White Light

by Mark O'Flynn

  My daughter, Jane, in her tan suit, is already dabbing her eyes with a tissue. They told us this might happen. Kevin sits on the hardbacked chair with his thick arms folded like an Easter Island statue. They’re here to lend moral support, whatever that is, and I’m glad they are here, like at Christmas.

  It’s nice to sit with a cup of tea in a little square of sunshine. A fly butts itself against the window. Blue walls. A monsteria deliciosa in a clay pot winds its way up a little trellis towards the light. I do wish Jane would stop her snivelling. I wonder about the benefits of snivelling as a form of moral support. Mr Draper is going through his papers.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Lapin?’ he asks, catching my eye. He is the sort of man who seems to be wearing glasses even when he isn’t.

  ‘Of course,’ I say with a smile. Why shouldn’t I be all right?

  We all enjoy the air’s warmth. Or the breeze through the window. For our various reasons.

  After a few minutes, the door opens and two big men come in. One of them must be seven feet tall at least; he has to duck beneath the portal. They are both wearing uniforms with shiny buttons and epaulettes. Then follows a smartly dressed young man whom I do not recognise but then, how could I be expected to? I barely recognise my own grandchildren. Kevin and Jane both stiffen in their seats. Kevin picks fluff from his trousers. Someone is wearing aftershave. The young man smiles at me, rather sheepishly. Surely this can’t be him: Troy. No, this can’t be. He looks such a nice boy.

  I take time to polish my specs.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Lapin,’ he says.

  A moment passes. It is clear that he has practised his manners. Mr Draper ushers him to a chair. Troy first folds his jumper over the back of it then sits. His clothes are nice and clean. And those slacks are coming back into fashion. The two men in uniform sit outside our small circle, trying to pretend they aren’t really there. One of them opens a magazine. The tall one goes to the urn by the window. He actually blocks out some daylight. You can see the dust swirl in his wake.

  ‘Well Troy,’ says Mr Draper, ‘I’m sure you know why we’re here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re a willing participant in this process?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.’

  ‘Is this Troy?’ I ask, realising suddenly that it’s me they’re talking about.

  ‘Don’t upset yourself, Mum,’ Jane says, laying her hand on my arm.

  I look at it but I do not recognise what should be so obvious to me.

  ‘I’m not upset.’

  ‘Yes, it’s me Mrs Lapin,’ says the young man.

  ‘Is it, Mr Draper?’

  Mr Draper nods encouragingly. The urn boils.

  ‘No. This nice-looking young man can’t be the one who attacked me. No.’

  ‘I’m afraid that he is,’ says Mr Draper.

  ‘He doesn’t always look this clean,’ pipes up the giant from the coffee urn.

  He is so big I wonder how we could possibly be of the same species.

  Kevin’s foot is tapping rapidly, one leg folded across the other knee. The giant carries a Styrofoam cup of tea as if it is a flake of apple across to his friend. Mr Draper continues: ‘I understand that this is difficult. We’re here to acknowledge what Troy has done to Mrs Lapin, to offer amends and to make restoration for the events that took place two and a half years ago. We are also here for Mrs Lapin to state how significantly these events have affected her over time. Mrs Lapin, would you like to begin?’

  Me? Now? I don’t know what to think. ‘Well, I can’t believe that this is the same young man. Look how nicely he’s dressed. And he’s even gone to the effort to iron his slacks.’

  ‘He’s scum.’

  ‘It’s more effort than you’ve gone to, Kevin.’

  ‘Mum,’ says Jane, ‘don’t be fooled by appearances.’

  Scum and appearances fill my eyes. There is a sunny pause. Clink of cups. Lovely.

  I feel that before too long I would like to visit the lavatory.

  ‘Mrs Lapin,’ a voice speaks. It’s Troy. ‘I know I’ve done the wrong thing. I’m really not that sort of person. I know I’ve caused you pain. And I’m sorry.’

  ‘Excuse me, Troy,’ Mr Draper interrupts. ‘It doesn’t help anyone if you’re going to gloss over everything. You need to itemise each act for which you are responsible and for which you are ultimately sorry. The function of this conference is to facilitate that process. Otherwise we’re all wasting our time.’

  ‘I’d like him to understand,’ Jane squeaks, always the first to get in her penny’s worth. ‘I’d like him to know not just what pain he put my mother through, but also everyone else, me in particular. I was the one who had to take extended leave from my job. I took her to the hospital every day. I want him to appreciate that I was the one who had to watch the pain she went through in rehab. I was—’

  ‘For goodness sake,’ I say. ‘It was only my shoulder.’

  Troy stares at the bitten nails at the ends of his fingers. Mr Draper suggests that we all calm down. Have some more tea. The fly still skates across the glass of the window. Beyond I can see some sails on the water. Mr Draper helps us to resume. He’s very good at this it’s the principle sort of thing.

  ‘I understand the emotional pain and the… in-con-ven-ience I put you through, Mrs Mitchell,’ says Troy. ‘And I’m sorry for that too—’

  ‘How does he know my name?’ Jane says.

  Kevin and Mr Draper shrug. They look at me as if I have the answer.

  ‘Well… yes. I, er… yes, I wrote to him, Jane. And yes, I told him about us.’

  ‘You wrote to him?’ says Kevin.

  ‘You told him about us?’ says Jane.

  ‘Does he know our address?’ asks Kevin suddenly.

  ‘I told him about our family. About Christmas.’

  ‘Why, for God’s sake?’ Kevin snorts.

  ‘He asked. And no one else writes to me. It was polite.’

  All the cups are empty. Mr Draper intervenes at this point —at last someone backing me up.

  ‘That’s correct, Mr Mitchell. Written contact must be established between the victim and the perpetrator before the proper process of restorative justice can be instigated. All your mother-in-law’s letters were fully monitored.’

  ‘You read my mail?’ I squawk. Kevin looks much happier. ‘Troy, did you know that?’

  Troy nods. Such a sweet face. Hard to imagine.

  ‘Do you have anything you’d like to ask of Troy, Mrs Lapin?’

  ‘One thing I have always wanted to know, Troy, is why you so betrayed my trust that day?’

  ‘Mrs Lapin,’ he says at last, ‘I’m sorry that I picked you out of the crowd. To be my victim. I picked you because I could see… I could see you were vulnerable. I’m sorry I let you take my arm. And that, I betrayed your trust.’

  ‘You helped me across the road. You were a gentleman.’

  ‘I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry that I snatched your bag and you fell to the ground.’

  At this point Jane interrupts again. ‘He’s glossing over the part where he dragged her along the street until the strap broke. He doesn’t know about the bruises and abrasions. I do. I know all about that, the blood on her stockings, I can’t get that out of my head.’

  ‘I held on tight, didn’t I, for an old girl?’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ says Troy, his face Christmas white. ‘I’m sorry that you dislocated your shoulder.’

  ‘Yes, that hurt. But not as much as you betraying my trust.’

  It’s almost as if I don’t remember the things he is speaking of—as if they happened long ago to someone else. Well, it was long ago, but that shouldn’t make any difference. It’s true—my trust has been betrayed and broken.

  ‘I didn’t mea
n for any of that to happen. If I could take everything back I would. But I can’t. I have to live with who I am. I’m also sorry that I was… addicted to drugs and my addiction made me do those things. To you.’

  ‘It was drugs that made you say those things?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’d be right,’ says Kevin, ‘nothing but a despicable junkie.’

  I can’t believe how rude he is being. There is a satisfied silence from the officers. Troy ignores them. Mr Draper directs traffic, asking Kevin to calm down, etcetera.

  Everyone takes a deep breath.

  ‘I’m sorry for the shame and hurt I caused you. I know you had to stop playing bowls when you were very active.’ Tears suddenly leak from Troy’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry for the pain I caused my own parents—they don’t want to have anything more to do with me.’

  ‘No, really? A granny-basher?’ says Kevin sardonically.

  ‘Oh, be quiet, Kevin.’

  ‘I’m sorry for just about… everything.’

  ‘Boo hoo hoo,’ sobs Jane in her shrill starling’s voice. It pulls me up short. One of the guards snickers. I am shocked to realise what I have never seen before, that my daughter is a nasty person.

  Kevin asks a pointed question: ‘Is it true that you were raped in jail?’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’

  ‘And I bet that’s another thing you’re sorry about.’

  Troy lets his tears fall. He cannot hide them anywhere. I cannot believe the rudeness of my family. One of the officers sitting outside the circle yawns loudly, crushing his Styrofoam cup.

  ‘Well, I’m not sorry.’

  Kevin and Jane both splutter. Some tea spills.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry that my shoulder was hurt, and I’m sorry that I had to give up playing bowls, but I’m not sorry that this nice young gentleman offered to help me. I didn’t know how I was going to get across that busy road.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Kevin groans.

  ‘And I’m not sorry that meeting you, Troy, has meant that I’ve been able to come on this lovely trip to town. I would never have done that otherwise. It’s been so long since I spent such time with my family.’

  Everyone’s eyes follow a different fly, not knowing where to rest. We chat for a little longer. Kevin gets a few things off his chest. More tea is drunk. When I eventually come back from the lavatory, Mr Draper makes Troy promise that he will stay off drugs, and that he will always have clean urine, which is something I do not wish to understand. He agrees to my request that he writes regularly to let me know the state of his drug-free progress. The officers, Troy and Mr Draper sign some papers. We say our goodbyes and Troy kisses my hand. I believe I almost blush. I see the officers put handcuffs on his wrists as they lead him out. He looks so small alongside them. He gives me a wink. Jane escorts me down in the lift. I amble on my stick and her elbow, which feels like cardboard. When we reach the bottom, Kevin strides ahead to fetch the car. The afternoon has melted and clouded over. The sky has faded. My shoulder is throbbing.

  * * *

  I sit in the passenger seat. Jane and Kevin’s muffled argument comes to me through the window as they dawdle on the footpath. She has things to pick up from the shops. Kevin will get a taxi. My daughter will drive me home and she will leave me there with my pot plants. I wonder when she’ll bring my grandchildren to visit again? There’s only so much wondering that can be given to that subject.

  I want so much to read the next letter Troy will send.

  * * *

  I am happy when the letter arrives. I see again that he is not a very good speller. He tells me how happy he was to finally meet me at the conference, how much it meant to him to see me and to say the things he had to say before he—y’know —ran out of steam and that afterwards, driving back to prison where he will serve the remainder of his sentence, the guards had stopped at some traffic lights where, winding down the window an inch, he could smell the sea.

  BULLDOZER

  This is my story about the bulldozer. I reckon they’re awesome. Not like my brother’s little toy ones mucking about in the sandpit. But real, monstrous, dirty big bulldozers with gears and cogs and that caterpillar tread that would smash your bones to smithereens if you stood in its way. One is building a road up past our house.

  I wish my dad would buy a bulldozer. I could keep it in the backyard and play on it.

  In my backyard is a Hills Hoist squealing slowly in the breeze like a buckled windmill. Its arms are crooked from too much swinging, although I think it’s because the washing is too heavy. That is all I want to say about my backyard.

  A bulldozer wouldn’t really fit in it.

  The bulldozer parks each day on the hill near our house. And a grader. And a steamroller, with a big, shiny wheel like a rolling pin. They are making the road.

  At the bottom of the hill is the ‘bush’. It is not really the bush but it is called the bush because it is bushy. There is a creek with tadpoles in it. At the end of the bush the creek and the tadpoles go down a pipe. If you catch them in a jar then hold them up to the light you can see the veins in their tails. If you pour them on the ground they wriggle. Then they stop wriggling and are boring.

  The bulldozer at the top of the hill has brown grease oozing out of its axles. It is orange. Orange is my favourite colour because that is the colour of bulldozers. Its blade is cold and smooth. On weekends, kids climb on the bulldozer and muck around. They pretend to drive it and make engine noises. I have to stretch so far to reach the pedals my legs hurt.

  We watch the bulldozer making the road from the top of the hill. A brown man with muscles like a frog pulls the levers. There is another hill made of clay pushed aside by the bulldozer. From the top you can see and smell new houses.

  One morning before Sunday school I get up early and put on my best dress. I race up the road for a quick muck around on the hill. There is no one else there and I am kind of invisible. I climb aboard my bulldozer. It smells sweet of grease and oil. I push knobs, pull levers, turn the wheel, stretch for pedals, make engine noises with my mouth, when—CLUNK—something goes clunk. It is moving. It is alive. I jump to the ground. I watch my bulldozer roll, slowly at first, then faster, down hill and over—oh, did I forget to mention the embankment?—over the embankment. My bulldozer does a few cartwheels. After a while there is peace and quiet. I look over the edge of the embankment. The bulldozer is on its back where the tadpoles were. It looks dead, all mangled and still.

  There is mud on my dress. I run for it. Down the road, through my back door, into my room. If anyone sees my dirty dress, I’ll cop it. They will put two and two together and I will go to jail. Even when I stop running, my heart is still catching up. I hide my dirty dress in the bottom of the wardrobe. Put on my pyjamas. Get into bed. Snore a bit.

  After a while my father yells for us to all get up and get dressed for Sunday school.

  ‘Come on, no dawdling now.’

  My heart starts running again. I get up and find a nice clean dress. I yawn a lot. Luckily my hair is still tousled. No one knows that I am a criminal. I eat two breakfasts.

  ‘Righto you lot, in the car,’ my father yells. ‘And no fiddling.’

  He likes to yell. It gets us going. My brother and I fight for the front seat. I win. I fiddle. Fiddle with the buttons, push, pull, squirt water on the windscreen, honk the horn, turn the wheel, honk the horn. By accident, I pull the lever with a spring in it. The lever goes down. Something goes clunk again. It looks like I have not learnt my lesson. Dad yells. I look up. The house is moving. I am rolling backwards. Dad is running alongside the car. He opens the door. He looks funny as he hops on one leg. He falls in and stamps on the brake as if he is killing a spider. I get a clip over the ear but that is fair. I have to sit in the back seat. My ear stays hot.

  After a few days everyone has forgotten about the bulldozer.
<
br />   I grow up a bit.

  Then there is a man in a suit at the front door mumbling to my mother.

  ‘Jennifer, come here please,’ she calls.

  She never says please. This means I am going to jail now. I tell the man the truth. Yes, I sometimes play on the big machines, so do all the other kids. My favourite is the grader. No, I never played there on Sunday morning. No, I don’t know how the bulldozer got in the bush at the bottom of the hill. The man says a word. He says, ‘Liar.’ I cry. This makes my mum mad. She says, ‘Jennifer was with us at church last Sunday morning, as she is every week. It could have been any of the neighbourhood children. How dare you accuse… she would never…’

  Her voice sounds like iron filings. I am a magnet.

  The man leaves with his red face. His tyres go squeak on the road. My mum wins. I go into the backyard to swing on the washing line and be invisible for a while. I notice my Sunday school dress flapping there with no mud on it.

  We are eating dinner. Mum and Dad are having a serious chat. I hide my broccoli under some lettuce. I look up once or twice and watch my dad putting two and two and two together. He glares at the salt. My brother kicks me under the table. This time I let him. I wonder when the man in the suit will come back to take me to jail. I hear Dad say they are going to build new houses down the bush when the road is finished. I want to say something like where will the tadpoles live? But it is better to keep quiet. There is no dessert. That is fair.

  No one in our house ever mentions the bulldozer again.

  LOADED DICE

  An incidental character in a story by Morris Lurie is said to have undertaken a thesis on the popular board game, Monopoly. I find this disturbing, how life can imitate fiction, because I myself have recently completed such an exegesis and, finding little of academic or theoretical interest in the literature, was under the misapprehension that I was doing original research. Not so, it seems. Lurie has pipped me at the post.