The Promise (9 page)

I was ready to shoot myself right there in the house, but thinking about the mess it would make, about Carol or somebody else finding me with half my head caked to the ceiling, I stood up and walked onto the front verandah. It had begun to rain. I looked out across the hills behind the town, at a stand of trees in the distance, and then back at the lonely house. I knew then that I would never be coming back and decided I couldn't abandon it this way.

I went around back to the shed and threw some tools, old tins and chaff bags around until I found the half can of petrol I kept for the mower. I walked slowly through the house, from room to room, dousing each of them. The petrol trailed me along the passageway, out onto the verandah to the front yard. I struck a match and the flame chased the petrol back into the house. The place was fully alight in less than a minute, the dry old boards cracking with pain and weeping off the last traces of paint Abraham had put to them years back. I could hear the windows exploding with rage as I turned away from the flames and started up the car.

Driving out of town I held the gun between my knees with the barrel scratching at my throat. If it had gone off then and there I'd have died a reasonably happy man. Would've saved me from testing my courage. Between the pelting rain, a dirty windshield, fucked wiper blades, and the pills and grog, I was driving on the last prayer I had. The car wobbled and weaved across the highway, by some miracle dodging trucks and trees and some livestock. Cows, mostly. I don't know if it was one of them I hit, or one of those ghost trees they talk about round here that appear out of nowhere, but the last thing I remember was head-butting the windshield.

When I woke my mouth was full of dirt and blood. I lifted my head and tried opening my eyes; I could see out of one, but the other was clamped shut. I'd been thrown from the car and was lying in a muddy ditch, the Datsun to the side of me, its windshield caved in, the door slung open and steam pouring from the bonnet. Something warm and sticky oozed from the corner of my bad eye, down my cheek. I tried getting to my feet and fell down again, up to my arse in murky water.

I swallowed a few breaths and crawled over to the shotgun lying in the mud a few feet from me. I used it to haul myself
up
and get out of the ditch, onto the side of the red-dirt road. The car was fucked and wouldn't be going anywhere. All my life I'd been walking the roads skirting the town – I thought I knew all of them. I didn't have a clue where I was. There was nobody around and no buildings to identify with, save a rundown hay shed.

It had stopped raining, but a death-rattle wind cut through to my skin. I started to walk, which wasn't easy
, as
I was missing a shoe and had done an injury to my right foot. I could still get it over and done with and shoot myself, of course, but suddenly it didn't seem such a smart idea. This would be a lonely place to die. The car crash had shaken me up enough to
make me
know I was a coward
.

I dragged myself along the road and eventually rounded a bend and came to a crossroad. There were no signs to tell me which way was which. Heading straight on seemed as good a choice as any, so I walked on, hauling my bad foot with me.

After a while I spotted a white wooden cross and the pitched roof of a church through some trees in the distance. I got closer and could see that it was a small wooden building, resting on a bank above a dry riverbed off the road. The arched front door was open. I made for it.

The doorway was draped with a deep-red velvet curtain. I pulled it to one side and went in. The light was low and it was hard to see. There were people on either side of the room, some sitting behind fold-up tables with colourful card decks laid out, others, mostly old girls, sitting opposite empty chairs with heads bowed and eyes closed, in front of flickering candles, which gave the women a creepy look. A few looked up at me as I walked in, splattered in mud and blood and carrying the shotgun. None of them seemed disturbed by the intrusion. They went back to what they were doing, which was most likely some form of meditation.

A woman at one of the tables wouldn't take her eyes off me. She was older, but beautiful nonetheless, with thick dark curls and the fullest lips I'd ever seen. I wanted desperately to kiss her. She began laying out her cards. I was drawn across the room to her.

‘You've had a troubled day, son,' she said, when I reached her. ‘Would you like to put that gun down and rest your leg on this stool here?'

I propped my weight on the shotgun and looked around the room. ‘What's this place?' I asked.

‘We are the Church of Spiritual Healing,' she said, and smiled; her voice was sweeter than I thought could have been possible. She was a songbird. ‘We are here to heal the wounded souls that roam.'

‘Really? How long you been round here? I know every inch of this country. It don't look it, but the church must be new?'

She turned another card and laid it on the table. Her smile disappeared. She studied the card and then my face.

‘No. We have always been here. For all time. Please sit.'

I rested the gun against the side of the chair and took the weight off my bad leg. She tapped softly on the table with her fingertips.

‘Is there something you would like to tell me?'

I looked across the table, into her sparkling green eyes. She must have been fifteen or twenty years my senior, but I did want to say something; I wanted to tell her that she was the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen.

‘My wife, she's taken off on me,' I said. ‘I come off the road back there.' I looked down at the cards. ‘Can you tell me if I'll get her back?'

She took my bloodied, swollen hand, pitted with broken glass, in hers.

‘What I do,' she explained, waving her free hand across the cards, ‘is help you understand your past,
your
damaged past, and assist you along the pathway to a more stable and spiritual future.'

I couldn't quite follow what she was saying. It might have been the drugs and drink, or the concussion I most likely had. I nodded my head in agreement anyway.

‘Sounds fine by me.'

She squeezed my hand a little too tightly, considering that it was busted up.

‘But in your case, you are not quite ready for such a reading. First you must be cleansed.'

I looked down at the mess and dirt and shit all over me. ‘Oh, I can see that. I need to get clean. For sure. I'd like to get this foot seen to, as well.'

She released her hand from mine and rested it on the back of my palm.

‘You are a troubled man,' she said. ‘Your soul is stuck.'

‘Can you help me?' I asked. ‘It is stuck, for sure. And I've got this awful ringing in my head that's driving me crazy. Can you get rid of that as well?'

I was now clutching at her hand. I'd frightened her a little. She pulled her hand away from mine, sat back and shook her head.

‘No. I'm sorry, but I cannot do that. Not yet.'

I was ready to cry. ‘Why not? You just said it's what I need.'

‘And it is. But I am not a cleanser. That is the work of others.'

I panicked and grabbed the barrel of the gun and pointed it at her. If she was frightened at all it didn't show. ‘What about one of these others? Can't one of them help me?'

She dropped her head. ‘No. None of them can help you.' She closed her eyes, raised a finger and pointed towards a small wooden stage, surrounded by heavy curtains, at the far end of the room. ‘But he may be able to. If you go to the stairs at the side of the stage, he will see you. Is that what you want? To be cleansed?
'

‘Yes, please – it's what I want.'

‘Well, go quickly. And,' she waited till she had my attention, ‘I would leave the gun, if I were you.'

Behind the curtains, the stage was even darker than the hall and I couldn't see a thing. The woman with the cards had sold me a lie, I thought; she'd conned me so she could get rid of me. I was about to walk out when I heard a scraping noise on the wooden floorboards. A shadow moved, and a match was struck. The shadow danced in the low flame, and a candle was lit. And another. And another. The room gradually glowed, soft and yellow. I was standing in front of a man in a long white gown.

He looked to be around my age and had dark hair tied back in a ponytail. He also had a thick beard, and remarkable as it may seem, large breasts. I don't mean man-boobs, but full, beautifully shaped breasts, their cleavage straining to escape the neck of the gown.

He looked down at a wooden stool that somehow appeared between us. ‘Please sit,' he said.

I did as he asked, without question, and stared at his breasts as he spoke to me with a voice of honey.

‘I will lay my hands on your back. Don't be concerned when you feel your major organs warming. It is to be expected. If you feel nauseous at any time, or dizzy, that is also normal. If you fear that you may pass out, raise your left arm.' He placed a hand on my head. ‘Are there any questions?'

I wanted to ask him about his breasts, but thought better of it. As it was, I couldn't speak. My mouth had gone dry and wouldn't open. He seemed to recognise the problem I was experiencing and offered me a glass of water.

‘Drink this. It will help you to relax.'

The water was cold and tasted a little strange, like vinegar. I handed the glass back to him and wiped my mouth.

‘Maybe – maybe this isn't for me,' I said, suddenly feeling nervous.

He ignored what I'd said and put his hand back on my head as I shifted in the chair. ‘You relax now,' he whispered. He moved behind me and rested both palms against the small of my back.

Straight off I could feel their warmth. A soft ball of heat moved through my body. By the time the dizziness got to me I couldn't have lifted an eyelid, let alone an arm, to help myself. I could feel dribble running down my chin and my forehead being stroked by a gentle hand.

I woke cradled in his arms, resting against his breasts. He smiled when I looked up at him. He gently sat me up and massaged the back of my head until I was properly awake.

‘You can go now, Luke. It is safe.'

It seemed perfectly natural that he knew my name without me having mentioned it.

The light on the stage slowly faded and the darkness returned. I was alone. It wasn't until I'd walked back through the curtains that I realised that the ringing in my head had stopped and that somehow I was dressed in his white gown.

The church hall was empty and the sun was shining through a window. Outside, the red-dirt road leading away from the church had turned to a sea of mud. I went out through the door and started walking the road, free of pain. Soon I'd passed the lake and the ruins of the mission. A few of the old boys had come back from the dead to greet me. They were singing dirty songs about all the women they'd fucked and called me over for a drink. I waved them off and kept on walking. When I reached the town, I walked straight down the middle of the street. People stopped to gawk, coming out of the stores and standing on street corners watching me. The red dust and mud had settled on the hem of my gown and I looked as if my bottom half had been dipped in blood.

Abraham's old place had been reduced to a heap of smouldering charcoal. I knew what I had to do. I dragged out two blackened bits of wood from the pyre, found some rusting fence wire and bound the pieces of wood together to form a cross. I didn't realise until I'd finished the job that I'd burnt the skin from my hands, although I felt no pain. I picked up the cross and walked to the front of the yard. I found a rock and banged the cross deep into the earth. I looked up to the sky and waited.

THE LOVERS

Friday was their day
. They would turn up just after twelve, before the lunch hour got into full-swing and we ran out of tables. They'd head for
their
table, against the side-lane window and its flowerbox of red geraniums. The couple ordered the same meal, the steaming goulash soup we're famous for. He was tall, tanned and fit-looking and always wore a suit. The waitresses would nudge each other when he walked in and fight over who would take the order. She was built like a sparrow, wore vintage print dresses and had the sweetest face I'd ever seen. They had a habit of eating in silence. It was only after they'd finished and the dishes had been cleared that they'd lean across the table, hold hands and whisper quietly to each other.

When I delivered a tray of food to the table, and returned again to collect the dishes, I'd take my time and listen in on their conversation. They didn't speak a word about insider trading, or a looming legal brief, or whatever else it is that the usual clientele go on about when they're in here throwing back the red and trying to hit on the waitresses.

They appeared to be
the
perfect couple and I never doubted that they were. It didn't stop me fantasising that I might take his place and hold her by the hand and reach across the table myself and kiss her.

When the bell above the café door rang out, announcing their arrival, I would look up at the clock on the wall, lean on the oak bar and whistle to Carmen, the maitre d'.

‘They're here. Right on time. And don't they look happy?'

Carmen's a serious hardarse who relies on nothing more than a raised eyebrow to keep the dining room in order. She's bringing up a kid on her own. The boy's father shot through on them before the kid was out of nappies. By Carmen's own calculations she's since been ‘fucked over by just about every man in the phone book. My next-door neighbour, who never stops whingeing about the dog shitting on his nature strip; my bus driver who won't change a note, not even a ten, unless he gets a good look at my tits; and the last fella I went out with, who drove my car into a light pole and wrote it off the same day, then sent me a text telling me we weren't suited. So much for e-fucking-disharmony.'

She'd been too burnt to buy my perfect-couple angle, even though it was staring her in the face.

‘There's not a couple on this earth that can be that happy,' she'd sneer across the room as they took their seats, ‘unless one of them has a bit going on the side. My old man was just like this fella. I'd catch him admiring himself in the bathroom mirror, humming some fucking show tune and preening himself like a rooster. Whenever he behaved that way I could be certain he was on the tear. It was the only time he was happy.'

She'd looked over at the table.

‘This one fancies himself just a little too much, so it's most likely him. You wait and see. It'll come out. Always does.'

She smiled wickedly and picked breadcrumbs from my shirt sleeve.

‘It wouldn't be all bad news though, would it? You know what I think, Jimmy boy? You fancy her yourself. I bet you think about riding her.' She saw me blush and slapped me lightly on the cheek. ‘You always fall for the delicate ones. I wouldn't go at her too hard. You'd hospitalise her.'

I was too busy setting a fresh table to notice that they hadn't turned up at their usual time the following Friday. Carmen pointed it out to me as I was stacking the fridge behind the bar, with lunch half over.

‘What's happened to the love birds today?' she asked, raising
that
eyebrow. ‘Something's gone wrong there.'

I looked up at the clock and over at the table. The crockery and glasses hadn't been touched. The table was lonely without them.

‘It's only just gone one o'clock. Maybe they're running late?'

‘Don't con yourself. They're never late.'

She circled me, stopped behind me and rested her chin on my shoulder. She whispered in my ear and purposely pressed her breasts into my back.

‘Don't look so miserable. You know your trouble, Jimmy? You need this
perfect couple.
They give you hope for the future.'

She ruffled a hand through my hair and kissed me on the neck.

‘Can I give you some advice?'

‘I couldn't stop you if I said no. You're always giving me advice. And none of it's any good.'

She twirled a lock of my hair around her finger.

‘Well, let me give you a little more. If you don't want to get hurt in life, in relationships, get your head out of cloud-bullshit-land. You know what your trouble is, Jimmy? Do you really know?'

‘No. I've been waiting for you to fill me in.'

‘You spend too much time cruising the romance shelves at the video library. All that
Sleepless In Seattle
,
When Harry Met moaning Sally
crap has fucked you up. Your life, Jimmy, lacks perception. You want to know what I watch when I knock off from a long shift here? Worn out, jacked off and stinking of spaghetti sauce and grease?'

I didn't want to know, but Carmen was on one of her rants and there'd be no stopping her.

‘I sit down with a cigarette and a drink and watch
Thelma and Louise
. I've got it on an old VHS tape and have just about worn it out. It's one of those “all men are arseholes” flicks. You should watch it. It might teach you something about the real world.'

‘I've seen it. It's a leso movie.'

‘No it's not. It's definitely an “all men are arseholes” flick.'

I'd had enough. ‘Carmen, have you ever considered that you just have an uncanny knack for picking an arsehole out of a haystack? Don't be down on this couple based on your own fuck-ups. I've seen hundreds of couples in here over the years and I'd put my house on these two making it. If I had a house. They're in this for life. Have you thought that maybe they took off early for the long weekend. Don't forget, Monday's a public holiday.'

‘Maybe they did. But probably fucking not.'

The next Friday I paced the floor, anxiously waiting for them to arrive. Each time a customer moved towards
their
table I rushed over and waved them away, explaining that it was taken, even though we have a sign above the front door reminding diners that we don't take reservations. I had this crazy idea in my head that as long as the table remained vacant they'd magically appear in the doorway. Though I hadn't heard them discussing wedding plans while eavesdropping on their conversations, every word was whispered with love. I fantasised that they'd gotten married and right now were on their honeymoon, strolling side-by-side along a sun-drenched beach. I didn't mention this to Carmen, knowing she'd spoil my dream by reminding me I was channelling some scene from an ad for an airline.

I never saw the couple together again. After a few weeks I gave up guarding the table under the window, and was only occasionally reminded of them when I served someone at that table. The bell over the front door sounded the arrival of a new customer hundreds of times a day. Mostly I didn't hear it because I was busy running around. But now and then the dull ring of the brass bell would trigger a memory of the lovers. I would look across to the door having imagined them standing arm-in-arm in the doorway. They were never there.

She was the last person I expected to see when I spotted a girl rushing through the crowd outside the café months later. I was parked on an upturned milk crate enjoying a cigarette when she ran by with her head buried in her chest, carrying a sad-looking sandwich wrapped in plastic. I quickly butted out the cigarette and followed her. She stopped at the next corner, waiting for the traffic to clear. I stood beside her and snuck a look at her beautiful face. She looked unwell and had dark rings under her eyes. She'd lost weight too. Her chest rose and fell and she quietly breathed in and out. I wanted to reach out and touch her. I might have been crazy enough to do so if she hadn't stepped off the kerb and threaded her way through the stalled traffic.

She passed by the café most days after that, around the same time she used to arrive with him. Although she never stopped I noticed that she always took a glance at the window. I made a point of standing out the front of the café when she passed. I tried making eye contact but she did not look my way.

Carmen was sitting with me one morning, enjoying the sun, sharing my cigarette and complaining about the boss, when she saw the girl.

‘Hey, Jimmy, God, hasn't she changed?
The poor girl looks like shit.'

‘I think there's something wrong with her. She could be sick.'

Carmen took a long, thoughtful drag on the cigarette, passed it to me and blew smoke into the air.

‘She's sick all right. She's walking around like a bag of bones and looks like she's forgotten what sleep is. That arsehole.'

‘Arsehole? Who?'

‘Jesus, you're slow. Wake up. I'd be willing to bet you a week's tips, no wait, I'd put my pay packet on it, that your good old Prince Charming has done the dirty on her. It's like I told you when I first saw them together.'

‘You can't know that. She's been away for months. Why would she stay away for so long? Maybe he's the one who got sick and she took time off to look after him. The guy could be dead for all we know. Look at her. She's all in black. Maybe she's in mourning?'

Carmen snatched the cigarette from me, took a last drag and buried the butt in the flowerbox. She was forever screaming at customers for doing the same thing.

‘Yeah, she's in mourning, for sure. And it's because he's treated her like a corpse. She's probably been too ashamed to come back to work. Looks like she's had a breakdown to me.'

‘A breakdown? No. She's just tired.'

Carmen had her teeth into the boyfriend and there was no stopping her.

‘It's more than tired. I've seen that face before. Trust me. He did the dirty on her.' She poked me in the chest. ‘Jimmy, I love you. Really. But please,' she poked at me again, ‘stop being so naïve.'

Carmen was convinced she was right. Unfortunately she most often was.

I could not believe what I was looking at when the ex-boyfriend turned up at the café a week later. It was a Friday. It was close to noon. And it was raining outside. We were filling for lunch and I was setting a table alongside the open fire when the bell above the door rang. Although I hadn't done so in months I instinctively turned around. He was standing in the doorway shaking the rain from a black umbrella. For just a moment my heart lifted.
They're back
, I thought. They weren't, of course.

He was with another, the
other
woman.

She was tall and thin and dressed elegantly in a cream woollen dress. He glanced across the room at the empty table by the window and strode confidently towards it, lightly guiding his companion with a hand rested on her hip.

I retreated behind the bar. Carmen was running through the Specials board with one of the new waitresses. She'd also spotted the couple. She smiled at me, with all the cruelty she could muster.

‘Well, looky-looky who's here. If it isn't dead-man-fucking-walking. He looks fit enough to me. Take a look at the suit he's sporting, Jimmy. Didn't buy that off the rack. He's moved up. Promotion would be my guess. And look at her. The price tag on her outfit I wouldn't want to guess. It just has to be a long fucking blonde on the arm for this prick.'

While Carmen's on the short side, I didn't think it was the best time to remind her she's a bottle-blonde.

When none of the staff on the floor moved to serve the couple he stood up and looked with annoyance around the room. Carmen nodded towards the table.

‘You going to look after them?'

I studied the deep grain in the wood as I wiped the top of the oak bar, over and over again.

‘Not me. I'm busy.'

She snapped her fingers and ordered one of the juniors to the table. I watched the couple from the corner of my eye as he loudly ordered for them both – the goulash soup. I couldn't stomach the insult.

‘Did you hear that, Carmen? The soup.'

‘Don't worry, Jimmy. I bet you a drink she won't touch it. She can't afford to. You want to keep a wafer figure like that in trim,' she laughed, slapping her own ample arse, ‘you dine out on fresh air.'

‘He's a fucking arsehole.'

‘Finally,' she chuckled, ‘you've worked it out.
All
men are arseholes.'

‘Not all.'

‘Well, most.'

‘You're right. Most.'

I was clearing a table on the far side of the room when Carmen rushed over.

‘Fuck, Jimmy. I can't believe my eyes. Look, it's the poor girl.'

She was standing in the rain, looking into the café through the side window. Her hair was soaking wet, her black dress clung to her body and her thin arms rested limply at her side. He'd turned his chair away from the window, and the blonde had her head bowed, staring into the red-checked tablecloth. The girl banged loudly at the window with her fists to get their attention. He threw his napkin on the table and called me over. When I didn't move Carmen rested a hand on my back.

‘You'd better get over there.'

‘He can fuck himself. I'm not going.'

‘Please, Jimmy. The girl's upsetting the other customers. Tell him he's a prick, if you like. We don't need his business. Just get over there. I'd go myself, but I'd put a fork in his throat.'

I headed for the table and kept my eyes on the girl outside. She stopped banging and rested a hand on the glass. She looked sadly at him, pleading for some recognition.

‘Excuse me,' he demanded. ‘Can we please be moved to another table? Away from this window?'