The Full Ridiculous

by Mark Lamprell

  In their early teens you would never have dreamed of prying in their rooms without their knowledge or consent. You believed that raising trustworthy adults required you to trust them. Their rooms were sanctuaries; private places in which they might reflect and grow. Those were the days when they attended school without monitoring, when they went where they said they were going, when they returned at the time they said they would.

  Somewhere, somehow, things have gone awry. A critical shift has occurred: what was once spirited, courageous behaviour—climbing to the highest branch of the tree, swimming out past the breakers—has become unstable and dangerous. And you didn’t notice until Rosie was spewing alco-pops in the back of the Volvo and Declan was wriggling through the doggie-door at 3am with pupils dilated to the size of saucers. On your watch. And you didn’t notice until it was too late.

  Is it too late?

  At the bottom of Declan’s cupboard, you find a shoe-box of memorabilia: frayed blue ribbons from primary school athletics, pale green plastic rosary beads, letters and notes, and a couple of poems penned in Declan’s more adult hand.

  You read the poems. They are about death and the pointlessness of life. Does he really feel like this? Or are these usual expressions of adolescent angst? Your mouth goes dry and you feel slightly nauseous. You set them aside for Wendy to read later because she is more finely tuned to such subtextual subtleties. A strange collision of dread and pain fells you, and you roll onto Declan’s bed.

  As you lie there staring at his desk, something odd strikes you about the pencil case sitting on the desktop. The zippered pillow of tartan fabric has a line of clear plastic sleeves across its side. Each sleeve holds a black letter printed on a gold card. The letters spell out a name. But they don’t spell DECLAN; they spell JAMES B.

  James Brentwood is a schoolmate of Declan’s and while there’s nothing outlandish about the appearance of his pencil case on your son’s desk, you can’t help wondering why it’s there. So you sit up and unzip the case.

  It’s filled with plastic zip-lock bags, each containing a dozen or so small white pills. You have no idea what kind of drugs these are but you have no doubt they’re illegal. And clearly they’re not just for personal consumption. You are confronted with unequivocal evidence that your son is a drug dealer. You beat off panic and rage with the stick of a desperate belief: it’s not Declan, it’s James B.

  You are vaguely aware that James B has already had some altercation with the police—something about joyriding in a neighbour’s sports car—and so you decide to analyse the evidence before you.

  Exhibit A: James B has a history of illegal behaviour and is therefore more likely to be a criminal.

  Exhibit B: The pencil case containing the drugs has James’s name on it; therefore the drugs most likely belong to him.

  Exhibit C: There is no cash in Declan’s room and he is always asking to borrow money. If he were a drug dealer, he’d be cashed up.

  Exhibit D: It can’t be your little bubba boy, the one who still gives you hugs and sometimes calls you Pa with such affection that you can feel your heart expanding.

  You decide to embrace the best-case scenario that Declan is, for some idiotic reason, minding the drugs for James.

  And then a red mist descends. Well fuck him. Fuck the both of them. How dare he? How dare they? This is your house and you’re not having this shit in your house one second longer. You do not give a rat’s about the consequences, you’re getting rid of them right now.

  But how? Flush them down the toilet? If you empty all those little plastic bags, you can dispose of the pills but you still have to deal with the bags. Bury them? Yeah, brilliant idea. Plant hard evidence of drug dealing in your own garden. Moron.

  And then you remember it’s garbage night. In a few short hours, a municipal council truck will extend its mechanical arm and embrace your grey wheelie-bin from the kerb. Emptying the incriminating contents into its vast belly, the truck will speed off, eventually spewing an anonymous jumble of household refuse into a giant dump far, far way.

  You’re so angry, you don’t even notice that you’re not using your crutches as you limp outside and down the perilous sandstone steps to the side of the house where you keep the bins. You hurl the pencil case into the trash and slam the lid.

  Three hours later, you are in the study with your left leg elevated because your thigh has swollen to twice its normal size again and is aching like buggery. You curse yourself for attempting to abandon your crutches too soon and interpret your incapacity as a sign that you should try to focus on some writing. That’s what you are pretending to yourself that you’re doing when you hear Declan come home. He calls out, ‘Hey,’ and goes to his room.

  You listen intently for anomalies in the usual soundscape of bumps and thumps, anything to indicate that he has registered the absence of the pencil case. Surely if he’d noticed you’d hear the telltale sounds of a frantic search—drawers groaning, doors creaking, the dull thud of objects piling up on the bed—but there is nothing.

  Does this mean he hasn’t noticed? Or is he canny enough not to let you know? Should you march-hobble in there and interrogate him? Should you act alone, right here, right now? Or wait for Wendy and plan a strategy? Should you call her at work? Is that fair? Why are you asking yourself all these questions?

  You wonder what happened to the old you—the guy who would have known what to do and then done it.

  Wendy sits at the kitchen table, bent over with her head between her knees, hyperventilating. You get her a brown paper bag to breathe into and her breathing slows. You have bombarded her with too much information. Wendy is a super-coper but even super-copers stop coping sometimes. You wait until the colour returns to her face and make her a cup of tea. Then you both retire to your bedroom and, in lowered voices, talk.

  You agree not to say anything about the drugs until Declan reacts to their absence. You pretend that this is a valid non-confrontational strategy but you are both avoiding the horrible fight,

  (a) because neither of you has the stomach for it, and

  (b) because a horrible fight might reveal a terrible truth far worse than the Declan-minding-drugs story that you have both decided to embrace.

  A voice way, way in the back of your head calls, ‘Why don’t you find out? Why don’t you just confront him?’ But you shush it away as Wendy read-whispers Declan’s poems aloud.

  Wendy thinks the poems were written during Declan’s earlier dope-smoking phase and that they do not necessarily reflect his current state of mind. Nevertheless she decides to investigate by initiating a chat with him. She finds Declan in the living room watching a re-run of The Simpsons, with dead eyes and his mouth slightly open, so that he looks as if he’s been lobotomised.

  Wendy sits casually on the sofa next to him. Suddenly he guffaws at something Homer says. Wendy wisely waits for a commercial break and tries to engage him in conversation. His responses are polite but monosyllabic. She plugs away until the programming resumes and he turns and looks at her. ‘Mum, what do you want?’

  ‘I want to know if you’re okay.’

  He looks at her as if she’s certifiable. ‘Yeeaaah, ’course.’

  Wendy sits there for a while watching him watch television. Spying from the kitchen, you can see her deciding whether to have another go at interaction but eventually she sighs, rubs her knees, and retreats. You both head back to the bedroom where Wendy hatches another brilliant plan: a father-son chat.

  You explain that you’re weirdly fragile; you don’t know whether you’d weep or shout at him but either of these reactions would be unhelpful, destructive even. Wendy says she’s fragile too and wouldn’t it be nice if we could put our kids in the deep freeze until we all felt like dealing with them. You know she’s been doing the lion’s share since the accident and you know she’s only provoking you because she’s exhausted too; nevertheless you say, very quietly, ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Your son needs you now, not when you feel l
ike it.’

  ‘I know that, Wendy.’

  ‘He’s… he’s…’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well do you know when you’re going to be able to do something about it? Michael? When?’

  ‘Right now! I’ll go and grab him right now and beat the truth out of him, will I?’

  ‘Just for once, can you not overreact?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you, I’m a wreck! I’m overreacting!’

  ‘What? Because that woman ran over you? You were overreacting long before that!’

  ‘Oh, fuck off!’

  ‘No, you fuck off!’

  Things descend into a slanging match. For two literate people, it’s amazing how quickly your lexicon contracts. Rosie hurls open the bedroom door, outraged. ‘Juan can hear you!’ she hisses, shaming you both into silence.

  13

  Two days later at three in the afternoon, the phone rings. Normally, of course, you’d just let it ring out but you are grateful for the distraction from your attempt at writing so you answer it.

  Constable Lance Johnstone is on the line. He sounds friendly, chatty even, as he explains he’s calling about Rosie and that he’s already had a brief conversation with Wendy. Your stomach flips and your temperature rises. Trying to sound relaxed, you tell him you are aware of this.

  Constable Johnstone wonders whether you would mind bringing Rosie down to the station for a chat. You ask him what he means by a chat. He tells you that he needs to ‘wrap things up’ and he really can’t do this until he hears Rosie’s side of the story. He says this like it’s a boring but necessary procedure and he just wants to get the whole thing over and done with. You’d like the whole thing over and done with too, so you agree to bring Rosie in when she gets home later that afternoon. You ask how long it will take. ‘Hopefully not long at all,’ he says lightly.

  It’s a chilly day but small beads of sweat break out across your forehead. You hang up and tell yourself you are being ridiculous. He’s obviously a perfectly reasonable man, just doing his job. Just doing his job.

  You call Wendy at work and let her know that you’ve heard from this Constable Johnstone character again. She decides to come home early to drive you and Rosie to the police station. She reminds you that Rosie starts back at school tomorrow and it’s important to keep things running smoothly.

  An hour later, Rosie stands in the kitchen with a slight frown on her lineless brow. This is the first time she has heard about the police and she’s taking the news surprisingly well. After the initial fright, her tough-girl persona kicks in and she tells you that she’s actually pleased to be able tell the cops what really happened with that stupid bitch-faced slut. You know she is saying this largely for the benefit of her bemused audience, Juan and Declan, nevertheless, you ask her to confirm that she knows not to use that kind of language when she is at the police station.

  ‘Der,’ she says and flounces down to the car.

  Wendy takes Rosie’s hand as they ascend the concrete steps to the police station. They wait at the top for you to hobble up the disabled access ramp on your crutches and you look up at them: Rosie in her crisp blouse and skirt, trying to look world-weary; Wendy in her crumpled suit, trying not to look world-weary. Finally you reach them. Wendy takes your elbow as a sign of solidarity and the three of you enter the police station together, Team O’Dell.

  The reception desk is a long, unmanned Laminex bench. You stand there, waiting. Several police are seated at their desks in the room beyond, but clearly they have more pressing matters to deal with. A young policewoman appears through a rear door, laughing and holding a cup of coffee. She sees you and comes over. Her bright tone is reassuring. You tell her you are here to see Constable Johnstone. She asks if he is expecting you. You say, ‘Yes,’ and she disappears through the rear door in search of him. Moments later she reappears and tells you to take a seat, he shouldn’t be too long.

  Team O’Dell retreats to a wooden bench and sits. Rosie looks at you with scared-rabbit eyes so you take her hand and are surprised when she lets you continue to hold it. As Wendy scans the noticeboard, you remember that she is familiar with this particular police station.

  Years ago, when the kids were small, Wendy was part of a volunteer program based here and next door at the courthouse. Every Tuesday, she would come to support women, victims of domestic violence, who were seeking legal protection from their violent partners. She would sit with the women, listen to their stories and explain how the court procedures would play out. Sometimes she would run interference between the women and their partners who were either begging for forgiveness or threatening retribution. In the two or three years that Wendy was part of the program, she became friendly with a couple of the police and police prosecutors.

  Holding Rosie’s hand, you hope that some of Wendy’s alumni are still here, that one of them will walk through the door, recognise Wendy, and throw their arms around her. You hope that this warm reunion will be witnessed by Constable Lance Johnstone; you hope that Wendy’s alumnus will explain to the constable what a remarkable contribution Wendy has made to the community and what a fine family the O’Dells are.

  But none of this happens when Constable Lance Johnstone appears and calls you over to the counter. This is the first time you have seen him and you are surprised by his maturity. He appears to be about your age and you wonder why a man in his forties has not graduated past the rank of constable.

  After a peremptory greeting, he asks Rosie to join him on the other side of the counter. You start to accompany her but he says no, just Rosie. Wendy pipes up and says a parent needs to accompany her if she’s being interviewed. The constable says he’s not interviewing her yet; he’s taking her into custody.

  Custody?

  Rosie looks from the cop, to you, to Wendy, panic rising. You and Wendy bombard him with questions and protests. What do you mean, custody? You said it was just a chat! Custody for what? How long? She’s fourteen, for God’s sake. Do we need a lawyer? Look at her! Why didn’t you warn us?

  Constable Johnstone informs you that Rosie is going to be charged with assault.

  Another barrage: Assault? But you haven’t heard her side! She’s fourteen, for God’s sake! How can you charge someone when you’ve only got one side of the story? We need a lawyer. Can we come back and do this when we’ve got a lawyer?

  Constable Johnstone informs you that he’s going to put Rosie into a holding cell while he gets the paperwork in order, then she will be fingerprinted, interviewed and formally charged.

  It is absolutely critical that you remain calm and clearheaded but panic and fury collide with your good intentions. Your mind reels. Rosie clings to you, sobbing. The cop peels her away and she looks at you like she can’t believe you’re letting him do this. You can’t believe you’re letting him do it either. Wendy is on the phone, calling a lawyer, talk-shouting in a strange, high-pitched wail.

  The cop tells you it will all be over quicker if you all just calm down. You watch impotently as he leads your daughter away and locks her in a holding cell at the far end of the room. She wraps her little hands around the bars and looks back at you, her face distorted. Suddenly she recoils and looks at her hands in disbelief. There’s blood on the bars and now there’s blood on her hands and she holds them out to show you. You can see that she’s going to scream but no sound comes out.

  Instead, you give voice to her horror and shout in a huge voice, ‘For God’s sake! For God’s sake!’ You point at your little girl and now every cop in the police station is looking and they see Rosie and rush towards her.

  Wendy walks back through the front doors and you realise she’s been outside on her phone. She asks, ‘Where’s Rosie?’ and you explain about the blood and that they have taken her away to wash her hands. You ask when the lawyer is coming.

  The lawyer is an acquaintance of Wendy’s from her volunteer days. Shelley Mainwaring is an ex-police prosecutor. She knows most of the cops in this precinc
t but she doesn’t know Constable Lance Johnstone; he must be new. Or newish. She tells Wendy that he sounds like a bit of a dickhead and reckons he’s just trying to give Rosie a fright.

  Shelley’s advice is to comply. Go along with this guy, let Rosie give her statement, and make sure you get a copy when she is finished. There’s no way this matter will end up in court; if it did it would be thrown out in two seconds. Shelley says she’s not coming to the station—that would be a waste of time and money—and to call her tomorrow and debrief.

  Rosie reappears in the company of two policewomen and you can see she is struggling to remain composed. She looks so small and vulnerable next to these two taller, armed women. You want to wrap your arms around her and hobble as far away as you can go.

  Wendy examines Rosie’s hands and cross-examines the cops about the blood. They apologise and explain that there’d been a fight in the cell earlier and they didn’t realise there was blood until Rosie discovered it. You know Wendy has gone straight to AIDS and you look at Rosie’s hands for any signs of cuts or abrasions, but Thank God they’re clear.

  The older policewoman tells you she is now going to fingerprint Rosie. Wendy asks if that’s really necessary. The policewoman—Carol Fossey it says on her badge—says yes but you can tell she doesn’t mean it.

  Carol produces a large inkpad, takes the index finger of Rosie’s right hand, rolls it across the pad, then presses it onto a document, producing a perfect impression. Rosie does not look up but you can see the humiliation burning across her face. You imagine grabbing Carol’s gun and blowing all these fuckers away but this offers little comfort so you try to focus on the mechanics of the fingerprinting.