“Hello love,” said Charis’ mum when she opened the door. I scanned her like Arnie does in Terminator II. Pulse normal, core body temperature normal, constant eye-contact, passive voice.
“Hi, how you guys going?” Pulse racing, core body temperature rising, flickering eyes, fake passive voice.
“Good love.” The tone hadn’t changed. “How’s Bevan?” she asked, as I walked in. “Mind the smell, I burnt the chops.”
“He needs a bone marrow transplant.”
“Yes, Charis told me.”
Charis! She mentioned Charis! I kept up the conversation, half expecting Charis to walk out of her room.
“It’s touch and go I reckon.”
“Lord, heal that boy,” she said as if God were at her shoulder and might even as we speak be heading off to the hospital. She ran a hand through her hair, brushing a stray from her shoulder.
“He’s going to fight this the whole way.” It sounded lame. Surely I could do better than the standard cliché? It’s what you hear all the time when someone has cancer. I’m a fighter. We’re going to fight this thing. Fight, fight, fight. The baby-boomer hippy with the Buddhist tendencies gets a Donald Rumsfeld gleam in her eye when discussing her battle with the insurgents stalking her ovaries. Death isn’t stupid. He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day. Death makes a tactical retreat in the face of a shock and awe radiation bombardment. Hasta la vista babee!
“Bevan and Vicki are getting married.”
“That’s great dear. You must be proud.” Charis’ mum filled the kettle like she was thinking of something else. Had Charis said something to her?
“Yes. Yeah, it’s great. Mum’s happy about it. It’ll go one way or the other now and...” I was blathering. Where was Charis? Why wasn’t she coming out? What did her Mum know?
The gas took ages to light. Their stovetop had been on the way out since I’d known them. I watched for the umpteenth time in my life as Charis’ mum waved a match at it. Finally it woofed, taking its usual bite at her hand as it caught, before settling into a low blue growl. She banged the kettle onto the flame.
“Tea? Coffee?”
Charis wasn’t on offer so I settled for coffee. Her dad came in, wiping his hands, smelling honest and sweaty.
“Hi Mr Sullivan.”
“Rob,” he grunted, wiping his hands on a rag in his hip pocket.
“Tea love?”
Grunt.
She got another cup. A Larson cartoon of a bear with a big stomach. The other bears couldn’t help noticing Larry’s deer gut. Her dad’s personal cup, bought one Father’s Day by the girls when Larson was all the rage. It had a big chip in the rim. I couldn’t give all this up. I didn’t want to.
“Pity about Doris.”
“What happened?”
“You know love, her hip.”
Charis’ mum could see by my face that I didn’t know her hip.
“Charis hasn’t said to you?”
“I haven’t seen Charis for a week Mrs Sullivan.”
They looked at each other despite trying not to.
Grunt.
“Doris fell and fractured her hip on the weekend. Charis is looking after Hector for the next few days, you know; cooking, cleaning, the usual.” Her mum looked guilty, like she’d told me a secret. “Nothing’s happened between you two has it?”
Where to go from there? Everyone was keeping secrets from everyone else. That’s what the world had come to for the McEvoys lately. I had always thought that Charis and her family were immune from the secrecy virus. While our lot had all signed off on the Official Secrecies Act, the Sullivans seemed so uncomplicated. Surely immunity was in their DNA? Now I was looking for the familiar signs. I knew a family with Huntington’s disease, one of the filthiest, nastiest bullies that can pick on you. Two thirds of a family dead later, the grieving mother is suspicious of everything. She’s looking at her remaining boy through the eyes of a specialist. Was that a shake? A tremor? Is he driving erratically? He may simply be driving erratically because that’s the way he drives or he’s watching some girl legs. But to that mother it’s the first waft before the stench of death, the start of self-dignity’s downhill slide. Can I smell something? Are my senses deceiving me? Am I seeing something that isn’t there? Or am I not seeing something that is there?
“I don’t know Mrs Sullivan, I don’t know anymore.” I could feel a tear coming. I stared down into my tea. The tear dropped in. I laugh-cried. “Salty tea, I need more sugar.”
She got up from her side of the table and came round to me. That was the cue for Charis’ dad to leave. Grunt. The flyscreen door banged behind him. She put her tuck-shop lady arm around me.
“There, there, love, it’s okay, it’s just a build-up of stuff, that’s all.”
I actually wanted more tears, but they wouldn’t come. I wanted to cry into her and purge the bile, but couldn’t. I knew it was there somewhere, like those thundery clouds on a hot evening that promise everything and give nothing. Like verma my emotions were not ready for ground level. I wanted release, but the listless drought would not break. So I let her hold me, let her think it was breaking, let her think this was the nadir of senseless grief, while all the time I was aware of her flowery dress, her bosomy grasp, the slight sour of her armpit, and her muttering in tongues like she used to in her chair: “Shadda-berrica-mananna-shallapuna, shadda-berrica-mananna-shallapuna.” Her face was right against mine, the glossolalia climbing into my nose, breathing into my nostrils the breath of life, the language of God and of the angels, the voice of one who will not lie. “Shadda-berrica-mananna-shallapuna. Lord, give this boy your grace. Give him the strength he needs. Shadda-berrica-mananna-shallapuna.
I pulled away after a few minutes, my face wet, more with sweat than crying.
“You probably need to talk to Charis,” she said, adjusting a bra strap on her fleshy pink shoulder, and pulling her dress back over it.
“She said she’d get in touch with me, but she hasn’t.”
“She’s going through some stuff herself, Rob.”
“What stuff?” It sounded wrong asking her mum to grass her up.
“Stuff from the past, stuff she hasn’t dealt with.”
What stuff? That seemed so un-Charis. Charis dealt with stuff. Charis demanded hot coffee. Charis spoke her mind to boyfriends’ mothers. Her mum must have seen the confused look on my face because she went to put her arm around me again, but stopped as I flinched.
“It’s not for me to tell you Rob, if Charis wants to, she will.”
“Do you think she’ll want to?”
“My Charis is pure like Jesus, Rob, pure like Jesus. She’ll only tell you something if she knows it’ll set you free.”
I used up half a tank of petrol driving from Fremantle to Perth and back again. I drove without music and without reaching the speed limit. The car played its own tune: wind whining through perishing seals, the tired engine straining and high pitched, the rattle in the dashboard I could never get rid of. Lives sailed past me. Older couples sitting in sedans, staring ahead wordlessly. Night-clubbers heading up the freeway, arms and head dancing round the cabin. An old Sigma rust-bucket belching smoke. Inside were three veiled women being driven by a young guy with a beard.
The car took the lead and eventually I found myself at home. I sat in the driveway for a while, distracting myself with Tony Delroy on the ABC Nightline Quiz. They were stuck on question seventeen: What part of the body is removed during an orchidectomy? Eileen from Canberra was stalling for time, and looking for hints.
“Testicle,” I said impatiently, “Testicle.”
“It’s a clue-free zone Eileen, sorry.”
“I’ll have a punt Tony. Is it spleen?”
“Sorry Eileen. Hello Roger, from Mildura.”
I liked Tony’s quiz when it gets to the no-nonsense stage. At question one all the old regulars phone in because they’ve got the number on speed dial, and it’s all chatty and hail-fellow-well-
met. They treat Tony as if he’s a mate and talk about Percy from Kew, or Barbara from Adelaide who they visited on their holidays. But by question 17 the fun and games are over.
“Testicle,” I said again, wondering how many other people around Australia were sitting in their car, or at work, or in their armchair, saying “testicle” at the same time as me. It must have been thousands. It was nearly eleven o’clock in Perth, so it must be nearly one am everywhere else except Adelaide. What freaks are up all night listening to the radio?
“Question seventeen. Roger from Mildura. What part of the body is removed during an orchidectomy?”
“One of your balls!”
“A testicle it is. Well done Roger.”
“Had one done a few years back Tony.”
“Sorry to hear that Roger.”
“Got me through to question eighteen didn’t it?” That’s the spirit, Roger from Mildura.
“Well done. Question eighteen. We’ve got science and technology, literature, and geography left.”
One-ball Roger went out at question twenty and the last question – twenty-five - was a cinch.
Question: What’s the second highest mountain in the world?
Answer: K2.
Bev from Mt Lawley in WA won it, so it was some sort of home victory I suppose. I wondered where in Mt Lawley Bev lived. Had I passed her house sometime? Did I know someone who knew her? Then the cold thought hit me; I’m becoming one of them!
The pomp and ceremony of the news jingle brought back the real world, and with it Charis and Bevan. I went inside - exhausted from emotion and driving late. The air-con had chilled the house. I’d thought I’d turned it off going out. Then I saw Benny’s keys and phone on the table. His toiletry bag lay on its side. I could hear snoring from his room. I peeked around his door. Just him, a hard-on, and a sheet over his legs. Good, I thought, let him lose for once. Love might conquer all, but lust often meets its match. I stood there for a while watching: Ham bringing curse on himself for gloating over Noah’s nakedness. I switched off the air-con and the lights and went to bed. I spent another sleepless night wondering what might set me free, and what being set free might look like if it didn’t include Charis.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The weather broke three days later. The day of the wedding. Summer caved in under a rain-storm. The roads became a soapy water-slide as months of oil and coolants rose from the tarmac. I passed four rear-enders on the way to the hospital. People assume wet-weather driving is just dry-weather driving with the heater on. Suddenly they’re up someone’s tail-pipe. I kept a careful distance from the car in front. My wipers smeared the misty mix over the windscreen, and I fogged up the windows with my humidity. Every now and then I’d rub the windscreen with my shirt-sleeve, but it just made it worse.
I ran from the car, the rain fine enough to walk in now, but still heavy enough to wet me.
I met Mum at the lift. She looked grim, her lips tight. I gave her a hug.
“Stuart’s not compatible,” she said, holding on.
“Yeah. Vicki phoned me.”
“When?”
“The other day?”
“What day?” She held me at arms length and gave me her interrogator’s look.
“I don’t know Mum, just the other day, I can’t remember which one.”
“You haven’t phoned me.”
“You haven’t phoned me either Mum.”
“I’ve been in here every day, I haven’t had the chance.”
“I phoned Bevan a few times anyway. How’s he look to you?”
“Bad,” she said, turning away.
The lift was taking ages as usual.
“No Charis?” she asked.
“No Charis.” Mum didn’t pursue it.
I tried to gee up the lift by pushing the button four or five times. Lifts are socially awkward places at the best of times. Dad was going to be at the wedding and the last thing I wanted was to be caught in a small steel booth with Mum and Dad after years of them not seeing each other.
“C’mon.”
“Patience is a virtue,” she started, happy to be on familiar territory, “Possess it if you can...”
“Seldom in a woman,” I said cutting her off, “But never in a man.” Mum used this one a lot when we were kids. It made good sense for a while. That is until I was about ten. I remember the day that I told Mum that she couldn’t demand patience from me if it was indeed something that men could not possess. This epiphany was met with what would become a familiar mantra: “Don’t try to be smart.” To which I had learned to reply: “I’m not trying.” It was around that time that I realised Mum just wasn’t going to see the world the way I saw it. Ever.
I tried a different tack.
“Dad’ll be here soon too I suppose.”
The lift lights taunted us, and just as it looked like it would come to the ground floor, it bypassed us all the way to the basement.
“Bloody orderlies.”
“Robert!”
We took the stairs, Mum huffing and puffing the full eight flights, me slowing down to her pace.
They were all standing in the foyer outside the isolation ward. There was Vicki in a new pale blue dress, trying to look weddingy. An older couple, obviously her parents, stood stoic, stiff, and suited. Chris was already there, chatting to a woman who was holding a black notebook: the celebrant. And there was Dad. He stood there looking lost in grey pants, blue jumper and brown shoes. He could never co-ordinate. I watched Mum catch sight of him. His eyes caught me and there was a look of relief in his face like you get meeting someone you know at a party full of strangers. He gave a weak smile seeing Mum.
“Your father,” muttered Mum, pushing at her hair and adjusting her skirt. Dad came over.
“Pam,” he said with a catch in his voice. He went to hug Mum, but she was having none of it. He pulled back, then stood there looking for something to do with his hands.
“You’ve got greyer,” said Mum.
Dad didn’t seem to know what to say, so I filled in the blanks. “And you’ve got fatter Mum.”
“You being cheeky to your mother?” said Dad, glad to be able to side with her on this one.
“Ach, he’s always cheeky to me, they all are.” I half-expected her to qualify it with “Since you left”, but she didn’t.
“Charis not here yet?” asked Dad.
“No.”
“You’ve met her then?” queried Mum.
“I told you that they’d met,” I said.
“When was that?” I couldn’t believe that Mum was lying so blatantly. She’d not only known that Charis had met Dad, she’d tried bringing it up for days after Charis had let it slip.
“She’s a great girl,” said Dad, rescuing her. I looked for something in his face that might betray how he felt about Charis coming round to ask for the kids to be tested, but he was giving nothing away.
“Lovely, nice and polite.”
“Vicki,” I said, going over to her, and leaving Mum and Dad in a lurch of their own making.
“Hi Rob,” she said holding out her face for my kiss. She smelt expensive, like Red Door only not as sweet. Better, I reckoned.
“You look good.” She did look good. In a porcelain kind of way. Slim white arms against the blue shimmer, small pointed breasts, narrow hips. Hair rounded up and corralled on the top of her head.
“I’d like you to meet my parents. This is my dad Doug. Dad this is Rob, Bevan’s brother. And my mum, Yvonne. Vicki’s mum looked like her, only more crumbly.
“Nice to meet you Rob,” they said together like they’d rehearsed it.
“Nice to meet you too Mr and Mrs...” It was only then that I realised that I didn’t know Vicki’s surname. I nearly said Mr and Mrs Vicki. The celebrant saved us from embarrassment by announcing it was time. We lined up in front of the wash basin to clean our hands before going in. Still no Charis.
“It’s like back in kindy,” I said.
“Have you all be
en to the toilet?” laughed Chris. Vicki gave her parents a “that’s the one I told you about” look. Dad hung around the back - the kid who never gets picked for anything.
We filed in to Bevan’s ward. Mum gave a low cry. Bevan was sitting in his chair with a suit and bowtie on. He still looked really sick, but he was up. It was the first time I’d seen him in anything other than a hospital gown for about two months. His head was shiny and small looking, like it had shrunk. They must have found the tightest suit they could, because it fitted him well. The only concession to his illness was the IV tube coming out from under his sleeve. Two nurses were standing beside him with flowers.
“Taa dah!” said Bevan weakly, but smiling.
“We’ve even got bridesmaids,” laughed Vicki. I wondered where her snooty friends had got to these days.
“Did you choose their dresses?” asked Chris. Vicki laughed again. She actually looked really happy. Not I’ve-got-a-new-pair-of-shoes-happy, or I’ve-got-a-hidden-agenda-happy, but joyful, as if this was the best day of her life. I felt a pang of envy.
The ceremony was pretty short. The celebrant was common garden-variety, a lady in her late fifties with pony-tailed grey hair and a hippy look about her. She was armed with a few poems about love never ending. She finished with a short talk that mentioned Buddha and Jesus in the same sentence. There was no “in sickness or in health” bit, although that was pretty much a given in this situation. Vicki and Bevan both cried and I heard a few tears and sniffles around me, but I kept staring straight ahead. I didn’t want to lose it. The door opened half-way through and someone came in. A hand I knew slipped into mine. Charis.
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