by Helen F Miller
First published 2014 in Bukker Tillibul Issue 8
Carol
You watch the clock. It turns 6:00pm as the hum of a car comes up from the driveway. Your husband is home.
You look around. The kitchen is spotless and tidy, as are your hair and clothes. You run to the lounge room and stand to attention by the end of the couch.
You listen to him walk along the hall and smile as he enters the room. He smiles back, a positive sign. He is in a good mood.
He stops near the door while you walk over to kiss his cheek and greet him. ‘How was your day, dear?’
‘It was satisfactory. Now, what’s for dinner?’
‘Beef casserole.’
‘This is Tuesday. I put beef casserole on the menu for Wednesday.’
‘There was none of the salmon you like at the market, so I decided to swap the beef casserole to tonight and get the salmon for tomorrow.’
‘You won’t do it again.’
‘You’re right, dear, I won’t. I apologise.’
He puts his arm around your shoulders and marches you into the kitchen. You serve the beef casserole and eat together without talking. Then, he watches you as you clear the dishes and wash up. When you finish the task, the kitchen is spotless again. You look to him and he nods.
He takes you back into the lounge room and sits you down on the couch. He paces back and forth, right in front of you.
You start to feel afraid. ‘I’m sorry about the salmon. I promise to get some tomorrow.’
He stops pacing and stands, feet apart, towering over you. ‘Have you talked to anyone other than me on the phone lately?’
‘No.’
‘Your phone bill arrived in the mail today. A strange number is on it. You’re lying to me.’
‘I’m not. I dialled the number by accident.’
Spencer raises his voice. ‘I bought you that phone to ring me or the emergency number. You’re wasting my hard-earned money.’
Then, he punches you in the face. You see his fist coming, fast, too fast to dodge. He knocks you back on the couch then grabs the front of your shirt and drags you to your feet, his face so close to yours that you smell and taste his bad breath. You gag. This makes him angrier and he starts yelling.
‘You’re nothing but a lying slut.’
He throws you to the floor and aims a kick at your stomach. You watch his foot. ‘You stay there like the lying dog you are, until I tell you to get up’.
Then, he kicks you.
You scream and roll away. He turns and strides out of the house. You hear the car tyres screech as he reverses his Jeep out onto the road.
You lie in the foetal position facing the couch. You lie there all night.
At dawn, you pull yourself to your feet, and stumble to the kitchen.
You pull a cookbook from a drawer and find the number you hid by scribbling it between two lines of the method for a recipe you do not cook.
You think of the woman you met at the market, the woman from Welfare Services, the one who asked about your bruises, the one who gave you the phone number. Her name is Denise.
You pick up your phone and tap in the digits. The dial tone rings three times before you stop the call so it will not appear in your phone bill.
Several seconds later, your phone rings and you answer it. ‘Hello, Denise? It’s me, Carol. I’m here. He did it again. I’m ready.’
Denise offers to pick you up at your house, but your fear is so great.
‘No, it’s too dangerous. I go out at eleven-thirty every morning to shop for food. I’ll come to you.’
‘Can you get to the city at one o’clock? It’s often safer in a crowded place.’
‘I can get there. Just tell me where.’
You scribble the address on the notepad, but your hand trembles so much you press the pen harder to keep it steady. You rip the sheet off without noticing the imprint left on the paper beneath, not foreseeing that is how he will find you later.
You start your housework. You want everything to look normal in case he comes home. While you work, you slip papers, personal items and clothes into a plastic garbage bag and stow it in the rubbish bin beside the driveway.
At eleven-thirty, you back your old Excel out of the garage, blocking the view of the rubbish bins from the street. You walk inside and collect your handbag. You cover your swollen eye with a pair of dark sunglasses.
Returning to the car, you open the passenger door near the bins, drop your handbag on the seat, and stuff the garbage bag as far underneath it as possible.
You drive to the market and around the car park, all the time looking for his Jeep, but do not see it. You park and walk to the food hall to purchase some salmon. You have to keep everything as normal as possible, just in case he turns up.
At twelve-fifteen, as you leave the market, your phone rings. It is him.
‘Where are you? I came home and you’re not where I told you to stay.’
‘I’m buying your salmon. I’ll be back soon.’
‘You better be. I have something very special for you.’ He ends the call.
You believe he was threatening you. Your life is in danger. You try to run to the car, but it hurts your stomach.
You know he is at the house, at least twenty minutes away from here. You feel you have no choice now, but to keep going. You cannot go back. You feel so alone.
You park in the city outside the address Denise gave you. It is the Cafe Cherie. You take your handbag and the garbage bag from the car, lock it, and sit at the middle table of the three on the footpath.
You feel very exposed and anxious. Then you see Denise pausing a moment at the next table, so you wave to her and call out.
‘Hi, I’m here.’
Angela
Water streamed down the driveway, rivulets running between the paving, cleaning, washing away the accumulation of dirt, oil and grime.
A sedan passed the end of the drive and parked by the kerb, the door slamming moments later and a voice calling, ‘Angela, can you turn off the hose for a minute? It’s Brenda.’
The flow reduced and washed into the gutter before she walked up the steep slope, using the rail at its side to help her progress. ‘You need to put in some steps.’
Angela waved the end of the hose towards the granite cliff that fronted her home. ‘Do you want the job of cutting them? No, I didn’t think so. We’ll stick to the drive.’
She restarted the hose as Brenda reached the flat at the top of the slope and the water continued to follow its convoluted course. The two friends stood watching it.
Angela nodded and grimaced. ‘I was just thinking how my life is a metaphor for this driveway.’
‘Don’t you have it the wrong way around, whatever you mean?’
‘No. Do you see how the water washes away everything on the driveway, taking it away forever? My life is like that now. My studies, career, and work contacts, are being washed away by time. I don’t even use three syllable words anymore.’
‘You just used metaphor.’
‘You know what I mean. Now the kids are at school, I should be able to get back to work, but I’ve been away so long, nobody knows me anymore. I have to start all over again.’
‘Doesn’t that make the driveway the metaphor?’
‘No. The driveway takes my husband to work. It takes my children to school, and sport, and ballet lessons. It brings them all safely home, every day. It feels like it’s more important than me. I’ll be the metaphor.’
‘Oh boy, you are in the dumps today. I can’t stay right now. I just wanted to drop in these books on my way to work. How about you meet me for lunch in town?’ Brenda handed Angela a blue plastic shopping bag.
‘Okay.’
‘The same old place at one o’clock, then.’
Angela turned off the hose and watched her friend make her careful way back down the drive, looking good in her police uniform, turning to wave, and disappearing behind the cliff.
She walked inside and put the bag of books on the kitchen table, finished packing the dishwasher, walked into the laundry, emptied the washing machine, dropped the pile of child-size T-shirts and undies in the basket, threw in the next load with a capful of detergent, and pressed the start button.
She bent over to pick up the basket of wet clothes, hesitated and shook her head. ‘No, you can wait.’
The hum of the machine dominated the kitchen, so she made a cup of coffee, picked up the bag of books and wandered out onto the back patio. Grimacing, she picked up the scooter and push bike that blocked her way to the barbecue table, placing them against the wall.
‘I wonder what Brenda has brought me to read this time.’ She sat down, opened the bag, and pulled out the first book and the second and the third. She made her way to the bottom of the pile, all children’s and middle grade stories. ‘It looks like they’re all for the kids. I miss out today.’
Angela raised her coffee cup to the sky. ‘Here’s to the driveway. I salute you.’
She looked around, peering through the clouds. ‘Is there anybody there? This is my life. Does anybody know I’m here?’
Her coffee finished, she wandered back into the laundry, and picked up the basket of wet washing. The morning dragged with familiar monotony.
At lunchtime, she backed the station wagon down the drive and drove into the city. There was space for one car outside the cafe, but she hated doing reverse parallel parks, so she drove to the parking station in the next street, collected her ticket and walked back.
Brenda was sitting at a table on the footpath looking the other way. Angela snuck up behind her and whispered.
‘Hi, I’m here.’
Erin
I met Fern at midday, at the cafe in a side street where we often met for lunch in the years before. I could not go into the air-conditioned interior because the tables and chairs were crammed in and my wheelchair would not fit between them.
I could not slip into my favourite booth in the depths of its recesses. I could not even get to the counter with its assortment of muffins and strong aroma radiating from the coffee machine.
So I found a seat on the footpath where the sun was relentless, pouring around the side of the umbrellas trying to shade the small round tables. While I waited for Fern to buy me some lunch, a fly seemed to want to get to know me on intimate terms. I waved it out of my face.
Fern looked over the crowd to find me, but I was blocked from her view by the line of people waiting to be served. I called out. ‘Hi, I’m here.’
She bustled over and sat down. ‘How are you going, Erin? It’s so good to see you again. I’ve missed you.’ She always made me feel loved and appreciated. The wheelchair did not change me in her eyes.
‘I’m okay. No, I’m not. I’m bored stupid. I can’t even get a base grade job. People passing me in the street take ridiculous detours to avoid my wheelchair or smile at me like I’m a child, and they talk so loud, as if there’s something wrong with my hearing as well.’
She laughed. Did she think I was joking? It was no joke.
‘I’m sure something will come along that’s just perfect for you. You’re missed at work. You were so good in a crisis.’
I gave up complaining. She would never understand. Even though I wanted people to be aware, I did not want her to know. I did not want her to find out what it was really like. ‘How are things at work?’
‘There’s been a restructure. We put on two new people. I had to do the interviews for one of them. It was hard. The best person for the job was sight impaired. We would have had to spend a lot of money adapting a workspace for him and the budget wouldn’t cover it, so we gave it to the second person on our list.’
‘The government will pay for the modifications for disabled employees.’
‘Will they?’ She looked uncomfortable. ‘Oh, well, it’s too late now, anyway.’
‘I suppose it’s easier with a normal person.’ I wanted to make her feel better.
It was a relief when she changed the subject. ‘What brings you to town, today?’
‘I just felt like an outing. I’m starting to spread my wings again.’
‘Good for you.’
She chatted while I listened, about her husband and their trip to Europe for her fortieth birthday. I thought about my shrinking bank account. As her lunch hour finished, she gave me a hug and hurried away.
I looked around. There were two other tables on the footpath, a policewoman drinking a coffee and reading at the far one, the middle one unoccupied.
I sat alone with the dirty dishes, until a waiter came to remove them. ‘I’d like another coffee.’
‘Sure, just order it at the counter.’ I gave him an as-if-I-can look. ‘I know what. I’ll get one for you.’
‘That would be wonderful. I’ll have a large skinny flat white.’ I reached for my purse.
‘No, darling, this one’s on the house.’ He minced back into the cafe.
I waited. A woman snuck up behind the policewoman and whispered something, making her jump. Then they both laughed. I smiled too. It was nice to see friends having fun together.
A car pulled in beside the kerb. The driver, a woman, climbed out and locked the car. She carried her handbag and, of all things, a green garbage bag. She sat at the middle table on the footpath.
I noticed a purple bruise protruding below the frames of her dark glasses. It upset me, but I could think of nothing to say to her. I was no longer in the social work business. I couldn’t help her now. She kept scanning the footpath in both directions and frowning at the traffic.
The waiter brought my coffee and a large slice of pavlova. ‘This is for my favourite girl. You look like a pavlova girl to me.’
I had to admit I was. He bustled away.
While I sipped my coffee and dug into the dessert, feeling a little better about the world, a person in the crowd put a hand on my shoulder, so I swung around to see who. It was Denise, another old workmate of mine and Fern’s. ‘Hello, Erin, it’s been a while.’
‘Yes, it has. How are you keeping, Denise?’
The woman with the dark glasses raised her hand and called out, ‘Hi, I’m here.’
‘I’m good, but I can’t stop for a chat now. I’m here to collect a client.’ She hurried to the next table. ‘Hello, Carol.’
I understood. In our game, the client always came first, especially in a crisis situation, except it wasn’t my game anymore.
Denise grabbed the garbage bag with one hand and put her other arm around the woman, Carol, to help her stand. Tears started to flow from under the dark glasses, so they stood still, giving her time to recover her composure. How I wished I could help.
Then everything happened so fast. A car moved out from the kerbside and a black Jeep swung into the parking space. Carol looked at it and screamed. Denise grabbed her arm and started to hurry her down the street. The driver leapt out of the Jeep and ran around the bonnet to the footpath. I saw him coming. He would pass behind me. Without thinking of the consequences, I rolled my wheelchair back and he crashed into it, stumbled, and fell to his knees on the concrete.
He pulled himself up, and glared at me. In that moment I remembered all the women I helped, and smiled. It was not too late for me. I helped one more.
He threw chairs out of his way, yelling, ‘Get back here you lying slut. Get back where you belong.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the policewoman push her chair back and stand up.
Denise and Carol were near the corner of the block. I knew a vehicle was waiting for them around the corner. It always was, around the corner, hidden from the sight of a violent perpetrator, in the event of incidents like this.
He rounded on me, his fist balled, but his punch did not follow through as his arms were grabbed from behind and held tight. The policewoman came to my rescue. Other customers helped her hold him until a police car arrived and he was taken away.
The policewoman’s friend moved to sit with me. ‘Hi, I’m Angela. What you did was impressive.’
I shrugged. ‘It was instinctive. It might not have happened if I had time to think.’ I reached up and rubbed my shoulder, sore from him falling against me.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘It’s nothing serious.’
‘I notice you’re here on your own. Can I help you get home, or wherever you’re going?’
It was a kind invitation. The pain in my shoulder would make rolling my wheelchair harder. ‘Thank you. That would be nice. I’m on my way home. Could you help me to the bus stop?’
‘Where do you live?’
I told her. It was about fifteen minutes from her street.
‘I’ll take you home.’
There was no changing her mind and, truth to tell, I did not want to. She pushed my wheelchair to the parking station. It folded down and fit in her station wagon with ease.
We became friends on the drive and Angela chatted about her life. ‘All my friends work and my kids are at school. I’d like to have someone to do things with during the day. My house is just up here. Would you like to see it?’
We turned off the road onto a steep driveway cut into a cliff face. It was paved in beautiful patterns.
I pointed at it. ‘I have this thing about driveways.’ She gave me a strange look.
‘They remind me of people. The bitumen ones dress in black and are abrasive and unforgiving. The concrete ones are smooth and slippery. Nothing is ever their fault. The paved ones, especially like this one, are interesting and caring, like you.’
I’m not sure why she gave me a hug, but it was nice.
Helen F Miller © 2014 … all rights reserved