Imaginary Foe (8 page)

I wake up. The sun is going down. I must’ve drifted off. Bruce has gone. I can smell food and I’m famished. Thankfully, I don’t feel too bad after all that drinking. Just a bit seedy. The bottle is on the floor. There’s still a bit of port in it. I look in the mirror and I’m surprised to see that I don’t look too bad. I look like a teenager who’s just woken up. I edge out of my bedroom, head to the bathroom and wash up. I’m so pissed off with Mum! What the hell is she thinking? Is she really cheating on Dad? I go back to my room and put on a clean t-shirt. Mum will be in the kitchen making dinner. I decide that I’m going to play detective and get to the bottom of this whole stinking mess. I seat myself at the breakfast bench so I can keep an eye on her. I make it subtle, though; I have some chemistry homework in front of me. Dad is in the study. He’s on the phone to his sister. Grandad is in hospital at the moment. He had a heart attack. He’s doing OK, but it’s really shaken Dad. I can’t imagine Grandad having a heart attack. I’ve tried to picture it, but it just doesn’t seem like something that could happen to him. He’s strong and he’s never shown any weakness. I’ve always thought of him as super-human; that nothing can beat him, including illness. The thought of him lying in a hospital bed is absurd. He wouldn’t want us to see him in that state. I don’t want to see him in that state. What could I possibly say to the man?

I hear Mum say something to herself. ‘What, Mum?’

She looks up, alarmed. ‘I’m sorry, Stan. What was that?’

‘You were saying something. It sounded like, “Oh, stop it.” What does that mean?’

‘I don’t think I said anything.’ Mum wipes her brow with her apron.

I decide to press on. ‘Yes, you did. You said, “Oh, stop it.” Who were you speaking to?’

‘Who was I speaking to? What are you talking about? I’m in the kitchen, cooking, Stan. I wasn’t speaking to anyone.’

‘You were having an imaginary conversation with someone. Who were you speaking to?’

‘Stan, you’re being completely unreasonable. I didn’t say anything.’

‘I heard you. You said, “Oh, stop it” in a flirty way and I want to know who you said that to.’

Mum takes a few heavy steps towards me and swipes her spoon in the air. ‘What? What is this? I’m cooking the bloody dinner. I was probably singing to myself.’

‘No, you weren’t. It was clear enough. You know what you said.’

‘I don’t appreciate your tone, young man. Take your homework and pretend to do it somewhere else!’

‘Fine. But I heard you.’

‘Oh, you heard me, did you? You’re acting like a bloody lunatic. I don’t know what’s got into you.’ Mum turns away from me and stirs the gravy frantically.

‘Mia!’ she shouts. ‘Set the table, please!’ She barks out the order without even turning around. My sister, who has been sitting there watching TV without a worry in the world, jumps up straight away and starts setting the table in the dining room. Dad emerges from the study looking exhausted.

‘I’m just about to dish up, Trevor. Take a seat at the table. Is everything ready, Mia?’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Good girl.’ Mum puts an arm around Mia and squeezes her close as an apology for barking at her. She calls for my other sister. ‘Rose, it’s dinner time!’

We all sit down at the table. I’m furious with Mum. I’m convinced she was reliving a flirtatious moment with Father Ryan. The thought of them alone together makes me want to puke. I would dearly love to hurt him and teach him a lesson. Why do priests become priests if they are going to struggle with celibacy? That’s part of the deal. That’s what you’re signing up for – a life without sex. It’s a bloody tough call, but it’s there in black and white. A large, laminated picture of the Pope is stuck to the wall with Blu-Tack. He’s smiling and waving. I look at him and wonder if he was ever led into temptation.

I’m emotionally drained and really hungry, but, of course, I can’t start on the special roast dinner that Mum’s prepared because I have to wait for my family to say grace and give thanks to God for the food we’re about to eat. Instead of thanking God, I think to myself, we should thank Father Ryan, as this meal has been painstakingly prepared to alleviate the guilt Mum’s feeling as a result of her disgraceful affair. Anyway, I always thought it was a bit stupid to thank God for food; we should really be thanking the farmers who produce it.

In addition to the ritual of saying grace, my family always selects something in particular to pray for. Today, Rose suggests we pray for world peace. This really irritates the shit out of me. The Smiths’ song ‘Death of a Disco Dancer’ runs through my head. ‘
Love, peace and harmony? / Love, peace and harmony? / Oh, very nice, / Very nice, / Very nice, / Very nice. / But maybe in the next world
.’

‘As if
that’s
ever gonna happen.’

‘Now, Stan, be positive,’ says Mum.

‘Positive? Actually, I think we should be realistic. What use is it praying for world peace?’

‘Stanley, if you’re not capable of saying something nice, don’t say anything at all.’

I look at Mum as if she’s some sort of alien disguised in a human suit. I’m not going to let this one go. ‘Good’ Christians were really starting to frustrate the hell out of me. ‘We live in a time when money means more than basic human rights. You can pray all you want, but it’s not gonna change anything. There are too many fat, rich men in the world with greedy agendas.’

‘Shut up.’ Silence fills the room for a long five seconds while Dad gives me his most serious I’ll-snap-you-like-a-twig look. It only infuriates me more. I’ve sat quietly and played these bullshit Christian games for too long. And for what? For a slap in the face and a dishful of hypocrisy?

I brazenly continue. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Mum and Dad, but for how long, exactly, do you want us to play this game? I mean, you expect us to believe that God made the earth in six days and had a rest on the seventh!’ Both of my sisters gasp at my audacity. ‘And have you ever heard of the Big Bang theory? Or … or have you ever heard of Darwin’s
On the Origin of Species
? They’re both quite well known. I mean, you expect us to believe that Jesus’ mother was a virgin, for Christ’s sake!’

Now my family gasps in unison and they all lean back in their chairs at exactly the same time, like bad actors in an over-rehearsed play.

Dad erupts. ‘Go to your room! Get out of my face and go to your room!’

‘OK. I’ll go to my room. I’ll go to my room and pray for
your
sanity.’ I jab a pointed finger at Mum and then hastily leave the room. Dad stands up as if he’s going to give me a walloping, but he lets me go by.

As I leave, I hear Mum attempt to brush the scene under the carpet. ‘Could you please pass the potatoes, Rose?’

Mum looked terrified when I pointed at her. Maybe she’s picking up on the fact that I know about Father Ryan. Well good. She can have a long hard think about it all. I hope she has trouble sleeping tonight.

I hang out in my room for a couple of hours. I don’t feel much, just drained.

There’s a quiet knock at my bedroom door and Dad enters meekly. His mood surprises me. He’s not angry or ready to throttle me. ‘Hi, Stan.’

‘Hi, Dad.’

‘That was quite a performance you gave at dinner tonight. What brought that on?’

‘I don’t know. I’m just annoyed about things, I guess.’

‘Well, I … um … I need to talk to you about something.’

Oh, Jesus, no! I can guess what this is going to be about. He’s going to tell me that Mum’s having an affair with the priest, that he and Mum are going to split up and I’m going to have to choose who I want to live with. I do
not
want to have that conversation with my father.

‘Listen, Dad, you don’t have to…’

‘No, I want to. Your outburst really shocked me. It made me realise that you’re not a kid anymore. I need to be more open with you.’ Dad seats himself carefully on my bed, between magazines, books and records. He doesn’t look out of place among the mess; he is a mess himself. He clears his throat and pushes a hand through his oily hair. He gives a long, deep sigh. ‘You know, it’s a funny thing – with Grandad being sick, it makes me reflect on how I am as a father. And I must say, I’m not too impressed with myself, Stan. I need to tell you about what’s been going on.’

My chest tightens. I never imagined that I’d be having this discussion with my father. A family breakdown is always something that happens to someone else – to some other sucker. How was Dad going to explain to me that Mum was having an affair? And, worse still, how was I going to act surprised about it?

‘First of all, I’m sorry I’ve been so angry all these years. I’ve been a lousy father. I think about times when I’ve been way over the top with my reactions to situations. It hasn’t been good. And there’s no excuse for it. There’s absolutely no excuse for it. I’m sorry. But now, you see, the truth is that I’m completely stressed out. I’m so stressed that I can’t even think straight. I get frustrated over the most insignificant things.’ He gives a short nervous giggle.

‘It’s OK. I understand.’ I hope I sound sincere. In a way, I
am
sincere. I can see that he’s in a real state and even though I’ve always thought that he’s a bit of an arsehole, I am overcome with sympathy. For the first time in a long time, I find myself looking at Dad as a human being and considering
his
feelings. Here, before me, sits a man whose wife has been unfaithful and whose father is in hospital in a serious condition. I know that I’d be torn apart if Rhonda decided to start seeing someone else or if Dad got sick and wound up in hospital.

‘I’ve been taking … pills, Stan, to help cope with stress.’

This completely throws me. I fumble in my head for something to say. ‘What … what sort of pills?’

‘An antidepressant.’

‘Oh.’

‘Since I’ve started taking it, I’ve finally been able to get some rest at night and that’s allowing me to focus on what’s important. I’ve been thinking about lots of things.’ Another deep sigh leaves him. ‘I’ve come to realise that I haven’t been the greatest husband or the greatest father in the world.’

‘Dad, that’s…’

‘It’s OK. I’m glad I’m finally seeing things clearly. You and your mother and your sisters have put up with a lot. For a long time, all I could focus on was how ungrateful you all were. I used to think that I’d go off to work and slave my guts out for you all, but never get the respect I deserved. But now I can see that I haven’t exactly been
present
for a long time.’ He raises his head. ‘And, now, I realise, Stan, that I don’t know the first thing about you.’

‘You’re not meant to, Dad. I’m fifteen.’

‘I know, I know, but…’ He rubs his hands through his hair again. ‘I’m trying to change. I’m going to make more of an effort with each and every one of you. I don’t want to be a distant father anymore. I want to enjoy my family’s company. I just want you to know that I’m trying to change, Stan’

He reaches out and ruffles up my hair. (If he wants to get to know me better, the first thing he’s got to understand is that the hair is out of bounds. No one touches the hair.) He lifts himself up off the bed and looks around the room, weary-eyed. ‘You should clean up your room. It’s a bloody pigsty.’

I nod and stand as Dad leaves the room. I’m mesmerised by the change in him. He’s vulnerable and uneasy. He isn’t the tough, merciless person I’m used to having around. Those drugs were really transforming him. I marvel at how fragile our personalities must be if all it takes to change them is a little pill. Are we really the person we think we are? Bruce puts his arm around my shoulders. ‘Well, isn’t that just the pits?’

I’m startled by his presence. ‘What’s that?’

‘Your mother’s out screwing around and your father’s cutting himself up over what an arse-wipe he’s been!’

‘Well, it’s better late than never. He
has
been an arse-wipe.’

‘Yeah, but it sucks the way this has come about. The timing is completely wrong. He shouldn’t be coming down that hard on himself while his wife is acting like a whore and his father is dying in hospital.’

‘He’s not dying, Bruce. He’s in a “serious, but stable condition.”’ I’m dumbstruck by everything. My brain hurts from thinking. Too many things have happened in too short a space of time.

‘We’ve got to do something, Stan. This is all fucked up. Everything’s off balance and it needs to be set straight again. Don’t you feel that fate is dealing us a hand here?’

I look Bruce right in the eye and I realise that I detest him. He thrives on people’s misery. He thrives on
my
misery. He loves it. He wants to fuck things up. He wants to get even. He wants to hurt someone. He wants to hurt Father Ryan
and
my mother. How does someone hate so much? He’s screwed in the head. He should be the one on antidepressants. If I don’t stand up to him soon, he’ll be forcing me to do something that I don’t want to do. And it’s not going to be something mild, it will be something nasty that could put
me
in gaol.

‘And what would you know about fate, Bruce? You’re not even real! I could get rid of you like that!’ I click my fingers in his face. ‘How would you like that? You’re always banging on about taking revenge. It’s not normal, Bruce. You’re sick!’ I glare at Bruce and stand my ground.

Bruce returns my glare and comes closer until his face is right in front of mine and his eyes are level with my own. ‘You jumped up little shithead! How dare you threaten me like that! After everything I’ve done for you! Don’t you dare threaten me again, Stan. You don’t know what the consequences will be, do you? You have no fucking idea! Well, if I were you, I’d pull that head of yours in while you’ve still got one. Heads are precious things, Stan. Heads are very precious things.’ He holds my head between his hands. He holds it gently, which is really unsettling. ‘Now. You apologise and I’ll pretend that this never happened.’

‘Sorry.’ I say it softly. I don’t want to apologise. He doesn’t deserve an apology.

‘I didn’t hear that.’ Now he applies some pressure.

‘Sorry.’ I say it louder this time.

‘Hmmm?’ He applies more pressure.