The Turning

  Just me, said Fay.

  Her face was little more than a white dab in the gloom.

  Fay, he murmured.

  Didn’t mean to startle anybody.

  That’s okay.

  First ciggie I’ve ever smoked on your mum’s verandah, that’s for sure.

  Dyson found the lock and opened the house. He hesitated a moment before switching on the porchlight and when he did Fay seemed to cringe beneath it. Her face was pale, her hair without lustre.

  It’s getting chilly, he said. You’d better come in.

  I can’t stay.

  No. Fair enough.

  Dyson tried to understand what he was feeling. It was so strange to see her again. She blew smoke from the side of her mouth, the way she always had, and tossed the butt out into the yard.

  This is your little boy.

  Ricky, said Dyson.

  Your dad and me, Fay said with an attempt at brightness. We went to school together.

  Ricky licked his lips. Dyson ushered him inside toward the bathroom and stood in the doorway.

  Mum told me about your wife.

  Oh, he asked, startled. She did?

  I’m sorry to hear it.

  Well.

  And she told you about me, I imagine.

  A bit. She didn’t elaborate. I met Sky.

  Isn’t she great?

  Yeah. She looks like you.

  So Mum didn’t give you the gory details.

  No.

  God bless her.

  Well, he said. She’s a trouper.

  Dyson tried to look past Fay to the harbour lights and the navy sky still tinted by the vanished sun, but even thin and wan as she was in the unflattering light, she had a compelling presence. The cargo pants and jumper hung off her and her lips were chapped. She seemed wrung out, chastened, even. Yet she took up all the available space out there on the verandah.

  For some reason I wanted to tell you myself, she said looking him straight in the face, her arms folded across her breasts. Once I found out you were home I had to explain myself. We go back so far, you and me. I didn’t want you finding out from someone else.

  Sure, he said uncertainly.

  Funny, you know. I’ve had to give up worrying about what people think anymore. Burnt all the bridges. But with you . . . it’s different.

  It shouldn’t be. Fay, we don’t even know each other. I don’t mean to be . . . but we were kids.

  And here you are.

  Dyson folded his arms.

  I was in rehab, Pete. I’m six months clean.

  That’s good. That’s great.

  I fucked up. Been fuckin up for years.

  You don’t have to talk about this, Dyson said, hearing water purl into the bath up the hallway.

  But I want to. Maybe you don’t wanna hear it.

  I’ve got Ricky to get through the bath, he said. The hot water.

  Yeah.

  Maybe you’d better come in?

  No. It’s alright.

  Can . . . can I do anything for you?

  Like, why am I here? she said with a wry smile, eyes glittering.

  It’s just that I’m not that steady yet, myself. You know? I don’t know what I can offer you.

  I need a friend, that’s all.

  Dyson sighed, torn.

  I know it’ll be hard to trust me.

  Fay.

  I’m supposed to seek out good people. But it’s alright. I understand. I’ll see you.

  Chilled and miserable, he let her walk down into the dark while behind him water pounded into the bath. He hadn’t even let her tell him what it was that she was addicted to; he didn’t even offer her that kindness. But how could he tell her that he wasn’t as uncomplicatedly good as she imagined? How could he be honest with her and say that he was afraid of her and afraid of his own reactions, frightened of lapsing into old habits? Self-preservation – did it ever feel anything but ugly?

  He pushed the door to and switched off the porchlight.

  In the morning, bleary and unrested, he came upon Fay outside the school gate. He supposed that for a while at least such meetings would be inevitable. And then one day she’d be gone again. The sky hung low and dark. There was a bitter wind from the south. Fay wore a huge stretched jumper that looked like one of Don’s and she hugged herself as she turned to him.

  Haven’t done that for a while, she murmured.

  Bring her to school?

  I think she was embarrassed.

  Ah.

  Hurts, she said fishing out a fag. But I spose I deserve it.

  Dyson walked uphill, careful not to hurry, and she fell into step beside him.

  Sorry about last night.

  Well, he murmured. Me too.

  Out over the sea a storm brewed. The air in its path felt pure and steely. Dyson couldn’t help feel that Fay’s cigarette was an offence against such clarity. In even thinking it he was, he knew, his mother’s son, but that did not make it less true.

  How’s your folks? he asked.

  Good. But I don’t know how long I can live with them. They want me to stay a while but nobody’s naming dates. I’m kind of on probation with Sky. And with them, I spose. They won’t give her up easily. Not that I blame them. They’ve been good to me. Dad used to drive three hundred miles every fortnight to visit me in rehab. They’ve been great, you know, but I think I’ll go mad if I stay too long.

  Where would you go? he asked.

  Oh, I’ll stay in town. Rent somewhere close so they can all see each other. Sky needs them now. She knows I’m a fuck-up so she’ll need reassurance. I have fantasies about a little house on one of those old dairy farms out along the coast. Something clear and clean, somewhere I can start again from scratch. You know what I mean?

  Yeah, he said. I do.

  But there’s nowhere you can really do that. Everywhere you go there’ll be some link. A bit of history. Anyway, I’m broke. Need a job but still feel a bit too ginger to cope with the stress.

  I understand.

  But in the meantime I’m going nuts. Jesus, I thought rehab was tough. I’ve got Mum watching me like a hawk and Sky expecting me to piss off at any moment. And the old man desperately trying not to spew out all his resentment and scare me off.

  I spose it’ll take time.

  She sniffed angrily. Yeah. Time.

  They came to his street and paused a moment.

  You ever see any of the old crew? she said.

  No, he murmured. To be honest I can hardly remember anybody else.

  Scary.

  He shrugged.

  Well, she said. I’ll leave you alone. Don’t worry.

  Dyson arranged his mouth to speak but found nothing to say.

  Looks like I’m still trouble, she murmured. For you at least.

  Did he imagine it or was there really a tiny twist of satisfaction to Fay’s mouth as she said this, a thread of pride in knowing that she had a lingering influence over him?

  He mumbled goodbye and walked home in the same turmoil that he’d stewed in all night. How could you help someone like Fay? How could you trust her? If it wasn’t the drugs it was the old thrill of the power that she wielded. He just wasn’t strong or confident enough to battle it right now. Wasn’t his first responsibility to Ricky, to his own sanity? He had his own problems to deal with. Yet he felt like such a bloodless bastard and so disloyal to Don and Marjorie after all their years of kindness. He’d all but grown up in their home and here he was refusing to help their daughter. And that poor, wary little girl. How could he live with himself?

  Rain fell all day. He sat inside with a fire burning, the household chores mounting up around him. It was the kind of day you could feel descending upon you, when you drag everything out and hash it over once again despite yourself. When you looked back at Sophie and the pregnancy, wondering what signs you missed. The precious time it cost after the birth before you realized something was badly wrong, before you finally spoke, acted, asked. And the dozens of ti
mes when you didn’t hear, when you reacted clumsily, said and did the wrong thing. The drowning weight of it.

  There were times, even while she was alive, when Dyson questioned his attraction to Sophie. They met in his early years of teaching. She was a physiotherapist with dark, short hair and green eyes. Any stranger could take a look at Ricky and see what Dyson had seen in his mother. They shared the same smooth, olive skin and vanilla scent. Sophie exuded a seriousness of purpose that some people thought solemn. He loved her calm trust and the simple delight that lit up her face. Once, even before she got sick and everything began to seem forced and provisional, he allowed himself the bitter possibility that he may have fallen in love with Sophie from sheer relief that she wasn’t Fay Keenan. Because when they met he was still raw. And there Sophie was, pretty, considered, dependable, a sanctuary from the narcissistic and mercurial. He did love her. But it gnawed at him then, as now, that he might have loved the safety of her above all else. Maybe she knew it all along. It was a nasty thought, because if she did then he could not truly console himself with the doctors’ talk of chemical imbalance and postnatal depression. She would have had plenty to be miserable about, and he would have to wear some blame for her misery and maybe even her death. Even the weak are cruel in their way. You couldn’t cling to victimhood all your life.

  The fire was so bright in the hearth that even at the brink of despair he found himself finally and mercifully anaesthetized before it. As he sat there into the afternoon it sucked the air from the room and danced before him like a thought just out of reach.

  He woke to a banging at the door and when he staggered up from the couch Fay was at the window. He opened the door. Ricky stood looking up at him with frank curiosity.

  Rick. Hell. I fell asleep.

  So we see, said Fay wryly.

  Damn. But thanks for bringing him, Fay.

  I know the way, said Ricky.

  Yes, mate. Course you do.

  Dad, said the boy holding up a sheet of butcher’s paper. Look at my picture.

  Dyson took the crumpled painting and held it away from him to see it. Jacky’s Bridge! he said.

  Here’s me. Here’s you.

  Of course. And what about Jared?

  Aw, I forgot him.

  Dyson smiled. He looked up and saw Fay smiling too. Then he noticed Sky standing out on the steps in the drizzling rain.

  You’re all wet, he said. You better come in. Hey Rick, let’s get some towels.

  The fire was almost out but the house was still warm. Dyson towelled his son dry and watched Sky submit to the care of her mother. It was painful, the selfconsciousness of it. Outside the rain intensified, the day darkened.

  I can’t believe I slept through, he said.

  Things happen, said Fay.

  I’ll drive you home.

  No, it’s okay.

  It’s pouring.

  Fay shook her head.

  You’ll get drenched.

  There were tears in Fay’s eyes. Dyson stood there confounded.

  The kids wandered over to the kitchen window to see water spill from the iron tank outside.

  He’s got a cubbyhouse, said Sky over her shoulder in a tone of accusation.

  My Dad made it, said Ricky.

  Dyson removed the booster seat so Fay could sit in the front of the car beside him. He made sure the kids were buckled up before he eased them all out into the deluge.

  I had a blue with Dad, said Fay. He wanted to drive us, I wanted to walk. Well, I’d rather drive but I’ve lost my licence. Stupid, stupid.

  Spose you just want some independence.

  Life in a cleft stick, eh.

  Dyson drove them out toward the beach where little weatherboard cottages seemed to cower under the downpour.

  God, this rain.

  Thought you hated winter, she said. What a joke, coming back here, then.

  Over the tin roofs the sea was steely-smooth and the Norfolk Island pines rose like a stockade against the south.

  That painting, Fay said. That was our bridge, right?

  He nodded. They coasted in to the Keenans’ place.

  I won’t tell them, she murmured.

  Tell them what?

  That you slept through.

  Thanks for collecting him for me.

  Can’t have them thinking you left a child in the rain.

  Bye, Fay.

  Already Marjorie was on the porch unfurling an umbrella in preparation for their rescue. He could imagine old Don out there trolling the streets for them right now. He honked the horn as he pulled away.

  On Saturday morning Dyson drove out along the coast with a pair of binoculars to show Ricky the humpbacks coursing their way towards the tropics, and for a while they stood on a headland as a whale and her calf lolled in the clear, sunlit water at their feet. The boy was enchanted. Vapour and spray rose around them. The crash of tails whacking the surface resonated in their own skin and hair. They hooted like sportsfans until the show was over. Heading homeward, with Ricky still euphoric, Dyson thought about the whaling station, now a museum, on the outskirts of town. He figured he’d let that keep a while. For now the boy was alight with wonder. Why dash that excitement with cold, nasty history right at the outset?

  As they came back into town Ricky spotted the football oval and rose in his seat.

  Dad, can we kick the footy?

  The sun was out, there was a ball in the back of the car. Dyson wheeled them in to park beside the other cars around the boundary. A junior game was in recess so they dashed out to the western goal square and punted the ball up and back between the posts. While Ricky capered solemnly around the turf, Dyson took in the twelve-year-olds in their team huddles on the flank. Nothing had changed in thirty years – the coach’s harangue, the half-sucked orange quarters on the grass, the fat and hungover parents nursing their breakfast meatpie and fag.

  Dad, watch this! Frank Leaper snaps on goal!

  Ricky hooked the ball across his shoulder. The kick fell short but Dyson ushered it across the line.

  A car horn blared.

  Through! cried Ricky.

  Six points, Dyson said.

  The horn went again: shave-and-a-haircut-ten-cents. Dyson looked over. Don Keenan waved from the wheel of his ancient Holden.

  Out in the centre the umpire blew his whistle for the resumption of play and the teams straggled back out onto the park. Ricky whined and baulked at having to vacate the goal-square but Dyson herded him back to the sidelines. They drew up beside the old man’s car.

  Got a bit of a kick on him, said Don Keenan.

  How are you, Don?

  The old man shrugged. What doesn’t kill you makes you older. Know anythin about addiction?

  A few things, I spose, said Dyson leaning against the old HT as two boys flew for the bouncedown. The ball shied out to a solitary kid who was so stunned to have possession of it that he stood motionless until run down by the pack.

  Thanks for takin an interest in Fay. It means a lot to us.

  Dyson said nothing.

  We’re just about at our wits’ end, said Don. No parent should have to see the things I’ve seen.

  She’s trying, said Dyson.

  You got that right.

  The ball soared, spiralling into the sun.

  But we love her, said Don. You understand that, don’t you?

  Dyson said he did.

  Late Sunday night, when Ricky was long abed and the fire all but out, there was a gentle knock at the door.

  I’m sorry, Fay murmured. I just had to.

  He let her in and with her came the night chill. They sat by the hearth but he didn’t stoke the fire for fear of encouraging Fay to linger. She sat down in a quilted jacket, jeans and hiking boots and fingered the book he’d been reading. As she leant in toward the remains of the fire her hair crowded her face.

  Everything alright?

  She shook her head.

  He sighed. Want a cuppa?

  Yeah, sh
e said. Coffee.

  He went into the kitchen to fill the kettle. When he returned Fay was putting wood on the fire.

  I should have been at a meeting tonight, she said. I’ve skipped two in a row.

  So don’t miss the next one.

  There’s no one I can turn to, Pete. You’re it.

  Your parents know you’re here?

  Yeah. They’re freaking. When . . . when I get agitated and restless like this they think I’m gonna go out and score.

  And are you?

  I’m here aren’t I? Shit, they’re still searching my room and I’m thirty years old, for Chrissake. Least if I’m here they’ll relax. God, they’re ecstatic. You’re the Golden Boy. Dad even drove me, she said with a girlish laugh.

  He drove you here?

  So fucking sad.

  Dyson lowered himself into a chair and felt a new weight of fatigue on him.

  Tell me about your wife, she said.

  What kind of state are you in, Fay?

  Frazzled, she said. Teetering. So tell me about her.

  Dyson shook his head. Fay whistled through her teeth.

  What do you want from me? he asked.

  Respect, she said. No. Adoration. Shit, Pete, I just want a safe place to be. Someone trustworthy. I can trust you, can’t I?

  Fay pulled her knees up to her chin and in that single movement, with her hair down her arms and her eyes tilted up at him, she became an eerie ghost of her teenage self. Dyson got up and went back to the kitchen to make her coffee. He stood, shaken, at the stove. He turned a teaspoon over and over in his hand so that the light caught it.

  You didn’t answer me, Fay said in the doorway.

  I don’t know the answer.

  Can’t trust yourself, you mean.

  Jesus, Fay, what is it that you really want?

  I dunno, she said arching against the doorframe. Just now? Comfort, I spose. A few of the edges taken off. This fucking town – I shouldn’t have come back.

  So why did you?

  I want my kid.

  Dyson felt hemmed in now. He was revolted by her. He couldn’t help it. All that restless will, the cruelty of it made him sick.

  What are you thinking? she asked. Your face went black. What’re you thinking about me?

  Nothing, Fay.

  I used to be a prize once. I was a trophy and you had me.

  Let’s go and sit by the fire, he said. Here’s your coffee.