Tom Houghton

by Todd Alexander

  She looked at me watching her eat and turned her head away from me slightly. ‘Shouldn’t hang the rugs out, told you that. They’ll kick me out.’

  ‘And you shouldn’t be so afraid of all their stupid rules. You never cared for following the rules when you were younger, now you’re all Miss Obedient.’

  ‘That happens when you get to my age.’ She mopped up the last of the yolk with a piece of crust. ‘Can’t explain why, but it does.’

  ‘You didn’t have any food, Mum. Are you looking after yourself?’ The fridge was well stocked as per usual, just not with solids.

  ‘I just haven’t gotten around to shopping yet. You shouldn’t be so fearful all the time.’ She raised her eyebrows. Touché. ‘Just because I wasn’t always there for you doesn’t mean you need to be a saint to me. How’s your play going?’

  ‘Oh, well enough. Ticket sales are good, reviews are bearable. I’m not sure how long his stuff will be considered groundbreaking but I’m willing to ride the enthusiasm while it lasts. Never thought I’d be working this long, so every new job is a blessing.’ I took her empty plate to the sink. ‘Are you, you know, good Mum?’

  ‘Jumping out of my skin,’ she said, a Lana-ism for I’m going okay.

  She topped up her Bloody Mary with more vodka and took it into the bathroom with her while she let the shower heat up. I shook the rugs out as best I could, squeezing my eyes shut against the dust, and placed them back where they belonged. More stains had appeared on the carpet, so I’d arrange for it to be shampooed again. It was not her apartment really, but Mal’s. He’d sold his business in New Zealand for a modest sum and bought two flats: one for himself in a quiet country town as far away from Wellington as he could get, and the other in Sydney because, he said, it was the best place to invest. Though he never got a tenant – he’d let Lana move in the day her last boyfriend kicked her out of his house. I’d only mentioned the break-up to Mal in passing on one of our yearly catch-up phone calls and he’d insisted she could live at his place until she found her feet again because he hadn’t got it prepared for rental yet and . . . Well, that was three years ago now and he’d never once asked for rent or paid her a visit to see how she was keeping the place. He asked after her without fail but I kept details to a minimum and told him she was asking after him too.

  Five Dock really didn’t suit her, she said. Was riding the cusp of urban and suburban and didn’t know what it wanted to be so she had neither decent cafés to visit, nor supermarkets that were plentiful. I encouraged her to take walks by the harbour but she just looked at me blankly and said, ‘What for?’ Despite her protestations, I knew she’d developed a small circle of friends at the local club and though she rarely had them back to her house, she often mentioned a dinner party she’d attended, or cribbage night or book club.

  I’d once made a joke about her having a new boy to kiss but she dismissed that instantly and said she was way too old for any such thing. Okie was a name she kept mentioning without clarification. I’d gleaned that he was a local builder, semi-retired. Though from my cleaning up around the place, I knew he’d been staying over on occasion. Okie took her to the movies but she didn’t go much for modern ones and he fixed the odd thing around the flat but the way she spoke about him was purely business. When I asked what he looked like, she said, ‘A builder,’ nonchalantly, and whether he was married was met with ‘twice’. Her brusqueness did not extend to her asking me questions about my own sex life, drug and alcohol intake, financial status and personal health issues . . . questions I did not mind answering in as much detail as she craved, which inevitably depended on her mood, which inevitably depended on how much she’d had to drink.

  Lana emerged from the bathroom wearing a simple green dress, her hair flat and wet against her still angular jawline. Her lipstick had been freshly applied and a hint of mascara now covered up her forever hated blonde lashes.

  ‘Are you heading out today?’

  ‘Okie is taking me to his bowls semifinals. Makes him look a hundred and six, makes me feel like a corpse, but some of the other ladies are going, so I thought why not?’

  ‘How is Okie?’

  ‘Old! How’s Puppy?’ I’d made the mistake of telling Lana Hanna’s nickname for Damon and it had stuck.

  ‘Young. Working hard on his play, you know? He’s really trying to get it seen by the right people but there’s just so much stuff out there it’s impossible to get anyone to sit up and take notice.’

  ‘I do wish you’d find someone like that . . . what was his name? The boy you brought home to me to meet that time when you had just left university.’

  ‘Oh god, Mum.’

  ‘What was his name?’ She tapped her temple as though the motion would prompt her memory into working.

  ‘Kurt.’ We’d been over this many times before.

  ‘Yes! That’s it. Just like that movie star – Russell. He was a nice hulking lad, wasn’t he? You loved him, he was good to you, always went to your plays and drove you this place and that.’

  ‘Mum, Kurt broke my heart, remember? He kept telling me we’d be together forever and then when I finally fell for all that drivel he confessed that he was seeing two other guys at the same time. I’ve long since chalked him up to yet another wayward romance – you need to let him go.’

  ‘So hunky though, wasn’t he?’

  I ignored her. She mentioned the death of some Hollywood actor in the news, one we’d both admired in the Seven Hills days. We placed currency-free bets on who would be next to go, lifelong believers in the theory of threes, though we never wrote down who we’d nominated, so when some poor star slid off, we both took credit for tipping he or she would be next to go. Lana offered me a beer and sat there drinking while I pretended not to want one. My head was still throbbing and the greasy spoon meal was only just beginning to have a sobering effect. I never alluded to what I cleaned up around her place but when I asked her what she’d done last night, she was honest enough to say she did not remember getting home but was fairly certain Okie had walked her to her door. I was pleased not to be confronted by whatever state he would have been in had he stayed.

  ‘I got a postcard from Lexi this week,’ Mum said with a hint of surprise. ‘She’s been in Cairo.’

  ‘Cairo?’

  ‘Clearly she tells her grandmother more than she tells her father. Said it was chaotic and dangerous and mystical and she was loving every second of it. You really need to reach out to her a bit more, I think. No wonder she doesn’t tell you what she’s up to when you’re too busy with your nose up your own arse like it doesn’t stink.’

  ‘Charming. Well, she certainly does get around. I’m glad she’s making the most of her time over there.’

  I made the mistake of looking at my watch and she misinterpreted the gesture.

  ‘Well . . . Okie will be waiting,’ she said. ‘You best be off so I can go too.’

  I kissed her goodbye and listed the things I’d put in her fridge, hoping she would make a note of what needed to be consumed before it went off. She nodded impatiently and ushered me out, pausing to spray a mist of perfume over the top of her head before closing the door behind her. I offered to walk her to wherever she was going but she shrugged me off and I knew not to insist. I sat on the low brick fence at the front of her block waiting for a taxi and watched her walk down the hill towards the shops. She walked like a woman being watched.

  As I climbed into the taxi and told the driver where I was headed, my phone vibrated with a text from Lana. HAPP BIRTHDAY X she’d rushed out her message.

   Four

  I woke to feel my mother’s body curled in tightly behind me. I couldn’t remember everything that had happened before I’d finally fallen asleep, but it felt like hours that I lay there awake – uncertain of the feelings in my gut, replaying the images from the backyard over and over within the cinemascope of my mind. Mum had one arm cupped tightly around my chest and her nose was in the crook of my neck, breathing in deepl
y before releasing out a long breath. She smelled of her job: stale tobacco smoke, spilt beer smeared across her skin; the dried perspiration of hard work mixed with her citrus perfume. I lay in the sanctity of her embrace and made the rise and fall of my breath match hers. Up for one, two, three seconds. Hold. Out for four.

  I could tell by the quality of the light that I should have been getting ready for school by now but I felt so tired after yesterday’s excitement that the last thing I wanted to do was drag myself out of bed. Each Monday felt it was the beginning of a new school year. Everything was out of my control again; unexpected threats lurked menacingly in darkened corners. My body had other ideas, however, so I carefully pried myself free of my mother’s grip and snuck out the bottom of the bed. She was still fast asleep, always exhausted from her never-ending work and her entertaining.

  I silently opened the bedroom door and closed it behind me before making my way to the toilet. I felt that greater powers would smite me for waking in bed next to my mother with a hardy. Weeks before it had poked into her leg and she had laughed and said I was finally growing up. But the thought of leaving Mum in bed alone played on my mind and the shame of the stiffness between my legs could not outweigh my desire to lessen her loneliness. Still tired, I sat down to relieve my over-filled bladder. As I sat there with my eyes closed, the breeze from the open window reminded me of last night’s images and I felt uncomfortable, as though I’d been a more active participant in their panting. As soon as I’d finished, I pulled my pants up and sleepily made my way into the kitchen. I reached up into the cupboard to pull down a box of cornflakes but then had a brainwave – there was still cake left in the fridge. I was now twelve! I would eat cake. I cut a large enough piece to satisfy my hunger, but small enough to go undetected by my ever-watchful grandfather. I poured myself a glass of milk and flicked the switch on the electric kettle. Waiting for it to boil, I decided to go and watch some cartoons.

  I was dumbfounded to see the strange man’s naked torso splayed over the leather couch like a human blanket. I blinked twice, hoping it was my overactive mind. Now I could see the man clearly enough to make out his features. His face was dark with stubble and his nose was large and porous. The hair on his skull was cropped close and tight and it mirrored that on his broad chest. I put another forkful of cake in my mouth and sat cross-legged on the floor a few feet away from the man. He was snoring softly. Could this be the man my mother would marry? I studied his face more intently, traced its lines, and watched as the hairs in his nostrils quivered with each breath. Then the man farted loudly. It startled me so much I threw my plate high in the air. Cake landed on the man’s chest. He opened his eyes groggily, picked up the cake in confusion, saw me staring at him, then lurched back into the lounge and threw the cake onto the floor in front of me.

  His composure regained, he rubbed his hand across his head, and yawned. ‘Morning. You must be the son.’

  ‘You’ve got to make an honest woman of her now, boy, you’ve got no choice,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry, buddy?’

  ‘It’s the honourable thing to do.’

  ‘Hmm,’ the man said with a dismissive chuckle. ‘Okay then . . .’ He squeezed his eyes together tightly, cricked his neck from side to side and yawned again. He moved his legs around, long hairy stumps just in front of my face, gathered the spare blanket around his waist and rose to his feet.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready for school?’

  ‘My name’s Tom.’

  ‘I know. Your mum told me.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘You can call me Steve.’

  I thought about this name for a moment and considered it decidedly celluloid. We remained staring at each other awkwardly, not sure who should say something next.

  ‘You look like your mother,’ and ‘Will you be here for dinner?’ we said simultaneously.

  ‘Or will we never see you again?’ I continued. ‘Will you be another one of those?’

  ‘I suppose that’s up to your mother, isn’t it? You’re not a shy thing, are you?’

  ‘She won’t be up for a few hours yet,’ I said, ignoring his taunt.

  ‘I might just go into her room for a bit.’

  ‘Mum doesn’t like to be woken. She needs her sleep.’

  ‘Well, buddy, something tells me this morning will be different! Enjoy your day at school.’ He disappeared down the hall.

  To the empty room, I said: ‘Steve . . . Steve . . . Wonder if my mother will be teaching him how to whistle? Just put his lips together and . . . blow.’

  I got a cloth from the kitchen and wiped up the cake that had fallen onto the carpet. I finished the glass of milk and poured the still-hot water from the kettle onto a fresh teabag. With my cup of tea, I walked out into the backyard towards the chook pen and took out a handful of stale bread from the bag my grandfather hung on the outside.

  I threw the bread over the fence and went to the lemon tree. It was smattered with bright yellow fruit and smaller green ones. I picked a rock-sized, under-ripe lemon and squeezed it in my fist. As the chooks raced about their pen pecking at their pieces of morning bread, I waited patiently for the angry bird to have her go at the placid ones. I didn’t have to stand there for long. The bird pecked violently at two other chickens, shooing them away from the bread. I squeezed the lemon tightly again, waited until she’d bent her neck and then pelted the fruit at her with all my might. I connected not with her ribs as I’d intended, but with her right foot. The surprise of the blow affected her more than its sting and she gave one loud squawk. The bird raced back towards the safety of her covered box.

  ‘I love the smell of lemon in the morning. It smells like victory,’ I said to the other chickens. ‘Enjoy your breakfast.’

  On my way back to the house, I stopped at the lounge where the activity had so entranced me last night. I bent down to study it closely, to see whether I could identify anything, as a detective might. I was disappointed to find that it just smelt like outside – grass and soil and air.

  It was a non-school type of day. Sometimes, if I was unable to sleep during the night, or if my mum was especially loud when she got home from work, it was okay for me to take some sanity leave, as Mum called it. She didn’t usually mind me taking a day to get my head back together. It wasn’t like I wouldn’t be able to catch up on my schoolwork; I was far enough in front in most subjects anyway, consistently getting bored, waiting for the other kids in my class. I spent the morning in my pyjamas, sitting at my desk, reading every word of my new magazines and stopping only when a new piece of information needed to be added to one of my index cards. I knew if I was quiet enough, and kept my door closed, no one would even bother to wonder whether I was still in the house. On average, a good magazine added over forty new facts to my makeshift encyclopaedia. Birth names, places, dates. Marriages, divorces. Family tragedy, education. Films, cameos, television appearances. Awards and nominations. Photographs. Every piece of information was colour-coded so that at a glance I was able to summarise an actor’s career.

  I heard my grandfather get up and go outside – he spent almost every waking hour of his life in his garage tinkering away with this machine or that, having never been able to let go of his engineering career. Once Pa was safely out of earshot, I heard love-making sounds coming from my mother’s room next door, the same as last night, only louder. I stopped what I was doing momentarily and listened. It sounded well rehearsed, just like it did on the silver screen, as choreographed a scene as any with Astaire and Kelly had been. My mother was moaning like a puppy, high-pitched, rhythmic beats that got higher in timbre the longer Steve pounded into her.

  ‘It’s all make-believe,’ Mum once said to me. ‘Those two actors up there don’t really love each other, they’re not really touching each other as husband and wife do.’

  ‘But sometimes the actors fall in love in real life too,’ I’d retorted, feeling rather clever. ‘So they must have felt something real while they
were acting.’

  ‘It’s hard to explain,’ she said, ‘but sometimes when you pretend, it feels real. Like how you might pretend to be on a TV show when you cook, sometimes, and you can almost see the camera focused on you, and you become someone else and you know all the right things to say about the food. You know how you do that?’

  ‘I guess,’ I said, though I couldn’t really make the connection.

  When the funny breathing stopped – and it was pretty comical when you actually listened to the strange sounds grown-ups sometimes made – I heard my mother and Steve make their way into the bathroom. They drew a bath and climbed in together; I heard a splashing sound and Mum laughing, perhaps at the way the water overflowed the edge. They stayed in that bath for a ridiculously long time, talking a lot (though I could not quite hear what they were saying).

  Eventually it came time for Mum to get ready for her day job, so she said goodbye to Steve and told him to close the door behind him when he left. I sat motionless, listening to Steve open and close cupboards and drawers in my mother’s room then jump around on the bed a bit. If Steve dared come into my room I would run at him like a cornered lion and pounce, finding strength I never knew I had to protect my mother’s dignity. He probably didn’t even like her, and then I, once again, would be the one to help wipe away her tears. I wonder why this time, she would say, or I knew it the second I met him. Another time she had asked, What is wrong with me? and I had answered, Not a single thing in the world, my Lana Turner, you are as perfect as any screen goddess who ever lived. And she said, That’s not what they say, throwing a thumb over her left shoulder at a past of disappointing men united against her. On days like these I would pray to invisible gods, begging to keep her away from one of her spirals.