Perfect Skin (32 page)

He looks at her as though she must now understand. There's clapping from a nearby table – people who were at the reading – and Oscar gives a nod their way, turns his napkined hand to a small but majestic wave. From most other tables there's silence, and staring.

George clears his throat, leans forward.
What I think Oscar's saying
–
I don't mean to butt in here, Oscar, but sometimes, as you've said, your work's a little elusive – is that there is something very innocent about Pac Man, at least about the player's role. You chug around munching, engulfing the, um
. . .

Golden globes of possibility.

And you confront these very finite nasties along the way.

But isn't that just promoting consumption?
Ash says.
The fact that you're rewarded for eating the yellow dots?

No. It's not a commodity, you see,
Oscar explains.
It's a kind of life force.

But doesn't evil triumph in the end? Don't you always, like, get munched, or something?

In the end, yes, but the struggle is heroic. And the ultimate victory over evil will only come through such sacrifice. But maybe, at another level, it's also nature, a
cycle. And it doesn't end. The globes give life to the Pac Man, the Pac Man gives life to the other creatures. And when it's all done, you can press Start again. There's a lot to find in there. Big, enduring issues. But this millennium, it makes us hurry. From another perspective, as you heard earlier, Pac Man is like
Star Wars . . .

And here are the entrees,
George says.
The food perspective.

Oscar takes a spring roll and taps it against the side of his bowl.
And the government, for this work it gives me money. It recognises the importance.

And you let that man laser people?
Ash says, when we're back in the car.

He's very metaphorical, isn't he? That side doesn't come out at work. At work he's a quiet man, interested in small things.

You never know what people have got going on beneath the surface.

Until you give them a
Mikado
costume and a bit of encouragement.

She laughs, and puts the Lemonheads back in the CD player.

Different song.
She cues up ‘Outdoor Type', sings along with the first two lines in a way that seems to constitute a threat to go the distance.

There's five bucks in my wallet. It's yours if you stop.

Don't you like it? I can't believe you liked that poetry, but you don't like my singing.

Your singing's very . . . enthusiastic.

I'm sure it's more than that.
Go
on.

It's powerful. Political, shimmery, stop me when you
find one you like. Your singing doesn't have anything to do with Pac Man. I appreciate that, a lot.

Okay, I believe the last one.

I just thought a little quiet time wouldn't be bad. Nothing to do with your singing. Oscar's a bit of an assault on the senses, when he gets going.

I think that's what he's trying for.

Who knows? I've got no idea what he's trying for. You have to realise tonight's not indicative of what goes on in my life.

I think I'm aware of that.
We pull up at a red light halfway along Coronation Drive.
And quiet time wouldn't be bad. I must have eaten too much. I'm not feeling very well. Are you okay?

I'm fine.

Maybe it's not dinner, then. Maybe it's the six bananas I had for breakfast and the four I had for lunch.

Maybe we should get you some food.

I liked the bananas. I'm sure I'll be fine.

She doesn't look well. She's starting to look pale under the streetlights. Not that they flatter anybody, but she doesn't look the way she usually does.

We park at her house and she leans over to me, puts her arms around me and hugs me and says,
Thanks for tonight.

Ash, that was surely some of the worst poetry you've ever heard.

Definitely. But it gives me a clear idea of one thing I don't want to be. If I ever start hanging round op shops looking for
Mikado
costumes, you will shoot me, won't you?

I promise I'll at least pay for the therapy, however long it takes.

She smiles. The CD has randomly picked ‘Into Your Arms', and I stop myself on the brink of humming, or singing along. Since she's at close range, I think it was going to be humming.

Might see you tomorrow then.

Yeah. Actually, Lily's at my parents' tonight, so we could run, if you want, before I pick her up in the morning. Maybe eight or eight-thirty.

Good.
And the streetlight shines in at an angle, catches her left cheek and her mouth. She's still half-turned towards me.
Eight or eight-thirty then,
she says, just when I think she's about to say more than that.

Yeah.

And what happens if I move now? What happens? Nothing. I don't move. It's been so long since I've known how to read this kind of situation, so long since I had any idea what to do, that I don't move.

Not before she says,
Okay,
and by then it's too late.
Well, I'll see you.

She turns and the seat leather creaks, and she opens the door and goes. Steps out into the light, into the warm night air. And she's through her front gate, halfway along the path, when she pulls her keys out of her bag and turns to wave.

I'm reaching out across the bed, most of the way to the other side. It's not long after dawn, and something has hit the front steps with a thump. That's what's woken me. Since it's a Lily-sized thump, that's what it becomes in the next dream. The Bean, tumbling down onto the first of too many steps, falling under my feet.

There's no point in trying to sleep after that. I need to show myself she's not here. I need to show myself it's not her.

Her room is empty, as it's supposed to be, and on the step there's a kilo of tea. Halliday Tea. Much smaller than the Bean. She's never weighed a kilo.

It's vacuum-sealed, like a large, light brick.

I don't understand last night, the end of last night. All of last night, but it's acceptable not to understand the Oscar part. But what happened at the end? I don't even know what kind of situation it was. If it was a situation.

That's all I can think of as I turn the block of tea over in my hands and see the label, the sketch of a homestead, the description of the blend. It's Ash's voice I hear when I read it. Ash's voice turned to advertising, with gusto and a hint of irony that almost no-one will get.

Last night I didn't want to leave her. I didn't want to
watch her run off up the path, and then drive home. Which doesn't mean I'm sure of what I did want, but I didn't want the night to end then. I wanted to take hold of her, tell her she meant something. I don't want her to struggle with money and loneliness. I don't, but that's only one side of it. One small part, and the rest of it's less valiant and much more about me. I wanted to cross those last few inches between us, but I froze. I'm not sure what I was waiting for, if I was expecting some kind of sign. I don't know what to do any more. It's been so long.

But I never knew what to do, from the night of my school formal on. Who am I trying to kid? What do you do? Eighty per cent of what you're going in with is the hope that you won't look like an idiot, whatever the outcome. That's the dominant feeling in that instant and, until the need to make the move becomes greater, becomes compelling, nothing can happen. The instant passes, to the catalogue of missed opportunities.

I take the tea to the car and I drive to Ash's in my running gear.

She's waiting at her door, but her shoes are off and she says,
I really don't know that I'm up to it today.

Is it more of what was wrong with you last night?

Yeah.

Do you think you should do something about it? What do you think it is?

She swings her shoes by the laces, and they seem too big for her. She's not looking the way she usually does. She looks younger, delicate rather than compact.

Preservatives in last night's dinner, maybe? I've always been a bit allergic to MSG. So, why don't you run without me?

No, it's okay.

Well, do you want a drink or anything?

That'd be good, thanks. Hey, I've got something in the car. I'll be back in a sec. Do you want to put the kettle on?

Oh. Okay,
she says, and smiles for the first time today, like someone with a surprise to prepare for.

I go down to the car to fetch the tea, and come back into the house holding it behind my back. She's getting two mugs out of a low cupboard, and she stands and turns. I show her the packet, and there's surprise on her face, but not the look I'd expected. Not the mild pleasure of recognising something familiar.

Where did you get that?

I thought you might like it. Something from home.

But I left home.
And she says it as though there's something wrong, as though I've done something wrong.

Oh. I ordered it on the Internet a couple of days ago. From the web site.

Oh
. . .
Thanks. It's a really nice thought. Let's have some. And
I
can tell you more about the taxonomy of biscuits.

I'd like that.

She laughs at herself.
I'm sorry. I've never been caught off-guard by a tea packet before. I was just dizzy standing up quickly
–
you know the way it goes
–
and things were looking a bit wobbly, and suddenly there was this tea from home. When I least expected it.

The glories of the Internet.

Yeah.

That stuff on the box . . .

The text? The young leaves picked for maximum tenderness'? ‘Shrouded in Tableland mists'? That's mine. Mainly mine.

I thought so. Shrouded in Tableland mists. Very persuasive. Very mysterious.

Exotic?

Definitely exotic. I could end up drinking a lot of this tea.

Well, it was blended to be your everyday tea,
so
that would be okay. The best and most exotic everyday tea, of course.
She opens the packet, holds it up to her face and takes in the aroma of the leaves.
I nearly drove off the road in one of those damn mists once, I was
so
shrouded. But let's have some. If only I had a connoisseur's array of biscuits to complement it.

Or even food for your own breakfast, I'm thinking, as I'm on my way to my parents' later.

She had some sugar, a carton of milk and some Vegemite. Not much else. So it's no wonder she's not feeling well, and dizzy when she stands up quickly. It was hard not to get parental, force money on her. But everything sensible that came to mind sounded like some kind of telling off, and finally all I could say was, You have enough Coles Myer shares for a discount card, but you can't buy a loaf of bread?

And she said,
It's a temporary cash-flow problem. It's the deal I've got going with my family. I get the computer. I get the bomby car, but with four new tyres. I get the junior share portfolio
so
I can learn about being grown up, but for the day-to-day stuff I fend for myself. I'm on at Bagelos at ten today, and I'll scrounge something there.
And she sounded almost proud about it.
And then I'll get paid and everything'll be fine.

So I left when we'd finished the tea, feeling I'd been told that her empty fridge might not be my business. And worrying about her not eating, missing home and not eating. Or just not eating. Trying to think back to my time in psych and remember everything I know about eating disorders. But I don't think that's her. And maybe I shouldn't be over-analysing someone's interest in self-sufficiency.

And I don't want to be parental. I've already got someone I can be parental with. The best I could do was make sure she'd come round to dinner and let me cook for her again.

How was the poetry?
my mother asks, when I get there. But she does it with the look of comic wariness that I'd expect.

You know how it was. You know Oscar's poetry. Give me two fans, a
Mikado
costume and a lot of spit and I could show you the latest.

Wonderful. Knew he wouldn't let you down. What does it all mean, though?

Almost anything if you listen to him explain it for long enough.

I gave your father a copy of Oscar's last book, and
I
don't think he understood it at all.

And for once we'd agree completely, I tell her. I can't even imagine him reading it. Poor man. Page after page, waiting for Inspector Morse to walk in and the whole thing to start to make sense.

He knows some poetry.

He can recite the chunks of Tennyson they forced him to learn at school.

Tennyson?
my father's voice says, as he emerges from his study with the Bean in his arms, and he zips right into the first couple of stanzas of one of the Crimean War poems, turning it into a comical horse ride, and the Bean cackles and grabs what's left of his hair, pulling it till his eyes water.
Oh don't, love,
he says, wincing and gently unfolding her fingers.
I'm just an old cart horse, really. I was only pretending.

Ash turns up at four-thirty, and tells me she feels better after a day in airconditioning and a few bagels. She says she's up to walking, so we load Lily and Elvis into the car and drive to the river bank at uni.

She's quieter than usual, so, as we walk, I find myself lapsing into the baby commentary, naming the obvious out of habit, helping the Bean towards memory.