Magnolias don't Die

by AJ Collins

  ‘Spell expletive.’

  ‘Spell ... whatever.’

  ‘Come on,’ Harry says, ‘finish your drink. I’m taking you out for the best hamburger you’ve ever had in your life. My shout.’

  ‘Ooh, generous.’

  ‘Don’t knock ‘em ‘til you’ve tried ‘em.’

  He leads me through the warren of gaming rooms, all brightly lit with chandeliers so you can’t tell what time of day or night it is, past the rows of green-felted tables with players watching their cards like birds of prey, past rattling roulette wheels and alleys of poker machines that sound like pin-ball games, each with a pinched-face hopeful sitting with one butt cheek on a stool as though they need to go to the toilet but are afraid to leave in case their machine suddenly jackpots.

  Outside, the freshness of the night air revives me, and I have a thought.

  ‘Just a mini.’

  I’ve forgotten to take my mobile off silent. I pull it out of my purse, and there it is, a text message from Snap:

  Sorry, Kitten. Drinkies after?

  Relief. I knew he wouldn’t bail on me. It’s Snap after all. And I miss him. It’s ages since I’ve seen him properly: him coming home late from his shift while I’m asleep, then me leaving for work while he’s still out of it.

  I turn to Harry. ‘What’s the name of this holier-than-thou hamburger joint?’

  8. Debriefing

  My stomach rumbles at the thick smell of fried onion and grilled meat. We sit in a booth next to the front window, the tabletop covered in kitsch, red and white checked plastic. Nearly every inch of wall space is covered in colourful artwork – beautiful, bold strokes merging and bursting like fireworks. ‘All Freda’s creations,’ Harry tells me. They’re good. Not that I know much about art, but I like them.

  A slight woman in her early thirties approaches us. She has a handkerchief tied over her curly brown hair, and she’s wearing an apron so over-sized I’m sure her arms wouldn’t reach the bottom of its pockets. She greets us with a big smile and crooked teeth.

  Harry makes to stand but she pushes him back into his seat. ‘Sit! Sit.’ She stands so close to Harry, her hip rests against his arm. She ruffles his hair.

  Harry smiles as he smooths his head. ‘Lauren, this is my future wife, Freda.’

  Freda laughs. ‘Ah, he wishes. I offered him long ago, but the boy has big dreams.’ She dumps her coffee pot on the table and shakes my hand. ‘This one looks more likely.’

  I’m taken her voice and accent. It’s so sexy, it rolls around her tongue like dark honey. ‘I’m afraid my hamburgers wouldn’t measure up. Harry’s been raving about yours.’

  ‘Ah, he flatters me.’ She pats my hand, then releases me.

  I like her immediately. She’s got some sort of aura, a charisma that’s disarming. She’s the kind of person you can hug, even though you’ve just met. While she banters with Harry, I try to work out her accent. Eastern European, perhaps? Every word is pronounced purposefully, like a student who’s learned a second language from a teacher who’s not a native speaker.

  I’m still puzzling when she plonks onto the bench, next to me, so close our elbows are touching. Obviously not shy of personal space. I shuffle towards the window, putting a few centimetres between us.

  ‘You are not to take any trouble from this boy, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ I laugh.

  ‘I promised to keep eyes on him for his mother. So, you come to me if there’s a problem, yes?’

  I’m thrown for a second and flick a look at Harry. She knows your family?

  Harry just smiles, oblivious to my meaning.

  Freda looks at Harry too. ‘Not much of a tongue, this one.’

  ‘Give her time,’ he says.

  ‘So, Lauren. You’re from Harry’s town, yes? You’ve been friends for a long time. Was he a good boy?’

  She’s obviously not that connected. I push my paranoia aside. ‘He was mouthy. Still is.’ I try not to stare at her teeth, the way some of them lean and cross over, as if fighting to upstage each other.

  ‘Mouthy?’

  ‘Smart arse.’

  ‘Ah.’ She laughs. ‘The best kind. Let me see your hand.’

  ‘What for?’

  She doesn’t answer but grasps my right hand and sandwiches it between hers. Her fingers are long, her skin olive, her palms warm. Considering I’m usually contact-averse to strangers, I’m strangely calm with her touch. She closes her eyes with a frown of concentration. I glance at Harry. He pulls an I-haven’t-got-a-clue face. Freda opens her eyes, peers into my palm and traces one of my creases. Here we go. I try not to laugh.

  ‘How old are you?’ she asks.

  I smirk. ‘Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?’

  She ignores me. ‘You have been here for ... nearly two years.’

  I nod. ‘Good guess.’

  Freda scowls at me, as though I’ve delivered some great insult. ‘It is nothing to do with guessing. Do not interrupt.’

  I flash another look at Harry. He must have clued her up. He shrugs as if this is normal behaviour. Freda hums as she continues her examination, then stops and tuts.

  ‘Very unhappy childhood.’

  ‘Haven’t we all?’

  She looks up. ‘Yes,’ she says, softly. ‘Yes. Many of us.’

  She holds my gaze, her expression indecipherable, as though she’s lost in probing my head. Suddenly, her pupils dilate so subtly I’m not sure if I imagine it. Her head moves slowly, side to side. ‘So sad. So much sorrow,’ she says. She touches my cheek and just like that I’m close to tears. She whispers, ‘It is not over, this thing. Forget is one thing. Forgive is another.’ It’s a statement, not a question, and I’m hit by an overwhelming feeling that this woman totally gets me. Only it’s not relieving, it’s frightening.

  She suddenly brightens, peers back at my palm and continues. ‘Hmmm, I see a stranger in your life. A musician. My, he is a handsome one, too.’

  I pull my hand away. ‘Funny. Very funny.’

  Freda glances at Harry, and I swear some secret message passes between them. She stands with her coffee pot. ‘Do not be hard on him, Lauren. He wants only the best for you. I will come back for your food orders soon.’

  ‘No hurry,’ Harry says. ‘We’re waiting on a friend.’

  When she leaves us, I glare at Harry. ‘What was that?’ I spit.

  ‘Sorry.’ His grin looks nervous. ‘I should have warned you. It’s a party trick she likes to do ... the whole Romani gypsy thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s from Romania, but she was sick of people joking about it, the whole cliché. So now she owns it. It’s her thing.’

  ‘I don’t care about her thing. You told her about me. We had a deal.’

  Harry frowns. ‘No, I didn’t. All she knows is you’re a friend from back home.’

  I stare at him, tying to discern signs of a lie. ‘Well ... she seemed to know a hell of a lot more than that. I feel like I’ve just been seen naked.’

  ‘She does that.’

  ‘So ... what? She’s psychic or something?’ I’m still not sure I believe he didn’t rat me out.

  ‘She’s just intuitive. She knows people.’

  ‘She doesn’t know me.’ My voice has risen, so I lower it to a hiss. ‘She doesn’t know me. You don’t know me.’

  Harry turns to the window, and I’m not sure if he’s looking for an escape or waiting for me to stop ranting. Even if he didn’t tell, he still set me up. I’m entitled to be angry, aren’t I? I should leave. But I don’t. It all seems ridiculous. Psychics. What a pile of crap.

  We sit in silence for a while, both staring out the window. And now I’m wondering how much Freda does actually know about me. It’s not as if she stuck a flash drive in my ear and downloaded my history, but it sure felt like she accessed something. Something nobody else needs to know. Something that’s ... not over. I can’t think about that.

  A crusty looking woman pushing a supermar
ket trolley crammed with odds and ends is shuffling past. As she nears our window, she comes up close and peers in. Her skin is creviced with age and weathering, the fibres of her woollen hat, pulled low of her ears, are unravelling. We’re almost face to face when she pokes out her tongue, then grins. I’m so shocked I pull away from the window. Harry laughs and so do I, even though I’m not finished with being angry.

  ‘You okay?’ Harry asks.

  ‘Yeah. What I really feel like doing is curling up into a ball. I’m tired as hell. It’s been a long week.’

  And it has: final rehearsals, hefty shifts at the 7-Eleven, then today rushing home to shower, getting myself ready for tonight, warming up my voice, stressing because I couldn’t get my freakin’ hair the same way the hairdresser had it, then tramming it from Fitzroy to the casino. My stage nerves were a whole other world of pain.

  ‘Does it get any easier?’ I ask.

  He’s puzzled.

  ‘The stage. The nerves.’

  ‘Soon you’ll own that stage.’

  His voice is willing me to agree with him, but I can’t meet his eyes, so I find myself eyeing his dark-blond beard. I still don’t like it, all that hair, but damn him for being so hot.

  ‘Forgiven?’ he asks.

  ‘Spell never.’

  ‘Harsh.’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know if I can do this.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘This.’ I splay my hands as if encompassing the world around me. ‘The whole thing. All of it. Don’t get me wrong, I loved being up there, with you, but I forgot how scary it is. People watching you. I nearly crapped myself tonight. And other stuff keeps going round and round in my head. I mean, what if we don’t get enough gigs? My boss is on my back about working weekends, I can’t commit to gigs if I have to work, I can’t pay my rent if I don’t work. And ... and ...’

  Damn it. I cover my face, embarrassed, tearful. Harry tries to take my hands. I pull away. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Hey.’ he says softly, handing me a handkerchief.

  Who carries hankies these days? But it’s soft and clean and nice. I sniff and wipe my nose. I keep my head lowered, hoping my fringe is covering my eyes. I can’t let him see me. I’m such a wuss. I should get up and walk out. But I’m exhausted. I want someone else to take the burden. Make the hard decisions for me. Something that couple in the casino said, about my parents being proud. It hit home. I suddenly really, really miss my mum.

  ‘Lauren, look at me. Hey, I know it all seems overwhelming right now. But it will get better. I promise. You’ve been working so hard for this. Don’t let it go now.’

  ‘And then you go and ... and ... psyche me with Freda.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe that was the final straw. Sorry, but I did it for a good reason.’

  I look at him. I’m sure there’s mascara streaked down my face, but I don’t care.

  Harry’s forehead creases, and he puts on a ridiculous face. ‘Ah, yes vell ... you veel ‘ave to trust dis very ‘andsome musician and know dat dis very ‘andsome musician ‘as your best int-er-est at ‘eart.’

  He almost pulls a smile from me. Almost. ‘That’s terrible. Nothing like her.’

  He points to my nose. ‘You’ve got a little something ...’

  I blow my nose again, refusing to let him distract me. ‘Okay, so let’s hear your reason. This better be good. I’m too tired for bullshit. I’m too tired for ...’ My stupid tears start all over.

  He rubs my hand. ‘I’m all out of hankies, sorry.’

  ‘God. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’ I take deep breaths, trying to calm. Is it PMT? When am I due next? ‘This is so—'

  ‘Hellooo! Oh, Kitten. Are you crying because I missed your debut?’

  Holy crap! I immediately drop my pity-fest. Snap has a huge stitched gash above his left eye and purple and yellow bruising over his cheek and jaw.

  ‘Snap!’ I stand to cup his face. But he tilts his head back.

  ‘No touching the merchandise.’ He sniffs. ‘Still hurts.’

  I settle for a gentle hug instead, but even that makes him cringe. I pat the bench next to me. ‘What happened?’

  He sits and makes an elaborate show of adjusting my messed-up fringe. ‘Love your hair, Kitten. Luci did an amazing job. I knew she would. Are you okay? Big night?’ He takes a napkin and tries to clean beneath my eyes, like a mother would a dirty-faced child. I’m lucky he didn’t lick the tissue first. I bat him away.

  ‘Don’t worry about me. What happened to you?’

  ‘I’m sorry I missed you. I really wanted to come, but I didn’t want this,’ he says, framing his face with his hands, ‘to upset your big night. How did it go?’

  ‘Good. But, Snap, your poor face.’ I refrain from touching him, although my fingers are itching to stroke his bruising.

  He tosses his head. ‘Oh, just a little altercation out the back of the pub. You’re not the only one who can hold their own.’ He turns to Harry and smiles, all coy.

  Harry looks baffled, concerned and surprised, all at once. ‘Someone attacked you? Why?’

  ‘Story for another day.’

  ‘No, it’s a story for now,’ I say. ‘You can’t turn up all black and blue and brush it off. Tell me.’

  Snap huffs. ‘You won’t like it.’

  ‘I already don’t like it.’

  He presses my hands onto the table, holds them there as if he expects them to fly up and do something crazy. ‘Okay. Just remember I was only defending you.’

  I bite down my panic and let him speak.

  ‘So Bob is going on and on about how the new bar girl is too slow, too stupid, too chatty with the customers – she’s not, she’s an absolute sweet thing – but whatever ...’ Snap forgets to hold my hands because he’s too busy with his own gestures of disgust. ‘And he starts on about how the last bitch left him in the lurch. It was too much, so I told him to shut his pie hole. Next thing he starts calling me a faggot and all sorts. God, I thought I was back in my dad’s house. Then he smashes me one. Punches me right in the head.’

  ‘Snap!’

  ‘Don’t worry, honey. I’m a bit bruised and battered is all. I gave him just as good back, for both of us.’ He flexes his bruised hand. ‘That fucker’s going to need a good dentist.’ Snap looks proud. ‘Not very lady-like, huh?’

  Harry looks incredulous. ‘This is the bar manager, yeah?’

  I nod and ask warily, ‘Did you call the police?’

  Snap pats my knee. ‘It’s okay, honey. I left your name out of it.’

  ‘Snap. I didn’t mean—’

  Snap looks at Harry, then me. ‘What? He’s gonna know about it, eventually.’

  Harry looks puzzled. ‘Know what?’

  Oh hell, this is not good. It’s none of Harry’s business. It’s nobody’s business. I just want the whole shitty thing to go away. ‘Nothing—’

  ‘He sexually harassed her,’ Snap cut in.

  ‘What? When was this?’

  I hold up my hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. I dealt with it. It’s not your business.’

  ‘Of course it’s my business. I’m your manager. Anything that happens, I need to know about.’

  I’m sure my expression is conveying my incredulity. One gig together, where nobody gave a toss, does not make me some high-profile star who needs spin doctoring. And not only that, is he actually more worried about what people will think than the fact I was molested? I speak in a monotone, hoping it gives me a sense of authority.

  ‘My private life is mine.’

  Harry doesn’t back down. ‘Not if you’re serious. Once you hit the big time, everything you’ve said and done in the past is fodder for the press.’

  I almost choke. ‘Big time?’ He’s taking this all too seriously. ‘We’re working in a freakin’ casino lounge.’

  Snap raises a finger. ‘Shhh, kiddies. Let’s save this for another time.’

  I glare at him. ‘You started it.’

  ‘Yes, well, now I�
�m finishing it. Tonight should be a celebration. Come on, play nice. Let’s start again.’ He holds out his hand to Harry. ‘Lovely to see you again.’

  Harry looks unsure of what to do with Snap’s bruised hand. He settles for a loose, up and down motion of Snap’s fingers. I make one of those childish harrumphing noises. ‘I forgot you two already know each other.’

  Harry and Snap both look at me. Snap does his one-eyebrow-lift thing. ‘Something else up your girdle?’

  ‘Nothing. I just don’t like people poking into my private things.’ It only takes a second before I realise the double entendre. Snap opens his mouth, and this time I raise a finger. ‘Don’t even.’ Now it’s his turn to harrumph. Heh. So, that’s where I get it from. I take the biggest breath and let it all out in one huge sigh. This night has lasted a century. I need sustenance. ‘Hamburgers, anyone?’

  While we wait, we make small talk, commenting on the eclectic nightlife on Acland Street: the tourists in their crisp white runners, the regulars in shredded jeans and t-shirts, teens with wild hair, chunky boots and skirts so short you can tell what colour undies they’re wearing. I wish I had their confidence.

  ~

  Finally, the burgers arrive. Harry is right: they are the best ever. There’s hardly any conversation while we tuck into the hot succulent meat, juice running down our faces and bits of salad squeezing between our fingers. We make feral noises and laugh. It’s all disgustingly good.

  I’m nearly finished my burger when Harry says, ‘So I have some news.’

  I stop chewing. What now? I can’t deal with anything else tonight. I hope whatever it is doesn’t need my brain cells to make a decision. Those babies are in a food coma.

  ‘Do you have a passport?’ he asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Huh. Well, we’ll have to get you one in a hurry. We’re going on a cruise.’

  I almost choke on my last tasty bite. ‘What?’

  ‘How does six weeks in the South Pacific sound?’

  He’s got my attention. I make big eyes at him and reach for my milkshake to clear my throat.

  ‘I’ve been offered a gig on the Emerald Princess. It’s an emergency fill-in position for a duo who couldn’t complete their contract. Leaves in a couple of weeks. You don’t get seasick, do you?’