Anouk’s words had indeed found their target. Gary was looking like he wanted to explode. Hector surveyed the scene as if from a distance. He waited for the tension to fracture, then to break, for Gary to lose it. It wouldn’t be a party without some kind of verbal stoush between Gary and Anouk. His father was turning the chops and sausages, ignoring everyone. I am my father’s son, Hector thought to himself, I don’t want to get involved. I just don’t want to get involved.
He crashed to earth. Another burst of hysterical wails came from within the house. Anouk’s smile was arctic as she turned away from Gary. ‘I think that’s your child again.’
Hugo had snatched the game remote and smashed it against the coffee table. The black plastic casing was cracked and there was a milky gash across the red gum surface of the table. Surprisingly, Adam was not crying or in a temper. He just looked genuinely astonished, finding it impossible to believe the evidence of his own eyes. Rosie was hugging Hugo who was pressed into her chest, as if clamouring to escape inside her. He was hiding his face from the world. Rocco was staring at Rosie and Hugo, also incredulous, but his vicious temper—exactly like Harry; they were all their fathers’ sons—was about to erupt. The other little boys, terrified of the tension, were looking down at their feet; the girls had come out of Melissa’s bedroom and were standing silently in the doorway, Sonja, afraid, uncomprehending, was weeping softly. Hector had come in and was standing behind Aisha and Elizabeth.
His mother, holding a knife in one hand and a souvlaki skewer in the other came up behind him. ‘See? Stupid computer games, they cause too much trouble.’
Anger flooded Adam’s face. ‘That’s not true,
Giagia
, we were just playing.’ He pointed a challenging finger towards Hugo, who was still hiding in Rosie’s arms. ‘He just lost it because he can’t play very well.’
‘Well, he’s young,’ blurted out Rosie. ‘He’s impatient to learn, to play with you boys. How about you teach him how to play?’
‘Is he going to be punished?’
Hector shook his head in warning to Rocco. The boy ignored him.
‘He bloody broke it. He should be punished.’
‘He didn’t mean to.’
Rocco’s face was flushed with rage. ‘That’s so fucking unfair.’
Hector noticed that Sandi had slipped quietly into the room. She went to discipline Rocco and he fled to his cousin’s bedroom. Adam took one quick look at the adults—father and son locked eyes; Hector’s nod was imperceptible—and scurried after his cousin. Sonja started sobbing and her mother rushed to console her. Aisha and his mother were both trying to get the girls to go back into Melissa’s bedroom, as Sandi continued yelling at her son. Hector turned and walked away. He felt like shaking Rosie, he couldn’t look at her. He was fucking sick of children. Let the women sort it out.
Gary hadn’t moved from his spot next to the barbecue. He’d started on another beer, his face set in a scowl.
‘What happened?’
Hector shrugged his shoulders and didn’t answer Anouk’s question. She turned to Gary. ‘Shouldn’t you go in?’
Hector realised that Gary was exhausted, working at a shit job, not his own boss, raising a family. Anouk had no idea.
‘Let Rosie deal with it. She’s the one who spoils him, so let her fucking deal with it.’ His voice softened; the sadness was unmistakable. ‘You were right, ‘Nouks, I shouldn’t have had a child. I’m no good as a father.’
‘You are speaking rubbish. You are a very good father. Your son loves you.’ Manolis took a charred piece of sausage from the barbecue and offered it to Gary. Hector stood next to his father, their bodies touching. He was much taller than his old man. There was a time he had thought of his father as a giant. ‘Do you want some help, Dad?’ he offered in Greek.
‘It’s nearly ready. Tell your mother.’
In the kitchen the women were busy preparing plates and glasses, tossing the salads. Rosie’s face was tear-stained, as was her son’s who was sucking hard on her nipple.
‘Dad says the meat is ready. We can eat.’
In the lounge room the boys were sprawled across the couch and on the floor watching another DVD. It was
Spider-Man
. Hector didn’t know how their anger had been defused but he assumed Aisha had something to do with it.
‘Turn it off,’ he ordered. ‘Time to eat,’ and the boys complied. He was suddenly aware of a snatch of rhythm, a sensual roll of bass. A melody from the past, a song he had not heard for years—before children, before the streaks of grey in his hair and on his chest. Neneh Cherry was singing. Someone had changed the CD, probably Anouk. It was the right choice.
It was a feast. Charred lamb chops and juicy fillet steak. There was a stew of eggplant and tomato, drizzled with lumps of creamy melted feta. There was black bean dahl and oven-baked spinach pilaf. There was coleslaw and a bowl of Greek salad with plump cherry tomatoes and thick slices of feta; a potato and coriander salad and a bowl of juicy king prawns. Hector had been completely unaware of the industry in the kitchen. His mother had brought pasticcio, Aisha had made a lamb in a thick cardamom-infused curry, and together they had prepared two roast chickens and lemon-scented roast potatoes. There was tzatziki and onion chutney; there was pink fragrant taramousalata and a platter of grilled red capsicum, the skins delicately removed, swimming in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. The guests lined up for plates and cutlery and the children ate seated around the coffee table. There was hardly any conversation: everyone was too busy eating and drinking, occasionally stopping to praise his wife and his mother for the food.
Hector nibbled at everything but could taste nothing. The amphetamines still rushed through his body and each mouthful he took seemed bland and dry. But he felt proud of what his wife had made possible. He heard the slam of a car door and he eagerly looked up, counted the steps coming up the drive and sprang up to open the verandah gate. Tasha kissed him on the cheek. There was little resemblance between Connie and her aunt; Tasha was short, with a squat body and dark straight hair. Connie was dressed in a blue sweater that was too big for her; it hid her entire body. When Hector went to kiss her she jumped back, bumping into the timorous teenage boy who had walked in behind them. At first Hector didn’t recognise the youth, then realised he was the son of Tracey, the vet nurse at Aisha’s practice. He was all acne and shyness, his eyes almost hidden beneath the navy and red baseball cap that he had drawn tight over his skull and forehead. Hector mechanically shook the youth’s hand. His eyes were on Connie and she was staring right back at him. The challenge in her eyes shot a jolt of heat through him.
He led the trio into the kitchen. ‘There’s heaps of food,’ he gushed. ‘Here, let me get you something to eat.’
‘They can do it themselves, you organise the drinks.’ Aisha kissed them all by turn. The boy blushed a deep scarlet, his rash of pimples flaring.
‘Where’s your mum, Richie?’
Tasha answered for him. ‘Trace can’t make it. Her sister’s across from Adelaide.’
‘But I told Tracey to bring her along. There’s certainly enough food and drink. Hector’s parents have made sure of that.’
Richie mumbled inaudibly and there was an awkward silence. Clearing his throat the boy began again. His sentences were short, confused, a rapid jumble.
‘Only one night. Then friends, going to Lakes Entrance. Only has one night. She and Mum have to catch up.’
Aisha was amused by the almost incoherent statements, but didn’t show it, smiling sweetly at the youth who suddenly beamed back at her.
‘Well, I’m glad you came.’ Aisha turned to Hector. ‘How about some drinks?’
Richie asked for fruit juice and Connie diffidently asked for a beer. Hector glanced over at the girl’s aunt but Tasha seemed oblivious. He looked back at Connie and he couldn’t help but register a hint of disappointment behind the stiff smile on her lips. He had made a mistake in seeking her aunt’s permission.
His eyes followed Connie. He watched her fill her plate, observed the fine ripples on her pale long throat as she swigged at the beer. She ate delicately, slowly, but with obvious relish, enjoying the rich food. She wiped at her mouth, casually, unconcerned. The boy ate with gusto; in minutes, his lips and chin were shining. Jealousy suddenly erupted in Hector. Connie and Richie had moved to the back of the garden, sitting on the bluestone bricks which bordered the vegetable patch. They ate and drank in silence under the giant fig tree. As quickly as it had occurred, his jealousy was gone. There was no reason to be threatened by the nurse’s son. The boy was still trapped in the awful confusion of adolescence; it was clear in everything he did. The boy had his mother’s fair colouring and freckled skin. One day he would be a striking man. He had strong, fine features, high cheekbones and attractive, kindly eyes. But the poor kid had no inkling of such a possibility. Hector put a cigarette to his mouth. Ari was smoking as well. He, too, had only grazed at the meal. Leanna had little appetite as well. Hector smiled at her and she made a grimace of apology.
‘It’s amazing food,’ she whispered. ‘But I’m just not hungry.’
He sat down beside her on the blanket. Her eyes, with the delicate hint of her Burmese ancestry, were glistening, mischievous.
He tapped her nose. ‘I know why you’re not hungry.’
She chuckled and looked across at Dedjan who had gone and filled his plate with a second serve. ‘Nothing stops Dedj.’
Dedjan was wolfing down his food. It was a running joke at work how much the man ate and how he managed to stay slim. Though time was telling on him as well, thought Hector, looking across at his friend. There was more flesh on his jowls, and perhaps the first evidence of a belly?
As Hector lit his cigarette he promised himself, now that he was finally giving up smoking, that he would start swimming again. He knew Connie’s eyes must be on him, that she would be wanting a cigarette. He deliberately did not look her way.
As his mother began clearing away the plates, Hector saw Ravi get up and walk into the house. He emerged minutes later with the children forming a conga-line behind him. Adam was laughing, first behind his uncle. If Hector had not been speeding, it was possible that his next thought would have hurt: he loves his uncle unconditionally, in a way he will never love me. In a way I will never love him.
‘We don’t have any wickets, Uncle Raf.’
‘Use your imagination, amigo. Where’s a bucket?’
Sava and Adam immediately ran to the garage, Adam emerging triumphant with a green bucket. Sava followed with an old scarred children’s cricket bat, its skin now dotted with green patches of mould, the result of too many winters left out in the rain. It had been Hector’s cricket bat when he was a boy. Melissa had been scrounging in the undergrowth and emerged with a tennis ball. Ravi expertly and quickly assigned the children into teams. The adults drifted into the house. Hector, his hands full of plates, looked back and saw that Connie and Richie had scrambled up the fig tree and were watching the children take their allotted positions. In the kitchen, Aisha had begun to brew coffee.
‘
No! No no no no no!
’ It was as if the child had become lost in the very word, as if all the world was contained in the screaming of this one negative syllable. ‘
No no no no no!
’ It was Hugo. All of them by now, Hector figured, must know that it could only be Hugo. It was the men who rushed outside, as if the child’s screams were somehow connected to the rules of the game and therefore it was the men who should arbitrate in the dispute. Hugo was awkwardly slamming the bat on the ground; he needed to hold on to it with both hands but his grip was strong, he would not let it go. Ravi was trying to plead with the little boy. Rocco was frowning behind the wicket.
‘It’s alright, Hugo, you’re not out.’
‘He is.’ Rocco was standing his ground. ‘He got lbw’d.’
Ravi smiled at the older boy. ‘Listen, he doesn’t even know what that means.’
Gary jumped off the verandah and began to walk towards his son. ‘Come on, Hugo, I’ll explain why you’re out.’
‘No!’ The same piercing scream. The boy looked as if he was going to hit his father with the bat.
‘Put the bat down now.’
The boy did not move.
‘Now!’
There was silence. Hector realised he was holding his breath.
‘You’re out, Hugo, you bloody spoil-sport.’ Rocco, at the end of his tether, went to grab the bat from the younger boy. With another scream Hugo evaded the older boy’s hands, and then, leaning back, he lifted the bat. Hector froze. He’s going to hit him. He’s going to belt Rocco with that bat.
In the second that it took Hector to release his breath, he saw Ravi jump towards the boys, he heard Gary’s furious curse and he saw Harry push past all of them and grab at Hugo. He lifted the boy up in the air, and in shock the boy dropped the bat.
‘Let me go,’ Hugo roared.
Harry set him on the ground. The boy’s face had gone dark with fury. He raised his foot and kicked wildly into Harry’s shin. The speed was coursing through Hector’s blood, the hairs on his neck were upright. He saw his cousin’s raised arm, it spliced the air, and then he saw the open palm descend and strike the boy. The slap seemed to echo. It cracked the twilight. The little boy looked up at the man in shock. There was a long silence. It was as if he could not comprehend what had just occurred, how the man’s action and the pain he was beginning to feel coincided. The silence broke, the boy’s face crumpled, and this time there was no wail: when the tears began to fall, they fell silently.
‘You fucking animal!’ Gary pushed into Harry and nearly knocked him over. There was a scream and Rosie pushed past the men and scooped her child into her arms. She and Gary were shouting and cursing at Harry who had backed against the garage wall and appeared to be in shock himself. The children were watching with clear fascination. Rocco’s face was filled with pride. Hector felt Aisha move beside him, and he knew, as host, there was something he should do. But he didn’t know what—he wanted his wife to intervene, because she would be calm and fair and just. He couldn’t be just. He could not forget the exhilaration he had felt when the sound of the slap slammed through his body. It had been electric, fiery, exciting; it had nearly made him hard. It was the slap he wished he had delivered. He was glad that the boy had been punished, glad he was crying, shocked and terrified. He saw that Connie had dropped from the tree and was moving quickly to the crying mother and child. He could not let her be the one to assume responsibility. He ran in between his cousin and the enraged parents.