on drama, so yes, I misled you. I apologize. Believe me when I say I feel better for having got that off my chest.
I’ll start with Vanessa.
You’ll remember I left Vanessa’s house on Sunday in a state of simmering resentment at her lukewarm reaction to my romantic liaison with Jason. You might also recall that by the time I had finished on the phone with Jason, I had mellowed.
It’s difficult to stay mad at someone when you’re feeling particularly optimistic, and anyway, Vanessa is too calm. She dilutes drama. If she had been the first person on the moon, she’d have yawned through it all. Instead of “This is one small step for a man, but a giant leap for mankind,” we’d have “Like, is there any point to mankind?” for posterity to contemplate.
So I went to school prepared, eager even, to forgive and forget. At lunchtime Vanessa was already on the benches outside the canteen when I rocked up. She was chipping away at a banana and staring off into the middle distance, pondering the mysteries of the universe. I plopped myself down beside her.
I’d given this some thought. I wasn’t going to mention Jason. I was going to be completely normal, chatting away as usual. If she had a problem with my love life, and I couldn’t understand why she should, then I wasn’t going to give her any opportunities to articulate it. A good plan, I thought. Unfortunately, it was a doomed one.
“Hey ho, Vanessa,” I said in a frighteningly cheerful voice. “Here we are again. It’s Monday morning and the week stretches before us like a pitted path to nowhere. Tell me, why are two urbane sophisticates like us marking time in this academic wasteland when we could be out in the real world amassing personal fortunes and making indelible marks upon history?”
Not an aggressive opening statement, I think you will admit.
“I’m surprised you bother to talk to me,” Vanessa replied.
“What?” I said. Sometimes I fluctuate wildly between a flood of words and a dribble. This time I was just stunned.
“Nothing,” she said, keeping her head turned from me.
“Hang on,” I said. I wasn’t going to let this go. “What do you mean, bother to talk? Why wouldn’t I talk to you?”
Vanessa squirmed. She kept her head at an angle so I couldn’t make eye contact, shutting me out.
“Now that you’ve got a boyfriend,” she said, “I figured you’d find me dull company.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. She sounded so childish, like we were both six years old. Maybe I should have left it at that, possibly put my arm around her shoulders to comfort her. But it was absurd. I’ve never been good at dealing with immaturity and I’ve also got an alarming tendency to speak my mind regardless of the consequences.
I’m not proud of this. It’s just the way it is.
“Have you completely lost it, Vanessa?” I said. “What are you on about? Do you really think that because I’ve got a date with a guy—he’s not even my boyfriend, damn it—it diminishes you as a human being? Are you so insecure you can’t bear for me to have relationships with other people? What do you want me to do? Stop speaking to anyone else, to protect your jealous possessiveness? We are not in preschool, Vanessa. You’re being pathetic.”
She turned toward me and I saw her eyes were filled with tears. Her face crumpled. I was shocked. It was so rare that Vanessa showed any emotion at all and now her whole being was drenched in it. And for what? For nothing.
“Thanks,” she said, her voice strangled and tight with feeling. “Childish? I see. I’ve never been good enough for you and your smart talk. No one is good enough for Calma Harrison. It’s not all about you, bloody big-shot Calma. No one wants to be your friend because you pride yourself on making people feel small and worthless. Didn’t you ever wonder why the only friend you’ve ever managed to keep was a mindless dickhead? That Kiffing boy. He made you feel really superior, didn’t he?”
It felt, literally, as if someone had smacked me across the face. I don’t know where the tears came from. It’s a cliché, I know, but it was like an internal tap had opened. My chest felt as if a massive weight had me pinned. I couldn’t breathe. For once I could find no words. Even my brain was paralyzed. I watched in a daze as Vanessa threw down the remains of her banana and stormed off. Then, with a dark, malevolent surge, the anger swelled within me and I was on my feet.
I yelled at her retreating back.
“And what the hell do you know, Vanessa? About me, about Kiffo, about anything?” She didn’t st
op. “Fuck you, Vanessa. Fuck you!”
I can’t stand immaturity in others, but I have a surprisingly high tolerance of it in myself. Strange, isn’t it?
If nothing else, I had the complete attention of every student within a hundred yards. Not that I cared. I also had the undivided attention of Mr. Haubrick, a teacher on yard duty. I spent the rest of the day in the office of the assistant principal for student welfare, where I continued to cry as if I was never going to stop. I refused to talk about Kiffo, though she tried to draw me out. I’m not going to tell you, either. I’m not in the mood. Sorry.
Remember I said earlier that the week wasn’t high on drama? Okay, that was a fib as well. I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again: all narrators are unreliable, but some are more unreliable than others.
Then again, maybe I’m too smart for my own good.
I worked at Crazi-Cheep on Wednesday evening. It wasn’t my normal shift. In fact, I had told them I could only work weekends because I didn’t want anything that would interfere with schoolwork. I was forceful about that. Under no circumstances could I work Monday to Thursday. Non-negotiable. Set in stone. Don’t even ask.
So they called me late Wednesday afternoon and I said yes.
There was an emergency. Three employees had called in sick with subacute pulmonary carcinoma of the clack, or something. Maybe it was flu. Maybe they wanted to wander around the riverfront and lie to their children about it. Anyway, the store was desperate and would I, just this once…
I wasn’t doing anything anyway. The Fridge was out (who knew where) and I was torn between knocking my head against probability theory or feeling depressed over the things Vanessa had said. Perhaps paid employment would take me out of myself. Perhaps there would just be me and Jason in the store.
Am I Right or Am I Right? Page 5
