Everlasting Love

‘Falling through Language’ is a series of annual anthologies produced by the UTS Writer’s Group. These anthologies aim to promote new writing in Australia by publishing the best and most Adventurous pieces from students . 1993

It was raining by the time my husband got home. I heard the fast smacks of his feet on the wet path and had time to gulp down my last mouthful of chocolate and stuff the wrapper under the seat before he exploded into the room. I didn’t have to worry about my breath. My husband wouldn’t give me a kiss.

“Stupid, bloody weather,” he spat. He shook out his jacket and threw it on to the back of his chair. I was sitting in his chair. It was black leather and had a foot rest that popped out when you lent back in it. His mother had given it to him for his fortieth birthday. The kids weren’t allowed near it and if I got there first he’d stand above me clicking his fingers until I moved. I was sitting in the dark, hidden behind its back, he wouldn’t have seen me.

The lounge room and kitchen were separated by only a few steps with the front door leading into the slightly elevated kitchen area. The bay outside reflected enough moonlight into the room for my husband to get his beer from the fridge without turning on the overhead light. But I knew that when he opened the fridge its light would reveal the unwashed dishes lining the sink. My husband turned around and leant on the open fridge door. I could see his reflection in the blackened french doors in front of me and he could see mine. He took a slug of beer.

“Been Busy Today I See.”

I held on tight to the arms of his chair. ‘Don’t turn round, don’t get up, don’t apologise,’ I promised myself. A bloke had put the word on me that day, I’d do the washing up when I bloody well pleased.

That’s right a bloke had put the word on me, you wouldn’t read about it would you? My husband had better watch it or I’ll be off. He wasn’t half bad either. Nice dresser. He’s a friend of Trevor’s . I was round at Janice’s, who’s my best friend and married to Trevor, when they came by to pick up some fishing tackle. Course I’d been crying as usual. Now I was running round the garden after my son Sam, trying to get a nappy on him. I wasn’t in the mood for larking about but Sam was and he was laughing his head off. I caught him and to stop him wriggling, smacked his bare bottom. It didn’t stop him and now he was shrieking too. I wasn’t in the mood for nosey strangers either but Trevor’s friend was watching us from the back door. I don’t know what he found so funny but he was grinning.

“Having a bit of trouble?” he said as I came towards him. I couldn’t answer him. I was holding down the lump in my throat. Although I pretended it was lack of breath from battling with Sam.

“Hey mate,” he said, “whatya giving your mum such a hard time for?” He grabbed Sam’s feet playfully. Sam stopped wriggling and looked at Trevor’s friend and then peed all over his Hot Tuna T-shirt. Trevor’s friend yelped and dodged out of the way. Then brushed his T-shirt and laughed. I wasn’t in the mood for laughing. I was crying and saying “Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Course once I’d started I couldn’t stop. I just stood there bellowing, snot and tears pouring out of me. Sam wasn’t going to be outdone, he started up again at twice the volume. Trevor’s friend put his arms around the two of us, patting us and whispering “shhhh-shhhh.” Oh my God, he smelt so nice. I’d forgotten how good they could smell. Apart from basil it was my favourite smell in the world. Remembering how much I missed it, I cried again. I hoped he didn’t mind the snot dribbling down his neck. I pulled away just in case he did and wiped myself on Sam’s T-shirt. He stuffed a hankie into my hand and pushed the hair out of my eyes.

“Bad day?” he said, taking Sam out of my arms so I could blow my nose. I hate my nose. I always pencil out the bump in photographs and since I’d gotten so thin it looked even better. Now it would be all swollen and red. I held the hankie over it and nodded my head.

“That’s no good,” he said, “anything I can do to make it better?” I think he was teasing me ‘cos he had that grin on when I looked up at him to find out exactly what he meant. He had brown eyes. I have brown eyes too. Like brown bears in the snow, my husband used to say. He must have loved me once.

Another whiff would be nice, I thought. But just thinking about it was making me blush. I blush really easily. My husband thinks it’s funny. It’s his party sport. He’ll say, “watch out for Debbie, she’s on the rag,” or “Debbie’ll have some sausage, you love a little bit of sausage don’t you Deb?” And I’ll go bright red and giggle. I was giggling now. I was sort of giggling and crying at the same time. Both Sam and Trevor’s friend were looking at me like I’d flipped my lid and that just made me giggle harder. I was doubled over, hugging my stomach.

“Your mum’s a crackpot,” he said to Sam, “whad’a we gonna do with her?”

“Oh God, sorry, sorry,” I wheezed and reached out to exchange Sam for his hankie.

“Thanks!” he said, dangling it in front of him with two fingers.

Then he took a felt-tip out of his back pocket and spreading out the hankie on his knee wrote a number in the corner. He held it out to me. “Wash it, iron it, give me a call when it’s ready and I’ll pick it up.” He would definitely have seen my nose by now. I hadn’t washed my hair in a week and my faced was covered in sugar spots. He wasn’t grinning but he had to be joking. I wasn’t in the mood for jokes. I was suddenly exhausted and hoped Janice had some cooking chocolate hidden in her cupboard. I snatched back the hankie.

“How about I wash it, iron it and give it to Trevor to give to you?”

“Whatever,” he said.

“I said, been busy today I see” said my husband. I pulled the hankie out of my pocket and squeezed it tight.

“A bloke put the word on me today,” I rehearsed under my breath, “I’ll do the washing up when I bloody well please.” It sounded good.

“What was that?” he said. I stuffed the hankie in my mouth. My husband slammed the fridge door shut, flicked on the overhead lights and turned on the taps full blast. He squeezed the Fairy liquid bottle until it farted and crashed the dishes into the sink.

“Sorry, sorry,” I said as I jumped out of his chair, “I was just getting round to it.”

My husband works incredibly hard. He’s an engineering draftsman, which means he designs things like pipelines and sewage works. “Underground, underpaid and underappreciated,” he says. We live on the North Shore. It takes him an hour and and half to get to work and he struggles to pay the mortgage but he says he only wants the best for his kids. His kids don’t see him much. He leaves for work before they’re up and most nights he stops in for tea with his Mum, so he doesn’t get home before their bedtime. Weekends he takes on freelance work. his work space is below the lounge room. He says the thump, thump of our feet disturbs him so we don’t use the lounge room when he’s working. Sometimes, for a laugh, the kids sit on the steps and throw things onto the lounge room floor. They love it when he bangs the ceiling with his broom handle which he keeps down there especially, and yells “shut up there, you mongrel bastards.” Then, if they get him really mad, he’ll tear up the stairs with his slide rule to give them one but they’re usually faster and are making their beds or cleaning their teeth before he gets there, so I’ll cop it instead. The kids don’t mind so much about that nowadays. I copped a bit the other morning. Danny, that’s my eldest boy, found a dead mouse in the cornflakes packet. I lay the bait, I can’t help where they choose to die. Anyway, Danny was doing his homework when my husband found out and he didn’t even look up when I screamed. The thrashing didn’t hurt much. But the cup of coffee I was carrying scalded my arm when I dropped it.

My husband’s really good with his hands. He built a deck on the front of our house and he bandaged my arm beautifully. He knelt down on the floor in front of me and it made me cry to see how grey he was. He gave away dying his hair recently and it’s a shock to see how grey he’s gotten. He hates me touching his hair. But I couldn’t resist. “You shouldn’t worry so much,” I said, pushing back a curl from his forehead. “Leave off, Deb” he said, backing away from my fingers. He worries about a lot of things; his mother, being laid off, the recession. He said if they advertised for a firing squad to execute Paul Keating, he’d volunteer. He worries that Doug, next door, can afford Reeboks for his kids and he can’t. He calls Mrs Bochner, our other neighbour, ‘the Nose’. She’s a Jew from Rose Bay and only uses the house as a weekender. “Come and look kids,” he’ll say, “there’s Mrs Nose and all the little Noses.” Once we had the little Noses to tea and he barbequed pork sausages.

I washed Trevor’s friend’s hankie the next day. I washed it twice. But the number wouldn’t come out. The day after I bought some Sards Wonder Soap and finally got it clean but by that time I’d memorised it. That night I drank half a bottle of Benadryl Cough syrup trying to stop the number going round and round in my head. My thinking must have woken my husband because although he was facing away from me, he stretched out his left arm behind him and began squeezing my tits. My husband used to lick them all over going “Umm, yes, Hokey Pokey, now I’ll have some Peach Melba,” and he’d move to the other one. The nipples he said, were the strawberries on top. After breast feeding three kids the ice cream had melted a bit, but he wasn’t looking anyway. He could do it with his eyes closed. He was always boasting he could do things with his eyes closed. Tune an engine? Build a deck? Run a marathon? Fuck my wife? Yep, can do it with my eyes closed.

It was all over in about three minutes. He said, “Ahhh, you beauty,” and flopped down on top of me. He always says that when he comes. He used to gaze at my face and stroke my damp hair, when he said it. Now he keeps his eyes closed and says it to his cock. I went to the bathroom to wipe myself and drink the other half of the Benadryl Cough syrup. I had a hang over the next morning. I rang Trevor’s friend.

It had stopped raining by the time my husband got home but it was dark. Danny had left his bike on the pathway. I heard the crash as he tripped over it and hit the concrete. I took out a cigarette from the packet on my lap and lit it. If there’s one thing my husband hates it’s women smoking.

Luke, that’s my middle boy, had taken his truck away from Sam. Sam was screaming “Mine, mine,” and chasing after him. Luke was holding it just out of his reach and laughing. Danny was watching Murder She Wrote at full volume. They hadn’t heard the crash on the concrete or the front door open. “What the fuck’s going on?” He yelled. They heard that.

All the lights were on. On the floor in front of him was a half eaten, family size pizza and a couple of half empty coke cans. If there is another thing my husband hates, it’s me ordering pizza for tea. “The least you can do is make the kids a decent meal at night,” he’d say. I was sitting in his chair, he couldn’t see me or my reflection in the mirror, the curtains were still closed from the night before, but he’d have seen my cigarette smoke coiling up from behind the back of his chair.

The kids were staring at him with their mouths open. “What’s going on here?” he said quietly. They turned their heads towards me but I didn’t help them out. I was looking at the curtains and wondering what kind of flower it was on the pattern. I was useless about the names of flowers, except everlastings, I knew them because it was winter when we got married and you couldn’t get bunches of fresh flowers in winter like you can now, so I had a beautiful bunch of dried flowers for my bouquet. Everlastings. For everlasting love I told my husband. He always buys me a bunch of them on our wedding anniversary. “Get to bed, NOW!” he screamed. Danny picked up Sam, they followed Luke into the bedroom and shut the door.

My husband came down the lounge room steps and stood in front of me. “Get up,” he said. He must have had hit his forehead when he fell because blood was trickling from his eyebrow down the side of his face. I must have looked quite a sight too. My clothes were still wet, well damp, and I could tell by the way my eyes itched that my mascara had run. I looked away and took a drag on my cigarette. I nearly killed a bloke today, I thought, I’ll get up when I bloody well please.

That’s right I nearly killed a bloke today. I could’ve killed him but, what’s funny is, I ended up saving his life. That’s right, I saved a man’s life.

Trevor’s friend took me fishing. I didn’t know we were going fishing, I thought we were just going to have a quick coffee so I could give him back his hankie, but I dropped Sam off at my Mum’s so I could do a bit of shopping afterwards. Mum wondered why I was dressed so fancy just to do a bit of shopping. I was wearing my pink spandex mini and white high heels. The one thing I do have is great legs which is lucky ‘cos my husband is definitely a leg man although, the other day, he squeezed my knees and said I’d better watch it, my knees were getting fat. I’ve been doing a lot of squats so maybe Trevor’s friend won’t notice. I told him I wasn’t dressed for fishing. He said “That’s where you’re wrong” and grinned again like he knew something I didn’t.

I’m thirty, I’m in the telephone directory, I have an account number at Franklins, and a subscription to Home Beautiful but Trevor’s friend made me feel like I was sixteen. A fascinating sixteen year old. Like he’d never met one before and was rapt by its awkward chattering. I couldn’t stop. All the way in his Holden station wagon with the fishing rods poking into my ear every time I turned towards him, to the marina where he kept his fishing boat. All the way across the bay to where he said the soapies were biting, until I began to feel rather fascinating myself. And funny too. He laughed at my stories about the boys, how Lukie called me ‘you dirty rat’ when he got cross. He laughed when I told him my highlight of the week was Wednesday mornings on school canteen. He laughed when I told him that my mother-in-law would replace the last photo ever taken of my Dad, in pride of place on the dresser, with a photo of the Pope, every time she came for tea.

I didn’t talk about my husband but when he told me he had two daughters, I said, now giddy with the bottle of wine he’d brought and that I’d drunk almost single handedly, “They say it takes a real man to make a girl.” He said, “doesn’t say much for your husband does it?” He had the boat on idle and the two fishing rods were tied and dangling from the stern. We had finished the picnic lunch he’d packed and were sitting on a lilo on the floor of the boat with our backs against the side. I looked up at him to see exactly what he meant by that. He wasn’t smiling. I wasn’t smiling either. He held my eyes and reaching towards me, pushed his hand between my thighs. Little butterflies of panic rose in my throat. My head pounded with indecision. Like a pin-ball was ricocheting against the walls of my skull, searching for the right response and finally tumbling into a deep hole of rage.

I whacked him as hard as I could across the face. And again. And again. He was trying to find some footing so he could scramble up the side of the boat and away from me but I kept the blows coming. Fists now, reigning down on him. Punching. Thumping. Grunting. My new acrylic fingernails going for his eyes. We were on our feet now, the boat lurching from side to side. He’s trying to keep calm but I can hear the fear in his voice. “For Christ’s sake, stop it. Stop it or we’ll go over. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, alright?”

But it feels too good. I can’t stop now. I’m not connecting but I’m still thrashing out, fists and spit flying, the blood pumping between my ears. “You bastard,” I hiss over and over behind my gritted teeth. I dread to know how red my face must be.

He catches my wrists and throws me off balance. I fall to the bottom of the boat but my left arm hits the throttle and slides into forward. The nose of the boat leaps into the air and then takes off as if bitten by a bumble bee. Trevor’s friend was squawking somewhere in the distance. A cloud had gone over the sun, turning the sea solid and dull. An afternoon southerly was stirring up the swell. I couldn’t see his bobbing head anywhere but I could hear him. Indistinguishable at first but as he became louder and clearer, I realised that the boat was coming full circle and that what he was saying was, “turn the wheel.” Clutching the driver’s seat in front I pulled myself up onto my knees and looked over the nose of the boat to where I thought I’d heard him. For an instant, between the lull of two waves, I caught a glimpse. He was straight ahead of me and surprisingly close. Close enough for me to see that he was pretty frantic. “Turn the wheel,” he screamed again. “Turn the wheel!”

I got onto the driver’s seat and put both hands on the steering wheel but I didn’t turn it. I could see him clearly now. He was so agitated that every time he waved his arms and opened his mouth to scream, he’d sink a little and his mouth would fill with water.

I stood over the wheel, the wind blowing my hair like airborne snakes. I had the power of the boat at my finger tips. I was in control. I watched the horror in his eyes as he flicked them from the wall of aluminium bearing down on him to my face. I was smiling. He must have been shitting himself in the water. I laughed at the thought and his head disappeared beneath the bow of the boat, I turned the wheel sharply and whopped out loud. The wake smacked his face.

I went for a little test run, felt beautiful, the wind caressing my body like a babe from a James Bond movie. I rode the waves with ease, bending my knees a little to take the impact of the rearing boat, turning the wheel right to left, shifting the throttle backwards, forward, until I had it tamed. Then I turned the boat round and went to pick him up.

“Wanna ride honey?” I said in my best American accent, as I throttled down and drew up beside him.

I don’t think he was in the mood for jokes.

“I said, get up,” said my husband. I looked up at him and blew the smoke out of my nostrils. “Get fucked,” I said.