She pulled away. ‘Hugo wants me,’ she whispered.
Gary’s fingers uncoiled. She did not look at him again. She wrapped the towel around her, closing the door shut behind her.
She was feeding Hugo on the couch when Gary walked back into the room. His damp hair was combed over his head, the wet claggy ends forming a smooth wedge that touched the back of his shirt collar. He was wearing his favourite track-pants, years old now, full of holes. He came and stood over them. He watched his son suck contently from Rosie’s tit.
‘I want some of that.’
Rosie frowned. ‘Don’t, Gaz.’
‘I do. I want some of your boobie.’
Hugo dropped her nipple and looked mutinously at his father. ‘No. It’s mine.’
‘No it isn’t.’
Hugo looked at her for encouragement. ‘Whose boobies are they?’
‘They belong to all of us,’ she said, laughing.
‘Mine,’ he demanded.
Gary plonked himself next to her and lowered her blouse. He pinched at her nipple, hurting her, and sunk his lips over it. There was a jolt of pain and then a numbing, agreeable tingle as his teeth gently slid over her nipple.
Hugo was looking at his father in astounded horror. He began to pummel Gary with his fists. ‘Stop! Stop!’ he screamed. ‘You’re hurting Mummy.’
Gary raised his head. ‘Nah,’ he teased. ‘She likes it.’
‘Stop it,’ the child demanded, his face now twisted with rage. She could tell he was about to cry. She shoved Gary aside and placed Hugo on her lap. Gary shook his head and got to his feet. She could hear him getting a beer out of the fridge. Hugo dropped her nipple and looked up at her. The poor little guy, he was scared.
‘Is Daddy angry with us?’
‘No, no,’ she cooed. ‘Of course not. Daddy loves us.’
When Gary returned with his beer, he sat on the armchair across from them and picked up the remote. The television screen screamed to white noise, then a news broadcast blasted through the room. Turn down the volume, she mouthed to her husband. For a few seconds Gary did nothing, then the volume dipped. Hugo looked up, shocked, as Nemo and his friends had disappeared from view. He looked across at his father, his mouth opening and shutting—just like a fish, thought Rosie—then he settled back in her arms and took her breast into his mouth. She stroked his hair as they all watched the news together.
She had wanted to keep Hugo away from television for as long as possible, and for the first few years Gary had acquiesced. Of course he had: he was always complaining that everything on television was moronic, and if it wasn’t moronic it was compromised and capitalist, or compromised and politically correct. When they first met she had thought herself too stupid to keep up with the flow of his intellect. Whether art or politics or love or earthbound ordinary gossip, Gary’s opinions were iconoclastic and impossible. Was he a communist or a wildly libertarian free marketeer? Was art for the good of mankind or was art only good when it was elitist and solipistically self-obsessed? He loved his neighbours or he wanted them dead. There was no middle ground and there was no logic. It was, Rosie now realised, after years of trying to keep up with his ever-shifting opinions, simply that her husband could not separate an intellectual thought from an emotional expression. For the first few years of Hugo’s life television was bad, a deleterious influence. Now that Gary had been working full-time for over six months, television was a benevolent force.
Rosie did what she always did when her husband expected unquestioning obedience to his whims, she steered a median course, but reigned him in—gradually, so he wouldn’t necessarily notice. The television was never on during the day when she was alone with Hugo; then she only allowed him access to videos and DVDs. She would also open a book or a magazine whenever Gary turned on the TV, a subtle protest which she believed he did not notice but would have an influence on Hugo. The television must not become the centre of their domestic life. She looked over to her husband. Gary was sucking on his beer, staring vacantly at the screen. She leaned over and picked up an old Meccano set she had found at the op-shop and began to slot the pieces into one another, constructing a lean, tall tower. Hugo disengaged from her nipple and, more importantly, his eyes drifted away from the television to the game his mother was playing. The boy began to add pieces to the tower himself. Rosie stole another glace at her husband. He was worn out, all he wanted at that moment was oblivion.
She knew she was right to not say a word about the court notice till Friday night. On any school night Gary was tired and liable to fly into a fit, lose his temper, colour everything with pessimism. We should never have gone to the police, he would snarl at her, you made me do this. On Friday evening, with the work week over, she could talk to him and he would listen. She had made up her mind as soon as she had seen the antiseptic bureaucratic letter. Their case had a number, a code: D41/543. That simple fact could set Gary off. That meaningless number could come to represent the banal evil of authority; it could mean that they were now locked in the grip of an unforgiving, oppressive system. And it would all be her fault. Paranoia, anger, resentment—Gary couldn’t cope with it knowing he had to work the next day. On Friday night, with the weekend ahead, he could be tender, he could be sweet, he could be kind.
Fuck, Rosie thought to herself, watching her son build the tower, defying gravity as the structure swayed—I wish we had more money.
She took a quick peek at the TV. The weather report was on and she noticed the date on the bottom of the screen. Christ, she realised, it was her bloody birthday today. She could have sworn that she didn’t speak out loud but Hugo looked up from the table and the tower, and asked, ‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’ It sounded foolish, it was silly superstition, but she believed that she could sometimes read her son’s thoughts and he could read hers. Not all the time, of course not, but every so often it did seem to be the case.
‘Nothing, sweetheart,’ she answered. ‘I just remembered it’s your gran’s birthday.’
His grandmother meant nothing to him. It wasn’t the way it should be, but there was nothing Rosie could do about it. Hers was not a loving family, and nor was her husband’s.
Again, Hugo surprised her with his presentiment. ‘Grandma’s scary. She doesn’t love me.’
‘Sweetie, that’s so not true. She loves you but she doesn’t know how to show it.’
Gary snorted. Please don’t, she silently pleaded, don’t make him hate my family.
But encouraged by his father, Hugo was nodding in stubborn assent. ‘She yelled at me.’
How often had he met his grandmother? Three times, and the first of those he had not yet been a year old, so he could have no memory of that meeting. That’s you, Mother, Rosie thought ruefully, cold and distant. The remorse she felt was not guilt. It was a long time since she had connected that emotion to the way she thought about her mother. It was just so sad: her mother was a peevish, lonely old woman.
Rosie looked at her son. She wanted to say to him, Your grandmother is incapable of love. But she doesn’t hate you or dislike you. She’s just not interested in you. He was way too young to understand, so she grabbed him and pulled him onto her lap.
‘Huges,’ she said, burying her face in his tummy. ‘Your grandmother loves you very much.’
It would not yet be six o’clock in Perth; there were still a couple of hours to go before the sun set over the Indian Ocean. But she knew her mother was ruled by routine, loved the order and sanity and safeness of it, and refused to answer the phone after seven-thirty. Rosie winced at the thought of leaving a message on her mother’s machine. She could well imagine what her mother’s opinion of that would be. You always leave things to the last minute.
‘I’m just going to make a call,’ she announced. Neither of them were taking any notice of her.
She picked up the hands-free and sat cross-legged on the kitchen table, under the poster of Wild at Heart. The table was her favourite piece of furniture, made of solid, stain
ed redwood, both long and wide so it allowed for Gary to spread the paper across it in the morning, for crayons and notebooks and pencils to be sprawled alongside. It allowed them to be a family around it. She also loved it because Gary had made it.
Make the call, she pushed herself, make the call. Her fingers flicked across the touchpad, then abruptly she hung up and dialled another number.
Bilal picked up the phone.
She wanted to call Aish, but it wasn’t the time. She could not have stood it if Hector had picked up the phone.
‘Hi, Rosie. Sammi’s just finishing putting the kids to bed. I’ll grab her.’ Bil’s deep baritone contrasted with the lazy clip of his Australian accent, an unmistakable black accent, a jaunty melody in the vowels, distinctly different from the closed-mouthed thud of the white man’s tongue.
Shamira came on the line. ‘Sheez, why did we ever have children?’
‘Who was it this time?’
‘Ibby. Sonja was an angel. Ibby just complains all the time now. He doesn’t want to eat anything, he doesn’t want to go to bed on time, he doesn’t want to sleep in the same room as his sister. Is it just boys, are they all bloody whingers?’
They continued to talk, about their children, their husbands. Rosie looked over to the kitchen clock and reluctantly said goodbye. She and Shamira had talked for close to an hour. Hugo and Gary were still in the lounge room, probably both asleep. She must ring her mother. Her fingers flew quickly across the phone.
Anouk’s answering machine kicked in, her friend’s voice sounding cool, bored. Rosie began to leave a message when Anouk picked up.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey to you too.’
It was weeks since they had spoken.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’ Rosie tucked the phone under her chin. She went to roll herself a cigarette with Gary’s tobacco, but realised she didn’t need a cigarette. She was no longer a smoker.
‘Actually, we just received a letter from the courts. They’ve set a date for the hearing.’
‘Yeah?’ Anouk’s tone gave nothing away.
A flare of fierce anger took hold of Rosie. She wanted her friend to speak, to say something. She did not answer.
‘Are you nervous?’
‘Of course I am.’
Rosie realised that this was the first time they had spoken in ages without the conciliatory presence of Aisha. She wished she hadn’t called, she was feeling almost sick with nerves, and afraid of showing her anger. But fuck it, she wanted Anouk’s support.
‘Good luck.’
Now she wanted to cry. The relief was a release. She rubbed a tear away from the corner of her eye. ‘Thanks. I really appreciate that.’
‘Don’t get too confident, alright?’
That was so like Anouk: always a sting, always the bloody pessimist. But even so, she was heartened by her friend’s backing.
‘That’s what Gary tells me.’
‘Well, he’s right.’ Anouk’s tone again betrayed nothing. ‘He’ll be glad it will all soon be over, I guess.’
There’s no way she’d confess to not yet telling Gary. It would be humiliating.
‘What are you up to tonight?’
‘I’m feeding Rhysbo his lines for tomorrow. I can’t believe I wasted so many years writing that shit.’ Anouk laughed out loud. ‘He’s giving me the finger.’
‘It’s Mum’s birthday today.’
‘Have you called her yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Hon, just do it and get it over with.’ This time Anouk’s voice was warm, encouraging.
Rosie felt the safe, sweet pleasure of shared history. ‘I know, I know. Can you believe that I still get nervous after all these years?’
‘They fuck you up your mum and dad.’ Anouk’s tone firmed, became cool again, took on an almost brutal directness. ‘Just call her. She’s going to make you feel like shit. But that’s just what mothers do.’
That was not what mothers did. She would not be that kind of mother. ‘Rachel wasn’t like that.’
‘I know, I know. My mother was a saint.’ Anouk was being deliberately sarcastic.
‘Alright, I’ve got to go. I’m going to call her.’
‘Good girl.’ Anouk hesitated, then rushed through her next few words. ‘Do you want to call back?’
‘No, no, it’ll be fine. We should all get together.’
All meant herself and Anouk and Aisha. Without the men. Reluctantly, Rosie had to acknowledge that for Anouk that would also mean getting together without Hugo. Without the boys.
‘Next week.’
‘You’re on.’ Rosie was about to say goodbye but Anouk had already hung up.
She couldn’t yet make the call. She put it off further by going to check on Hugo and Gary. They were both asleep, her son slumped across the lap of her snoring husband. A glistening film of saliva coated Hugo’s lips. Rosie always enjoyed seeing father and son together, envied their relaxed intimacy, so different from the intensity she shared with Hugo. He was never so loose across her own body, he would always have his arms wrapped around her, possessing her as she possessed him. Soon, soon, she knew, she would have to wean him off her breast completely. It should happen in the next few months, it should happen before he starts kinder next year. She resisted touching the sleeping child and she decided against waking them both and urging them into bed. They looked happy. She switched off the television and quietly took one of the photo albums off the bookshelf. She turned off the light and went back to the kitchen.
The frayed purple spine of the photo album instantly took her back to a time before Hugo, before Gary. She could still remember buying the album at a small, dusty newsagency in Leederville. She had been working as a waitress in the city, sharing a house with a morose couple called Ted and Danielle. She was doing too much speed, floating, directionless. It was the summer that Aisha had moved to Melbourne. Rosie swiftly flicked through the pages and found the photograph she was looking for. Jesus, she looked so young, she looked like such a slutty surfie chick. Well, she had been.
She was in the bright tangerine bikini that had been her favourite; the hallucinogenic fluoro intensity of the colour seemed shocking now. She was smiling ecstatically at the camera, pointing her chin forward because she had read in some teen magazine that this was the thing to do. Rachel was standing next to her, her bikini top a dull blue, a man’s white business shirt draped casually over her shoulders.
Rachel had no need to jut out her chin. She looked calm, assured, a half-smile that seemed now to Rosie to be mocking her younger self ‘s exuberant grin. Rachel was holding a cigarette. They were in Anouk’s house, the one Rachel had finally died in, that overlooked the beach at Fremantle. Anouk had been trying to be a good friend earlier on the phone. There was no similarity between Rachel and her own mother. Rachel could be cruel, yes, but only in her honesty, never as a weapon. Rachel was smart and adventurous and cosmopolitan. She took risks. And she expected her daughters to take risks. Yes, in that way she was hard. It had been Rachel who had told her to get out of Perth, to follow Aish to Melbourne. And she had expressed it in her abrupt, direct way. Get out of fucking Perth, girl. You’re just treading water here. You’re going to end up a boring, pampered lawyer’s housewife on Peppermint Grove, or worse, some bimbo wife of an ordinary dumb-as-dog shit bloke in Scarborough. Get out now, girl. Straight talking. Anouk was definitely Rachel’s daughter.
It was cruel. Unfair. The cancer had spread across both breasts and she had died within a year; Rachel who loved life, who was unafraid, so unlike her own mother.
She had to ring. Rosie gently shut the photo album and picked up the phone again.
There was just one ring, then the insistent beeping of the interstate connection, and her mother answered.
‘Happy birthday.’
‘Rosalind, it’s late.’
She would not apologise. ‘It took ages to get Hugo to bed.’
‘It’s much too late for
him.’
I will not answer her, I will not answer her. ‘Did you have a nice birthday?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Rosalind. I’m over seventy years of age. Birthdays ceased to matter to me a long time ago.’
It baffled Rosie how her mother could have lived all her life in the backblocks of Perth and still manage to sound so English, so proper.
Though it was an accent that Rosie had come to understand while living in London, it would be unrecognisable to anyone actually from the British Isles. It was an accent learned from the ABC and the BBC World Service generations ago.
‘Did Joan call around?’ Joan was her mother’s best friend. Joan was her mother’s only friend, she thought spitefully.
‘She did.’
Ask about your grandchild. Will you ask about your grandchild? ‘Did Eddie call?’
‘No, Edward did not call.’
‘I’m sure he will.’
The sniff from the other end of the line was almost coarse. ‘Your brother will be propped against a bar getting drunk. I doubt he realises what day of the week it is, let alone it is his mother’s birthday.’
Such spite, such sourness in her tone. Rosie felt her prickliness evaporate, felt only pity for her mother. She was relieved; soon the conversation would be over and there would be nothing to regret.
‘Joan is the only one who thinks of me.’
She should answer, I called. She should say, you make it so difficult. She could say, we don’t call because we don’t like you. What Rosie did instead was not answer at all. Soon, soon it would be over.
‘Your brother is a drunk. The men in our family are all drunks and the women in our family all marry them.’
Rosie felt herself blush. And as she felt the flush of warmth travel across her brow, her cheeks and neck, any sympathy she felt for the lonely old woman disintegrated. You malignant old bitch. It was not true. Gary was not an alcoholic. To drink at all was a sin in her mother’s fucked-up middle-class Christian worldview. Why couldn’t she be honest? The real reason she couldn’t stand him was because he was a tradesman.
The Slap Page 24
