Vivian's Return

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  The man at the end of the row lifted his glass toward her, his cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. It was a drinker’s form of hello.

  Vivien studied the face. “Good lord!” she exclaimed.

  “What’s up?” Morris asked.

  “That’s...that’s....” Vivien dredged through her memory. The image of a beach persisted. Then she had it. “That man at the end of the bar. I went to school with him.” She reached for the name. “Davey—”

  “Briggs,” Morris finished.

  Paul leaned over. “You also took the open windsurfing championship off him the year before they separated the men and women into two categories.”

  “That’s right. That’s why I keep thinking of a beach.” She looked at the beer gut and the thick untrimmed beard on the man and remembered the intimidating athlete she had battled for the title. She shook her head. “He’s gone to pot since then.”

  “Aye,” Morris agreed, staring balefully at the four drinkers. “He’s spent years on the dole. Tried being a deckhand and couldn’t manage even that. He’s a mean son of a bitch now.” He glanced at Jenny. “‘scuse my French.”

  Jenny had managed to seat herself between Paul and Jack and she giggled at Morris’ apology, looking pleased with herself.

  Jack stood up. “Drinks,” he declared. “Who wants what?”

  Vivien asked for lemon, lime and bitters. Jack sorted out the rest of the table’s requests and walked up to the bar, digging for his wallet.

  Vivien’s hearing was excellent and their table was close enough to the bar for her to hear Jack order the drinks and one of the four magpies laugh.

  “Listen to his pretty accent!” the drunk crowed, digging his elbow into his mate’s considerable stomach.

  “Yeah and check out those clothes. Looks like he’s trying to be one of those up-’em-selves airline pilots.”

  Jack came back to his seat and sat down. “I think I’ll wait for the order here,” he said casually.

  “Sounds like a good idea to me,” Paul murmured. He was scowling, which was in keeping with the mood he had been in all day. Vivien wasn’t sure what was wrong but something was gnawing at him. There hadn’t been time or opportunity to question him about it yet but she had an unsettling suspicion she had something to do with it. All morning she had speculated on the cause. The best she could come up with was that he had been offended at her refusal to go with him for coffee last night, yet that seemed too trivial to justify his mood.

  When the drinks were ready, Paul pushed on Jack’s shoulder to keep him in his seat. “I’ll get them,” he told him.

  Jack subsided back into his seat and shrugged. “That’s fine by me.”

  Paul collected the change and the drinks, easily picking up five with his big hands. Davey Briggs moved a couple of steps around the dividing end of the bar.

  “Hey, you’re that pilot fella, aren’t ya?”

  Paul nodded shortly. He moved back to the table and put down the drinks.

  “Yeah, the one that flies that cute little helicopter!” another cried. “Budgie the helicopter pilot!”

  All four of them burst out laughing, as if this was the height of witticism. Paul sat down and reached across with a deceptively casual movement to grab Jack’s forearm. “Leave it,” he said quietly.

  It was only then that Vivien realized that Jack had been about to get to his feet. Paul was holding him back in his seat.

  “Aye, we’ve got better things to do,” Morris muttered in an undertone. “If we let them run their tongues they may just get themselves kicked out of here.”

  Vivien watched Paul’s face. There was a pulse ticking at the temple and it worried her. Paul didn’t normally rise to bait like this but there was his unaccountable mood, too.

  Thankfully the magpies left them alone after that and the table returned to normal conversation, waiting for their meals to arrive. Morris’ and Vivien’s lunches were ready first and Vivien hopped up to collect them from the counter. As soon as she reached it, Davey Briggs shuffled around the end toward her.

  “Vivien Galloway, right?” he said.

  “Davey Briggs,” she said flatly, trying to avoid encouraging him.

  He grinned, showing nicotine-stained teeth. “How you been?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “Been stealing any more championships off men lately?” His grin remained but it didn’t reach his eyes, which glittered with something unpleasant.

  A mean son of a bitch, Morris had said and Vivien believed him.

  “You’ll have to excuse me—I want to eat before this gets cold,” she told Davey and hefted the two plates. She turned and headed back for the table. In the mirror on the opposite wall she saw Davey turn and watch her. He lifted his hands up, as if framing the view for a camera.

  “Bloody waste having a piece of ass like that on a dyke,” he said loudly.

  Vivien couldn’t help herself. She froze, feeling shock circulate through her. Even though the insult was patently untrue, it still stung. She saw both Paul and Jack jump to their feet, while Jenny between them opened her eyes wide in shock.

  Quickly Vivien got moving again and dumped the plates on the table and turned to Paul.

  “It’s all right, leave it,” she said hastily, for there was murder in his eyes.

  But he was already heading for Davey Briggs.

  “Jack...” Vivien appealed.

  “Sorry, I’m not letting that one rest,” Jack said apologetically and followed Paul over to the bar.

  “Morris, how can I stop them?”

  Morris shook his head. “I wouldn’t bother, lass. It’ll be over quick enough.”

  “Damn it, I don’t want them picking fights on my behalf!”

  “They’re big boys. Grant ‘em sense to know their own minds.”

  Defeated, Vivien stood and watched as Paul and Jack walked up to the magpies. Paul confronted Davey.

  “That’s one you’re going to take back,” he said, his voice flat and hard.

  Davey laughed, his belly shaking and took a swallow of his beer.

  “How you gonna make him do that, Budgie?” one of the others taunted.

  “Same way I’m going to bust your chops for you if you don’t shut up, my good fellow,” Jack said pleasantly, deliberately rounding out his pronunciation to exaggerate the accent. Paul lifted a single brow, waiting for Davey to cough up his apology.

  Vivien felt her stomach cramp. Given Paul’s mood, this situation would simply give him an excuse. Davey had made the fatal mistake of trying to take on a sober, angry man. Vivien saw him reach out with his hand, perhaps to push Paul away but his hand never made contact. Paul buried his fist in Davey’s large stomach, winding him. As Davey folded over his fist in a tired way, his vocal mate surged off his stool, ready to do battle.

  Jack took care of him with a sharp upper cut to the jaw, which whipped the man’s feet out from under him and landed him on his back. The back of his head was last to hit the ground.

  Jack shook his fist ruefully, wincing.

  Paul grabbed Davey by the back of his tee-shirt and frog-marched him toward the street doors. “We can do without your company,” he told him.

  At the doorway Davey got a short second wind, for he jammed his hands against the frame and jerked his head backward.

  It hit Paul squarely on the forehead, sending him staggering back, his hold on Davey broken. Davey spun around to take advantage of the break but Paul recovered fast enough to follow Jack’s lead. He landed a punch under Davey’s jaw, snapping his head back and pushing the man off his feet. He landed in the doorway, his head pushing the swing door open. Sharp sunlight blazed in the opening and street noises crept in. The door swung back against Davey’s head but he didn’t move.

  Paul shook his head and walked back to the table. “I’d get your mate out of here before the police come to investigate,” he told the two remaining at the bar.

  “This blighter too,” Jack said, hauling the
groggy drinker to his feet and pushing him into a staggering walk.

  The two jumped to their feet and collected their friends, hauling Davey out of the doorway and picking him up and carrying him out over one shoulder.

  Paul wiped at his forehead and his hand came away bloody. As they watched, blood oozed out of the small nick, spreading across his head.

  “Damn,” he muttered, looking at his hand.

  Vivien felt her anger snap. She grabbed his arm and pulled him around to face her. “Of all the stupid, juvenile things to do!”

  Paul nodded. “But it felt good,” he told her. He reached for a paper napkin, to mop up some of the blood.

  “Good?” Jenny repeated, sounding shocked and disgusted at once. It was a rare moment of agreement for both of them.

  “I wasn’t going to let him get away with what he called you,” Paul answered.

  “It had nothing to do with me!” Vivien cried. “You were spoiling for a fight. You’ve been in the right mood all day. He just gave you the excuse you needed.”

  Jack reached the table, nursing his split knuckles. Jenny skirted Paul and crossed to his side. “Your hand!” she said, picking it up and reaching for another napkin. Vivien didn’t miss the quick, resentful glance she sent Paul.

  Vivien brought her attention back to Paul. “Don’t pretend that knocking Davey Briggs unconscious had anything to do with me,” she said, lowering her voice.

  An expression crossed his face too quick for her to analyze. “It had everything to do with you, believe it or not,” he said tiredly.

  Morris took Paul’s elbow. “We’ve got to stanch that cut, boyo. There’ll be a first-aid kit somewhere around here. Come on.” He shepherded Paul toward the door that led to the back service rooms of the hotel, leaving Vivien standing alone, her anger barely tapped.

  * * * * *

  “Keep still!” Morris murmured, dabbing at his forehead with a thick wad of gauze.

  Paul schooled himself to stillness despite the edge of the manager’s desk digging into the backs of his thighs. He looked at his hands. “I’m bleeding like a stuck pig!”

  “Cuts on the forehead always bleed like crazy,” Morris told him, his voice distant and disinterested. He dabbed at the cut a few more times. “It’s not big,” he said at last. “It’s clotting at last. I’ll put a Band-Aid on it. I don’t think it needs stitches.”

  “Good.”

  Morris dug in the little tin box for a Band-Aid and pulled one out. “You want to tell me what the hell was going on back there?” he asked sharply, surprising Paul.

  Guilt flared in him, not the first time since Vivien had pointed out how stupid he’d been. “You saw what everyone else saw,” he told Morris, dodging the question.

  Morris frowned and ripped the plastic package to get at the Band-Aid. “So tell me what wasn’t said aloud. Is there something going on between you and Vivien? If there is you’re making a right mess of it, let me tell you.”

  That was just a little too close to home. “It’s none of your bloody business, Morris,” he snapped.

  “Fine.” Morris applied the Band-Aid and stepped away. “Forget I asked.” He started pushing the first-aid items back into the box, his head lowered, the brows shoved together.

  Paul had seen that wounded look once before. Years ago. Seven years ago. About five hours after Vivien had left town, to be precise.

  Paul had got a lift home, to the little house by the beach and hobbled inside, leaning heavily on the walking stick, for his leg throbbed like crazy. He had every intention of taking a double dose of analgesics and going to bed, after apologizing to Vivvy for stealing her flight, of course.

  But the house had been dark and empty. Cold, like no one had been there for a good long while.

  Even as he fumbled at the light switch, he knew. The knowledge was incoherent, sitting in the middle of his chest like a hot amorphous horror.

  There was no note but the wardrobe door was ajar and all her cosmetics were gone from the bathroom. The final confirmation was when he went to the filing cabinet and searched through for her personal papers. Her birth certificate, her pilot’s papers and log books, her diving certificates, everything she needed for employment and identity, were gone.

  Morris arrived just on sunrise the next morning. Paul was on the sofa. He had been there all night, trying to get his mind around the hideous facts and failing. Each time he thought he had dealt with it, the fact of Vivien’s leaving would rush at him from another unexpected angle and push all the strength out of him.

  Even just sitting there with the light on as the sun rose reminded him of her, for if she had been here she would have taken him to task for wasting electricity when global warming was already ruining the planet...if she had been here.

  Morris came right into the house without knocking. He didn’t seem surprised to find Paul where he was.

  “She left a message on my answering machine, told me she was leaving.” Morris sat next to him and dropped his hand onto Paul’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, boyo.”

  Paul shrugged the hand off. “Don’t!” he flared. The anger was fear in action—for suddenly he was sure that if no one spoke the awful facts aloud, then it would all be all right, she would still be here and it would just be him having a waking nightmare.

  Morris dropped his head a little, the brows rushing together, a hurt look in his eyes.

  Paul wanted to take back his behavior, or at least apologize for it but he couldn’t. The growing hurt and bewilderment, the need to pass it on to someone else, to share the pain, was driving him like a steam train under full pressure.

  That steam train had taken him a long way down the tracks. For six months he had been its slave and for those six months Morris hovered, bailing him out of trouble, tending his minor wounds, saying nothing, waiting patiently, until the pressure eased and the pain went away and Paul could once more look him in the eye and feel human enough to deal with him and the rest of the world.

  Remembering those six months and Morris’ silent understanding and support, made Paul regret his hasty words. He rested his hand on Morris’ shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said at last.

  Morris flipped the lid of the first aid kit closed and fastened it. He nodded. “‘Kay,” he said gruffly.

  Paul grimaced. “I don’t know what’s going on between Vivien and me. I wish I did. I wish I knew how to deal with it, because you’re right—I’m just screwing it up royally at the moment. It’s like I’m in a spiral going downward. It’s just getting worse.” He dropped his hand, leaving a smeared, bloody handprint on Morris’ shirt.

  Morris looked at it, frowning, then at Paul.

  Paul shrugged, holding back a grin. Morris was fussy about his grooming.

  Morris grinned instead. “You owe me a new shirt.” He picked up the first-aid kit. “Time to get back to the office. We’re all late.”

  “No advice, Morris?”

  “About Vivien?” He shook his head. “One thing I’ve learned about women, boyo, is I don’t know a thing about women. I’m the last one you should be listening to.” He turned to leave but stopped at the door and glanced back. “You might try just listening to yourself. Following your nose, so to speak. One thing I do know about Vivien—she’ll forgive almost anything if you’re true to yourself. She always was a one for honesty.”

  * * * * *

  Vivien asked the hotel staff to package up the untouched meals into takeaway containers and she took them back to the office. She had a feeling that once tempers had cooled, everyone would be suddenly ravenous.

  She considered eating hers when she settled back behind her desk but decided a coffee would be better. Morris came back in and went straight through to his office as she was making a fresh pot and when it was ready, she took him a cup of the black sludge that was Morris’ preferred style of coffee.

  Morris prevented her from leaving by nimbly crossing the floor and shutting the door behind her.

  “Do you want to tell me ex
actly what is happening with you and Paul?” he asked. “Because I can’t for the life of me figure it out. Are you having a little fling or something?”

  Vivien cast around for words that would precisely describe what it was that was “happening” and failed. “I don’t know,” she said lamely.

  “You’re supposed to be assessing this company, Vivvy. How can you do that when half your mind is on...other things?”

  “All the assessment has been done. I’m just correlating, now.”

  “Then what are you still doing here, then? Can’t you do that sort of thing in Perth?”

  Vivien frowned. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  Morris shook his head irritably. “Now, don’t get on your high horse with me. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on here. This place has been humming with tension all week. I’ve got Jenny looking daggers at me whenever I ask her to run some errands, I’ve got Paul answering me in monosyllables and god knows where his mind is...well perhaps I can figure that one out myself.” Morris grimaced and tried to frown at her. “I just know it’s got something to do with you. I remember when you were here before. You were always up to mischief of one sort or another. So tell me all about it.”

  “I wish I could,” Vivien said with a sigh. “I’ll tell you when I do know.”

  “When are you going home?” Morris asked and this time the question was more gently put.

  “Sunday. I’m due to fly out to Canberra Sunday night.”

  Morris sat down heavily in his chair. “Then you’re not staying?” he said.

  “What made you think I would be?” Vivien replied.

  Morris gave her a wise look. “Ever since you walked back through that door, it’s been on the cards. You can’t deny that it’s a possibility, can you?”

  Vivien crossed her arms defensively. “Morris, when I arrived last week I got the distinct impression that the last thing you wanted was for me to disrupt the even tenor of Paul’s or anyone else’s life. Now it sounds like you want me to stay.”