He would never divorce, he said, despite the many incompatibilities I had noted during my rant in rather unambiguous terms. He would never divorce, he said, because of the children—his time with them was precious and rare enough due to the demands of his work, and he would not relegate his time with them to mere visitations under the ire of Alexis who would be a worse ex-wife. That was an excellent point. “Besides,” he said. “I’m not unhappy.” I envied him then—what was important to him in life, his children, relieved him of an obsessive pursuit of bliss and a pure state of happiness. I resolved then to aim for a similar state of ‘not unhappy’. This was achievable, and possibly even maintainable, and Jason has always been a fine example to follow.
I told him about the dream and the rare black shark. He laughed then asked me about Rudy. He was sorry to hear of the break-up, as he had really liked Rudy. Mother had found him “enchanting” he said. I assumed this meant she thought of Rudy as a curio or charity since she still believed he was a bricklayer. Jason suggested I not be so scathing of her for she genuinely meant to suggest Rudy was charming. I wondered what she might think of charming Rudy if she knew of the articles, especially ‘Moves that work’. I’m certain that was not the kind of fame she had imagined for her second daughter.
Jason prepared to leave, donning his jacket and straightening his tie. I did not want him to go. He was my brother, a person who shared my DNA, we lived in the same town not so far from each other, yet we saw each other seventeen times a year, and never really talked, like today. That is what it is like to be a part of the Evans clan, or maybe it is just me.
After work, I stopped off at the bottle shop and bought a case of merlot, not a single bottle as is usual because there was a special on offer for a case, and only a fool would pass it up, or the temperate, or Witnesses of Jehovah. Then at the video store, I rented The Family Stone before buying dinner at Silom Thai. It was dark earlier with autumn and I would not go to the gym again until spring. I settled in at home for a perfect night alone. Amber and Erin called and left messages I would return the next day.
I might never understand families, even after watching The Family Stone. It seems odd to me that individuals are born into a relationship with others, and are bound together for life by an indiscernible and enduring umbilical chord. They were there in the beginning before husbands, friends, or anyone else. They saw you in your pajamas, knew when you had new ones, slept beside you in a caravan bunk, and scared you with horror stories. They were there when the guinea pigs had babies and when they died. They fought with you over whose turn it was to wipe-up, set the table, put away. They blamed you when the fish died from over-feeding or starvation, and waited impatiently with you Christmas morning on the only day of the year Lauren woke early. They laughed at your measles, but bought you flat lemonade when you were sick. They threw rocks at your window when you were grounded to be sure you knew how great it was on the outside. They lined up beside you Saturday morning for pocket money distribution, and led you in the rebellion against tyranny when the work-for-pay rule was introduced. They encouraged you to eat the red chilies then ran away when you threw up, and laughed at your grounding for attempting the same ruse on a lower-tier sibling. They laughed when you fainted inside the tree trunk, felling the forest on stage for Hansel and Gretel, and tickled you when you begged for mercy. They teased you for every schoolyard crush and wrote you fake love letters from your wannabe boyfriend. They laughed when you rode your bike into the mango tree then carried you home for repairs. They were there, brothers and sisters, to witness the earliest part of a life and the foundations of a future not yet known to anyone.
I cried myself to sleep that night because of the memories and because my earliest years had faded to grey. If I had not recalled them this night, they might well have disappeared forever. Perhaps it is the mystical powers of merlot, or the power of time to heal and rewrite history, but my childhood seems quite wondrous now and not at all lonely or isolated, as I had remembered it.
Another dream filled my restless sleeping. I was captive at a heroin farm and forced to work the poppy fields. I escaped with another prisoner and we trekked for days before coming to a halt at the edge of a crag. In the distance, there was a road to safety carved into the barren landscape, but we had to descend the steep, rocky gradient to get there. My fellow escapee urged me to abandon the bright red suitcase on wheels that I dragged along behind me. It would attract attention, she said, when the heroin farmers came looking for us. I refused, and attempted the descent with my suitcase, but it rolled over the top of me, embedding my face in the dirt.
If the dream had come to me at some other time, I would have rushed out and bought black luggage having identified the dream as a warning that brightly-colored luggage would attract drug smugglers then hello Bangkok Hilton for me. But I saw a message instead, and realized that I must leave my Benny behind for I am not only the bad from my past, I am the good as well, and if I do not let go of the past, it will roll over me until I am dirt in the earth.
Chapter Six
WE still have our girl-only nights, Kimba, Erin, Amber, Sophie and me, but not often as they were back when we made the pledge—pre-marriages, careers and babies. And unlike the earlier years, they are much less about fun and much more about disagreement. Arguments are inevitable since we are a motley crew of incompatibles bound together by an out-of-date oath to come together for these shindigs for the rest of eternity. No one wants to be the one to say the time has come my friends to go our separate ways, and so the ritual continues.
Sophie disagrees with Erin as a matter of principle even when Erin goes out of her way to agree with Sophie. It is uncomfortable yet entertaining to watch Sophie change opinions at random just to oppose Erin, and ridiculous also that, much to Sophie’s frustration, Erin does not take any of it to heart. She is unoffendable.
Amber is usually the centre of everything though because she is one of those people who things happen to all the time. There is always a story to tell with Amber, much like Jerome in Accounts.
Amber has a hate-hate relationship with a colleague at her firm, where they both work as consultants in public relations. A lot of energy and planning goes into finding ways to outwit and out-play the nemesis, and we all look forward to the re-enactments, which Amber demonstrates first, as it actually happened, then makes adjustments so we can see how it should have played out in hindsight. Sometimes we are invited to submit ideas for strategies, but in her wisdom, Amber does not take advice from us, especially given that they are usually tendered late into the night while under the influence.
Kimba however, makes sense no matter what state she is in, and is always consistent in her approach to any problem—communication. We all know Kimba is right, but who wants to sit down with an adversary over coffee to retire past conflict and agree on a harmonious future. I cannot even visualize doing this with Shannon. It is not reality.
Sophie the divorce lawyer is also consistent. Her solution to Amber’s plight at work was to cease all face-to-face communications and resort to emails to ensure there is an evidence trail to use against the nemesis at the appropriate time. This strategy, according to Sophie, would also ensure Amber gets to make her witty retorts, which are otherwise just an after-thought as one can spend time perfecting an email.
My offerings are typically simple and based on the same tactic I use in all dealings with Shannon—ignore the nemesis, although I know from personal experience that this can be quite impossible and ineffective in the workplace. My other solution to Amber’s impasse was to change jobs, which I had personally implemented after the Joshua incident, and with some success. However there was unanimous opinion that to run away or be driven out (Erin’s words) was undignified and cowardly (everyone’s words).
Few people are a match for Amber, but her nemesis surely was, and I was glad to know her only by reputation. When a promotion was on offer, with Amber and the nemesis both eligible, the nemesis initiated a rumor (based rath
er accurately on truth) that Amber and the boss/decision-maker were ‘involved’ thereby guaranteeing that should Amber succeed, the promotion would be tainted, as would Amber, possibly. Amber was furious—volcanic kind of furious—not about the rumor, but that she had been out-played. The affair had been underway for many months and the nemesis had known about it from the start. She had kept quiet though until the information had more value than mere gossip. I must confess I did admire the nemesis, for such a tactic would surely have required an enormous amount of patience and cunning.
It is rather foolhardy to irk Amber at the best of times let alone when she was in a rage, but Erin can and will with no concern or appreciation for the value of her own life. Apparently, according to Erin, Amber’s outrage was not caused by the nemesis, but by Amber herself. This enraged Amber further (humanly impossible I would have thought), and it enraged Sophie too, just for the sake of it.
“Only if you live in a vacuum sealed off from the rest of the world,” Sophie retorted. “We’re humans—other humans affect how we feel.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Erin. “Amber doesn’t have to feel angry about it. She could laugh instead if she wanted to.”
“Laugh!” yelled Amber. “How would you feel if someone slurred your good name to your colleagues?”
“But, it’s true isn’t it? You were having an affair with your boss,” Erin replied calmly.
“So?” yelled Amber
“Do you know anything at all about people, Erin?” Sophie asked. “You can’t really believe that no one else can make you feel.”
“Absolutely I do. You’re angry with me right now, Sophie, but I didn’t do that to you—you did that to yourself.”
“Erin, you’re an idiot.” Sophie replied. “People aren’t robots—we react to other people, well normal people do.”
“Are you seriously trying to tell me that you have never been upset or angry or frustrated by something someone else has said or done?” Amber asked.
“I have, but that’s my point. If I am upset or angry, I do that to myself. It’s a choice I make.”
“You’ve said some ridiculous things, Erin, but this one takes some beating,” said Amber.
“I don’t understand,” I said, and truly could not. There was logic in there somewhere, perhaps something Freudian, but I could not grasp it. I kept thinking of Shannon and how much she irritated me just by existing; I didn’t like the way she sipped or chewed or the way she continued breathing.
Kimba encouraged calm as she lit some scented candles and dimmed the lights. All we needed were Tibetan Mountain seats and a few crystals and we would be set. I was busy thinking though about the soothing qualities of merlot and how much it would help me at least if my glass was not empty then it appeared like manna from heaven. Kimba, the all-knowing one also knows that Bergamot and Sandalwood do not work for everyone.
“I’ve had enough of this,” said Sophie, standing to leave. “You want to share a taxi, Mace?”
I stared at my recently-filled glass telegraphically answering the question. Sophie stared into me telegraphically reminding me that I would owe her for a lifetime for holding me up during my darkest hours. Indebtedness rose to flush my cheeks and galvanize my body into action. I set the glass down on the coffee table and stood in union with Sophie. In retrospect, I wish Sophie had not stood so closely by me after Ben left. Then I would be free to stay in the scented warmth and comfort created by Kimba to enjoy what promised to be a quieter night of amity, post-storm. I knew though that I was expected to take a side. Not much had changed since we were ten—the schoolyard was still in play, only the kids were older, tougher, and more demanding. I sighed, sculled some wine, sighed some more and for longer, and waited for Sophie to relent. Amber was still in discussion with Erin over the thorny issue, but aroma-induced calm had changed the nature of the discussion. I glanced at them then back at Sophie with a sad look of pleading. The dust had settled, and so should we. She was a stubborn one though and was fond of a good walkout. I gathered my belongings and followed her to the door then locked it as soon as she was outside. I returned to the sofa. Sophie would not be happy—loyalty was of vital importance to her, and I owed her. She never said as much, but she made sure I knew.
Chapter Seven
I WAS at home for yet another family gathering, this time to celebrate the fifth birthday of nephew, Christian, second child of Shannon and Todd. He has a brother, Anderson, and I expected Shannon to name the third one, Hans, and she might have except it was a girl, Hannah, which is close enough to be ridiculous. She does not see it that way, as she says they just happen to be her three favorite names of all the names in the name dictionary.
Whenever I attend these compulsory occasions, I wish I had a fictional friend like Oscar’s Algernon Moncrieff who always went to visit his invalid friend, Bunbury whenever he needed to avoid unwelcome social obligations. I regret that I did not invent Bunbury twenty years ago; it is much too late now for it to be believable.
I did attempt an escape once feigning food poisoning. Ben was dragged into the ruse and was the one to call mother to tell her we would not be attending the gathering of family that evening. Euphoria was immediate, as it would be if I had just escaped the jaws of death. But as the morning progressed, a peculiar pang of guilt threatened to ruin my freedom and our day. Then mother pulled up in the driveway carrying a wicker basket lined with crisp white linen and with fresh gardenia from her garden tied around the handle with silk ribbon. Inside, there was a gourmet ploughman’s lunch, homemade lemonade, apple pie and hot custard, a thermos of freshly brewed coffee and home-baked triple choc cookies, all for Ben. There was also food for me: homemade chicken broth, charcoal tablets, electrolyte powder and a bottle of live multidopholus capsules. I sipped on the chicken broth while Ben devoured his ploughman, moaning and groaning the whole while. I reached for a slab of sourdough cob, but mother tapped at my hand. “No bread for you,” she said.
Mother had to rush off then to prepare for the Evans family barbeque. She packed the dirty dishes and silverware into the hamper, leaving Ben with cookies and coffee.
By dusk, about the time the barbeque would have begun, I was genuinely feeling unwell, and so we did not go out for dinner as planned. I had more chicken broth and went to bed at eight with a hot water bottle and Ben reminding me that we reap what we sow. The scam was never repeated.
I languished on the edge of the knitting circle, as usual, with mother, Shannon, Lauren, and Alexis in its centre while envying the blue corner with dad, David, Jason and Shannon’s poor husband, Todd, Toddy or Toady depending on which stage of weight fluctuation he was at. For that day at least, he was in remission after several months with Jenny Craig, but Easter was fast on approach and I expected to see Toady again by Mother’s Day.
It is always more interesting when there is a newcomer to observe, which does not happen often so Gabrielle—David’s new ‘friend/work colleague’—made the event worthy of my participation. She did not like to be called Gabby she explained at the outset and who could blame her—Gabby is like yabby. Yabbies are small, black, freshwater crustaceans with claws, found in Australian creeks, rivers and farm dams. We used to catch yabbies when we were kids using a piece of string and a tiny piece of meat, until the summer they escaped from a shallow bucket in the laundry and terrorized mother.
What was curious, watching Gabby, was how well she pretended to be interested in the knitting corner conversation. I recognized the ploy though, having perpetrated it myself after meeting Ben. His family was into golf, which I consider to be the most boring of all sports, contrary to my declared appreciation for it at that time. And it all came unstuck at a charity golf day as I did not have time to learn the rules beforehand, and had never used a club in that way. Ben and I were paired for the Ambrose competition, and clearly he had high expectations. We came last, with the humiliation publicized with an award for the highest score (which is not good in golf apparently). The tedious day ended in
a drizzling rain with a handful of blisters, flat hair, sore feet, a temper, and a trophy.
I have often wondered why Shannon does not host these parties for her children at her place, and Alexis for hers at theirs. Our grandparents did not host birthday parties for us when we were children, which I might add, were not annual events as these are. Our birthdays were celebrated simply with the honor of choosing a preferred take-out, which only ever occurred on birthdays. The momentous occasions would be topped off with a home-made birthday cake, with the recipient again being able to choose design and flavor. Only once did I have an actual party with friends and games and lolly bags, when I was twelve. I thought about querying mother about these new liberties enjoyed by the youngest Evans generation and the abandonment of old traditions that had worked well, but I stayed put in my chair an audible range away from the knitting corner, and within earshot of the blue corner. I wondered then why I continued to wonder when the wondering would cease if I asked a simple question.
The knitting corner moved on to discuss the tuck shop revolt against mother and Shannon. Apparently proposed changes to the menu had caused some ill will, which mother and Shannon had not anticipated given that their new menu was packed full of goodness and nutrition. I was impressed with Gabby. She appeared genuinely interested in school-yard crises of this nature and even asked questions. She also asked Shannon, “What do you do?” and again, appeared genuinely interested in the life of a homemaker, stay-at-home mum. When Gabby responded to the same question, she downplayed her life as a neurosurgeon, making Shannon’s ‘career’ appear far more interesting by comparison. Such graciousness and modesty will always impress mother, and it did; I could feel the glow from my outer sanctum.
Being Anti-Social Page 4
