Marilyn Wegner, Jacaranda Tree
Junk
Sue Brennan
Ruth had the weekend to herself and couldn’t think of anything to do other than clean the kitchen cupboards. William was attending a St. Vincent De Paul Society conference in Sydney. He hoped to be presented with an award–for longevity, good works, or sheer bloody persistence–and had tried to lure her along with promises of a Saturday night buffet dinner and Sunday Mass at St. Mary’s Cathedral. Ruth wasn’t fond of speeches and self-congratulatory backslapping. And she didn’t fancy two hours in the car with William–now seventy-five–at the wheel. Fifteen minutes to the shops was enough, thank you.
After he left, she washed the breakfast dishes, put on the laundry, made the bed, and swept the floor. She hummed the theme from Doc Martin, which they’d watched the night before. Their son, Bernie, had given them a DVD box set the previous Christmas. It was a soothing escape from the violence, blaspheming, and nudity that was de rigueur after 7 p.m. She extricated the stepladder from the back of the pantry and stepped up carefully to peer into the highest shelf of a cupboard. As far as she could remember, some large serving dishes were up here–no longer in use since it was just the two of them and hardly in use when it was the five. It was shaming to be confronted with cockroach carcasses and the tiny black balls they excreted. What kind of housewife was she? There was also some yellowish grime covering the bottom of the cupboard and the two dishes, leading her to wonder if cockroaches peed.
She lowered the dishes onto the bench and swept the filth into the dustpan, wishing the Dustbuster wasn’t on the blink. Back safely on the ground, she filled the sink with hot soapy water in which to soak the dishes. One was white with a gold metallic rim that was chipped and rusted. The other was toffee-colored and oval-shaped, with a fluted border. She’d thought it stylish when she’d purchased it at David Jones. Some Christmases ago, it had been the table’s centerpiece, laden with turkey, chicken, and ham.
“Very seventies, Mum,” Kim had said.
“Well, it was bought in the seventies, wasn’t it?” Ruth had replied.
The three of them–Kim, Bernie, and Chris–had argued over who should get it and started calling dibs on other items. Ruth had been pleased until she realized they were mocking her taste.
The next cupboard on her hit list was narrow and inconveniently situated above the range hood. Prescriptions, boxes of aspirin and paracetamol, creams, and drops had been stashed safely out of children’s reach. Safely out of anyone’s reach. She positioned the ladder in front of the stove and held on to the range hood. The medicines and whatnot had initially been placed in two plastic trays. As those had filled up, rather than out-of-date stuff being thrown out, bottles and packets just kept getting tossed in. By the time she’d cleared it out–six nerve-wracking trips up and down the ladder–the contents covered half the kitchen bench. The boxes of paracetamol with all-but-empty blister packs went straight into the bin. Likewise, antibiotics for forgotten infections; what she and William currently required was in their respective bedside drawers.
A bottle of Mercurochrome had overturned and leaked its lurid red contents. She wondered if it was sold anymore. She could ask Bernie when he was up next. He was always helpful, always ready to fix something, google something, check something. As far as she could remember, Mercurochrome had been used for warts. Kim had had them on her knees in primary school. Every kid had warts back then and went about with splashes of red on their little bodies. Perhaps warts had been eradicated. She certainly hadn’t heard Bernie mention his girls having them. It concerned her to hear that head lice were still a problem. Bernie and Jackie complained about that a lot, but then they would let the girls’ hair grow long and wild, wouldn’t they? Rather than inspecting each item for usability, Ruth chucked the lot.
The lower shelf of the cupboard that had held the serving dishes was accessible without the ladder, demanding only a long stretch while standing on tiptoes. She removed an assortment of Tupperware and arranged them on the counter, matching lids and bottoms, stacking tumblers into towers of red, yellow, orange, and brown. She marveled at the number–whose family did she think she belonged to when she ordered all this? There was also a large circular tray with six molded sections around a central “pot,” and, of course, there was a lid. She couldn’t remember whose home she went to for the Tupperware party, but this tray had been the centerpiece, filled with French onion dip, vegetable sticks, crackers, and cheese. Ruth had immediately coveted it, and she and several other women had ordered it. Everything was in good condition, so probably worth keeping. Perhaps Kim would want it when–when?–she returned to Australia. When she finally settled down.
Once the Tupperware was cleaned and returned in an orderly fashion to the cupboard, Ruth decided to get some lunch. Often, they’d drive into town on the pretense of buying something necessary–a bathroom mat, a fitted flannelette sheet–and would have lunch at the club. They’d given up on the new cafes–the music was invariably deafening and the staff surly. At the club, they’d split a half-carafe of white wine, get the special and a dessert, maybe a coffee, and leave without having had to mortgage the house to pay for it. Kim and Chris refused to accompany them to the club–“Life’s too short for such bad food,” Kim said–while ever-affable Bernie was only too happy to go and often shouted them. Ruth perused the pantry and the fridge and cobbled together something resembling a meal. She poured herself a glass of wine from the box in the fridge. At only $15, it lasted the two of them a week.
She looked around the room as she ate, and she sipped the wine slowly. They’d had the kitchen remodeled in the eighties–thirty years ago she realized with a start. It was dated and worn out in places, but there was no point putting more effort in, not now they were in their seventies. Recently, Ruth had been trying to persuade William that it was time to move into a retirement village with an onsite restaurant, library, and community center. They could do yoga for old people. William could attend meetings and feel important, and Ruth could learn a craft–papier-mâché or appliqué–with other old ladies. She wanted a nice unit like her friend Dotty had–sunny and clean and new–not a three-bedroom house with a dark hallway, faded carpet, and rooms filled with the detritus of raising a family.
“This house is too much for me, William,” she rehearsed saying. “It’s time to move.”
The wine softened her discontent, and she considered having another. It was unusual for her to feel that way. Through the window she could see the roof of the neighbor’s house and a strip of blue sky. She went over and moved the curtain aside. Dusty spiderwebs filled each corner of the window and two large black flies were feet-up dead in the lower sash. The neighbors had a jacaranda that was in full, glorious purple bloom. It must have happened over night, surely. She remembered watching teenaged Kim waiting patiently while Chrissie–barely able to stand upright for a minute without falling on his well-padded behind–attempted to collect all the petals in his little fists. Ruth smiled and recalled asking Kim several years ago why she’d never had children.
“Honestly, I was scared I’d be a terrible mother,” she’d answered after a while. “Like really bad. Snappy, impatient . . . bored, resentful. Not self-sacrificing enough.”
Like me, Ruth had thought at the time and let the subject drop. Her example of motherhood had obviously been enough to scare her daughter off, and she felt terrible thinking about it. She wished she’d never brought it up.
“Was I a bad mother?” she’d asked William afterwards, knowing that he’d tell her she wasn’t.
She watched as her neighbors, a young money-up couple from Melbourne, hustled two jumpy Labradors into their massive car and drove off. The dogs were called Oscar and Lucy, and Ruth knew this because they were constantly being called. She’d read somewhere recently about the trend for calling dogs and cats by people names. In her day, they were called silly things like Tiddles or Patches. She thought of the dogs and cats, even guinea pigs, and a rabbit called Mr. Ears if she wasn’t mistaken, buried in their back yard. It depressed her, all those bones.
With the higher cupboards done, she moved the stepladder out of the way. She spread out some old towels on the floor to protect her knees and started with the cupboard under the sink. She worked through it quickly. There was nothing sentimental about sponges and bottles of detergent. The bottom was stained with rust from some leakage that she hoped was normal, and she scrubbed at it perfunctorily, not achieving much at all. She’d mention it to William.
In the nether regions of the corner cupboard–one of those useless ones with a fold-out door and unreachable space–was even more Tupperware. She used tongs to get it all out. She’d obviously done a clean-up at some time or another because this was full of lids without bottoms and bottoms without lids. Why hadn’t she just thrown them all away then? She studied a jug that was once a permanent fixture in the door of the fridge, filled with lime or raspberry cordial. Kim and her friends went through gallons of it in the summer. They’d come racing into the house as though they were being pursued by demons, demanding food and drink. We’re starving, Mum, Kim would say, gasping. Always so dramatic. But there was always cordial there and boxes of chips in the pantry, wasn’t there? They’d never gone hungry or thirsty. It was impossible to clean the cupboard–she really was going to get onto William about that bloody Dustbuster–so she closed the door.
She’d already filled two garbage bags, so she tied them up and took them out to the wheelie bin. It was only once she stepped outside and felt the cool breeze that she realized how warm the house was, and how warm she was. Her forehead was moist and her hair damp.
“Better take it easy old girl,” she said as she heaved the bags into the bin. The lid wouldn’t close, so that was all the garbage they were going to be able to get rid of this week. She knew she’d be filling at least three more by the end of the weekend, so she went to check that there was space in the garage. She rarely went in there. It was full of old tools, canisters of noxious fluids, and the remnants of long-ago hobbies–dress-making and mosaics for Ruth, genealogy and painting-by-numbers for William. The car just fit, and Ruth had to get out before William maneuvered it in. He’d leave himself enough space to half-open the door and scooch out. Once a fortnight, he managed to extract the lawnmower and huff and puff around the yard, cursing his two sons who never lifted a damn finger to help.
“Just ask them,” Ruth would say. “They’re not mind readers.”
Ruth pondered this strange turning point–from helping to needing help. Perhaps it was precipitated by William’s brief hospitalization several years ago. Usually in good health, William had gone down like a ton of bricks with the flu and ended up with pneumonia. That had galvanized the three children. Kim had flown back from Japan where she’d been teaching English to take over the shopping, cooking, and housework. Bernie had acted as chauffeur for Ruth–driving her back and forth twice a day–and dealt with the practical matters of health insurance and hospital administration. And Chris, who at thirty years of age had only recently moved out of home, provided the quiet she needed. The softness and vulnerability that her other two children didn’t have, Chris had in abundance. Around him she was able to be fearful and childlike.
She returned to the kitchen with less enthusiasm and half-heartedly swept the floor and wiped the benches. When the phone rang, she was startled, so deep was she in thought. She was relieved to hear William’s voice, and not one of those unintelligible telemarketers from God-knows-where pretending they were old friends.
“How was the drive?” she asked.
“Had a few hairy moments,” William said. “Bloody Sydney drivers.”
Ruth told him to be careful on the return and asked about the hotel room, and whether he’d met up with the others yet. As he talked, she was struck by the mundaneness of their conversation, but also the necessity.
“I was remembering when you were in hospital,” she said when he petered out.
“Oh, that,” he said, as though it were nothing. Stupid man. “What brought that on?”
“The kids were great, weren’t they?” she said. “Each in their own way.”
“I suppose so,” he said. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“They were,” she said and felt an urgent need to tell them. “Well, is that it?”
He laughed at her abruptness and told her he was going to visit his sister after Mass. She was in an aged care facility and had recently had a bad fall. She told him to give her her love, and to have a good evening.
Beside the phone was a notebook. Bernie had entered everyone’s numbers into the phone and shown them how to access it. William got it, but for Ruth it was too technical. She scanned the notebook, found Bernie’s number, and called, hoping she wasn’t bothering him. He worked so hard and his two girls kept him busy. His partner, Jackie, answered and told her that Bernie was at Kenzie’s sports day, with the younger Cait in tow.
“You don’t want to be there?” Ruth asked, thinking shouldn’t you be there?
“God, no,” Jackie said and laughed. “I don’t mind watching my own kids run about, but other people’s? Besides, I’ve got a late shift.”
Jackie had done a post-graduate course in social work a few years back and was now working in a women’s refuge.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Ruth said, full of admiration. Knowing that so many women were terrified of a man they once loved–still loved, some of them, Jackie said–made her appreciate the calm, predictable marriage she’d had for the past fifty years.
“Neither do I, to be honest,” Jackie said. “It’s tough, but, you know.”
Ruth hadn’t been too sure about Jackie at the beginning. She was headstrong and abrasive, but Ruth could imagine fleeing a relationship and feeling safe in her presence. And it turned out that she was exactly what Bernie needed–someone to force him to grow up and make decisions. Bernie was pliable and a tad wishy-washy. As was often the case, the woman made the man.
“Have you got his mobile?” Jackie asked.
Ruth checked she did and wished Jackie a good day. Bernie answered almost immediately. He yelled above the noise around him–loudspeakers, children screaming, some crazy-sounding horn. He fired off questions as he often did: How are you? How’s Dad? Heard from Kim lately? Any plans this weekend? She wished he wouldn’t do that. It was like being interrogated. She’d prefer it if he just said, “Can’t really talk right now, Mum.”
“Give my love to the girls,” she said loudly. It wasn’t the time to be talking about when William was in hospital.
“What?” he asked. “Hang on. Here’s Kenzie now. I’ll put her on.”
Ruth listened as he talked to his daughter in the same clipped, efficient way: How’d you go? When’s the next heat? Are you hungry? Quick, say hello to your gran.
“Hi Grandma,” said Kenzie, dutifully.
“Hello love,” Ruth said. “How’s the day? Are you having fun?”
“Yeeees,” she answered. “I came fourth in my race, and I have another one . . . I have . . . ummm . . . I’m going to do the high jump, too–”
Ruth listened as Bernie cut in and told her she wasn’t doing the high jump while she insisted she was. Bernie said that Mummy hadn’t told him about that, and there was Mrs. Harrison, so go and check with her now. Go on. Go.
“Sorry,” Bernie said to Ruth. “Kids.”
She felt his exasperation, remembered well the chaos of those events. The difference was, in her day, she was the attendant parent. William worked or went to meetings. Bernie promised to come up soon, probably the weekend after next.
At the hasty end of the call, Ruth was disoriented and stared blankly around. It was just after three. She made herself a cup of tea and took it to the living room. Seated in her favorite chair with her feet up, she immediately felt drowsy. There was no fighting it; the tea went cold, and she slept, dreamless, like a death. When she woke with a lurch forward and a gasp for breath, the room was tinged with orange light. It was surreal and unsettling, as though she’d been transported in her sleep to Mars. She went to the windows and saw the pink sky over the sea on the horizon. The sun set at the back the house, behind the mountains. That’s probably where the real show was happening.
She crept her way to the kitchen–foolishly, she’d later admit–without turning on any lights. She moved dreamily through the house, through the weird delicate atmosphere, to the backyard where she could look at the sky. The inside and the outside seemed of a piece. When she stepped through the back door, it was as though she passed through a gossamer veil into another world–the air was cool and earthy, the sky slashed with vermillion and magenta, and the dusk filled with the tintinnabulation of crickets. It was rare for her to be outside for no reason these days. So odd–as a girl she’d have to be dragged inside for meals and homework and baths, threatened with having her ears boxed. She remembered being scolded for unladylike behavior– running, as far as she could tell–and ruined pinafores and grazed knees. When the sky dimmed, her stomach emitted a low growl, like some kind of night creature. She went back to the house.
Fumbling around at the kitchen entrance for the light switch, she caught her foot on the stepladder and fell. She’d had falls before, of course, what old person hadn’t? But falling through the dark, no knowing where the blow was going to strike, was terrifying. She hit the ground mostly on her side, her bottom, and right arm. While she wasn’t what could be regarded as fat, she certainly wasn’t a little old lady either–she was well-covered and later agreed with her friend Dotty that was why she didn’t break a hip. But at the time, collecting her wits on the floor, she was convinced she had, and knew what was in store–being bedridden, contracting pneumonia, death. She moaned and rubbed her hands over her body, investigating it for protruding bones, weeping lesions. Not finding any was encouraging, and she rolled carefully on her side, got onto all fours, and crawled into the bedroom and switched on the bedside lamp. Sitting on the bed, she poked and prodded, finally judging herself to be bruised, but unbroken.
Once the house was illuminated, she rectified the ladder and prepared dinner–a prepacked salad, a boiled egg, and some cold chicken. She took it and a glass of wine through to the living room on a tray. The weight of this strained her wrist, and when she sat down, she held her wrists together to examine the difference. There was definitely swelling and less rotation in her right wrist. She’d ice it later. With the remote control, she searched her way through the channels as she ate and drank, finally settling on Australia’s Got Talent. It was as good as any of the other rubbish. Everyone was glossy and overly confident of their ability. Ruth had sung as a young woman. She’d been told by a teacher that if she put her mind to it, she could have a career. Ruth couldn’t imagine such a thing for herself, so it didn’t happen. She listened to their vocal acrobatics with disdain. It was all so extravagant. As for the histrionic reception from the audience, you’d think they’d just witnessed Maria Callas or Pavarotti.
“Chris,” she said aloud, suddenly remembering that she’d intended to call him. Standing was difficult–there was a tug of pain deep in her buttock as she rose, and when she used her right hand to steady herself, she yelped. She slumped into the chair, nursing her arm. It was enough to make a person cry, being hurt and alone. Eventually she rallied and got up, went to the kitchen, and found Chris’s number.
“I thought you might be at work,” she said when he answered. As the manager of a large supermarket, he was often called there to, well, manage something.
“You alright?” he asked. “Strange time to call.”
“Your dad’s up in Sydney for that Vinnies thing,” she said. “Are you busy? What’re you up to?”
He told her that he was doing an online course in business management. It was something recommended to him by his superior if he wanted to move up.
“You’re all so industrious,” Ruth said, embarrassed that she was wasting her weekend away.
“Yeah, well,” Chris said, and she heard him sigh deeply. “What are you up to?”
“When your dad was in hospital,” she said, “you were all so helpful. So . . . you all had something uniquely . . . and you were . . . Bernie and Kim were all business, and you were just quiet and–”
“What?” he said. “What got you thinking about that?”
“I’m being silly,” she said. “Just an old girl with too much time on her hands.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Is Dad all right?”
She’d worried him, she could tell. She’d called, rambling, and triggered his dementia alert. She’d keep the fall to herself. She asked about his girlfriend, Mandy. She assumed it was a girlfriend–there’d been no statement as such, just Hey guys, this is Mandy.
“Good,” Chris said. “Got her kids this weekend. They’re going to see that Disney on ice thing.”
It was all very strange, in Ruth’s opinion. One day Chris was twenty-eight and either working or glued to the computer in his bedroom. The next he was living in a flat and seeing a divorced woman five years older than him with two children.
“I read about that,” she said, though she hadn’t. Her wrist was throbbing and she went over to the freezer.
“You want me to come round?” he asked after a while. “Keep you company?”
He’d do it, too, but it wasn’t right to lean on a child that way, no matter how old they were. She told him no.
“What’s that noise?” he asked.
“Looking for dessert,” she said. “A Paddle Pop maybe.”
“I could kill a Paddle Pop right now,” he said.
She pulled out a bag of frozen corn, put it on the counter, and pressed her wrist against it.
“I was cleaning,” she said, “and you wouldn’t believe the amount of . . . if there’s anything you want, containers or whatever . . . and I don’t know why I was thinking of William in hospital. Why was I thinking that? Anyway, I hope I thanked you for your support.”
“Sure, no problem,” he said.
“That’s it–it was about you all helping. That’s what got me thinking about it. When did that change: you all taking care of us?”
“You’re both still self-sufficient,” he said. “Aren’t you?”
Lord, she didn’t know what she was getting at. Here was the poor boy trying to get some study done and she was blathering on. She apologized and told him to have a good night. He said he loved her, and not to worry, and to call any time.
It was almost nine by the time she washed her dishes, wrapped her wrist successfully with the frozen corn and a tea towel, and sat down with the phone. Ordinarily reticent, she felt a compelling need to talk–not to William, she could wait until tomorrow to hear his news. Dotty was probably snoozing away. Then she realized–damn!– she hadn’t brought the notebook with the phone numbers. Bernie had shown her several times how to access the numbers he’d programmed in, surely if she put her mind to it. First step was press the big menu button in the middle, she knew that. She squinted at the little pictures. One that looked like an open book seemed familiar. When she pressed it, the name Anthony appeared. Anthony Burrelli was someone in the parish council that William was often nattering with. She pressed the downward arrow and Dr Cartwright appeared, followed by Evelyn, the woman who used to run the Catholic Women’s League until the members all aged out and died. She was probably dead, too. Ruth realized that the little picture of a bin probably meant removing the number. Cautiously, she pressed it, and when the phone didn’t explode, she was pleased with herself.
Working her way through the names was like a memory quiz. William’s sisters, Ruth’s brother, the podiatrist where they went to get their nails clipped like a couple of old dogs, the local post office–all these numbers conjured a face or an interaction. Bob, The Harrisons, Trina Wilcox, Vanessa, Yardworks meant nothing and into the bin they went. By the time she’d returned to Anthony, over twenty numbers had been removed. Satisfied, she went through the list and realized there was no one there she wanted to talk to, but that was all right. The urge had passed.
In bed, finally, she sat propped up by two pillows and fondled her rosary beads. They were a gift from William on her sixtieth birthday. She’d secretly hoped for some Chanel perfume, or a spa day. They were very pretty, though, and had been blessed by the bishop. It was her habit to say five decades before sleep and to try and read the booklet William also gave her entitled The Mysteries of the Rosary–Contemplative Meditations for Deeper Communion. She picked it up and then put it aside. It was dense and theoretical. She was a simple Catholic who did as the Bible instructed and didn’t ask questions. Delving more deeply wouldn’t strengthen what was already rock solid. It saddened William and Ruth that their children had abandoned the Church, but it saddened them for different reasons. For William, it was a reflection on him. He fundamentally believed that he’d failed in his duty to add three more Catholics to the ranks. It was what their marriage and child rearing was all about. Ruth, however, saw each of her children as discarding a great gift–Christ’s love. Well, His love was still there, they were just unaware of it. And she saw each of them struggling when they need only put their cares in His hands. As she recited the Hail Mary’s, she thought of them–her lost, beloved children. She returned the beads to their velvet pouch and placed it on the booklet. Her hand was sore, the fingers were puffed up, and she couldn’t make a fist. It looked like a trip to the doctor tomorrow after Mass. She cursed herself for throwing out rolls of crepe bandages and all the out-of-date paracetamol.
She was distracted from the pain by the labyrinthine journey her mind so often took these days, dumping her in the midst of her pre-William youth. Yes, she was young once, fancy that. Young and busy, always off to a dance, or a beach picnic with friends, or singing at someone’s wedding. Why her brain insisted on transporting her back there was a mystery. It wasn’t like she was in an unhappy marriage looking for escape. They weren’t happier times, but they did seem more important. She was important. She had critical choices to make: take the leaving certificate or not? Secretarial or nursing school? Date good-looking Andrew, Protestant, who did not have her parents’ approval, or William, Catholic, who did? Every choice meant something had not been chosen. She struggled to identify any decisions that she alone had to make after marrying that impacted her life. After marriage, everything happened to her. This realization wasn’t depressing, just interesting. Sinking more deeply towards sleep, she thought of how she had mothered and the rules she’d made which were, essentially, her preferences. Hundreds of them every day: polished shoes, not sneakers, when they went to Mass; homework finished before TV shows; hair out of eyes, please! She drifted off, hearing her own voice like a drill sergeant, shouting orders.
Ruth woke reluctantly. The second she opened her eyes the day would irrevocably begin–all the junk cluttering up the house would have to be dealt with. So she kept them closed and thought of all the things she’d already lost or given away.
Sue Brennan
Ruth had the weekend to herself and couldn’t think of anything to do other than clean the kitchen cupboards. William was attending a St. Vincent De Paul Society conference in Sydney. He hoped to be presented with an award–for longevity, good works, or sheer bloody persistence–and had tried to lure her along with promises of a Saturday night buffet dinner and Sunday Mass at St. Mary’s Cathedral. Ruth wasn’t fond of speeches and self-congratulatory backslapping. And she didn’t fancy two hours in the car with William–now seventy-five–at the wheel. Fifteen minutes to the shops was enough, thank you.
After he left, she washed the breakfast dishes, put on the laundry, made the bed, and swept the floor. She hummed the theme from Doc Martin, which they’d watched the night before. Their son, Bernie, had given them a DVD box set the previous Christmas. It was a soothing escape from the violence, blaspheming, and nudity that was de rigueur after 7 p.m. She extricated the stepladder from the back of the pantry and stepped up carefully to peer into the highest shelf of a cupboard. As far as she could remember, some large serving dishes were up here–no longer in use since it was just the two of them and hardly in use when it was the five. It was shaming to be confronted with cockroach carcasses and the tiny black balls they excreted. What kind of housewife was she? There was also some yellowish grime covering the bottom of the cupboard and the two dishes, leading her to wonder if cockroaches peed.
She lowered the dishes onto the bench and swept the filth into the dustpan, wishing the Dustbuster wasn’t on the blink. Back safely on the ground, she filled the sink with hot soapy water in which to soak the dishes. One was white with a gold metallic rim that was chipped and rusted. The other was toffee-colored and oval-shaped, with a fluted border. She’d thought it stylish when she’d purchased it at David Jones. Some Christmases ago, it had been the table’s centerpiece, laden with turkey, chicken, and ham.
“Very seventies, Mum,” Kim had said.
“Well, it was bought in the seventies, wasn’t it?” Ruth had replied.
The three of them–Kim, Bernie, and Chris–had argued over who should get it and started calling dibs on other items. Ruth had been pleased until she realized they were mocking her taste.
The next cupboard on her hit list was narrow and inconveniently situated above the range hood. Prescriptions, boxes of aspirin and paracetamol, creams, and drops had been stashed safely out of children’s reach. Safely out of anyone’s reach. She positioned the ladder in front of the stove and held on to the range hood. The medicines and whatnot had initially been placed in two plastic trays. As those had filled up, rather than out-of-date stuff being thrown out, bottles and packets just kept getting tossed in. By the time she’d cleared it out–six nerve-wracking trips up and down the ladder–the contents covered half the kitchen bench. The boxes of paracetamol with all-but-empty blister packs went straight into the bin. Likewise, antibiotics for forgotten infections; what she and William currently required was in their respective bedside drawers.
A bottle of Mercurochrome had overturned and leaked its lurid red contents. She wondered if it was sold anymore. She could ask Bernie when he was up next. He was always helpful, always ready to fix something, google something, check something. As far as she could remember, Mercurochrome had been used for warts. Kim had had them on her knees in primary school. Every kid had warts back then and went about with splashes of red on their little bodies. Perhaps warts had been eradicated. She certainly hadn’t heard Bernie mention his girls having them. It concerned her to hear that head lice were still a problem. Bernie and Jackie complained about that a lot, but then they would let the girls’ hair grow long and wild, wouldn’t they? Rather than inspecting each item for usability, Ruth chucked the lot.
The lower shelf of the cupboard that had held the serving dishes was accessible without the ladder, demanding only a long stretch while standing on tiptoes. She removed an assortment of Tupperware and arranged them on the counter, matching lids and bottoms, stacking tumblers into towers of red, yellow, orange, and brown. She marveled at the number–whose family did she think she belonged to when she ordered all this? There was also a large circular tray with six molded sections around a central “pot,” and, of course, there was a lid. She couldn’t remember whose home she went to for the Tupperware party, but this tray had been the centerpiece, filled with French onion dip, vegetable sticks, crackers, and cheese. Ruth had immediately coveted it, and she and several other women had ordered it. Everything was in good condition, so probably worth keeping. Perhaps Kim would want it when–when?–she returned to Australia. When she finally settled down.
Once the Tupperware was cleaned and returned in an orderly fashion to the cupboard, Ruth decided to get some lunch. Often, they’d drive into town on the pretense of buying something necessary–a bathroom mat, a fitted flannelette sheet–and would have lunch at the club. They’d given up on the new cafes–the music was invariably deafening and the staff surly. At the club, they’d split a half-carafe of white wine, get the special and a dessert, maybe a coffee, and leave without having had to mortgage the house to pay for it. Kim and Chris refused to accompany them to the club–“Life’s too short for such bad food,” Kim said–while ever-affable Bernie was only too happy to go and often shouted them. Ruth perused the pantry and the fridge and cobbled together something resembling a meal. She poured herself a glass of wine from the box in the fridge. At only $15, it lasted the two of them a week.
She looked around the room as she ate, and she sipped the wine slowly. They’d had the kitchen remodeled in the eighties–thirty years ago she realized with a start. It was dated and worn out in places, but there was no point putting more effort in, not now they were in their seventies. Recently, Ruth had been trying to persuade William that it was time to move into a retirement village with an onsite restaurant, library, and community center. They could do yoga for old people. William could attend meetings and feel important, and Ruth could learn a craft–papier-mâché or appliqué–with other old ladies. She wanted a nice unit like her friend Dotty had–sunny and clean and new–not a three-bedroom house with a dark hallway, faded carpet, and rooms filled with the detritus of raising a family.
“This house is too much for me, William,” she rehearsed saying. “It’s time to move.”
The wine softened her discontent, and she considered having another. It was unusual for her to feel that way. Through the window she could see the roof of the neighbor’s house and a strip of blue sky. She went over and moved the curtain aside. Dusty spiderwebs filled each corner of the window and two large black flies were feet-up dead in the lower sash. The neighbors had a jacaranda that was in full, glorious purple bloom. It must have happened over night, surely. She remembered watching teenaged Kim waiting patiently while Chrissie–barely able to stand upright for a minute without falling on his well-padded behind–attempted to collect all the petals in his little fists. Ruth smiled and recalled asking Kim several years ago why she’d never had children.
“Honestly, I was scared I’d be a terrible mother,” she’d answered after a while. “Like really bad. Snappy, impatient . . . bored, resentful. Not self-sacrificing enough.”
Like me, Ruth had thought at the time and let the subject drop. Her example of motherhood had obviously been enough to scare her daughter off, and she felt terrible thinking about it. She wished she’d never brought it up.
“Was I a bad mother?” she’d asked William afterwards, knowing that he’d tell her she wasn’t.
She watched as her neighbors, a young money-up couple from Melbourne, hustled two jumpy Labradors into their massive car and drove off. The dogs were called Oscar and Lucy, and Ruth knew this because they were constantly being called. She’d read somewhere recently about the trend for calling dogs and cats by people names. In her day, they were called silly things like Tiddles or Patches. She thought of the dogs and cats, even guinea pigs, and a rabbit called Mr. Ears if she wasn’t mistaken, buried in their back yard. It depressed her, all those bones.
With the higher cupboards done, she moved the stepladder out of the way. She spread out some old towels on the floor to protect her knees and started with the cupboard under the sink. She worked through it quickly. There was nothing sentimental about sponges and bottles of detergent. The bottom was stained with rust from some leakage that she hoped was normal, and she scrubbed at it perfunctorily, not achieving much at all. She’d mention it to William.
In the nether regions of the corner cupboard–one of those useless ones with a fold-out door and unreachable space–was even more Tupperware. She used tongs to get it all out. She’d obviously done a clean-up at some time or another because this was full of lids without bottoms and bottoms without lids. Why hadn’t she just thrown them all away then? She studied a jug that was once a permanent fixture in the door of the fridge, filled with lime or raspberry cordial. Kim and her friends went through gallons of it in the summer. They’d come racing into the house as though they were being pursued by demons, demanding food and drink. We’re starving, Mum, Kim would say, gasping. Always so dramatic. But there was always cordial there and boxes of chips in the pantry, wasn’t there? They’d never gone hungry or thirsty. It was impossible to clean the cupboard–she really was going to get onto William about that bloody Dustbuster–so she closed the door.
She’d already filled two garbage bags, so she tied them up and took them out to the wheelie bin. It was only once she stepped outside and felt the cool breeze that she realized how warm the house was, and how warm she was. Her forehead was moist and her hair damp.
“Better take it easy old girl,” she said as she heaved the bags into the bin. The lid wouldn’t close, so that was all the garbage they were going to be able to get rid of this week. She knew she’d be filling at least three more by the end of the weekend, so she went to check that there was space in the garage. She rarely went in there. It was full of old tools, canisters of noxious fluids, and the remnants of long-ago hobbies–dress-making and mosaics for Ruth, genealogy and painting-by-numbers for William. The car just fit, and Ruth had to get out before William maneuvered it in. He’d leave himself enough space to half-open the door and scooch out. Once a fortnight, he managed to extract the lawnmower and huff and puff around the yard, cursing his two sons who never lifted a damn finger to help.
“Just ask them,” Ruth would say. “They’re not mind readers.”
Ruth pondered this strange turning point–from helping to needing help. Perhaps it was precipitated by William’s brief hospitalization several years ago. Usually in good health, William had gone down like a ton of bricks with the flu and ended up with pneumonia. That had galvanized the three children. Kim had flown back from Japan where she’d been teaching English to take over the shopping, cooking, and housework. Bernie had acted as chauffeur for Ruth–driving her back and forth twice a day–and dealt with the practical matters of health insurance and hospital administration. And Chris, who at thirty years of age had only recently moved out of home, provided the quiet she needed. The softness and vulnerability that her other two children didn’t have, Chris had in abundance. Around him she was able to be fearful and childlike.
She returned to the kitchen with less enthusiasm and half-heartedly swept the floor and wiped the benches. When the phone rang, she was startled, so deep was she in thought. She was relieved to hear William’s voice, and not one of those unintelligible telemarketers from God-knows-where pretending they were old friends.
“How was the drive?” she asked.
“Had a few hairy moments,” William said. “Bloody Sydney drivers.”
Ruth told him to be careful on the return and asked about the hotel room, and whether he’d met up with the others yet. As he talked, she was struck by the mundaneness of their conversation, but also the necessity.
“I was remembering when you were in hospital,” she said when he petered out.
“Oh, that,” he said, as though it were nothing. Stupid man. “What brought that on?”
“The kids were great, weren’t they?” she said. “Each in their own way.”
“I suppose so,” he said. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“They were,” she said and felt an urgent need to tell them. “Well, is that it?”
He laughed at her abruptness and told her he was going to visit his sister after Mass. She was in an aged care facility and had recently had a bad fall. She told him to give her her love, and to have a good evening.
Beside the phone was a notebook. Bernie had entered everyone’s numbers into the phone and shown them how to access it. William got it, but for Ruth it was too technical. She scanned the notebook, found Bernie’s number, and called, hoping she wasn’t bothering him. He worked so hard and his two girls kept him busy. His partner, Jackie, answered and told her that Bernie was at Kenzie’s sports day, with the younger Cait in tow.
“You don’t want to be there?” Ruth asked, thinking shouldn’t you be there?
“God, no,” Jackie said and laughed. “I don’t mind watching my own kids run about, but other people’s? Besides, I’ve got a late shift.”
Jackie had done a post-graduate course in social work a few years back and was now working in a women’s refuge.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Ruth said, full of admiration. Knowing that so many women were terrified of a man they once loved–still loved, some of them, Jackie said–made her appreciate the calm, predictable marriage she’d had for the past fifty years.
“Neither do I, to be honest,” Jackie said. “It’s tough, but, you know.”
Ruth hadn’t been too sure about Jackie at the beginning. She was headstrong and abrasive, but Ruth could imagine fleeing a relationship and feeling safe in her presence. And it turned out that she was exactly what Bernie needed–someone to force him to grow up and make decisions. Bernie was pliable and a tad wishy-washy. As was often the case, the woman made the man.
“Have you got his mobile?” Jackie asked.
Ruth checked she did and wished Jackie a good day. Bernie answered almost immediately. He yelled above the noise around him–loudspeakers, children screaming, some crazy-sounding horn. He fired off questions as he often did: How are you? How’s Dad? Heard from Kim lately? Any plans this weekend? She wished he wouldn’t do that. It was like being interrogated. She’d prefer it if he just said, “Can’t really talk right now, Mum.”
“Give my love to the girls,” she said loudly. It wasn’t the time to be talking about when William was in hospital.
“What?” he asked. “Hang on. Here’s Kenzie now. I’ll put her on.”
Ruth listened as he talked to his daughter in the same clipped, efficient way: How’d you go? When’s the next heat? Are you hungry? Quick, say hello to your gran.
“Hi Grandma,” said Kenzie, dutifully.
“Hello love,” Ruth said. “How’s the day? Are you having fun?”
“Yeeees,” she answered. “I came fourth in my race, and I have another one . . . I have . . . ummm . . . I’m going to do the high jump, too–”
Ruth listened as Bernie cut in and told her she wasn’t doing the high jump while she insisted she was. Bernie said that Mummy hadn’t told him about that, and there was Mrs. Harrison, so go and check with her now. Go on. Go.
“Sorry,” Bernie said to Ruth. “Kids.”
She felt his exasperation, remembered well the chaos of those events. The difference was, in her day, she was the attendant parent. William worked or went to meetings. Bernie promised to come up soon, probably the weekend after next.
At the hasty end of the call, Ruth was disoriented and stared blankly around. It was just after three. She made herself a cup of tea and took it to the living room. Seated in her favorite chair with her feet up, she immediately felt drowsy. There was no fighting it; the tea went cold, and she slept, dreamless, like a death. When she woke with a lurch forward and a gasp for breath, the room was tinged with orange light. It was surreal and unsettling, as though she’d been transported in her sleep to Mars. She went to the windows and saw the pink sky over the sea on the horizon. The sun set at the back the house, behind the mountains. That’s probably where the real show was happening.
She crept her way to the kitchen–foolishly, she’d later admit–without turning on any lights. She moved dreamily through the house, through the weird delicate atmosphere, to the backyard where she could look at the sky. The inside and the outside seemed of a piece. When she stepped through the back door, it was as though she passed through a gossamer veil into another world–the air was cool and earthy, the sky slashed with vermillion and magenta, and the dusk filled with the tintinnabulation of crickets. It was rare for her to be outside for no reason these days. So odd–as a girl she’d have to be dragged inside for meals and homework and baths, threatened with having her ears boxed. She remembered being scolded for unladylike behavior– running, as far as she could tell–and ruined pinafores and grazed knees. When the sky dimmed, her stomach emitted a low growl, like some kind of night creature. She went back to the house.
Fumbling around at the kitchen entrance for the light switch, she caught her foot on the stepladder and fell. She’d had falls before, of course, what old person hadn’t? But falling through the dark, no knowing where the blow was going to strike, was terrifying. She hit the ground mostly on her side, her bottom, and right arm. While she wasn’t what could be regarded as fat, she certainly wasn’t a little old lady either–she was well-covered and later agreed with her friend Dotty that was why she didn’t break a hip. But at the time, collecting her wits on the floor, she was convinced she had, and knew what was in store–being bedridden, contracting pneumonia, death. She moaned and rubbed her hands over her body, investigating it for protruding bones, weeping lesions. Not finding any was encouraging, and she rolled carefully on her side, got onto all fours, and crawled into the bedroom and switched on the bedside lamp. Sitting on the bed, she poked and prodded, finally judging herself to be bruised, but unbroken.
Once the house was illuminated, she rectified the ladder and prepared dinner–a prepacked salad, a boiled egg, and some cold chicken. She took it and a glass of wine through to the living room on a tray. The weight of this strained her wrist, and when she sat down, she held her wrists together to examine the difference. There was definitely swelling and less rotation in her right wrist. She’d ice it later. With the remote control, she searched her way through the channels as she ate and drank, finally settling on Australia’s Got Talent. It was as good as any of the other rubbish. Everyone was glossy and overly confident of their ability. Ruth had sung as a young woman. She’d been told by a teacher that if she put her mind to it, she could have a career. Ruth couldn’t imagine such a thing for herself, so it didn’t happen. She listened to their vocal acrobatics with disdain. It was all so extravagant. As for the histrionic reception from the audience, you’d think they’d just witnessed Maria Callas or Pavarotti.
“Chris,” she said aloud, suddenly remembering that she’d intended to call him. Standing was difficult–there was a tug of pain deep in her buttock as she rose, and when she used her right hand to steady herself, she yelped. She slumped into the chair, nursing her arm. It was enough to make a person cry, being hurt and alone. Eventually she rallied and got up, went to the kitchen, and found Chris’s number.
“I thought you might be at work,” she said when he answered. As the manager of a large supermarket, he was often called there to, well, manage something.
“You alright?” he asked. “Strange time to call.”
“Your dad’s up in Sydney for that Vinnies thing,” she said. “Are you busy? What’re you up to?”
He told her that he was doing an online course in business management. It was something recommended to him by his superior if he wanted to move up.
“You’re all so industrious,” Ruth said, embarrassed that she was wasting her weekend away.
“Yeah, well,” Chris said, and she heard him sigh deeply. “What are you up to?”
“When your dad was in hospital,” she said, “you were all so helpful. So . . . you all had something uniquely . . . and you were . . . Bernie and Kim were all business, and you were just quiet and–”
“What?” he said. “What got you thinking about that?”
“I’m being silly,” she said. “Just an old girl with too much time on her hands.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Is Dad all right?”
She’d worried him, she could tell. She’d called, rambling, and triggered his dementia alert. She’d keep the fall to herself. She asked about his girlfriend, Mandy. She assumed it was a girlfriend–there’d been no statement as such, just Hey guys, this is Mandy.
“Good,” Chris said. “Got her kids this weekend. They’re going to see that Disney on ice thing.”
It was all very strange, in Ruth’s opinion. One day Chris was twenty-eight and either working or glued to the computer in his bedroom. The next he was living in a flat and seeing a divorced woman five years older than him with two children.
“I read about that,” she said, though she hadn’t. Her wrist was throbbing and she went over to the freezer.
“You want me to come round?” he asked after a while. “Keep you company?”
He’d do it, too, but it wasn’t right to lean on a child that way, no matter how old they were. She told him no.
“What’s that noise?” he asked.
“Looking for dessert,” she said. “A Paddle Pop maybe.”
“I could kill a Paddle Pop right now,” he said.
She pulled out a bag of frozen corn, put it on the counter, and pressed her wrist against it.
“I was cleaning,” she said, “and you wouldn’t believe the amount of . . . if there’s anything you want, containers or whatever . . . and I don’t know why I was thinking of William in hospital. Why was I thinking that? Anyway, I hope I thanked you for your support.”
“Sure, no problem,” he said.
“That’s it–it was about you all helping. That’s what got me thinking about it. When did that change: you all taking care of us?”
“You’re both still self-sufficient,” he said. “Aren’t you?”
Lord, she didn’t know what she was getting at. Here was the poor boy trying to get some study done and she was blathering on. She apologized and told him to have a good night. He said he loved her, and not to worry, and to call any time.
It was almost nine by the time she washed her dishes, wrapped her wrist successfully with the frozen corn and a tea towel, and sat down with the phone. Ordinarily reticent, she felt a compelling need to talk–not to William, she could wait until tomorrow to hear his news. Dotty was probably snoozing away. Then she realized–damn!– she hadn’t brought the notebook with the phone numbers. Bernie had shown her several times how to access the numbers he’d programmed in, surely if she put her mind to it. First step was press the big menu button in the middle, she knew that. She squinted at the little pictures. One that looked like an open book seemed familiar. When she pressed it, the name Anthony appeared. Anthony Burrelli was someone in the parish council that William was often nattering with. She pressed the downward arrow and Dr Cartwright appeared, followed by Evelyn, the woman who used to run the Catholic Women’s League until the members all aged out and died. She was probably dead, too. Ruth realized that the little picture of a bin probably meant removing the number. Cautiously, she pressed it, and when the phone didn’t explode, she was pleased with herself.
Working her way through the names was like a memory quiz. William’s sisters, Ruth’s brother, the podiatrist where they went to get their nails clipped like a couple of old dogs, the local post office–all these numbers conjured a face or an interaction. Bob, The Harrisons, Trina Wilcox, Vanessa, Yardworks meant nothing and into the bin they went. By the time she’d returned to Anthony, over twenty numbers had been removed. Satisfied, she went through the list and realized there was no one there she wanted to talk to, but that was all right. The urge had passed.
In bed, finally, she sat propped up by two pillows and fondled her rosary beads. They were a gift from William on her sixtieth birthday. She’d secretly hoped for some Chanel perfume, or a spa day. They were very pretty, though, and had been blessed by the bishop. It was her habit to say five decades before sleep and to try and read the booklet William also gave her entitled The Mysteries of the Rosary–Contemplative Meditations for Deeper Communion. She picked it up and then put it aside. It was dense and theoretical. She was a simple Catholic who did as the Bible instructed and didn’t ask questions. Delving more deeply wouldn’t strengthen what was already rock solid. It saddened William and Ruth that their children had abandoned the Church, but it saddened them for different reasons. For William, it was a reflection on him. He fundamentally believed that he’d failed in his duty to add three more Catholics to the ranks. It was what their marriage and child rearing was all about. Ruth, however, saw each of her children as discarding a great gift–Christ’s love. Well, His love was still there, they were just unaware of it. And she saw each of them struggling when they need only put their cares in His hands. As she recited the Hail Mary’s, she thought of them–her lost, beloved children. She returned the beads to their velvet pouch and placed it on the booklet. Her hand was sore, the fingers were puffed up, and she couldn’t make a fist. It looked like a trip to the doctor tomorrow after Mass. She cursed herself for throwing out rolls of crepe bandages and all the out-of-date paracetamol.
She was distracted from the pain by the labyrinthine journey her mind so often took these days, dumping her in the midst of her pre-William youth. Yes, she was young once, fancy that. Young and busy, always off to a dance, or a beach picnic with friends, or singing at someone’s wedding. Why her brain insisted on transporting her back there was a mystery. It wasn’t like she was in an unhappy marriage looking for escape. They weren’t happier times, but they did seem more important. She was important. She had critical choices to make: take the leaving certificate or not? Secretarial or nursing school? Date good-looking Andrew, Protestant, who did not have her parents’ approval, or William, Catholic, who did? Every choice meant something had not been chosen. She struggled to identify any decisions that she alone had to make after marrying that impacted her life. After marriage, everything happened to her. This realization wasn’t depressing, just interesting. Sinking more deeply towards sleep, she thought of how she had mothered and the rules she’d made which were, essentially, her preferences. Hundreds of them every day: polished shoes, not sneakers, when they went to Mass; homework finished before TV shows; hair out of eyes, please! She drifted off, hearing her own voice like a drill sergeant, shouting orders.
Ruth woke reluctantly. The second she opened her eyes the day would irrevocably begin–all the junk cluttering up the house would have to be dealt with. So she kept them closed and thought of all the things she’d already lost or given away.