Eloquent Silence (37 page)

Yes, soon have to get moving and get a few things ready. Just a little while. Another snort or two first. He reached for the bottle. Good old rum. A man’s drink if ever there was one. Now, where was he? Yes, that’s right. Annie.

His mind drifted back into the early days of their marriage, the memory somewhat clouded now. But he managed to remember how he had to slap her around one day when she had wanted to call to see her parents when they drove through town on their way to the city to shop for groceries. Very early in the piece, that was.

Got the rifle out that night after we got home to show her who was boss and make her tow the line a bit better. Married a month, she had reminded him over the years they had been together. Bloody nagging woman brought that up nearly ever time I had to manhandle her. Dopey dame.

The term ‘Domestic violence’ hadn’t been invented then, thank goodness or Annie would have tried to hang that on him. Stupid bitch. Said that particular wallop had come as a surprise to her and didn’t endear me to her.

Who cares? If you deserve it, you get it and that’s about the size of it. Getting the rifle out had just been more or less a scare tactic thought up on the spur of the moment. It had worked, though, by Jiminy and was the beginning of a series of lessons aimed at teaching Annie the value of weaponry.

In a flash he was angry with the thought of it all, as he had been back in the days when he was trying to control his first wife and family. Said she wouldn’t be able to live her life out in that way, with blows and rifles and all the manly jazz. Should have married some poofy drip who would have let her walk all over him, not a man’s man like yours truly, one who knows how to hand out a bit of discipline and keep control in his own nest.

His eyes grew indignant at the memory of Annie and her stubborn will to prevail against him and his ways at all costs. He was the man and he knew better than she did, just a simple-minded female he had dragged up out of the gutter by the hair of her head, well, as good as. Working in an office for a few measly pounds a week, living at home with her old parents and grandfather. Not enough gumption amongst the lot of them to change their religion. Said it was more a race than a religion. Bloody hair-splitting. He gave a guttural snort of derision. Mind-blowingly tedious to have to listen to all that codswallop Old Testament stuff or whatever it is. Kosher mumbo jumbo.

After the parting she said unspeakable things had been done to the two little girls, to the one I said wasn’t mine, especially, and the other one, but less. How to quantify ‘less’ in the context of abuse? Don’t know what they’re on about for the life of me. Good father, good husband, bloody good provider. Meandering around in my head, all those years seem to run together now. Not important in the long run, only to Annie I’ll bet.

Annie and I had not been married long when I first gave her that hit, so she always said, endlessly so I can remember that fairly clearly. Said that nobody in their home ever raised their voice let alone their hand against one another. Who would believe her over me, though? Just a piffling bit of a touch up. It was just a back-hander across the mouth was all, that first one. Doubt if it even broke the skin. Nothing to get upset about. She was funny like that, though. Took exception easily.

Used to get really frantic if I stood over her with the rifle, just to make a point sometimes when she wouldn’t do as she was told. She tried to stay as still as she could, just squirming now and then and saying she wanted to go to the toilet. No way would I let her up off the bed to go to the toilet. Must think a man’s a dummy. She would have bolted, for sure. Can’t have that when I’m trying to teach her how to live.

Mostly though, she was afraid to speak or move, probably in case she’d jolt the gun and get shot. Who knew how Annie’s mind worked? She was a law unto herself, too cowardly to stay in case I hurt her and the kids. Too cowardly to go for much the same reason. Beyond me to understand the workings of her mind.

Funny girl, even back then, right from the early days when we were in our late teens. Oh well, can’t help bad luck, he told himself. Everyone’s got their shortcomings and mine’s a bit of a hot temper. A tight, mirthless smile stretched across his mouth. I am something of an enigma even to myself, he admitted, but I’d never tell another soul that.

What about the time when Ruth was just a tiny thing about three months old? Born nearly seven weeks prematurely, she hadn’t been home long, just a few weeks. Annie’s grandfather, old Eli Samuelsen had fallen over in the main street in Belsen one afternoon, skinned his cheek and hands. What would expect at eighty-one?

Annie was all fired up to go and see him in hospital.  But it was fifteen miles from where they were living to the town and you can’t waste gas running around just because some old guy has taken a tumble and hurt himself. She thought money grew on trees, bloody Annie did. Wasting it running around after some silly old bastard who fell over and tore his old face.

Annie acted really strange that night. Said she
would
go in the morning no matter what I said. Odd girl, she was, caring about that silly old fart. When I had started to jump up and down in the middle of the double bed, screaming and yelling fit to wake the dead, bouncing almost to the ceiling, she had taken fright and run outside to hide in the wheat paddock, sure I had lost my mind. To her way of thinking all the signs and symptoms were present she said she had thought as she ran terrified into the night. She said this kind of behavior was completely foreign to her, that she didn’t know how to handle it.

Then she had run to a farmhouse down the road in the stone motherless dark. Jesus Christ! What a freak of nature she was! The people were away but she went inside and phoned the local telephone exchange and asked them to send somebody to help her—anybody. Next thing a neighboring farmer and the police had arrived. How embarrassing was that? She said I had gone berserk! Luckily the police knew I was a good guy. Played cricket with those policemen at different times. They knew I was on the up and up.

The next morning Annie had taken the baby and gone to Belsen anyway in the rattly old pickup that lurched to one side, the baby on the bassinette on the seat beside her. Stubborn bitch. Gone to her parents’ house and said she wouldn’t be coming back to me. Huh! Her mother had given her a good stiff brandy and taken her over to the hospital to see her bloody old grandfather.

In the evening her mother had told her she had to come back to her husband and ‘try again’. What did she mean, ‘
Try’
? Huh! For the baby’s sake, old mother Abraham said.

‘Trapped,’ Annie said she felt. She took a deep breath and then another, resumed her duties in the house and in the marriage bed. Reconciled. Victorious over her. Never mind the crying jags. She’d probably always have them. When she was expecting Ruth not a day went by without Annie crying about something I said or did. Sook. Needs a good toweling up to make her come to her senses.

Said this way of living was foreign to her, that she needed simple everyday freedoms like being able to talk to people, not living in isolation with me coming home like a roaring beast. Got to make my presence felt. No guts, no glory. Man can’t come home like a wimp, all goody-goody and smiling like a prize idiot.

Already pregnant again when she’d cleared off that day but didn’t know it at the time. Serves her right. Her grandfather was only in hospital for a few days so what was all the fuss about? Just absolute stubbornness, pure and simple.

Her mother said I would break her spirit. What would she know? Be a good idea if somebody did break her spirit. What does a wife need spirit for, I’d like to know?

Conrad continued to meditate, his brain gradually becoming more infused with rum. Those girls, now, when were they born? Ruth one January, Sarah the next January. Something funny about all that, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on but he would get to the bottom of it.

His eyes alight with malice, he got up and went to the kitchen to find a piece of paper and a pencil. I was born in October, he reminded himself, but I can’t ever remember the date. She was born a few days before me so that must have been October, too. He made a few barely legible calculations on the end of Girda’s shopping list. Years, months added and subtracted.

Once after we’d been married about three years Annie had told me the marriage was over and she had an affair. Said I’d accused her from Day One so she might as well give me some basis for the accusations and told me to go to Hell and not come back ever. Now when was that? We must have been about to turn twenty-one and the girls were both little. Yes, that’s what Annie said, anyway.

But Sarah is not mine. I know she’s not mine because Annie had some pessaries she used for birth control, so that would have taken care of that. Young and fertile, the doctor and the old women said. What would they know. Can’t help bad luck, I always say. Would have been enough birth control for sure. Made out of cocoa butter or something. How powerful was that? What was the active ingredient? Who knew? Got them from the chemist’s shop so they should have done the trick alright.

Sarah was born when we were nineteen. She had the affair when we were twenty-one. Doesn’t add up. Whose could she have been? What the hell can I make out of all that. She wouldn’t remember, anyway, Annie. Too stupid to come in out of the rain, if you ask me.

Stuff it. I’ll have another rum and work it out later.

His head ache kicked in again from the mathematical efforts, his mouth felt dry. Need another drink badly. Again he looked at his dates and squiggles. So the girls were two and a half and one and a half when she played up on me. So what can I make out of that? Must be something there I can tag on the bitch. Can I make something out of it?

I’ll bet those kids don’t even know their mother was unfaithful to me although she said the marriage was unbearable and she didn’t want a bar of me. Claimed she wasn’t unfaithful because she considered we were separated, she was finished with me. Forced her back, I did, me and my brother, Big A. Now there was a force to be reckoned with if ever there was one—Big A, six feet two in his stockinged feet, ex front row forward in the local football team. He who would be obeyed. Ha ha. We showed her.

Bloody adulteress. I’ll tell those kids one of these fine days just what she is, what she’s done. That will show them they were wrong to love her all these years. I’ll put paid to her clinging to my kids. She complained that I was violent. Ripped her nightgown from neck to hem, she said, tossed it aside, threw her on the floor. Raped her! Must have been an old and rotten nightie. Nothing wrong with the floor. Bloody nice carpet on it, as good as any that money could buy. Mightn’t have been quite as comfortable as the bed but what the hell? Fussy bitch. Anyway, it’s not rape if you’re married to the piece of fluff.

He went back to the rumpus room and sat down heavily in his chair. I’ll get even with the floozy and get her out of the way once and for all. She loves those kids. She’ll suffer! It will do her good to know how it feels. So I’ll just do the math again.

I know there’s only one year and three or four days or so between the girls but maybe I can bluff them all into believing it was that guy she had the affair with. Otherwise, who else can I hang it on if Ruth was only three months old and we lived on that old deserted plain in isolation?

Or maybe I can remember someone else who would have been at that farm out on the Godforsaken plain where we stayed in the cottage at my Uncle Jim’s when we were first married. Fudge the facts around and tell a good story. She’ll never be able to defend herself. Too late now. Too stupid anyway.

Plus no one would take her word against mine. I’m a successful businessman and she’s just an office worker. Never mind she’s a bloody Justice of the Peace. Jesus, they must be hard up for JPs these days if they’d take her on. Supposed to be of good character, they are, JPs. That’s a farce if they let her in, the hussy.

I was always suspicious of her right from Day One. Always kept accusing her just in case she
was
having an affair. Had to cover my bases, don’t you know. So after three years of this she went right ahead and had one and said she never wanted to set eyes on me again. Said she had the name of it so she might as well have the game of it. Told me her grandmother used to say that all the time about things.

“Had the name of it so might as well have the game of it.” Some philosophy, that from old Granny Samuelsen.

Sick of the sound of being accused, she said she was and wanted the marriage over and done with. Desperate for an out. Sick and tired of doing her best and meeting obstacles at every turn, she claimed.

Just a minute, strumpet. Can’t get out of it as easily as that. No way can you get to be free when you’re supposed to be tied to a man till death do us part. Long time, bloody Annie. Never could make you accept that fact permanently. Always yearned for your freedom every time I had to punish you, give you a little well-earned discipline. I know you wanted peace and contentment but I wasn’t about to let you have it without a knockdown, drag out fight. Then you could apologize and we could have peace for a day or two. But you had to earn it by taking your punishment first.

And as for your freedom—in your dreams, Madam. Life and death situation here and while you’re alive you’re my possession, I always told you. Plus you never would apologize. Said you didn’t have to apologize for me being crazy, only for being stupid enough to marry me.

Said you hated me, feared me and crap like that. It was all over. Go away and leave you live in peace. Take my things and vamoose. Leave you alone with the little girls. Hell, you was lucky to get a guy like me, a good provider, good worker. No logic there at all.

He gave a peculiar little snort all of his own. Ungrateful, she was. Always ungrateful. Always refusing to be brainwashed into believing what I told her to believe.

Anyway, at least I never let her forget what she had done, so that was some consolation. Never a day passed in the next eight years that I didn’t throw it in her face, the bitch. Throw him in her face, what’s-his-name? I’ll remember it again soon.