Amber had slipped outside for a while then returned with a smug look, Rudy, Jake, and two other friends who had been with them at football. I shook my head in disbelief. The girl is incorrigible. I hoped the ruse was a selfish one—because Amber is keen on Jake, and not because she thinks a foursome with me and Rudy would be fun.
Rudy is the past and I do not want to dig up the past, although I would dig up Ben if he could live on afterwards. I wondered what we would be like today, Ben and I, perhaps with a child or two. Mother and I would be closer, because of the children, and she would offer lots of advice, and maybe I wouldn’t mind so much.
It is quite tragic that as I near forty, I have just three relationships to my name—all failures. I can understand why friends want to see me back with Rudy—given my disposition, I am not likely to attract anyone else, nor do I want to, and it is only because I flew off the treadmill that I even met Rudy. So if it is Rudy or no one, I choose no one. I choose me. I am content with my aloneness.
Rudy moved into my inner space, supposedly because of the noise. I could feel his breath on my cheek as he yelled into my ear, and I could smell the Kouros through his shirt. Then he rested a manicured hand on my arm. I looked down at it then up at Amber in the distance who smiled back as Jake rested his arm around her shoulder.
“Agitators”, according to Oscar, “are a set of interfering, meddling people, who come down to some perfectly contented class of the community and sow the seeds of discontent amongst them. That is the reason why agitators are so absolutely necessary. Without them, in our incomplete state, there would be no advance towards civilization.”
Chapter Twelve
NOTHING happened with Rudy at or after the nightclub. I excused myself for the bathroom at one point and went home, feeling pleased with myself for perpetrating the same ploy on him twice. However, Amber and Jake are now a couple and look very nice together.
There is another union of note—David and Gabby are getting married and are expecting as well. It makes sense now, why Gabby was so interested in the knitting corner conversation at her first Evans family gathering. Unbeknown to mother and everyone else, the happy couple had been living together for months, and planning their casual wedding for several weeks. Mother will not be happy—she likes to be involved at the highest level in such preparations. It was a wise decision though, to exclude her, as the informal garden affair would otherwise have morphed into something incorrectly gala. I say ‘incorrectly’ because I have learned that Gabby, and my eldest brother, are simple people who desire a simple life albeit they can afford an extravagant simplicity. They can also afford a full-time nanny, but Gabby is perfectly clear that the child, children, will be raised by her/their hands only. I wonder if this means to the exclusion of mother. I hope not, for their sake. Mother is a hands-on grandmother and expects a pivotal role; nothing else will be tolerated.
With so much love and happiness abounding, I contemplated my maternal abyss and considered adopting an orphan child, one out of the nappy phase and perhaps the tantrum phase as well. I wondered what mother would think of this. She would be impressed by the sacrifice, she would be impressed by an act of benevolence, and she would be overjoyed to have another grandchild to influence. She would not be impressed by the absence of a husband or joint carer, or with the notion of sole parenting generally, especially when executed by me. It is a foolish thought anyway, for how could I possibly raise a child or love a complete stranger. I did not dismiss the notion entirely, but relegated it to my mind’s vast recesses for a later time.
Mother had two crucial wins for the wedding of Gabby and David: the morning reception, which followed a church ceremony (first win), was held in our/her backyard (second win). I presume she made the offer, not because the expansive garden of our childhood home would be awash with spring blooms, but so she would have more control over proceedings.
Gabby made no attempt to hide her baby behind layers of flowing chiffon or an empire waistline, choosing instead, a sheath silhouette of silver silk that slivered over her bump. From the V-neckline, an exquisite piece of delicate, silver lace, featuring large rose-like flowers, pulled in at her waistline then flowed down over the skirt. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a bun at the back of her head with the palest pink frangipanis interspersed in the plaits. She had one maid, her sister, in silver also, and David wore a dark suit with the palest silver shirt and a silky silver and black striped tie with a hint of a pink stripe as well. All in all, everything that day was perfect. Mother was in her element and dad was a proud man—he does so love a wedding.
As you would expect, Jason and Shannon were there with their respective families. Alexis wore Armani and inappropriate shoes and I enjoyed watching her getting bogged in the Paspalum. The rest of the infiltrators were aunts, uncles and relatives from both sides of the newly formed unit plus an array of doctors and other friends.
Kimba and Kenneth were guests of course—Kimba is family after all, and despite a prior resolution between them to keep their news secret, Kimba revealed that she was expecting another baby.
Lauren was also on the Happiness Express, having showcased her designs at Melbourne Fashion Week to rave reviews, proving to mother that chicken counting prior to hatching was the way to go. Oscar was right, and I would have liked to have pointed this out to her, but didn’t.
A new love interest accompanied Lauren to the wedding, a man twelve years her senior, a man older than David even who had silver flicks in his hair that matched the bridal party. Mother did not seem at all troubled by this, and I wondered if it was a sign that she might be chilling in her older years, or because it was a wedding and she wanted to be happy, or if was because Lauren is the baby and she can get away with anything. I thought to find myself a middle-aged man to test the hypotheses, but was not at all inclined towards meeting someone and going through the getting-to-know-you routine. It would be best for everyone if this process could be skipped altogether, perhaps by the exchange of documents at the outset, which disclosed the necessary information: family circle, friends of note (particularly those likely to have an effect on the relationship, like Erin), education, work history, past relationships, goals, addictions, relevant experiences that have formed ones’ attitudes and personality disorders, and any other pertinent issues. After the exchange of documents, one could then decide whether to proceed with the liaison, and perhaps the documentation could also then assist in divorce proceedings in the event of errors and omissions. It dawned on me then, that I might be in the wrong industry and should consider a career in modern-day matchmaking where romance is relegated in favor of practicalities, since everyone knows romance does not last forever, but the truth does.
The wedding cake had silver icing with pastel pink flowers, and towered five layers into the fragrant spring air. I do not understand the perpetuation of this tradition, which originates in ancient Greece when guests would crumble little pieces of biscuit over the bride’s head to pass on fertility, which would be most entertaining if hungry sparrows were about. In Medieval Rome, guests would break a loaf of wheat bread over the bride’s head then gobble up the crumbs to bring luck to themselves. None of this is relevant today as we all know bread and biscuits have little to do with fertility or luck, nor does cake, and clearly this bride does not have fertility issues anyway.
I thought about writing a book to establish a new order for weddings. I would dispense with stale traditions such as the wedding cake (pardon the pun), the bouquet toss (they cost a lot—keep them), garters (also keep for yourself—we do not need to see them on your upper thigh unless you are Naomi Campbell), ring bearers (especially the use of dogs as such), page children (face it people, they are children—they do not want to be draped in silly clothing), the use of uncooked rice (this is injurious and vindictive, not that I care), the bridal waltz (most unnecessary since most people cannot waltz), and the bridal party. In earlier times, prospective grooms would capture young women for brides with the assistance o
f their marauding friends. The bride, for protection against the advancing hoard, would encircle herself with ‘maids’ who dressed the same as the bride in order to confuse the rampaging groom and his cronies. Clearly there is no need for this today, and from what I have seen on reality television (not mine as I do not have cable), bridal parties have become quite ridiculous, in dimension, design and extravagance. The honeymoon is worth preservation though for who does not need a holiday after months of wedding planning, especially if family is involved, not to mention the trauma of the event itself.
I was impressed that Gabby did not throw her bouquet in honor of the crass tradition, but not impressed when she handed it to me, as if I needed its great powers to secure myself a much-needed husband—now there’s an oxymoron.
After the bride, groom and everyone else had left, it was just the family gathered on the back deck for dinner with an opportunity to interrogate the newcomer—Lauren’s Patrick—and I do enjoy such occasions. It seems our Patrick has more than one strike against his name; for not only is he closing in on fifty, he is a catholic divorcee, and shock, horror, a father of two. Mother remained poised throughout the revelations with not even a flinch evident. I can only conclude that mother believes Patrick is a Longfellow ship passing by Lauren on the ocean of life and so there was no need for her to intervene.
I like Patrick. He has a great laugh that he uses a lot. I like also that he has flaws as the last thing we need in this family is another source of perfection—David has that covered, and Gabby, and Shannon also if mother was asked. I hope Lauren and Patrick have a future, but I also hope they do not for I am otherwise on the verge of being the only single/unmarried in the family, perhaps even in my entire network as Amber and Jake have been inseparable since they met.
Amber is in love, which in itself is not unusual, but I have not previously witnessed such complete devotion and besotting from her. The prospect is mortifying, but perhaps Lauren and Amber will come to realize that they have not yet found what they are looking for. As Oscar says, “It is sometimes said that the tragedy of an artist’s life is that he cannot realize his ideal. But the true tragedy is that they realize their ideal too absolutely. For, when the ideal is realized, it is robbed of its wonder and its mystery, and becomes simply a new starting-point for an ideal that is other than itself.”
Chapter Thirteen
ERIN had written a murder mystery. She gave a copy of the manuscript to each of us for feedback, supposedly something favorable given the expectant look that came with it. However, in order to comment on No Stone Unturned, it was necessary to read all 412 pages. I could not imagine how many minutes would be wasted on this task and I resented the burden. This was not what friends do to each other, or is it exactly what friends do for each other?
I discussed the matter with Amber and Sophie and we worked out a plan to divide the workload amongst the three of us (because Kimba wanted to read the lot). After I had reviewed the first 103 pages, Sophie would do the next third, and Amber the last. We would each make generic comments on our respective sections, which others could then reword in their own definable style, avoiding sarcasm and effluence wherever possible, which would be a difficult task for some.
We were all dumbfounded that Erin had had the time to write a novel, and one so lengthy, and a murder mystery, which was in itself a mystery.
I had not yet started on my own book, the ‘anti-wedding ritual’ book, although I had talked a lot about writing, and did sit down at my laptop to type the header page, but then a range of urgent chores intervened like vacuum sealing my winter coats, clearing my pantry (even canned food has a use-by date), killing ants, and sorting through two decades of tax files.
Finding time to read Erin’s book was also difficult since daylight savings had begun, which meant it was time to resume exercise. I do not exercise in non-daylight savings months—April to September—so come October, the pressure is on to lose the usual gains from the hiatus before March and the return to normal hours and winter.
There must have been an urgent deadline for reading Erin’s book as she was constantly asking, “What did you think?” with the misplaced enthusiasm of a new puppy. I decided to set aside a Sunday morning for the onerous task; the one that followed the monthly Saturday board meeting, which ruined the weekend anyway. I could then look forward to the next weekend, clear of all encumbrances.
With a pot of decaffeinated coffee (it was an exercise/health month; one of six), and armed with a notepad, I turned to chapter one with a red pen poised.
Just two paragraphs in, I came across the first ‘got’. I was mortified and hoped Ms Jenkins, our year nine English teacher, had passed away, for such blatant disregard of ‘the got rule’ (never to be seen or heard in her classroom), would surely cause some heartbreak as it did for me now. I could not go on. Appalled, I shuffled to the kitchen to brew a real coffee. I thought to call Amber, but it was Sunday morning—she would be in bed with her Jake, reading the papers, drinking latte and fooling around no doubt. She would not be impressed if I called to report a ‘got’. I called anyway and was directed to leave a message. I would have to struggle through the trauma on my own, and also accept that this might well be the future for me anyway, at least for as long as Jake lasted.
I read on, trying to ignore that first ‘got’ which may well have been written in neon such was the way it attracted my eyes. Great idea I thought, and found a green highlighter pen. I lavished it on the ‘got’ then wrote “No!” in red in the column beside it. I had dealt with it, given closure to it, and reconciled its one-off appearance as an author’s hasty need to get the words on the page in pursuit of some creative momentum. I turned the page with a meditative breath, and there was another one! Unashamed, it stared at me from the top of page two. I had not used ‘got’ in twenty-four years and there I was confronted with the forbidden word reveling in its position. I could not understand how Erin could do this to me or to Ms Jenkins. If I were a recovering cocaine addict, Erin had just handed me a packet of white powder.
I needed a break from the agony of editing, and headed out front to water the plants in my courtyard. ‘Got’ was in my head, and the more I told myself not to think it, the more I thought it. “Got, got, got!” I yelled out, hoping verbalization would cure me. It didn’t. “I am not my thoughts. I am not my thoughts,” I repeated aloud. “I am a woman with a hose in the garden. I am not my thoughts.”
I had not noticed my neighbor until this point as he looked down at me from his balcony with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “Lovely morning,” I called out. He went inside.
Thank the good Lord Sophie pulled up out front then—a visitor and a sympathetic ear so I could talk my way through the crisis. I checked my watch. It was too early for merlot since I do not drink before lunch as yet.
No thanks whatsoever to the good Lord, Sophie was in a state of complete emotional decay. I checked my watch again. Yes, time for the annual pinnacle of the Adam-Sophie relationship cycle.
“It’s over this time,” Sophie wailed.
I have several strategies for use on these occasions—none of them work so I am free to choose one at random without much thought. This day, because of the ‘got’, I went with the ‘Yes, it is all over’ strategy. Sophie does not want to hear this—she comes to me for answers, assurances, something to believe in and something to hold on to, like a life ring, which I do not have.
It is not possible to understand Adam and Sophie and what keeps them together like this. From an objective standpoint, it is easy to say that if you are unhappy in your marriage, if there is no reasonable expectation that anything will ever change for the better, then end it sooner rather than later, and build a new life. They, unlike many, can at least afford a divorce. But then there is undying love and devotion, which ruins an otherwise simple mathematical equation.
A part of the problem with Adam and Sophie, in my expert opinion as a modern-day matchmaking guru, is that they are alike in the ways they n
eed to be different and different in the ways they need to be alike. So, according to my theory on relationships, tidy cannot live in harmony with messy, non-smoker with smoker, athlete cannot live with slob, opera cannot live with Metallica, equestrian cannot live with motor sports, and trades people who like to fill their garages with carpentry, car engines or metal work cannot expect to live in harmony with obsessive compulsive order freaks like myself. Then there are the essential differences: two tempers cannot live together; two attention-seekers cannot live together, two handbrakes cannot live together nor can two accelerators. There must be one of each, and clearly, two lawyers cannot live together either for Sophie and Adam are evidence of that.
As much as I, and everyone, believe Sophie and Adam have no chance of long-term happiness together, I cannot imagine them apart, and cannot imagine either of them with someone else, and nor can they. So for all of us, Sophie and Adam included, there seems to be no other option, but to endure. We can only hope that little Lucinda survives her childhood unscathed, but this would seem unlikely.
Once again I had to endure the anger, wailing, accusations and recriminations, self-pity and remorse until midday arrived with pizza and a bottle of merlot or two. By mid-afternoon, Sophie would be ready to return home to Adam and Lucinda, and for the next few months, we would all enjoy a relative state of contentment, until the next trigger set the process in motion once again.
By the time I had bundled Sophie into a taxi, there was nothing left of my weekend, but a mere two hours for enjoyment before preparations would have to begin for Monday morning: cooking my brown rice vegetable combo for lunch, packing my gym bag, getting my clothes and shoes aligned for the next five days, and re-packing the work I had brought home which remained untouched.
Being Anti-Social Page 7
