The Spell Book Of Listen Taylor (10 page)

Once upon a time there was a watercolor painter who thought he could invent a parachute.

This was in the early days of parachutes.

Out in the meadow, with his easel and his brushes, he saw an early parachutist dripping from the sky.

“How was it?” he cried, jogging up to the gathering crowd.

“Oh,” cried the parachutist, tangled in the parachute: “I feel
sick.
”

But this was in Paris, so they spoke in French.

Those days, parachutes had a design flaw: They did not float gently to the ground. They spun through the air at dizzying speed, and parachutists turned an olive green.

So the watercolor painter went home, and put up his feet for a coffee and a think.
How can we stop these brave falling men from feeling sick?
is what he thought.

After thirty-five years of thinking, he figured it out. He put down his coffee, picked up his sketchpad, and called to his wife. “Look,” he said, calm with pride as he tilted the sketch toward her.

His wife squinted, and her eyebrows bounced, for his parachute was
upside down
! Instead of being shaped like an
n,
it was shaped like a
u.

“Will it work?” she mused.

“Of course!” he exclaimed. He made a parachute out of her handkerchief to prove it. The handkerchief flopped to the floor, but, as he pointed out, it didn't spin.

So convinced was he that
this
was the solution to the spinning parachute, he decided to make one of his own. He ran it up on his wife's sewing machine. Next, he persuaded a friend to let him try it, by jumping from the basket of the friend's hot air balloon.

He was so excited that he didn't test it first with a dummy (or a cat), which would have been the custom in those days; he just strapped himself in and jumped.

He plummeted straight to the ground—like a vase knocked from a shelf—and was killed.

When she first heard this story, Maude Sausalito (aged eleven at the time) felt a cold gust of sadness for the painter. Then she imagined (yearningly) the things he might have landed on which would have saved his life.

A haystack; a pond; a freshly turned garden bed.

A vat of mulberries!

A gigantic banana milkshake!

A stack of blueberry muffins!

(She was hungry.)

If only,
she thought—and she still thinks this often, even now—
if only the stupid, overexcited man could have caught an updraft in his useless parachute! If only the updraft could have carried him high into a zinging blue sky, over a hill of whipped butter, across a maple-syrup pond. And finally, gently, deposited him on a buttermilk-pancake bed.

Years later, after the terrible thing had happened, Maude lay in bed for several weeks. Loss and pain were put into context at that time: broken hearts, blisters, paper cuts, scaldings—all grains of sand pouring calmly through an hourglass. She was used to them. But this new thing was a sharp rock lodged in the neck of the hourglass, choking the flow. No time, no breath, just monolithic pain holding everything still. If only she
could pick up the glass, shake it loose, throw away the pain as she had thrown away that life.

Sometimes she dreamt herself out of the hourglass and into the basket of a hot air balloon. But then she could only watch helplessly as an inverted parachute fell from the basket and crashed through the air to the ground.

It was well-known at Redwood Elementary that Warren had a wife up the coast. He just hadn't mentioned this, specifically, to Cath.

In fact, in the weeks after the Borrowed Cat, it seemed to Cath that “Warren's wife, Breanna” was the subject of constant conversation at Redwood,
even among her friends.
For example, Suzanne would say to Lenny, “What are you up to this weekend, Len?” To which Lenny would reply, “Going up the coast to Terrigal, I think.” To which Suzanne would declare, “Terrigal! Isn't that where Warren's wife, Breanna, lives?” To which Lenny would demur, “No, Warren's wife, Breanna, lives at Avoca. It's the next beach around.”

Or, for example, Mr. Bel Castro (teacher, Grade 5A) would say, “These muffins are delicious!” To which Ms. Waratah (teacher, Grade 4C) would reply, “Oh, thank you! The recipe is Warren's wife, Breanna's!” To which Mr. Bel Castro would say, “Gosh.”

That's how it seemed to Cath in the weeks after the Borrowed Cat.
Warren's wife, Breanna
was like one of those new phrases you learn and then find that it's been kicking around for years.

Of course, the night of the Borrowed Cat itself, she only knew that Warren had kept the wife a secret, and then sprung it on her, cheerfully, like a novelty mousetrap. Driving home that afternoon, she felt a flash of terror at how stupid she had been. Then the terror became a fierce blush of self-loathing at how VERY,
VERY
STUPID SHE HAD BEEN.

The blush lasted almost all the way home, and blazed up again when she found her favorite dress set out neatly on the ironing board. Also, her black opal necklace, whimsically looped around the fridge door handle as a reminder to herself to wear it. She opened the fridge and slammed it so hard that the kitchen shook.

Then she opened the fridge again and poured herself a glass of apple juice, in order to calm down. “So what? He's married. Big deal.” She wandered carelessly into the dining room where she stamped once and flung the juice at the window. It dribbled over her reflection.

At her law class, tears welled in her eyes. She realized, drawing sad little squiggles in her notebook, that there would be no shy, meaningful glances tonight, no bluesy conversation. No! There would be Warren-and-his-Wife-Breanna. They would sit opposite her with their hands intertwined.

Actually, now that she thought about it, it would be
more
than just Warren-and-his-Wife. It would be the whole gang!

“Come along,” he had written in his quiz at the Monday Assembly. “Come along to see the Carotid Sticks
where we will meet a jolly circle of my friends, my wife, incidentally, among them
!”

That's
what he had meant. It was so obvious she was blinded by her tears, and her breathing became tangled. Dr. Carmichael, the lecturer, leaned toward her from his podium and his turban almost fell off.

Warren's friends, she realized, would stand up noisily when she arrived, their ashtrays and drinks in a clutter. There would be a shortish woman in a large-collared blouse, who would swap a cigarette to her left hand, and squint a smile at Cath through the smoke. There would be two skinny men in corduroys, each saying “Hi!” in a witty, friendly way. Also, a little later, breathless from the Central Coast train, there would be Warren's wife, Breanna.

By the time Cath reached the Borrowed Cat, she was furious with Warren and his gang.
Don't you smoke in my face,
she commanded angrily, as she pushed open the door. And,
What's with the corduroy, boys?
she sneered as the waitress welcomed her.

The Borrowed Cat was in a basement. An unexpected spotlight roamed the room, but otherwise it flickered darkly like a shaded candle. The waitress led Cath to a corner table where Warren was sitting alone.

She gave him a vicious, complicated smile, which he returned with a dazzling beam, stretching out his arms in welcome.

“You're not late at all!” he said.

“Yes I am. I am
fifteen minutes
late.”

“It's okay, they're not starting for another hour,” he reassured her.

“Where's your wife, Breanna?” she said archly. “And everybody else?”

“There is nobody else,” he apologized. “And Bree just called. She's not going to make it and she's disappointed. She wanted to meet you. She said to say ‘Hi,' okay?”

Cath was so shocked she sat down and snatched the menu from Warren's hands.

That night, their knees touched under the table several times, and each time she moved away abruptly. She drank a reckless pitcher of sangria, and she made a little monster out of Warren's bread roll, so he couldn't eat it. Also, she told him the facts of some brutal murder cases, all the time glaring and glowering at him, while he leaned forward, delighted.

When the Carotid Sticks began playing, she turned her chair around so she could see the band, and fell asleep against his shoulder.

When she woke, she told Warren that the band was
crap
and that was a word she never used. “I only agreed to come,” she said, “because I was thinking of the Clotted Creams.” He shouted with laughter and
suggested they see the Clotted Creams together some other time. “No,” she said, “because you have a bony, uncomfortable shoulder, and I hardly slept a wink.” He shouted again, and then apologized sincerely.

While the band packed up, she asked a lot of ironic questions about the wife.
What does she do for a living? Oh, and why does she live up the coast? Uh-huh, and where did you two meet?

The wife was a psychologist, and was having trouble finding work in Sydney, so she lived up the coast during the week. She did relationship counseling up there. They had met through friends or something dull like that. Breanna had a late appointment that day, and would come down on the early train tomorrow. Usually, she arrived, Fridays, on the 7:53.

“Ah,” agreed Cath, “the 7:53.” She felt wonderfully cutting.

The next day, Saturday, she felt so vicious and vengeful that she phoned Suzanne and canceled their movie. Suzanne called back and said she had been
so
looking forward to a night without the kids, and her husband was all set to babysit and had the
Ice Age: The Meltdown
DVD ready to go. So Cath agreed, and sat through the movie with her eyes half-closed, pressing her fingernails into her palms, imagining each palm was Warren's face. Suzanne, beside her, ate a choc-top.

But the following week, back at school, Cath discovered the wife's renown, and felt contrite. It was not Warren's fault. He must have assumed that she knew about the wife! He had just kept her out of conversation!

The weather shifted one shade down: The sky cast a light that was cautious and reserved, and the air took on a disapproving chill. Cath walked around in cardigans and in a dull, private shame.

With Warren, she became gentle and polite, as if she had discovered he had a terminal disease rather than a wife. Sometimes he tried to liven her up, doing things like jogging on the spot in the playground and crying: “Cath! What's happened to my legs? They're moving too quickly!”
But Cath just gave a sad little smile and continued walking, while the children fell about in hysterics. Some of them grabbed at Warren's knees to help him stop.

Often, he looked at her in a puzzled and disappointed way, as if to say,
What has happened to my friend?

But,
she cried in the middle of the night,
he is married! How can I continue as his “friend”?
At the same time, she wondered what had happened to their friendship. Could it just end like that?

Coincidentally, the day after one such sleepless night, Cath attended a law class on:

Principles of Statutory Interpretation: Lesson 1

She always began her law notes with a flamboyant heading. Begin as you mean to go on. After a while, though, the lecturer's voice would drift, taking its own meandering path, and her notes in turn would grow drowsy. Today, Cath's notes paid attention, at least for the
first
principle of statutory interpretation.

Generalia specialibus non derogant
: If a special Act is followed by a general Act, the special Act remains as an exception to the general.

Dr. Carmichael explained: “For example. Let us say Parliament enacts the
Care for Pigs Act.
This is an Act requiring all pet pigs to be dyed a lurid shade of orange.”

He paused, but nobody ever laughed in law class.

“
E.g.,
”
Cath wrote in her notes, “
Care for Pigs Act.
Must dye pigs orange.”

“And one month later,” continued Dr. Carmichael, “Parliament
enacts the
Care for Animals Act.
This Act requires all
pets
to be dyed blue. Okay, guys, let's say you have a pet pig. What color do you dye your pig?”

“
1 mnth ltr
,”
Cath wrote. “
Care for Animals Act.
Must dye pets blue.” She waited with her pen poised for the lecturer to give the answer.

“Come on, come on,” said Dr. Carmichael, looking around the room. “Take a guess! Do we dye our pig orange or blue?”

Ask the pig,
thought Cath,
which it prefers.

“Orange,” said Dr. Carmichael calmly. “You must dye your pig orange.”

“Dye pig orange,”
wrote Cath, and doodled a pig.

“You see?” Dr. Carmichael had bright blue eyes and wisps of orange hair escaping from the edges of his turban. “The first Act was
specific,
so it stays on as an exception to the second. Your dogs and cats and turtles must be blue, but your
pig
has
got
to stay orange.”

At this point, Cath's notes faded into half-finished words—
“dog, cat, turts, bl.”
Then she wrote, “Surely it is wrong to dye a pig any color at all?”

She drew a circle around the question mark, and added petals to the circle. The petals made her think of Warren.
We have bought a DeLonghi Sandwich Maker together,
she remembered sadly.
If I can't have an unfurling romance, why can't I at least have the friendship?

But she knew that the special little act, the purchase of a DeLonghi Sandwich Maker, had been eclipsed by his announcement: “My wife.” She could never be friends with him again.

Generalia specialibus non derogant.

Ah-hah!
Cath realized, with a sudden thumping heart:
If a special Act is followed by a general Act, the special Act remains as an exception to the general!
So it's all right! Her face was burning. The Sandwich Maker is allowed to carry on! It remains as an
exception
to the Wife!

After that, with some relief, Cath returned to her jocular ways with Warren, and he also seemed relieved to have her back. They started having
takeout lattes again, and sometimes hot chocolates with marshmallows. And they spent a lot of time kneeling in front of the staff-room radiator trying to turn it up.

Since their sandwich-maker friendship had never included discussion of the Wife, Cath did not raise her in their conversations now. Nor did Warren.

One Wednesday afternoon, they worked in the staff room until the sky was heavy with darkness. Walking to the parking lot, through the empty, echoing school grounds, cold fog curled around their ankles. “Like my cat,” suggested Cath. Warren gave a chuckle, and kicked a pebble toward Cath. She kicked it straight back.

“Don't our cars look lonely?” said Warren. “We should park them next to each other when we work late like this.”

“So they can get to know each other,” agreed Cath.

They were now at the edge of the parking lot—Cath's white Mercedes sports car gleamed from the far right corner; Warren's rusting Corolla glinted from the left.

“Holy baloney, I love your car,” breathed Warren. “Remind me how you scored that again? Some wealthy former lover?”

“I won it in a competition.”

“Lucky girl,” whistled Warren, and then swiftly: “Remind me when you were planning to take me for a ride in it?”

“Right this moment,” said Cath, clapping her hands together once like Mary Poppins. “You don't have any plans, do you?”

“
Plans,
” said Warren sadly. “I'm as lonely as our cars are tonight. I was going to see a movie actually. But what kind of a fool would choose a movie over a ride in
your
car, Cath? What kind of a fool, what kind of a tool, what kind of a
drool
ing mule?”

“I could drive you to the movie if you like. I'll see it with you.”

Warren leapt into the air. He was tall enough already: Cath imagined his leap would take him right into the stars.

Then, suddenly, Katie Toby (teacher, Kinder A) was standing beside them. Cath shrieked, and Warren said, “Holy
jacaranda,
woman, where did
you
come from?”

They both stared down at Katie Toby, who was little, with a dimpled, round face and a reputation, among parents, teachers and children alike, as
sweet as a toffee apple.

“Hi, guys,” she giggled. “Sorry to scare you. I've just come from my classroom. Going to a movie, are you?”

Cath nodded uneasily.

“What movie?”

“Ah, the Valerio retrospective at the Chauvel,” said Warren, after a beat. “It's
Pie in the Sky
tonight.”

“Oh, yeah,
great.
I'd love to see that again. What time? On your way right now?”

“Well,” said Warren, “it starts at nine.”

Then there was a silence as Katie dimpled at them, until Warren said, “You want to come along?”

“Oh
no
!” cried Katie. “I'm off! My bicycle's just over there! Stay joyous!” and she skittered away into the darkness.

Cath and Warren approached Cath's car in silence, but as soon as they had each closed the car doors, Warren said, “Thank Christ she didn't accept,” and Cath felt such a gust of relief that she fell into a fit of giggles. She couldn't get the keys into the ignition, she was giggling so helplessly. Warren sat beside her, laughing happily and looking around at the upholstery.