Escape (47 page)

Simon still isn't back at work. This morning I
will
go and visit him.

I dress more carefully than usual. Make it casual but attractive.
I don't want to look like I spent ages trying. Blue jeans, that close-fitting,
low-necked navy jersey. I'll wear my hair out, nearly dry, when
I brush it, it flies out wild down to my shoulders. Mascara, and a just
a simple line under each eye. I look for just a few seconds into the
mirror. Okay.

The pool van is parked on the street outside Simon's house. My
face is hot. My hands are sweaty on the steering wheel. The car radio
says 12.10. Suddenly it seems such an outrageous act to come around
here. Assert myself into this man's space. What right do I have?

I park a few metres behind the van. Switch off the engine. Even
if he's standing at his window, he won't be able to see me here. I have
time to think. I stare through the windscreen at the back of his van.
There's a slight dent near the left rear light, showing grey under the
white paint. Beyond the van is the shaggy lawn, untended like a face
with a week's stubble. I've never seen Simon's face unshaved. It's
always clean, shiny. That endearing jaw. Neat flat ears close to his head
like a cat.

I glance in the rear-vision mirror. Then I get out of the car, walk
past the van, and up the path. Once my cheek brushed against his,
the day we danced in the living room. I remember the prickle and
the firmness. A thump of pleasure makes me catch my breath, but I
push it down. I stand still at the door, my hands frozen in the pockets
of my jeans. I wish my heart would stop yelling at me. Up close, the
lolly orange of the door is overwhelming, rich and ripe. I think of
rockmelon. The door seems to have been freshly painted. I wonder
why he would bother, with his daughter grown up and left home.

I take a deep breath to keep me company, and knock on the door.
Two four six eight, come on now or you'll be late.
How that chant of mine
used to irritate Clara.
I'm not a baby
. Nothing happens. I start counting
in twos to sixty-eight. While I'm counting, wanting to leap forward
into multiples of four, I'm listening for sounds inside the house. I take
a step forward. Nothing. I knock again. More loudly. I start at seventy
and count to a hundred and forty.

I put my ear to the door. The silence is thick, like something
knitted, worked on. There's a texture behind the door, I can feel it. I'm
like an animal on the prowl, the skin on the back of my neck bumpy,
the hairs raised. I'm hovering between fight and flight. There's still
nothing from inside. Just the blank hysteria of the orange door.

It occurs to me suddenly that this might be the best moment of
the day – while my fantasies are still intact. Behind the orange door in
my mind there is Simon, possible provider of future love and loyalty, a
handsome shield against loneliness. This is what I do. Conjure up the
illusion, stick it over the reality. Is that what I did with Guido? The real
person, then, whoever he is, will always be a surprise, because he'll be
different to the one I imagined. And I've never liked surprises, even
the good ones. They're not in my control.

I could walk back down the garden path now and get in my car. I
could start the engine, switch on the radio, listen to the news. I could
drive back home and do the last edit on my book and keep the fantasy.
In my break this afternoon, I'll make Earl Grey tea and close my eyes
and imagine a reunion with Simon. He will burst from his house, finding
me on the doorstep and, heavy with passion, will take me in his arms,
smothering my face with kisses. He'll search for my mouth, as if the
air inside me is all he needs to breathe and our mouths will be locked
into the same space and breath and he'll smell lovely, of Lux soap and
wholesome love and clean socks washed by his very own hands, and
he'll throw me down on the sofa and thrust his hands up my shirt and
touch me with reverence. If I walk away now I can keep that.

I tiptoe to the window. Thin slatted blinds, a warm honey colour.
There's only darkness in between. Perhaps a flicker, there, in the
middle. A movement of light, of something shifting. Or just the sun
moving between the trees behind me.

I glance back at the van. He must be at home, what with his car
parked right outside. Maybe he's asleep. Or maybe he's had a heart
attack or slipped in the bath and he's lying unconscious on the cold
tiles. That's the hazard of living alone. I think of that old man who was
found twenty-one days after he'd died, lying in the hallway with the
phone cord dangling above him.

I knock once more. Then I twist the doorknob. It turns in my
hand. The door opens a few inches. My heart is hammering so hard
I feel faint. 'Simon?' I stand in the doorway. My voice is loud in the
silence. I push open the door a little further. There is just dim grey. I
close my eyes a moment and open them, to get used to the dark. The
blinds must all be down. I take a few steps into what seems to be the
hallway. 'Simon?'

Carpet underfoot. I tread silently up the hall. Slowly. The silence
feels inhabited. Like a held breath. And then I hear something. A creak
of floorboards underfoot? Maybe it's just the groan of an old house.
Maybe there are robbers, hiding in a wardrobe somewhere, behind a
door. The sliding starts inside my head. I lean against the wall, palms
laid out flat along it, trying to slow the pounding in my chest. On the
opposite wall I make out a collection of masks, polished dark wood
faces, blue and gold feathers leafing from the top. A mirror, too, framed
in carved wood. I catch sight of my hair, electrified. Then I turn and
walk towards the light opening up at the end of the hallway.

A cane wicker couch spreads the length of a large sunny room.
Desert-coloured cushions pile at either end, a zebra-striped blanket
bunched up in the middle. On the coffee table in front, crayons are
scattered over sheets of coloured paper. Below, staining the beige
carpet, a red crayon has been trodden into the weave, a jagged smear
the colour of blood. I creep forward and bend to look at the pictures.
Children's drawings, bold and unambiguous. One is of this house –
there is the big orange door, a man standing in front of it. His hair is
white but he is black. There is a sun, the round orb surrounded by
gold spikes like a weapon. I riffle through the pictures. Another house,
bright flames against a black night. Trees on fire, a dog running.

I hear a noise, a scratching sound coming from a room leading off
the hallway. My heart jumps. I turn and inch out of the room, along
the carpet, towards the noise. I stand flat against the doorway and peer
in. A single bed runs against the far wall, a foldout stretcher next to
it. Doonas and sleeping-bags are flung over the beds, and in between,
open on a burnt umber rug, is a suitcase in which a teddy bear, a
woolly giraffe, and a fluorescent pink elephant sprawl comfortably in a
nest of jumper arms and pants legs. In among the clothes and toys on
the floor are torn-off plastic wrappings and price tickets. I pick up the
bear. It smells new.

I'm standing with the bear soft against my cheek when the noise
comes again. There, over by the window near the bed. A pale shape on
the windowsill outside. Peck, flap, peck. I advance towards it, picking
my way through the bright tangle on the floor. A white cockatoo,
creamy and fat as a cat. It doesn't move as I loom up, only an inch away
on the other side of the glass. It cocks its head to the side, examining
me. I cock my head too and we stare at each other. I wonder if the bird
is having sliding sensations. No, he's just getting a better look. Another
cockatoo arrives and sits almost on top of him. They squawk angrily
at each other and I understand that Simon must feed these birds –
Simon, or whoever is living in this room.

Now I decide to explore all the rooms. Simon might be lying
unconscious in the bathroom, slain in the kitchen. As I turn to walk
out something squeaks underfoot and I jump back. 'Feed me' cries a
doll plaintively.

The bathroom is tiled white with ivy-green trim. There is a bath
and two fresh handtowels hang on the rack above. A yellow plastic
duck and other bath toys are piled neatly in a green plastic tub next to
the bath on the floor.

I tiptoe out of the bathroom and up the hall, stopping at the
main bedroom. I peep inside, attracted by the vibrant spread on the
queen-size bed. The design has an African feel, startlingly beautiful.
Earthy reds, ochres and rich browns burn dramatically against a
black background; wild animals, abstracted into geometry, prowl the
borders. The black fringe at the top and bottom feathers like something
alive across the pillows. Strewn across the middle are a pair of jeans,
underpants and a wet towel. I smile at the underpants.

I pad into the kitchen that runs off the living room, facing out to
the bush. When Simon stands at the sink doing the washing-up, he
must see the red bloodwoods and the khaki weave of the forest.

I go back into the living room and perch on the edge of the couch.
Near the crayon stain at my foot a couple of drawings have dropped.
I pick them up and see the yellow cover of a Kodak packet of photos
lying beneath them. I put them on the coffee table, with the drawings.
I sit and listen to the silence and the occasional tapping at the window.
I look at the yellow Kodak cover. Would he mind me looking at them?
I don't know. I've become a snoop and a house invader. I take out the
photos and start leafing through. There are children, a boy, maybe
around eight or nine, and a little girl. The children are black, thin,
serious. They stare out at the camera from a bland grey sky, a brick
wall. I think of the masks hanging in the hall – it's as if the children
are looking out from the masks of their faces, keeping themselves
secret inside. My stomach clenches. I wonder how tight their little
bellies must be. I look at one photo for a long time. The boy is sitting
on concrete steps. His hands are empty in his lap, his eyes loose and
unlatched, vacant. He looks as if he's been told to wait, not at a bus
stop, but in a place he's always been waiting, and his face holds a
combination of hopelessness and fear, not sure perhaps if he wants the
wait to end. It's a look I've seen in news shots and documentaries, of
people herded into camps, temporarily safe, waiting to see if the calm
will last.

A door bangs shut. I jump with fright. There are footsteps coming
down the hall. I turn around and Simon is standing in the hallway.
From the sunny living room, he is a matt shadow in the gloom. Those
dear, familiar, responsible shoulders make me melt. My stomach
gurgles. There are shopping bags in both his hands. His legs are rigid
with surprise. He lets the bags fall from his hands.

'Rachel, what are you doing here?'

I leap up, dropping the photos onto the table, the floor. 'Oh, sorry
– I was worried. You haven't called, I haven't seen you.'

Simon is bending down, picking up the groceries. I spring
forward to help. Milk, butter, bread, ice-cream, oranges. Such heavy
packages. I spot a carton of eggs. Damn. But when I open them, I see
they're still intact. 'That's lucky,' I say, showing him the eggs. His face
is red – with embarrassment or the effort of reaching down, I'm not
sure, but we're both glad we've got the shopping to concentrate on. I
think of another time we were doing this together, and I am blushing
too. Sweat breaks out on my lip. The navy jersey is suddenly far too
warm.

We stand up, almost knocking our heads together. He's not
smiling. He politely nods his head towards the kitchen. Silently, I take
my share of the bags. He indicates the bench on which to put them
down.

'Why did you come?' he asks again.

'I was worried, Simon. Why did you just stop calling?'

He makes a sound of exasperation, a rush of air through his teeth.
'Shit, Rachel, why do you
think
?'

The anger in his face makes me turn away. 'Where do you want
these?' I ask of the fruit. 'Fridge or bowl?'

'Bowl.'

With my back to him I arrange the oranges in the wooden bowl
on the bench. 'They match the door.'

'What?'

'The oranges.'

'Oh.'

'Silly. I always say silly things when I'm nervous.'

I take out the bread. Black rye. 'Simon?'

There's a grunt.

'I didn't mean to snoop, but I thought you might be sick or you
know, robbers – I have these constant scenes of catastrophe in my
head . . . '

'Not on
my
account, surely.' His tone is dry.

'Yes, on
your
account, and what if something had happened to you,
the young guy at Poolwerx said you had the flu, and you live alone – or
so I thought, except when I went looking through the house for you I
saw two beds and stuff ed toys and then on that table there are crayons
and . . . photos. I thought your daughter was grown up. Do you have
other children? Another wife?'

He sighs. 'The children are Sudanese. Been in detention for two
years. I elected to see them, you know, on my visits to the detention
centre. I've known them for a long time now – you can't just take on
children in detention without a commitment. They come to stay with
me sometimes . . .'

'Oh, I didn't know.'

Simon rubs his hand over his face. 'Why now? Why make all this
effort to find me?' His eyes meet mine. I look away, fiddling with the
bread wrapper. He turns to haul the milk cartons out of the bags. One
is jumbo sized, full cream. I hope that's for the kids, we shouldn't be
drinking full-cream milk at our age, should we? He stops suddenly, his
hand on the fridge door. His back is startled, as if he's been seized by
something arresting occurring inside the fridge.

'What?'

'I still can't believe you're here – in my kitchen. Putting away
groceries. It's incredible.' He glances around at me with a slight shake
of the head. His grin is fleeting like a breeze lifting. 'How did you get
in? With one of your picklocks?'