for.”
Such words had once sounded like poetry. Now theyslide off Justin forgettably. His immunity makes him pity her. To which Cydar had said: “That doesn’t sound like love.”
“I should have chosen the square face instead of the oval.” She’s referring to the clock, which is still trilling prettily, liking the sound of its own voice. Justin doesn’t reply. If he’s shanghaied into one more conversation about the price, prospects and quandaries posed by yet another piece of tat he will, without question, be sick.
David, overcome with weariness, stretches out on the carpet, resting his cheek on Justin’s right shoe. A flame of affection lights up for the child, but Justin stamps it down. He leans closer to the window, searching out Plum. She’s sitting on the Coyles’ veranda, tooting a recorder. Through a scrum of camellia he glimpses her kicking foot, the back of a hand, the edge of her downturned face. If Justin were to leave through the front door, his sister would certainly spot him. Yet her presence isn’t imprisoning — he could slip out the side door, jump the fence into the next property, walk from there to where he left his car. Plum would never see him, the buildings would block her view. Escape is not only possible, but easy, especially for one used to subterfuge — dressing for work he’s not rostered to do, inventing the details of afternoons spent playing pool, learning another man’s routine, memorizing the sound of a particular car. Never so much as a sidelong glance when there was a risk someone shrewd might see.
But instead of escaping, Justin simply stands, as if theweight of the child’s head has compressed his feet into the ground. He feels the exhaustion of doing what he hasn’t yet attempted.
For a year they have played their game. A year of hands clamped to mouths, lipstick buffed from shoulders, care taken not to bruise. For much of that time, Justin’s blood has run fast. Not so long ago, he would have loved Plum for sitting on the veranda and making an obstacle of herself. Now, though, he’s bored. Now, he’s longing for the freedom to leave through the front door. . . . The sight of his sister on the veranda swing is oddly beckoning. She must be waiting for Fa, or for Justin himself. And he wants to go and wait with her: if he could sit beside her, waiting for Fa, rightness would be restored. As long as he’s here, behind a gauze curtain, nothing is as it could be.
Justin is not like Cydar, brilliant and tightly-wound. He is not clever in the way a successful man needs to be. He has bumped through life like a brightly colored ball — laughing, disorganized, freewheeling, easily pleased. Sweet-natured, he almost always meets sweetness in return; and is not hurt when he doesn’t, but baffled and forgiving. Every aspect of his world has made Justin vibrantly happy. But the situation with Maureen has become the kind of darkness that’s never shaded his existence before, and Justin has started to resent her for it.
Shut up,
he wants to tell her — he, who’s never had to be cruel.
“A king.” There’s something of the dying swan in the crook of her neck, the mammoth surrounding of whiteness. “We had everything a birthday has to have — candles,cupcakes, fairy bread, the song. David really wanted you to be there. So did I, Justin.”
“I know. But I told you I wouldn’t be. I told you not to make an effort for me.”
“I didn’t make an effort for you. I made an effort for David. And we had Plum as a guest, which was nice.”
Justin thinks on this. “Plum didn’t tell me she came to the party.”
Maureen lifts her chin. “Why should she?”
There’s no short answer, so Justin says nothing; but distantly he realizes something that is difficult to put into words. If his sister becomes friends with Maureen, the darkness in Justin’s life will spread.
Then Maureen smiles, and the unease falls from Justin as swiftly as it had flared. She is just a
Such words had once sounded like poetry. Now theyslide off Justin forgettably. His immunity makes him pity her. To which Cydar had said: “That doesn’t sound like love.”
“I should have chosen the square face instead of the oval.” She’s referring to the clock, which is still trilling prettily, liking the sound of its own voice. Justin doesn’t reply. If he’s shanghaied into one more conversation about the price, prospects and quandaries posed by yet another piece of tat he will, without question, be sick.
David, overcome with weariness, stretches out on the carpet, resting his cheek on Justin’s right shoe. A flame of affection lights up for the child, but Justin stamps it down. He leans closer to the window, searching out Plum. She’s sitting on the Coyles’ veranda, tooting a recorder. Through a scrum of camellia he glimpses her kicking foot, the back of a hand, the edge of her downturned face. If Justin were to leave through the front door, his sister would certainly spot him. Yet her presence isn’t imprisoning — he could slip out the side door, jump the fence into the next property, walk from there to where he left his car. Plum would never see him, the buildings would block her view. Escape is not only possible, but easy, especially for one used to subterfuge — dressing for work he’s not rostered to do, inventing the details of afternoons spent playing pool, learning another man’s routine, memorizing the sound of a particular car. Never so much as a sidelong glance when there was a risk someone shrewd might see.
But instead of escaping, Justin simply stands, as if theweight of the child’s head has compressed his feet into the ground. He feels the exhaustion of doing what he hasn’t yet attempted.
For a year they have played their game. A year of hands clamped to mouths, lipstick buffed from shoulders, care taken not to bruise. For much of that time, Justin’s blood has run fast. Not so long ago, he would have loved Plum for sitting on the veranda and making an obstacle of herself. Now, though, he’s bored. Now, he’s longing for the freedom to leave through the front door. . . . The sight of his sister on the veranda swing is oddly beckoning. She must be waiting for Fa, or for Justin himself. And he wants to go and wait with her: if he could sit beside her, waiting for Fa, rightness would be restored. As long as he’s here, behind a gauze curtain, nothing is as it could be.
Justin is not like Cydar, brilliant and tightly-wound. He is not clever in the way a successful man needs to be. He has bumped through life like a brightly colored ball — laughing, disorganized, freewheeling, easily pleased. Sweet-natured, he almost always meets sweetness in return; and is not hurt when he doesn’t, but baffled and forgiving. Every aspect of his world has made Justin vibrantly happy. But the situation with Maureen has become the kind of darkness that’s never shaded his existence before, and Justin has started to resent her for it.
Shut up,
he wants to tell her — he, who’s never had to be cruel.
“A king.” There’s something of the dying swan in the crook of her neck, the mammoth surrounding of whiteness. “We had everything a birthday has to have — candles,cupcakes, fairy bread, the song. David really wanted you to be there. So did I, Justin.”
“I know. But I told you I wouldn’t be. I told you not to make an effort for me.”
“I didn’t make an effort for you. I made an effort for David. And we had Plum as a guest, which was nice.”
Justin thinks on this. “Plum didn’t tell me she came to the party.”
Maureen lifts her chin. “Why should she?”
There’s no short answer, so Justin says nothing; but distantly he realizes something that is difficult to put into words. If his sister becomes friends with Maureen, the darkness in Justin’s life will spread.
Then Maureen smiles, and the unease falls from Justin as swiftly as it had flared. She is just a
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