Slights (14 page)

  My mouth was covered. I could taste dirty wool, the playground, it was the black jumper I'd taken for a gift when I was eleven. The boy twisted the arms around my neck.

  Mr Meyerfeldt was there, glaring, but not his dog. Home eating my rubbish, I said, and I laughed, just a low chuckle, but they shrank with a hiss like vampires in the sunlight. I laughed again but it had to be real, not fearful.

  The Krouskas were there, too, and that made me snarl, because I could not watch them fuck any more. Take it down, I snarled, the towel, so I can see, because he had a big dick and she loved it, give it to me baby. Next to them was Mrs Di Matteo, cheeks rouged like a corpse.

  I had not yet tried to move. The smoke was so thick I thought perhaps they couldn't see me; though I could see them perfectly well, talking amongst themselves like old school friends.

  I wriggled a finger and my whole arm lifted; I was as light as the smoke. I was smoke, but I wasn't. My body was still whole. I sat up and they came close. A woman with a red scarf, an old woman with white hair, a girl in a green uniform, a guy with neat shoes, all paraded for me, twisting, turning, pretzels of blood and sinew then back to normal. Mrs Adder, from when I was in the supermarket, a real snake's head, tongue, she sank her fangs into my ankle and I screamed, the pain. A bread knife sawing off my foot.

  She slowly turned black. My blood was poison to her.

  They danced around me, loyal subjects, a guy with a straggly ponytail, faces I didn't know, the newsagent guy, my boss, others from work whose existence I despised.

  They danced and spun, the music was Ode to Joy,
Da da da da Da Da da da
, leaping and spinning, bowing to me. Samantha's friends were there, part of the worship, kissing me, dancing, spinning, loving.

  Spitting.

  Slicing.

  Little holes in my legs. In my breasts. Maria was there leaping, naked, her pubic hair a neat triangle, dancing with Ray's girlfriend, the wonderful man who fixed my car, Ray, he wasn't there, but his girlfriend – sorry, fiancée – was, and she had no pubic hair at all, her flaps poking out like a cow's tongue.

  There were people who walked like they had golden syrup on their soles but they came forward, and Mark was there, laughing at my scars, and Jason behind him. They all had rocks, and I curled to protect myself as the first one was launched, curled to give in but Peter found me.

  Just like I asked him to.

I was brought back to life. They told me I had been in danger; that I had visitors and things to do. They told me about the events in the hospital, trying to make life interesting. But I had been in the room, mildew, shit and naphthalene, cold, and those faces peering over me. I had remembered the attention, forgotten the intention. I would not have gone back.

  "Silly mistake," Peter told me in hospital. "Silly mistake."

  Melissa was there, my old next-door neighbour.

  "It's so lucky I was visiting Mum and Dad," she said. "Can you imagine if I wasn't? I wanted to see Steve. Mum said she was home, she was always home. But she didn't answer."

  "It's all right," Peter said. "It's lucky you found her."

  "I wasn't spying or anything. I was just worried. I worry about her, Peter."

  "She's all right. It was just a silly mistake."

  She found me. Not Peter.

  I was not at my strongest. I quite liked being weak for a while; looked after, fed. But I didn't like to lie in bed with myself for too long. I resolved not to dig in the garden again. I didn't want to know any more what was in there.

  I broke my resolution as soon as I could get a grip around the handle of a spade.

  I also resolved not to slight anyone, ever. Unless I go back to the room I won't know how successful that resolution was.

  Crutches leant against the foot of my bed for three days. They loomed over me. I could smell the wood of them, sweat, wood, dirt. It smelt like the floor of the gymnasium at school. It was a comforting smell. I recalled those moments of absolute solitude amongst the crowd, when for whatever reason – a dance step, a moment to wait while someone else performed, stretching exercises – I bent my head to the floor and let my forehead rest. My nose touching as well. My arms around my head to create a small, dark room all my own, and that smell, that wood smell which never faded.

  I reached out and drew the crutches to me. I had imagined the smell; it didn't exist. I struggled down the corridor, looking for a bit of sun to sit in. From behind, a squeal, and my knees were belted forward so I collapsed to the floor. For a moment, the small dark room, the floor, the smell of pine and plastic, then I raised my head. The child was away; its mother helped me up.

  "I'm so sorry," she said. "Such energy. We're visiting my husband…his father…just a minor accident but such a worry. We just can't keep an eye on them every second."

  "You should," I said, but I smiled, because I did not want to be in this woman's dark room. She was a bruised thing; eyes black, arms yellow and purple. Bandages here and there. I saw the scene clearly: a child goes wild in an angry household, a wife had enough of the beatings and whack with a…

  "What did you hit him with?" I said.

  "Pardon?" she said.

  "Your husband. What did you whack him with?"

  "Oh, no, he fell over," she said. I was not slighted; I had a feeling she would be going to her dark room very soon.

  It came as a shock. I realised I had not considered being slighted by the child. It was the parents. So my parents; how many of mine did they have? How many of Peter's? How had we made them suffer? What sort of dark room does my mother inhabit?

It was nice for people to be concerned about me. I went back to my job and everyone smiled at me but no one spoke. I accused Peter of telling them my secrets and he said, "I don't talk about it." Neither did anyone else. It was like it never happened. I got a card from the Grannies:
Get well soon
, as if I'd been sick but all that would be fixed.

  I slowly got my breath back. It took days, days. I couldn't move or eat; people fussed about me, keeping me away from the room.

  I heard them saying, "Oh, the poor thing. The poor dear." But I didn't feel sorry for myself at all. I had learnt something; I had knowledge which made life worthwhile. I had never believed in the soul. I thought you died, then you rotted, the end. But I had seen my soul, I saw it in another place, and I knew I had a future. It made me shudder.

  All I had to do was ensure my future was a better place than the one I had seen.

  My counsellor said I need time to sort out my issues. Useless, really. But Peter gave me sick leave, plenty of it, and I dealt with my issues by digging in my backyard. I found more bones, a tarnished gold chain, a tie bar, a wooden spoon handle and a small glass ball, with inclusions.

  Auntie Jessie was the only person who believed what I had done. Auntie Jessie paid for us to go away together, soon after I got out of the hospital. Just for a week. Sometimes the look in her eye was that of Granny Searle's when she squeezed me too tight: We
love
you, Stevie.

  We took a house on the beach and we walked, talked. Auntie Jessie cooked wonderful food: lobster mornay, paella, seafood soups we ate from giant bowls.

  "Your dad had such plain tastes," Auntie Jessie said, but I knew that was only with her. With us he was adventurous.

  "We're pretending we're in Spain," I said. I'd walked to the shops and collected some foreign beers.

  "There's nothing wrong with pretending," Auntie Jessie said. "I pretend all the time. I'm hardly ever settled in reality."

  "Does that make you feel better?"

  "Not when I'm settled in reality," she said. We played a game of Chinese Chequers and she cheated to let me win; pretended a vagueness she would never have. She told me stories about how Mum and Dad met, details I hadn't learned before. She told me stories Dad had told her, strange stories, as if he lived in a fantasy world, too.

  I told her about Eve, and about the dark room. She held my hand and didn't let go until we got in the car to drive home.

  She loved to drive. "I could never understand my sisters, not wanting to drive. At least your Mum learnt, drove when she had to. Poor old Mike; the times he was summoned from work to take Ruth to the hairdresser."

  "She wants me to do it. Can't remember I still don't have my license. Hates me when I tell her to call a cab."

  "What about Peter? Can't he help?"

  "He lives too far away. And she thinks he's a bore, anyway. She says I make her laugh."

  Auntie Jessie laid her hands around my face, drew me in, stared into my eyes as if she was trying to hypnotise me.

  "See? See what you bring people? You are a delight, Stevie, don't forget it. What would your father say about all of this?"

  I tried to picture Dad, but it was Mum's face I saw. Smiling at me, loving me.

  "What would Mum say?"

  Auntie Jessie got some cigarettes. We liked to smoke together. It bridged the generation gap.

  "One of the saddest things is loneliness," she said. "I should know. And it's not your fault; I'm not lonely when you're here. But it's just something missing. People are lonely for good reason, usually, even if they don't know what it is. There's something about people like me nobody likes."

  "You're crazy," I said. If people didn't like Auntie Jessie, what did they think of me?

  I couldn't believe how excited they all were. They kept saying, "So sad his mother isn't here to see it," never mentioning our father. And there were Maria's parents, of course. Much as I don't mind them, the few times I've met them, could they be a bit less obsessed by the whole thing?

  Maria came to me and said, "Stevie, I know you had in your mind you might be a bridesmaid. But I've got my sisters and the three girlfriends and they'd all be devastated if I didn't ask them." Her three brothers had picked girlfriends who might as well be triplets. Honestly. Pretty little idiots who giggled and loved wearing pink. Her sisters were big lumpy things who'd look foul no matter what they wore.

  "To be honest, if I had to stand next to those women I'd be dry retching the whole time, then no one would hear your wonderful vows," I said. Maria blinked at me. Still struggling with what I consider a joke.

  So on their wedding day, I showed up late and no one noticed. That was good. I sat on the groom's side, along with Peter's mates, Auntie Ruth, Auntie Jessie and even Uncle Dom, sitting up the back in baggy trousers, plucking at his pants as if… I don't know as if what.

  I took a book to read and kept my head down the whole time. I hope people thought I was praying, but I doubt it. Afterwards, I didn't bother pushing through the throng to congratulate them. Who cared? Peter gave me a wink, but I thought, that's it? A wink? That's my part of your wedding?

  The reception was fun, though. I drank the red wine; it was good stuff. One of Peter's more successful clients shouted it for them and it was very good. Easy to drink, didn't stain my teeth. Excellent. I danced around with the brothers, particularly Adrian, who, if he steps away from his family, can be shockingly rude and nasty. I like him.

  When no one was looking, he pulled me outside for a smoke. We stood close, hiding around a corner, pressed up against the wall behind a bush. I could smell his aftershave, and his hair. I could smell his skin, warm and sexy, and I could see the little pulse in his neck.

  I gently put my finger on it. He turned to me, bent his neck, and kissed me.

  I usually hate being kissed. Hate the feeling of the tongue in my mouth. But this was different.

  "Dump her," I said. "Get rid of her."

  He screwed up his face. Fiddled with his fingers. It came to me then that his girlfriend had an engagement ring on.

  "You're fuckin' kidding," I said. "Dump her!"

  "I can't. Her parents are going to give us a house."

I pushed him away. "I've got a house already." I didn't get invited to his wedding.

at twenty-three

In my backyard, I found a cheap pig-skin wallet, a tie pin, a squash ball, a ball of foil and a rotted black ribbon.

The sort of people who attend Peter's courses…I bet they answer a personal ad or two. Losers. If they can't see through Peter, they'd never see through a fake personal ad.

  Peter used his childhood experience with our see-saw as an analogy, a motivational tool for stirring people to action. He honed it over the years, though he never mentioned me. I don't know who people pictured on the other side of the see-saw. A best friend, uncle, cousin, a different kind of sibling perhaps. I think his analogy failed there; he should have talked about balance, how good comes with bad, work comes with rest, and these things occur because there is another person on the other side of the see-saw.

  He said, on the rostrum, "I like to go up, not so much to go down. But even going down is good, because it is the push which helps us reach the top."

  I'd do things so differently. I'd tell people they need to deal with history; make it real, or change it. He didn't agree. In his courses, The Searle Talks, he called them, he told people to let go of the past. His clients disgusted me. They were weak, cowardly people running away from the things which made them the way they are.

  Peter liked to have locked room sessions. They added an air of mystery and made the people feel brave: We are not afraid. The doors were never actually locked because of fire-safety regulations, and who was Peter to break those sorts of rules? He told me once that no one ever tried the doors. They all believed and trusted him absolutely.