House of Sticks (21 page)

‘Well, will it?'

He moved his hand again, palm down, an erasing gesture. ‘Don't worry about it.'

She sat on the arm of the couch, fighting to keep her voice under control. ‘But what about Doug?' She ground her fingers into the couch fabric. ‘Don't you know where he is? Haven't you heard from him?'

‘No. I haven't.'

‘So he's just gone?' She felt the familiar irritated buzz start up. ‘He didn't say anything?'

Pete shrugged.

‘Does he know you didn't put the bet on?'

He shook his head.

‘He didn't call to find out?'

‘Nope.'

She leaned forward. ‘But wouldn't he want to, you know, celebrate together or whatever? If you'd won too?'

Pete sighed and sat up straight. ‘Guess not,' he said. ‘Every man for himself.'

‘But that's so unfair!' She stared at him. ‘He doesn't know if you put the bet on or not — he doesn't know whether or not you still need him in the workshop. He knows you've got this big job, that he'd be leaving you in the lurch.' She shook her head. ‘I can't believe someone would do that — to anyone, let alone a friend.'

Pete stood. ‘Whatever. It's done now.'

‘But don't you want to … I don't know, chase him up?'

Pete shrugged again.

‘I would. I'd be tracking him down and bloody well letting him know how much deep shit he's left me in. You can't just walk off a job like that. Fucking hell!'

Pete moved past her. ‘I'd better get out there,' he said. ‘Try to get some work done.'

They lay in bed, the yawning space unbreached between them. Bonnie looked at the clock. One a.m. She blinked and her eyes were scratchy with tiredness.

Pete spoke quietly, almost formally, out into the darkness. ‘I've got to get going early in the morning.'

‘Oh.' She heard the stiffness in her own voice, its matching stilted tone. ‘Okay then.'

‘Yeah. I've got to take a load of timber over to Glenn.'

There was a pause. Bonnie swallowed. She hated all this between them, the caution she had to apply to everything, every word, the landslide of guilt tilting in her chest. She gathered up her voice, forced it out. ‘Glenn?'

‘Yeah.' Pete shifted in the bed, further away from her. ‘You remember him.' As if her not remembering would be another example of her hopelessness, another failing.

She struggled to think, to remember, but nothing came. ‘Um, sorry …'

Pete took an impatient breath. ‘Glenn. He worked on the Juno job — you know, he's got a workshop in Footscray. Tall. Long hair. Does a lot of furniture from reclaimed wood.'

‘Oh right. Yeah. Okay.'

She felt the pulse and bristle of the gap between them. At last he went on, his voice flat now, contained. ‘Anyway, I'm subcontracting him. For the Grant job.'

‘Oh.' Bonnie felt paralysed, pinned under a suffocating slab of guilt and fatigue. She closed her eyes. All she wanted was to fall asleep. ‘Okay.'

‘Yeah, well, it's not really okay.' His words kept their even measure, but the flatness Bonnie now recognised as held-in anger. ‘I have to pay him three times what I was paying Doug. And even then he's not sure how much he can fit in — he's doing it as a favour to me.' He got up on one elbow and turned the pillow, thumped it back down. ‘I had to beg him.' He dropped back onto the pillow and rolled to face away from her.

She lay still. The effort of speaking felt enormous, even if she'd known what to say.

‘There's your holiday money,' said Pete. ‘Gone.'

‘And how's Pete?' said Suzanne at the swimming pool the next day.

‘Good.'

‘That feller still around?'

Bonnie didn't answer. She dug through the swimming bag for her goggles.

‘You should do something about that, darling.' Jess started to whinge, and Suzanne reached to the pram, gave it a tentative rock. She clicked her tongue. ‘You can't just stand back and hope these things will sort themselves out, you know.'

Jess's whingeing broke into a cry.

Bonnie folded her towel and put it on top of the bag.

‘Darling?' said Suzanne. ‘Don't you think?'

Bonnie turned and grabbed the handle of the pram, her hand beside Suzanne's. She jerked it, sideways, gave three big shoves. ‘Hard,' she said. ‘Like that.' Then she let go and walked to the water without looking back.

‘Mickey?'

‘Bonnie?' There was background noise — drums, someone clattering from tom-tom to snare and back.

‘Hi.'

‘Hi.' The drumming got louder, then receded. There was the sound of a door closing and then quiet. ‘That's better,' said Mickey. ‘Just at rehearsal. How you going?'

‘Oh, sorry. Is it a bad time?'

‘No, it's fine.'

‘You sure? I can call back.'

‘No, really, it's fine — we were just about to have lunch.'

Bonnie looked at the clock. It was half-past two. She turned away from the dishes piled in the sink. ‘Hey, I'm sorry about the other day,' she said. ‘I meant to call you back, but then I just, everything got …'

‘That's all right.'

‘… and I know I've missed out on the tour …'

‘Yeah. Sorry, Bon. I couldn't wait any longer.'

Bonnie swallowed. ‘But I was just thinking — you said something about that other show?'

Mickey laughed. ‘Oh yeah, the' — she put on a posh voice — ‘
showcase
. You want to do that one?'

‘What is it?' Bonnie perched on the edge of a stool. Outside, through the glass in the back door, Pete came around the corner and went towards the workshop.

‘Well, it's this weird arts festival thing — they're putting on a series of shows, called
Nights Underground
or something. As far as I can tell it's pretty much just a normal show.'

Bonnie watched Pete walk, head down, slow in his heavy work boots. The wind caught his hair and ruffled it forwards and the back of his neck showed, exposed. She had a sudden, awful vision of him having to answer to one of the unpaid suppliers — him making excuses, shuffling, cowed.

Mickey went on. ‘But it's really close to the tour, so I was going to say no, but then my booker said let's just ask for a ridiculous amount of money, what the hell, so we did, and they said yes. So looks like I'm doing it.'

‘Um,' said Bonnie, and she sounded strange in her own ears, shrunken and distant. ‘So, how much … how much could you pay me?'

There was a rustle and the click of a cigarette lighter, Mickey's intake of breath, then the exhale. ‘Not sure. Let me suss it out.'

Pete went into the workshop and closed the door. She kept her eyes on the greyish timber, the rusted hasp dangling.

‘All right?' said Mickey. ‘Bon?'

She imagined the door opening again, Pete and Doug emerging, coming up the steps to the kitchen. Doug talking, waving his arms, filling up the kitchen. Pete taking a seat at the table, glancing up at her, his face soft and open, his smile ready.

‘Bonnie? Hello?'

The faint noise of Pete's electric sander started up. ‘Sorry,' said Bonnie slowly. ‘That sounds' — she brought her gaze back inside the room, blinked, pushed the hair back from her face — ‘that sounds good.'

‘No probs.' The drums started up again in the background, and the rolling of a bass guitar. ‘I'll get back to you.'

Bonnie slipped off the stool and stood over the empty table. Pete's sander droned on like a faraway insect.

On Thursday night there was an email from Mickey.
Festival show
, said the subject line. Bonnie opened it, scanned down the lines for a number.
$3,800
. She blinked, checked again.
Flights, hotel and taxis covered
, read Mickey's message.
And I'll buy you dinner
. She looked away from the screen, up at the faded curtain. She'd never been offered so much for one show. She sat, breathing slowly, waiting, but nothing came, no thrill. She went back to the screen, searched for a date. Next Friday.

Bonnie shut down her mail and closed the computer. The house was silent. She ignored the heap of unsorted laundry on the couch, went to the door and switched off the light. Walked slowly past the children's darkened bedrooms to the kitchen. Through the back-door glass lines of brightness showed around the workshop doors. Bonnie filled a big saucepan with water and put it on the stovetop. She knelt, opened a cupboard and started searching for the breast pump.

When Pete came in she was just putting the sealed bag of milk in the freezer.

He stopped inside the doorway. There was a pause. She went on with her movements, her back to him, taking the pump apart, awkwardly, self-consciously.

‘Thought you'd be asleep,' he said at last.

‘No.' Bonnie watched her own clumsy hands lift the pieces of the pump into the sink and turn on the tap. ‘Had to do this.' Her face was hot.
What's your problem? Just tell him.

Another pause. Then his voice, tired-sounding, mistrustful almost, as if expecting further trouble from her, further difficulty. ‘What are you doing?'

Bonnie saw herself through his eyes, her tense frame at the sink. She swallowed down on the silly lump of embarrassment in her throat, willed her face to cool.
It's nothing to be ashamed of. You're helping — fixing things.
‘I was expressing milk.'

‘Right.'

She turned and spoke in a rush. Water splashed up onto her cheek, and she tilted her face to wipe it on her shoulder, glad not to meet his eyes. ‘I've got a show. With Mickey. It's next Friday, in Sydney, but it's really good money. Nearly four thousand dollars.'

Pete didn't answer.

Bonnie swallowed again. She glanced up, but couldn't hold his gaze. She turned back to the sink. ‘I thought …' She scrubbed at one of the plastic tubes. ‘I thought it might help. You know — bring in a bit of extra money. To make up for …'

No response from Pete.

She dunked the tube under the water, lifted it and scrubbed again. ‘Nearly four thousand,' she repeated. ‘All the other expenses are covered. The hotel and … stuff.'

‘So you're going to Sydney?'

‘Well' — she faced him again — ‘yeah. I mean, that's where the show —'

‘For the night.' His expression was flat, unreadable.

Don't be mean. I'm trying to help
. But then Bonnie felt her mouth go stiff. She knew what was coming; she hadn't thought things through. She stood lamely, wet hands dangling.

‘For a night, and — what? — most of two days?'

‘Yeah.' The word came out small and limp.

He sighed, as if preparing to explain something to a child. ‘I have to work. Every possible moment. I have to get this job done for Grant.' He shook his head. ‘I don't think you understand. I'm going to have to work weekends till it's done. Weekends, nights. It's …' He spread his hands. ‘Well, my reputation's at stake.'

She stared at the floor.

‘Sorry, Bon.' His voice softened. ‘Thanks for trying to help, but I can't take that time off to look after the kids. You know what these things are like: you'd have to leave by — what? — mid-morning Friday, and then you won't be back until —'

‘Yeah, okay.' She felt tears come into her eyes. ‘I get it.'

‘I'm sorry,' he said again and yawned. ‘I have to go to bed. I'm exhausted.'

‘Okay,' she heard herself whisper. She turned back to the sink one last time and pulled out the plug.

‘Mum?'

‘Oh, hello, darling.'

Her stomach was clenched. She shifted the phone to her other ear, breathed in, tried to shake off the nerves. ‘Can you talk?'

‘Quickly, yes. I'm just on my way to bridge.'

‘Oh. Okay.'
Come on
. Bonnie stood at the kitchen door, watching the twins out on the trampoline. She put her hand to the cold pane of glass. ‘Well, I just … I've got …' She breathed and pushed the words out. ‘I've got a favour to ask.'

‘Yes?' Suzanne gave a short laugh, and Bonnie heard unwillingness, reluctance.

You're imagining it
. She drove her voice out again. ‘I've got some work — a show. In Sydney. Next Friday night, so I'll have to go Friday morning, and I won't be back till Saturday afternoon …'

‘That's great news,' came Suzanne's voice, slow and hesitating.