How it feels (36 page)

‘You're looking so well,' Nina said, allowing her eyes to wander up and down the creased black suit that we'd hired from Kenrays on Caringbah Road. ‘Don't you think he's looking well, Eric?'

I didn't know why
how we looked
and
how we used to look
needed to be such a featured part of the everyday chatter. I knew how I looked: bloated and red like a pig, like a boozer, like a burst tomato on a stick. I also knew that when I'd landed back here six months ago I was a pale and withering leper, with no flesh on my bones and no life in my eyes and still people said ‘you look well'. I also knew that once, when Nina first knew me, I was a beautiful teenager with blue eyes and life abundant in them. I knew I didn't look like that anymore. I knew it well, I had the same access to mirrors that anyone did. Why didn't we just bypass the whole topic of looks and get into the real stuff of conversation? This was what I'd loved about Germany: those people in Berlin had no interest in small talk. If I commented on the weather or their hair they looked at me like I was a gay octopus, but if I asked them about their fathers, or the configuration of stars, or the importance of Heiner Müller towards a new German theatre, their eyes would light up and a truly satisfying conversation would inevitably unfold. Perhaps this was what a fraught history did; it slaughtered the trivial. But then these people around me, well they were also stricken with tragedy and pain. The small talk seemed to act as a helmet against the constant knock of it, a way of disregarding all the bleeding elephants in the room with talk of waves and halfbacks and house prices and ‘yeah, no, sounds good'.

‘He looks alright,' said Eric in a slow and melancholy drawl that reeked of oblivion, and I loved it: he didn't know, or care to know either.

‘Eric and I have bought a property in Robertson, just below Bowral. We're going to call it Tommy's Farm, aren't we, Eric?' said Nina, and she still looked so fucking sexy to me, even with an increase of lines and wrinkles I still imagined bending her over some sort of bench with a blender on it. My love for her was true and full and never had it gone away, never had it even waned. Perhaps that was why over the past six months Courtney only ever visited me in Bundeena. She never wanted me at the new house, never ever suggested I come see Nina at her place, even though I voiced an interest in this in most of our phone dealings.

‘You'll have to come visit us,' suggested Eric, and for the first time in my life of exchanges with Courtney's father I felt like this might just happen, Eric and I might just sit on that deck and share a brew and a conversation of sorts, because neither he nor I knew why we were back here, and that was something to share. Then Gordon clutched my shoulder and turned me away from the couple and I was before him once more, ready and obedient.

‘Neil,' he said, military commander-like.

‘Gordo,' I said back to him, in official attendance.

‘Speeches recommence in twenty-five minutes, can we just have a brief chat about the run of things? I need your help.'

He shuffled me off into the chef 's quarters where three Asian men lined up an army of chipolatas on floral-rimmed paper plates. Gordon told me to ‘distract Courtney for a bit', as he had something ‘special' coming for her in about twenty minutes, just before my speech, and she ‘can't get suspicious or it won't work'.

I nodded and told him he could rely on me to distract her, and I sensed it was only me who felt the enormous and ironic resonance of this. He said he knew he could rely on me, he knew this, and on his wedding day by the sea I wondered if and when he would smile. Was this not the happiest day of one's life? It looked tense from my seat in the stands, but who was I, and what did I know about what we should feel and when we should feel it? I was lurching dangerously towards the conclusion that as we aged, we cared less and less about what might happen, and whom it might happen to. We cared much less than we should, but we went about pretending that we cared the fuck out of each other in some vain attempt to obtain a sense of decency, because decency was purpose and purpose was light and without light the ocean said ‘come here tonight'.

‘You alright, G-Love?' I asked him.

‘Yeah, man!' he snapped at me. ‘Why the fuck wouldn't I be?'

‘No man, it's such a beautiful day,' I said, remembering just how useless and foolish I was and how my words and actions had never caused anything but harm.

‘Hey, Nelly,' he said, changing down a key. ‘There's one more thing.'

‘Yeah, man, anything,' I said.

‘Regarding the speech…'

‘Yes!' I said.

‘Just… and I want you to say whatever is in your heart about Courtney and me, and about how much we mean to you and what we did
for
you and all, but, well, Albert's a bit worried you might get too creative or – what's the word he used? – “arty” about things, so…'

‘Mate, you don't need to worry about me,' I said, and he immediately broke into my space with his apologetic hands on my neck.

‘It's not me saying it! I feel like a dick saying it – I'm sorry I said it, you say what you
want
to, say whatever the fuck you want.'

‘It's only a short speech,' I said, and it was, now that I had decided just to read out the start and the end bits and leave out the middle, the bit where I'd planned to quote from
The Princess Bride
and a bit of
Cyrano de Bergerac
.

‘Short and sweet, mate, that's the name of the wedding game.'

‘Hopefully not the name of the marriage though,' I said, but he did not laugh because he had not heard me, he was deafened by the sound and power of one man's wedding in his ears.

‘Means a lot, you speaking at my wedding, mate. I love you,' Gordon said.

‘I love you too, Gordon,' I said, and I did, more than all the sand outside.

‘Righto, now go keep Courtney distracted while I prepare
my
show!' Gordon raised his thumbs and disappeared into the kitchen toilets.

I pushed out of the doors and back into the corridor of love-and-marriage to find Sarah Kirkwood standing alone with a packet of Benson & Hedges ultra lights open and flopped out towards me.

‘Ciggie?' she said, flicking the bottom of the pack so that one of the darts pushed up in height, suggesting itself like a hand in a classroom of cancer.

‘I'd love one,' I said, and we were all set to go outside when Oscar came barrelling towards me in a scream and leapt up onto my waistcoat. I clutched him to me and inhaled the sweet nectar of youth and enthusiasm and I was
feeling
again, feeling something in the manner of hope and it was disturbing, this feeling that life was worth living, and I tried to deny it but his fresh hair and ebullient grin were palpable. His mouth was smeared with dried chocolate and his eyes were razzed with the dance of sugar drinks; he would not sleep for days.

‘We're going to run,' said Dad, plucking Oscar from my chest.

‘But I'm up next,' I said to him, and like a shot I needed him to stay, I just
needed
him here so badly. Daddy, please don't go again – I'm trapped in the rain, I'm scared of monsters, don't leave me here Daddy.

‘Up next what? You singing a song?' he asked with a wink, and I could hear Sarah scoff under her breath at this poor joke.

‘No, I'm making a speech,' I said earnestly.

‘Neil is the best man,' Sarah said in a reporter's voice, and it sparked my father's fuse, women didn't talk to men like that.

‘I've heard him speak before,' Dad said, rocking from side to side.

‘It's cool, Dad,' I said.

‘Oscar's got to get home to bed; I'll be in the doghouse if I keep him up any longer than this.'

‘It's only another fifteen minutes,' I pointed out.

‘She's already called ten times, I had to jump through hoops to even get here, son – think of that, why don't you?'

‘I should have invited Mum,' I said quietly.

‘What?' he said, leaning forward to hear with a scowl.

‘Well I had a choice between you and Oscar or Mum and Agatha as my guests, and I brought you because I thought you knew Gordon better, but you're not even staying for my speech, which makes me think I should have invited Mum and Ag,' I said, reaching for a lighter in my pants pocket.

‘It's not all about your speeches, Neil. Maybe it's time you realised that.'

‘What the fuck?'

‘Don't swear around Oscar.'

‘I'm not saying it's about my speech, I'm just saying –'

‘Sounds like it. Sounds like it to me,' Dad said, crouching down and wiping Oscar's mouth with his shirt as he talked to me, and I can't remember him ever being that close to me when I was young, to my mouth with a wipe or a shirt of hygienic concern.

‘I'm going to go outside and smoke,' said Sarah, so polite, and her back is strong and tanned as it moved away down the stairs of the surf club.

‘Not a bad sort,' Dad noted.

‘Dad, I want you to stay,' I said, turning back to him. ‘I want you to be here to listen to what I have to say to Gordon, to my best friend who I built the house with. It's got a bit of you in it too, the speech, and it's funny, it's not weird.'

‘Write it down for me, son,' he said.

‘Dad, I swear it's not weird.'

‘You'll understand one day about sacrifices, you'll understand the real world one day – I hope so anyway. Now go in there and enjoy your friend's wedding, and remember, it's their day not yours, ok?'

And with that he dragged Oscar away, up the grassy hill, underneath the metal handrail and over the road to his instructor's car. I felt gutted, but it sat familiar, a lifetime of exits just when I needed him most. And nothing would change it, not even Oscar with his chubby cheeks and golden spirit could fix this. And as his figure disappeared in the saline mist I allowed myself to give up on him and in doing so lost another chunk of my will to live.

Kirkwood was waiting for me underneath the outdoor shower recess; she pretended she wasn't by checking her phone as I arrived down the concrete stairs.

‘Oh, it's you – all good?' she said, pushing off the wall.

‘Yeah, I'm cool,' I said. ‘I think I lost my lighter though.'

She lit my bent cigarette and I leant on the wall beside her and smoked, sucking in the tar and the ten million chemicals that respected me for who I was.

‘That boy loves you,' Sarah said to me, with a teacher's smile.

‘Oscar?' I asked, exhaling plumes of smoke and loathing for that man, my dad.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘He adores you, you're his hero.'

‘He's a kid; anyone who is an adult is a hero to a kid.'

‘No, he
knows
you,' she said. ‘You're one and the same.'

‘I hope for his sake you're wrong on that front!' I laughed darkly into the darkness.

She moved closer to me, and I became aware of the precious sweep of freckles that drifted across her squashed nose like a flock of distant birds. She was plain, but she was beautiful in that she knew it.

‘You have the same cheeks and eyes; he could be your son,' she said.

‘He's alright, that boy, he's pretty alright.'

‘And you're beautiful with him, Neil. You're so natural with children, the way you talk to them, you don't patronise them, you just
see
them for who they are and you get on their level. You're going to be a wonderful father one day.'

Time stopped as I considered this, a pram and a barbecue, a baby seat and a trip to the zoo, first day of school, eat your peas, no balls in the house please.

‘I'm so fucked up, Kirkwood,' I said, dropping my cigarette and my control too, tears streaming down my cheeks. I could not hold it in anymore; six months of drinking vodka on my own and repressing it all was bursting out of me.

‘Hey, hey…' she hushed, as she brought me to her and her to me. I couldn't hold her tight enough, I couldn't cry hard enough, I couldn't need her more.

‘Don't let me go,' I said, crying into her long neck.

‘I won't, I'm here, baby boy,' she replied, gripping me closer, her thumbs in the caverns of my neck, pushing up then down so slow and deep and reassuring.

‘I want to be something,' I said to her wet throat. I was buried in her and I would never leave, I would carry on in her normal, capable, compassionate arms. She would save me; she would balance this volcano with sense.

‘You can be anything you want to be,' she said to me, her leg moving up and in between mine, alerting my cock and everything that rises.

‘Will you help me?' I asked her, and she instantly pushed away from me. Had I stepped too far, misread this entirely? She is but a friend being a friend, and here was I asking for her hand to walk me down this cobbled path. But my paranoia was just that, as she took my face in her hands and stared deep into my eyes, tears welling and wobbling in her own brown globes as she spoke to me in a cracked voice.

‘Neil, I'll be anything you want me to be. I love you, and Dylan loves you.'

And I wondered just how she
could
love me, what was this based on: a flirt and a couple of chats at the photo shoot, or was it our shared schooling experience? We'd hardly bonded there. Was this enough for love to rear its head, or was it just the cry of the lonely? Was this the voice of desperation, fearing a life of heated-up Lean Cuisine and unwooded chardonnay in front of the television alone as the baby slept in the nursery?

‘We could be family,' she said, and it wasn't a question. ‘Do you like me, Neil?'

I kissed her full on the mouth, and she moaned; she had not been touched since the beginnings of Dylan. With every section of hard kissing she pulled away and stared at me, moaning, breathing heavily, making sure it was a physical and actual man that she was kissing, that the face she was holding was not a mirage. My tongue was behind her teeth, I bit her top lip and she squealed, so I crashed into her arse with my left hand.