Collected Stories

by Peter Carey

  5.

  My own feelings about the shadows are ambivalent, to say the least. For here I have manufactured one more: elusive, unsatisfactory, hinting at greater beauties and more profound mysteries that exist somewhere before the beginning and somewhere after the end.

  Joe

  We are quite content. The meal is finished and we have all washed up the dishes together. It is typical of us that we should all wash up the dishes together, even though it is less convenient than two of us doing it, one washing and one drying. The kitchen is small and we all crowd in, eager that we should do our share. That is so like us, you have no idea. We stick together through thick and thin. After all, that’s what families are for.

  We sit around in the lounge room now and don’t say much. Doreen has put on the Perry Como Show but the sound is low and no one is paying much attention to it. All that comes from the TV is a faint electrical hum.

  We are all quite well known to each other by our various characteristics, some of which are common to the whole family, others of which are held and treasured by individual members. Jack, for instance, is good at getting information from books. He is often reminded of this. To give one example, he learned about playing golf from a book Doreen gave him. This gave him a head start when he played for the first time.

  In small ways like this we know of each other’s talents. It is a great comfort to us.

  In all likelihood we are not so different from other families. We like to joke about family jokes and we have a great respect for the police. I mention the police at this stage because they have a difficult job to do and don’t get much thanks for it. The police strike of the thirties brought this fact home to many people for the first time. If any of us were to enter the police force he would lose no respect in our eyes.

  Joe doesn’t seem to have any characteristics. I don’t know if we’ve ever actually said that out loud. But when it comes to the time of night when we discuss such things, Joe doesn’t seem to come up. Also, there are no little stories concerning him. Perhaps it is because he is too young at the moment to have characteristics. I would be forced to admit that he does not look too much like us. We all have characteristic long noses; both Mother and Father have them, Roman noses we call them, and also pointed ears, which is why we have all been called Pixie at school or in our work from time to time. Joe has the ears, but not the nose. That is perhaps his one characteristic. Mother often says, Joe doesn’t have the family nose. Joe himself will point this out when various things are discussed.

  Actually the reason we all washed up tonight is because Joe raped Harry Bush’s youngest last night during interval at the pictures. Last night was Thursday night. I must admit I was surprised.

  Most nights Joe sits at home and picks the scabs on his knees — he’s still at that stage where he has scabs on his knees from falling over all the time. In addition, he was never circumcised but I have never heard Mother or Father discuss this characteristic or the reason for it. I wouldn’t be surprised if this lack of circumcision was the psychological reason for Joe doing over Shirley during the interval. It was out the back, by the rainwater tank. Harry Bush brought her panties round before tea and shoved them in my father’s face. Later on, my father said they were none too clean anyway and it was hard to tell. In happier days, with a different subject, this observation of Father’s would have had all the makings of a famous family joke. He has some good ones which he remembers; we all remember them.

  As I mentioned before, Joe doesn’t have the family nose. He was sixteen yesterday and went off to the pictures by himself after the early birthday tea. We always have an early tea on birthday nights. It is one of the things we do. Afterwards we sing songs.

  However, Joe excused himself after his birthday tea and went to the bathroom where he shaved the fuzz off his lip with my razor and then he changed into a clean shirt and Jack’s tartan tie. Then he borrowed my white sports coat and wore his own trousers and brown desert boots. The sports coat was too big for him across the shoulders.

  Then he went out. It was his birthday tea and no one was too upset, although of course we were.

  Joe doesn’t have the family nose, is what my father said. Then we all sang songs and my mother played the accordion and we were still at it when Joe came home. He sang a number or two with us and then went off to bed. I remember that he didn’t clean his teeth. That is one of the things we are particular about, cleaning teeth, because once you’ve lost them they’re gone for good. It is the same with crossing the road and taking precautions during the bush-fire season. People always think it’s too much bother and go on as if it’s a big joke. But you don’t see anyone laughing when they get knocked down on the road or when there’s a fire burning up their place. If you’ve ever seen anything like that you won’t easily forget it, believe me. Father saw Reg McLeod’s little girl get run over by a semi-trailer and he’s never forgotten it.

  Anyway, Joe went straight to bed. None of us said anything. After all, it was his birthday. We finished up the cake just the same. Mother said it would have gone stale if we’d left it.

  Harry Bush claims our Joe raped his Shirley during the interval. The picture theatre is just out the back of our place; its back fence is next to ours. I mean, we share a back fence. So he probably heard us singing songs for his birthday, while he did her.

  We are all in the lounge. Joe is sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. It is where he usually sits. You can see the mark where his head touches the wall. He is reading Modern Motor. Everybody else is doing things. Doreen looks a bit fidgety and is knitting booties for Alice Craig’s baby which is due any day now. Mother has her knitting too. She is knitting a birthday jumper for Joe and is casting off the last arm. It is one of those bulky sweaters. Joe hasn’t said anything about it. Father hums a little tune as he fills his pipe. It is one of his characteristics that he sings when he is edgy or angry or at all upset, which he naturally is.

  No one has said anything to Joe yet. We are all looking at him. He has rolled up the leg of his jeans and started to pick a scab. Naturally, we study him picking his scab — nothing else is moving in the room, except for Perry Como, and no one seems to have much interest in that. So we all look at Joe picking the scab and he looks up at me and says, it’s a wart.

  Dad says, do you know Shirley Bush?

  Joe looks at his scab very hard and tries to lift its lid. He says, yes. Then he scratches his brown skinny arms and leaves white scratch marks behind.

  Dad says, I hear she was abused.

  Joe says, I never abused her. I don’t think Dad made himself too clear. Joe has bare feet. He starts hunting for things between his toes.

  Doreen says, don’t do that, Joe.

  Joe looks a bit startled and says, what?

  Jack says, don’t pick at your tinea.

  Joe says, I haven’t got tinea.

  I say, none of us have got tinea, Jack. No one in the family has got tinea. If one of us had it we’d all have it.

  Joe says, you get it from not drying between your toes.

  Doreen says, it’s a fungus, it grows in the bathmats.

  Exactly, I say, that was exactly my point.

  Dad lights his pipe again and we all be quiet and watch him to see what he will say to Joe.

  Dad says, were you familiar with Shirley Bush?

  When?

  Answer the question.

  Joe looks around at all of us and sees we all know. I feel a bit sorry for him.

  Joe looks at Mother and Father and Doreen and Jack and me and then he grins from ear to ear like he’d just won Tatts.

  He says, yes, last night during the interval.

  He looks happy. Obviously, he has not understood the meaning of the question or, alternatively, of his answer.

  Dad says, do you know what rape is?

  Joe grins and says, yes.

  Dad says, did you rape Shirley Bush?

  Joe laughs and Doreen gets up to walk out. She drops the kni
tting for Alice Craig’s baby and bends down to pick it up. When she bends down I can see she doesn’t have any pants on. Doreen walks out with her feet scuffling on the floor and her legs rubbing together; I can hear them.

  Dad says, did you?

  Joe is going a bit red at last and he tries to put his skinny brown arms somewhere comfortable. He unbuttons his shirt and hugs his chest. He says, I don’t think it was.

  Dad says, how do you mean?

  Joe looks sort of embarrassed. He begins to pick at the scab again. He bends his head to look at it closer, so all we can see is the top of his head. He says something we can’t hear.

  Dad says, what?

  Joe says, is it rape … if you do it standing up?

  Jack says, only if she didn’t want to.

  Dad says, did she want to Joe? You can tell us.

  Joe says, no.

  No one says anything for a bit. Dad looks at Joe as if he was seeing him for the first time. Joe looks up and grins.

  Dad says, well?

  Joe rolls over and lies on the floor on his stomach. He looks at some pages in Modern Motor. Then he says, she wanted to do it lying down … but …

  Mother has been counting a row of stitches for some time. She appears to have been losing count. She says, yes … go on …

  Her voice sounds high and tense, like it does when she wants to go to the lav and someone is already there.

  Joe says, she wanted to do it lying down, but I said there wasn’t time during the interval.

  Then he cries, looking around at all of us. His grinning mouth melts like a wax doll in an oven. His face slowly caves and he cries without noise.

  No one moves for a while. We sit and watch Joe crying.

  Then Jack turns the TV off and Dad goes over to the phone to get in touch with Phil Cooper, the solicitor.

  The Puzzling Nature of Blue

  PART 1

  Vincent is crying again. Bloody Vincent. Here I am, a woman of thirty-five, and I still can’t handle a fool like Vincent. He’s like a yellow dog, one of those curs who hangs around your back door for scraps and you feed him once, you show him a little affection, and he stays there. He’s yours. You’re his. Bloody Vincent, crying by the fire, and spilling his drink again.

  It began as stupidly as you’d expect a thing like that to begin. There was no way in which it could have begun intelligently. Vincent put an ad in the Review: Home and companionship wanted for ex-drunken Irish poet shortly to be released from Long Bay. Apply V. Day Box 57320.

  I did it. I answered it. And now Vincent is crying by the fire and spilling his drink and all I can say is, “Get the Wettex.”

  He nods his head determinedly through his tears, struggles to get up, and falls over. He knocks his head on the table. I find it impossible to believe that he hasn’t choreographed the whole sequence but I’m the one who gets up and fetches the Wettex. I use it to wipe up the blood on his head. God save me.

  Yesterday I kicked him out. So he began to tear down the brick wall he’d started to build for me. Then he gave up and started crying. The crying nauseated me. But I couldn’t kick him out. It was the fifth time I couldn’t kick him out.

  I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not emotionally dependent on the drama he provides me. What other reason is there for keeping him here? Perhaps it’s as simple as pity. I know how bad he is. Anyone who knew him well wouldn’t let him in the door. I have fantasies about Vincent sleeping with the winos in the park. I refuse to have that on my head.

  “How many people answered your ad?” I asked.

  “Only you.”

  Thus he makes even his successes sound pitiful.

  Tonight I have made a resolution, to exploit Vincent to the same extent that he has exploited me. He has a story or two to tell. He is not a poet. He was never in Long Bay. But he has a story or two. One of those interests me. I intend to wring this story from Vincent as I wring this Wettex, marked with his poor weak blood, amongst the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink.

  Before I go any further though, in my own defence, I intend to make a list of Vincent’s crimes against me, for my revenge will not be inconsiderable and I have the resources to inflict serious injuries upon him.

  Vincent’s first crime was to lie to me about having been in Long Bay, to ask for sympathy on false grounds, to say he was a poet when he wasn’t, to say he was a reformed alcoholic when he was a soak.

  Vincent’s second crime was to inflict his love on me when I had no wish for it. He used his dole money to send me flowers and stole my own money to buy himself drink. He stole my books and (I suppose) sold them. He gave my records to a man in the pub, so he says, and if that’s what he says then the real thing is worse.

  Vincent’s third crime was to tell Paul that I loved him (Vincent) and that I was trying to mother him, and because I was mothering him he couldn’t write any more.

  Vincent’s fourth crime was to perform small acts that would make me indebted to him in some way. Each time I was touched and charmed by these acts. Each time he demanded some extraordinary payment for his troubles. The wall he is propped against now is an example. He built this wall because he thought I couldn’t. I was pleased. It seemed a selfless act and perhaps I saw it as some sort of repayment for my care of him. But building the wall somehow, in Vincent’s mind, was related to him sleeping with me. When I said “no” he began to tear down the wall and call me a cockteaser. The connection between the wall and my bed may seem extreme but it was perfectly logical to Vincent, who has always known that there is a price for everything.

  Vincent’s fifth crime was his remorse for all his other crimes. His remorse was more cloying, more clinging, more suffocating, more pitiful than any of his other actions and it was, he knew, the final imprisoning act. He knows that no matter how hardened I might become to everything else, the display of remorse always works. He knows that I suspect it is false remorse, but he also knows that I am not really sure and that I’ll always give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Vincent is crying again. I’d chuck him out but he’s got nowhere else to go and I’ve got nothing else to trouble me.

  I can’t guarantee the minor details of what follows. I’ve put it together from what he’s told others. Often he’s contradicted himself. Often he’s got the dates wrong. Sometimes he tells me that it was he who suggested Upward Island, sometimes he tells me that the chairman mumbled something about it and no one else heard it.

  So what happens here, in this reconstruction, is based on what I know of the terrible Vincent, not what I know of the first board meeting he ever went to, a brand-new director who was, even then, involved with the anti-war movement.

  The first boarding meeting Vincent ever went to took place when the Upward Island Republic was still plain Upward Island, a little dot on the map to the north of Australia. I guess Vincent was much the same as he is now, not as pitiful, not as far gone, less of a professional Irishman, but still as burdened with the guilt that he carries around so proudly to this day. It occurs to me that he was, even then, looking for things to be guilty about.

  Allow for my cynicism about him. Vincent was never, no matter what I say, a fool. I have heard him spoken of as a first-rate economist. He had worked in senior positions for two banks and as a policy adviser to the Labor Party. In addition, if he’s to be believed, he was a full board member of Farrow (Australasia) at thirty-five. It is difficult to imagine an American company giving a position to someone like Vincent, no matter how clever. But Farrow were English and it is remotely possible that they didn’t know about his association with the anti-war movement, his tendency to drink too much, and his unstable home life.

  In those days he had no beard. He wore tailored suits from Eugenio Medecini and ate each day at a special table at the Florentino. He may have seemed a little too smooth, a trifle insincere, but that is probably to underestimate his not inconsiderable talent for charm.

  Which brings us back at last to the time of the first board meeting
.

  Vincent was nervous. He had been flattered and thrilled to be appointed to the board. He was also in the habit of saying that he had compromised his principles by accepting it. In the month that elapsed between his appointment and the first meeting his alternate waves of elation and guilt gave way to more general anxiety.

  He was worried, as usual, that he wasn’t good enough, that he would make a fool of himself by saying the wrong thing, that he wouldn’t say anything, that he would be expected to perform little rituals the nature of which he would be unfamiliar with.

  The night before he went out on a terrible drunk with his ex-wife and her new lover, during which he became first grandiose and then pathetic. They took him home and put him to bed. The next morning he woke with the painful clarity he experienced in those days from a hangover, a clarity he claimed helped him write better.

  He shaved without cutting himself and dressed in the fawn gaberdine suit which he has often described to me in loving detail. I know little about the finer details of the construction of men’s suits, so I can’t replay the suit to you stitch for stitch the way Vincent, slumped on the floor in his stained old yellow T-shirt and filthy jeans, has done for me. I sometimes think that the loss of that suit has been one of the great tragedies of Vincent’s life, greater than the loss of his fictitious manuscripts which he claims he left on a Pioneer bus between Coifs Harbour and Lismore.

  But on the day of his first board meeting the suit was still his and he dressed meticulously, tying a big knot in the Pierre Cardin tie that Jenny and Frank had given him to celebrate his appointment. His head was calm and clear and he ignored the Enthal asthma inhaler which lay on his dresser and caught a cab to the office.

  Whenever Vincent talks about the meeting his attitude to the events is ambivalent and he alternates between pride and self-hatred as he relates it. He has pride in his mental techniques and hatred for the results of those techniques.