Seven Types of Ambiguity

  We had two gifts for him, which we said were from both of us, but that was belied by the dissimilarity of the gifts, a dissimilarity that was a reflection both of the difference between his parents and of the fact that they had nothing in common anymore but him. I had spent a lot of time researching the market for the dream toy of a seven-year-old boy and finally settled on the Capsela 200, a motorized science construction kit with ballast, flippers, and seventy-two interlocking parts. You could see the gears work and you could add to it as he got older. I would have loved something like that as a kid. We took it outside the next night, set some of it up, and watched the flippers splash in the pool. For over half an hour my little boy tried to hide the fact that he didn’t really like it. Even Anna seemed moved by his valiantly but thinly disguised lack of interest. She had gotten him an exotic aquarium. In the weeks that followed, he would just stare at it, silently, the life in him having been stolen.

  About nine weeks had elapsed since Simon Heywood had taken Sam. The new issue had started to sell well after it was leaked that Sheere had bought in heavily. Everything Sid Graeme had planned was working. It was Friday night, and we had just had the traditional Friday-night drinks at the firm. The next day we were going on the corporate retreat. At work, Mitch and I were favorite sons, men of the hour, for an hour. At home I was a widower. I had drunk too much again, stayed too long, eaten corn chips and salsa instead of dinner. There was no one home.

  Anna had taken Sam to her parents’ place. She was there for dinner but he was spending the night with his grandparents, his Nonna and his Nonno, or whatever the Italian is for grandmother and grandfather. I went up to his bedroom and watched the fish. I lay on his bed. How did we make him so sad? Anna said he had been frightened by the television bear at his birthday party. She had had to get the bear alone with the two of them upstairs in our bedroom so that Sam could see the person inside the bear costume. There was a time when that would not have happened. There was a time when all his classmates would have come to his party. What had happened with him and Simon Heywood? What kind of person takes a child?

  Simon Heywood. I don’t think I ever met him, Anna was wrong about that. The paper said he was a teacher, an out-of-work teacher, but he was not a teacher yet when Anna was with him, when she was with him publicly. She will be with him publicly again when he tells a jury about their relationship. There will be an artist’s impression of him in the paper and photographs of Anna and me leaving court. I thought of the photographer.

  Some nights I can’t bear to be so alone. This was one of them. You get to a certain age and you realize that you have been spending your working years on life support being transfused against loneliness and only pretending to be alive. And except for the occasional tabloid photographer, nobody is really looking as you get into your car, into your fabulous car, already too drunk to drive, and you drive to a bar where no one knows you, so that you can listen in on the other people who don’t have to be there alone. All this can happen in your hometown. It can happen to anyone.

  I don’t know why, but I picked up the cellophane bag of hard candy my mother had brought Sam the day after he was taken and I put it in my pocket. Still in my shirt and tie, I put my jacket back on and got into the car. I pulled out of the driveway, aware that my wife’s lover, Simon Heywood, was in prison. Now there was an opening line with which to strike up a conversation with a stranger in a bar. But I was content just to watch and listen and drink, for a while anyway. I had had a few beers when my cell phone rang in my pocket. I almost didn’t hear it and when I did I thought it was someone else’s phone, and when I realized that it was mine, I almost let it go. It could only be Anna, and what was she going to tell me? That she hasn’t seen him in nine or ten years?

  “Hello, Joe?”

  It was a man’s voice. It was Sheere.

  “Joe, we’ve got problems.”

  “Donald?” I could barely hear him.

  “I’ve just had some disturbing news, Joe.”

  I left my drink and went outside to try to hear him better.

  “It’s that psychiatrist, Joe.”

  “Psychiatrist?”

  “Alex Klima. I’ve just been told he has a letter in tomorrow’s paper attacking managed care. He says . . . I’ve been faxed a copy . . . he says, ‘Managed care is a cynical system of health care which treats health like any other commodity. It sets up administrative and bureaucratic structures to control the provision of medical and hospital services in a way that ensures profits for the insurers and private hospitals, usually to the detriment of the patients’ health.’ How do you like them apples?”

  “I don’t. But I wouldn’t worry about it. This guy, Klima, he always says that. He’s been railing against it for years. Nobody listens to him.”

  “They will this time. He’s let the cat out of the bag, Joe. He goes on to say he has it on the authority of an opposition senator that their caucus intends, contrary to declared party policy, to support the passage of the managed-care bill in the Senate.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Precisely. There is a lot of hostility to managed care among opposition supporters and party members, you know, they’re pro–welfare state and anti-business, and this disclosure will give them the opportunity to force the parliamentary wing to back off. Joe, the managed-care bill isn’t going to get through.”

  “You don’t know that—”

  “Listen to me, Joe. First thing on Monday I want out of Health National.”

  “Now, wait a minute. Don’t you think—”

  “Sell it all, Joe. It’s over. The opposition won’t pass it now.”

  “You can’t be sure.”

  “I can’t risk it. Get me off the Titanic.”

  “But it’s only one letter. Who’s ever heard of this Alex Klima? It’s all decided by the New South Wales right. They never upset the market. You know that. This managed care . . . it’s inevitable. They’ll pass it.”

  “They probably will pass it eventually, Joe, but not this session. I won’t risk it. You’ll get me out first thing Monday. Tell Graeme it was nothing personal. Joe . . . Joe? Are you there? I’m serious. This is an instruction. Sell it all, as fast as you can.”

  “That’s not so easy. You know we can’t sell them till the Stock Exchange grants quotation to the new issue.”

  “I don’t care about the technicalities, Joe. Just sell them. Call up one of the banks and borrow an equal number of tradable Health National shares and sell them on the market first thing Monday.”

  Sheere was right of course. The way around the problem was to borrow an equal number of quoted and therefore immediately saleable shares from a financial institution such as the trustee company of a bank, and then sell these. In return, the bank would get an equal number of the newly issued shares which, while not immediately tradable, become tradable once the issue is granted quotation, plus a fee.

  The trouble was that the market would become aware that a large number of Health National shares was being sold, and on Sheere’s behalf. Their market price would plummet, and the new issue would be undersubscribed. And our firm, as the underwriters, would have to take up the shortfall at a considerable loss. I had to get hold of Mitch. If we didn’t do something, we were dead. We were Laffenden.

  “How did you get hold of the letter, if you don’t mind my asking?” Despite the shock, I had to know, not that I didn’t already have a pretty good idea.

  “I’ve had someone watching the whole thing, a watching brief you might call it.”

  “Someone from the paper called you?”

  “No, no, no. I got a call from Buchanan. He just faxed me the letter a few minutes ago.”

  21. I tried Mitch at home, but there was no answer. Was there a way out of this? We had till Monday morning to change Sheere’s mind. I couldn’t think clearly. This was a nightmare coming to me live, via a cell phone, in a bar in St. Kilda. I sat there just staring at the phone in my hand. Some kid came up to me and asked for
money.

  “Get a fucking job.”

  He picked a bad time; he could not have picked a worse time. This was a very bad time. The firm had underwritten the issue. Sheere had to change his mind. We had to change his mind. The firm’s corporate retreat was tomorrow. We had to keep this from Gorman. I tried Mitch again. Still no answer. Buchanan. Buchanan was hanging on to my right hand. In one of my pockets I felt the bag of candy. I couldn’t get rid of them. My parents are in me, in me and in Roger. No one ever had a watching brief for us. The ones with the real money, if we didn’t work for them, they ignored us. And if we worked for them and stumbled, they abandoned us.

  There was a person who didn’t ignore me, who used to listen to me, but you abandoned me too. I got in the car without knowing where to go. I thought of Mitch, but I didn’t have his address. The phone rang while I was driving. I didn’t know whether to take it. This had to be Anna. I couldn’t have her preaching, not then. Again I almost let it go, but I didn’t. Perhaps it was Sheere. He could have had second thoughts.

  “Joseph Geraghty?”

  Another male voice, not Sheere’s this time, was trying to cut through the swathe of cloudy, half-formed thoughts that fired randomly behind my eyes in the dark of the night, bleeding, coagulating, just short of ideas capable of being articulated.

  “This is Joe Geraghty. Who is this?”

  It was the police.

  “You’re calling now? You’re calling me now?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Geraghty, but we thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.”

  “What?”

  “Your mother was found in a distressed state about half an hour ago pacing up and down on a traffic island on the Nepean Highway.”

  “Oh fuck!”

  “She’s all right.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “We took her home. She was very confused. We asked her if there was anyone we should call and she said she had two children in Melbourne, you and your brother, Roger. We couldn’t reach him, so we thought we’d better call you. Does she have any history of senility or mental illness of any kind? She kept singing.”

  “Singing?”

  “Something about Jesus, I think. Mr. Geraghty? Hello? You’re breaking up.”

  The police thought it was something about Jesus. Blessed are the meek, Mum, for they shall inherit the earth, including the Nepean Highway. For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever, Amen. What a friend she has in Jesus. I found myself shouting this from inside my car. The man driving the car alongside mine stared at me. She has the gift of faith, a gift which has always eluded me. My dad and I, we had mixed feelings about Him. She had wanted me to be a priest but to me, even as a kid, the one universal truth about Christ was that He always stuck to the roof of your mouth.

  So, when you think about it, where was I going to go? Where else but here? What a friend I have in you. Angels came and ministered unto me, right? You were the only one who could possibly answer any of my questions. It had been a little over two months. The son of man hath nowhere to lay his head. Did you think I wouldn’t be back? Forgive and forget? Surely you knew me better than that? Didn’t you think I would want to get to the bottom of this? How many times did you betray me before the cock crowed?

  The woman at reception did not miss a beat. It was nice to see me again. I asked for you and told her I wanted to meet you in the room. When you got there, I had my shirt off but my pants and shoes were still on and I kept them on. Weren’t you surprised to see me? You were frightened. I saw you look at the door. I saw you look at the intercom. How could you not trust me after all this time?

  “Joe!”

  22. Even afraid, you are mouth-watering. So round with youth, your eyes, your mouth, your breasts, your soft cushioning cheeks. Nothing weird, I just want to talk while we do it. I want to tell you what it feels like when you can’t find your son, when you run around an empty school yard shouting his name. You didn’t know I’d already lost one son. I’ve got so many questions for you. Have you seen him lately? Do you visit him in prison? Which one is it? No, you take it all off. I’m going to keep my pants on. It’s the way I want it just now. Tell me about him and Anna. We’ve been having some communication problems lately. Don’t look like that. You’ve been in more bizarre situations than this. Yes, I’ve been drinking, but you’ll get paid. That’s on top of the thirty pieces of silver from him. Don’t you love my son? I always told you he was cute. On your front, please, ass in the air. I haven’t been so happy lately, you know. Face down on the pillow, that’s the way. There’s a guy I met, Buchanan. You’d like him. Face down. Good girl. Buchanan’s got this incredible handshake. He doesn’t let go. He’s still got one of my hands. So perfectly round. I’d forgotten how perfect it is. He’s got one of my hands. The other, in my pocket, will have to do. Isn’t it written that when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth? Here’s a little something for your trouble. Rolled up it will fit perfectly. It’s only what I owe you. Things are a little rough for everybody right now. See, fits perfectly. Surprised? I can see your face in the mirror.

  Now you can imagine how I felt.

  part

  three

  1. “Surprise! Isn’t this a surprise? It’s me.”

  He had been drinking. He was stripped to his waist and I could smell the alcohol on his breath as soon as I entered the room.

  “Have you missed me?” he continued.

  I didn’t know how to play it. Who would know how to play a situation like this, as it’s happening?

  “Did you think I wouldn’t be back? The son of man hath nowhere to lay his head. Did you think I would just let this go? Surely you know me better than that? How many times did you betray me before the cock crowed?”

  “Hey, stranger. Good to see you.”

  Of course I didn’t expect him to really believe that I was pleased to see him. I just had no idea what to say.

  “Nothing weird. I just want to talk. I just want to talk . . . while we do it.”

  But it was weird. The whole situation was weird. It was frightening, surreal from the moment I saw that it was him. I have been in many difficult, even potentially threatening, situations before but this was unlike anything I had ever faced or ever imagined facing. I had never given a moment’s thought to what must have gone through Joe’s mind once Sam was safely home and he knew that Simon, the man who had taken his son, was his wife’s ex-boyfriend and the current lover of the woman he had been seeing for so long. Because I was only ever thinking of Simon, I never considered what must have gone through Joe’s mind about us, about me and Joe.

  “I felt like feeling you. All of a sudden that’s what I felt like.”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “I felt like . . . I want you to feel . . . I want to tell you what it feels like when you can’t find your son, when you run around an empty school yard shouting his name. You didn’t know I’d already lost one son. Did you know that?”

  “Joe!”

  “I have so many questions. Do you visit him?”

  “Who?”

  “Have you seen him lately? Do you visit the prison? Which one is it, anyway? I’m going to keep my pants on, if that’s all right.”

  “Are you okay, Joe?”

  “Oh yeah, I’m okay. It’s just . . . that’s just the way I want it now. Tell me about her.”

  “Who?”

  “You know who I mean.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  His eyes took hold of me. He looked unwell.

  “Tell me about my wife.”

  “Joe, do you want to sit down? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Tell me about Anna.” It was a shouted demand.

  “Joe, I don’t think—”

  “Tell me about her. Tell me about my wife. We’ve been having some . . . communication problems lately.”

  “Joe, what do you want? You’re unhappy.”

  I picked up his
shirt from the floor, but he shook his head.

  “Leave it . . . but you . . . take it all off.”

  We were never what anyone would call “friends.” The girls are always talking about whether it’s even possible for a client to really be a friend. If a man speaks nicely to you, if he is gentle to you, if he tips big, showers you with gifts, and offers you stock market advice—within the walls of a brothel it is all done around the sex that he is paying for. The sex takes place entirely for his pleasure and any beneficence on his part is only an accompanying fetish. Part of his titillation is having an attractive woman think that he’s kind. Her gratitude turns him on. Gratitude will have this effect on most men. Some don’t have the stamina to earn it on the outside. These men get a simulated version for an hour if they pay. I’ve discussed this with Alex, a psychiatrist friend of mine. He didn’t disagree.

  As fetishes go, it’s the one we wish for and we encourage it by exaggerating our gratitude and “friendship.” But Joe and I, we were almost friends. I thought he wasn’t such a bad guy. He could even make me laugh. The first time that happened he stopped what he was doing and looked at me in amazement. I can fake a lot of things, but not laughter. I eventually got it out of him, the explanation for that look of amazement. Why should he look at me like that just because he had made me laugh? His wife didn’t laugh anymore. That was why. He could not remember the last time he had made his wife laugh. A little thing perhaps, but Alex says I might be better placed to gain access to a man’s unconscious than he is, with all his psychiatric training. He’s told me to watch for the little things. People tell you more than they think they are telling you. Simon wanted me to do that too, to watch for the little things, at least he did with Joe, the man who could not make his wife laugh. The woman Simon describes and the woman Joe could not make laugh were not the same woman, different in every respect except that she had sent them both to me.