The Near Miss (14 page)

‘Riddled with it? Sorry? With what?'

‘Madness. Psychiatric disorders. This bottle foolishness.'

‘Oh!'

‘Again, once again, I would like to state that I. Am. Sorry. On behalf of—'

‘In all fairness Maureen, Tom has had some good ideas for inventions. I mean, people have to invent all the amazing things we use, don't they? They're not all mad. And he's quite well progressed on the Solarbottle. It's not impossible, he could one day . . .' Oh God, she was defending Tom. Had Maureen engineered this on purpose?

‘Oh, no, it's the family malady. Invent a solar-paneled roof out of water bottles, he reckoned?' She gave a sinister laugh. ‘Classic sign. Did he ever tell you about Uncle Adam, who
believed he could win the Masters Golf Tournament?”

‘Uh, no. But I guess someone wins it, don't they? Was Uncle Adam a golf player? Ambitious maybe?'

‘He only had one arm!' crowed Maureen. ‘He went on naked, carrying a cricket bat.'

‘Oh. Well, Tom is a programmer. Good at computers. He's pretty smart—' Dammit, no! Stop!

‘And there was Aunty Rita, who cried all day, every day. My second cousin Donald, older than me, sleeps in trees, that's his thing. Says he can see what's coming that way. Even my younger sister Amy, who was a big-time barrister, had to give it up because she hears voices in her head. She was in court making no sense at all, talking one moment to the judge and the next to the voices.'

‘Oh dear.' It was indeed a little strange that she had not heard of these characters in Tom's extended family; she could only assume he had been completely uninterested or unaware of the common thread linking them. It would not be like Tom to neglect any opportunity for a laugh at his family's expense, but then again, had she ever really known Tom? Maybe he
was
crazy. Grace thought uneasily of her eccentric daughter. Oh dear.

‘This is what I'm saying, right through the family. We must get Tom to a psychiatrist as soon as we can. There's a good one I know of out your way.'

‘I really don't think I could persuade him to do anything right now.'

‘You must try. In sickness and in health, remember. In the meantime, why don't you let Lotte come here and stay with us for a few days? We'd love it. We'll take good care of her.'

‘I think I need her close to me right now, Maureen.' Now that you've declared your insanity credentials, thanks all the same.

‘How about next week?'

‘I, er, I've lost my job. I don't have a lot to do. And Lotte needs me at the moment.'

‘You let her come soon then, alright? Little girls need their nannas at times like this. And while she's with us, you can talk some sense into Tom. And have some time for yourself. Get yourself a nice haircut. Get the greys dyed over. Try out some different clothes. Just because you're married, it doesn't mean you can't still show you're a woman. You don't have to look like a prostitute, but you could still look a little . . . come-hither. You know what I mean.'

Grace contemplated lying on the floor with her face down. She might never get up again. Just when you thought the world had humbled you completely, it had one more go.

‘I'll think about it, Maureen. Thank you so much for calling.'

Eddy went to Bunnings and brought home a big old pinboard; white with a narrow pine frame. Inside, he used a handheld device to locate studs in the kitchen wall, and made chalk marks where the light on the device flickered red. He was just wondering how he would hold up the board while he drilled it in, when there was activity at the front door and Tom walked in with pizza. Tom never knocked anymore, and a trail of wet leaves marked his passage along the carpet. But whatever. Eddy welcomed company. He had finally returned to work and Melbourne winter was at its depth, wet leaves feeling obliged to wrap around your ankles as you walked to the train, and icy winds cutting through the crowds on the station, flattening out the women's hair and making them screw up their faces into scowls. He hoped Romy was somewhere warm. She couldn't stand the cold.

Tom obligingly steadied the pinboard while Eddy used the drill to push screws through the soft cork and plaster, and then into the hard studs beneath.

‘What's it for?' said Tom, flipping open the pizza box. Salami- and olive-flavoured steam rose to their chests.

Eddy tapped a pile of newspaper cuttings with one finger.

‘Ah,' said Tom. ‘The criminal ex-girlfriend. Bit chilly in here, mate. What's with the plastic?' Eddy had hung a sheet of plastic between the ceiling and the kitchen bench, blocking out the lounge room.

‘Keeps the heat in.'

‘You're like the reverse of all those renovation people doing the open-plan living area, aren't you? Closed-plan living.'

Eddy shrugged. The plastic was opaque, turning the lounge furniture beyond into a watercolour of indistinguishable shapes and smears.

‘I like smaller spaces in a house. You get an earthquake, you can close part of it off more easily. Barricade doors.'

‘In Melbourne?'

‘We get four point sevens, five point twos, every few years.'

‘Oh. What day is it?' Tom had asked this every time he came, since leaving his job.

‘Friday.'

Eddy's mobile rang and he answered it.

‘Hey there, it's Bella here. Romy's agent.'

‘Oh. Well, she's not here.'

‘I've been emailing her about an audition and she hasn't gotten back.'

‘Okay. She's not here.'

‘Do you have a mobile for her?'

Eddy recited the number. Romy would be appalled to hear that Bella had not had her mobile number; she had been waiting for Bella to call for months.

‘I really want to get in touch with her,' Bella added.

Eddy would not add: that makes two of us. He had some pride. ‘Try that number' was all he said, a little stiffly. It didn't appear to answer to
him
, anymore, but Bella may be different.

He hung up and returned to his board.

Tom asked: ‘Is your heating broken?'

Eddy shook his head. ‘I've turned it off. I live mostly in the kitchen, anyway. And if I keep the oven going it stays warm.'

‘Ah. Handy. You can bake at the same time.'

‘I don't really bake.'

Tom rolled his eyes and looked momentarily affectionate. ‘Yeah, I'd sort of noticed. Want some pizza?'

‘Later.'

‘Are you eating?'

‘Yeah. I'm alive, aren't I?'

‘You're skinny. How's work?'

‘It's work.'

While Tom ate pizza, Eddy took out a new box of thumb tacks and carefully pinned up his articles. There were eight. He studied the headlines as he pinned.

           
Pirate and Cat get the Cream in 7/11 Hold-Up

           
Fancy-dress Robbers Terrorise Eastern Suburbs in Small Hours

           
Extra Night Security for Besieged Convenience Stores

           
Pirate and Catwoman no Bonnie and Clyde, Say Armed Robbery Squad

           
Pirate and Catwoman Get Own Facebook Page

           
Pirate/Cat Combo Highly Dangerous, Warn Police

           
Police ‘Being Played Like Mice' Say Opposition, as Catwoman and Pirate Lead a Merry Dance

           
Reward Offered

‘For any information leading to the arrest of notorious armed robbers connected to the recent spate of convenience store robberies,' read Tom, through a mouthful of meatlovers. He raised his
eyebrows. ‘Tempted?'

‘Save me a piece. I prefer it cold.'

‘No, dickhead, I mean are you tempted by the reward?'

Eddy looked at him, offended. ‘I don't know where they are!'

‘But you know Catwoman's name. That's more than our mighty men in blue. Useless bastards.'

Eddy shook his head. He was surprised his own father hadn't yet rung on the sly and dobbed Romy in. He studied the layout of the articles; he liked it very much. And only half the board was covered.

‘I think you're proud of her,' said Tom.

Eddy sighed. Was he? He had pored over every grainy photograph, to read Romy's body language. In the first few, she seemed hesitant, a little frightened. No one but he would have been able to tell. Moving on, the next picture was the first one where she stood straight, threw her shoulders back, held the gun with a new confidence. That self-conscious poise was there in subsequent pictures, too, although it had morphed into something closer to arrogance. And today's picture was a wonder. She stood with her chin tipped up, her back long and straight, the gun raised to her eye and one hip cocked. She could have been on
Charlie's Angels
. Eddy shook his head and couldn't hold back a smile. Romy was acting now. She had read the newspaper stories, she had seen the television footage, she had thrilled to hear herself described as a modern day Bonnie to Van's Clyde, and then she had, with the last gasp of her ambition, taken on that role as determinedly as Elizabeth Taylor took on Cleopatra. She might die fulfilling it, or go to jail, but she would go down being a somebody, not just a waitress.

‘In a crazy way, I think I
am
proud of her.'

Tom cast him a wary look over the steaming pizza. Since he and Grace had broken up, he was here almost every two or three nights with pizza, or chicken and chips. He was cheerful and didn't speak of Grace, or where he was staying. Sometimes he talked about his bottle roof, as if it were a troublesome but beloved girlfriend. They talked of rugby. They watched the news. They speculated over Romy and Van, as if it were an ongoing TV series. Eddy had wondered at first whether Grace and Tom would get back together, but weeks and months passed and Eddy looked back at the night of the thank-you dinner and felt he must have misunderstood appearances that night. The perfect young couple, with a mortgage and a child. But now look.

So, Tom and Eddy played darts. The pizza boxes piled up in the corner. Tom never suggested removing the pizza boxes, or cleaning up the disgusting pit that was Eddy's home these days. He never brought healthy food, or asked Eddy to talk about his feelings. Eddy liked that.

Later, Eddy found a roll of red ribbon in one of Romy's drawers, and he measured it to the length of the sides of the board, and cut it and pinned it on, making a border of red around the edges of the board. He also pinned up a colour photograph of Romy; his favourite. It was the day he had met her, at her parents' funeral. It wasn't a picture she liked — she looked pale and weepy, with swollen eyes — so it had never been up in the house before, but hey. He could like her in any way he wanted now.

His father dropped by and frowned at the board.

‘What's this?' He stared at the pictures and then slid his eyes sideways to his son, his toothbrush eyebrows making waves, his expression one of alarm.

‘The article. I told you about it. That's Romy, see . . .' He moved to point Romy out to his father, but Ray brushed his son's pointed finger away.

‘I know it's bloody Romy. I mean, what's it doing on your wall? The girl's a lunatic, my boy. She's a selfish . . . she's everything that's wrong with modern women. She's like a — what do you call it? — a . . .' Ted raised both hands before his face, as if they had been parted in prayer. ‘I feel sorry for men of your generation. Truly, I do. You're lost.'

Eddy gazed at the picture, not sure what to say.
Well, I reckon I've had sex with more women than you?
Sounded a bit nyah nyah nyah. And possibly not true; he had the sense his father might have been a bit of man-about-town in his youth. But then women those days, reputations and all. Probably true, but all the same. What about:
I really do like a smart woman, not just a domestic servant?
Could be construed as insulting his mother. Which would be awful. ‘We're okay,' he said feebly, on behalf of his generation.

Ray lifted a corner of the board, discovered the point at which it was attached to the wall and began to prise it off. ‘Do yourself a favour, boy, and . . .'

‘No!' Eddy gripped the board with both hands, his elbow almost hitting his father in the face as he did. He forced it back to the wall, turned and eyeballed his father. Ray's arms resisted for a moment, but his face was already stunned; Eddy had never shown any physical resistance to him. Eddy's arms across his father's field of vision were muscly and strong. Ray let go, his hair whiter and his face more lined than it had been only the week before. His head shook, his mouth pursed with the bottled-up anger of an old man convinced of the next generation's stupidity, but faced with its dominance.

‘Do what you like!' he said, and left.

Finally, one Saturday, Eddy woke with a rare ray of winter sun falling across his eyes. Outside, the world looked unusually good. He felt frail and cleansed, as if emerging from a long illness. He
looked at the leftover pizza which he usually ate for breakfast, and shut the fridge door. He put on his coat and scarf and snow beanie, and walked to the nearest café, ignoring the happy couples, and the frazzled families, and he spread the business section right across his table, and ordered fried eggs and bacon and mushroom and baked beans and hash browns, orange juice and a coffee. He ate and read, glancing sometimes over the top of the paper at a couple nearby, slightly older than he and Romy. The man, greying at the temples, spoke gently, encouragingly to his partner. The woman, with black-framed glasses and pale skin, sulked. The man leaned over, touched the back of her hand. She sat back in her chair, crossing her arms and staring, purse-mouthed, at a baby nearby in one of those spaceship strollers. Eddy couldn't see the whole baby, just a leg clad in one of those onesie suits, as it occasionally kicked above the upholstered edges. After breakfast, Eddy left the couple to work it out, and walked home the longest way he could think of, because he needed some exercise, and because there was still a large piece of the day to fill in. And as soon as he let himself in the front door, he realised there was someone in the house.

Tom?

Romy. He smelled her before he saw her. It wouldn't have taken a detective. Her bag sat in the hallway, the heater hummed and the back door was wide open. She stood in the kitchen before the pinboard, reading the newspaper articles. She turned to him.

‘Hi.' A small smile, maybe resignation, maybe shame. A plea for forgiveness. Like she'd never left. He resisted the urge to cross the room and gather her up in his arms. My girl. He felt like he was exhaling properly for the first time in months.

‘Jesus, Romy. You scared me.'

‘Sorry about letting myself in.'

‘Well, it is your house.'

‘I know, but . . .'

‘So, here you are.'

She shrugged helplessly, gave him an apologetic glance. ‘I just . . . I don't know what came over me, Eddy.'

He held out his hands, and let them fall. ‘I've been out of my mind. Why couldn't you call me?'