Tales From A Broad (16 page)

‘
And here's your bathroom
.' There is no door, just an alcove with a spigot on the wall and a squatter next to it. Nothing separates the toilet from the ‘shower' or the user of either from the stares of the folks in Amahville. Posie is also to share her sleeping quarters with the dishwasher – a highly uncommon appliance in Singapore, though I doubt that makes her happy to find it as her roomie. The dishwasher was once in the kitchen, but wasn't built-in; it was just sort of plonked in the middle of the room. There was no other place for it unless you wanted to go through major renovations and I guess the owner didn't want to. It looked stupid where it was, as though I wanted to be sure everyone knew I had a dishwasher, the centrepiece of my culinary collection. We only used it a few times; the thing failed to wash more than it broke. In fact, I never saw any evidence of water having entered or left it. Granted, I had no idea what the control symbols indicated. They were awfully intricate but entirely too impressionistic, like a Japanese painting, full of haiku and wisdom – a half sun covering a flower with a hummingbird sucking out nectar, with a bee on its tail. But I'm sure I never pressed the one that meant: ‘Dry clean, rattle violently, break dishes.' One day, we just put it out of sight.

‘
Put your bag down
.' She has arrived with nothing more than a suitcase the size of a small birdcage. She follows me back out, through the door and into the kitchen where all is quiet and crisp, the sea surrounding us on three sides.

‘What can I get you? Something to drink? Coffee? A piece of fruit?'

‘Nothing, Ma'am, I ate breakfast at Jessica's.'

‘Is that all of your things?'

‘Yes, Ma'am.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, Ma'am.'

She stands there looking at her shoes.

‘Wow, great to be so unencumbered. Huh, I would love to be able to fit my life in a pillowcase. I mean it. Oh, the bits and pieces that have such talismanic pull for me. Can't leave any of it behind. I don't mean to say we have a lot of clutter here. Except you should see Frank empty out his pockets every night. He's like a kid. The things he wants to keep. Always dumping in a different place. I used to throw it away but he got pissed off when he couldn't find receipts or something. I don't mean you need to worry about him getting angry with you. No, Frank's easygoing. Huh, I'm the one with the temper. But don't get worried. It seems to be a little under control – until about three, which is when I tend to get angry at some damned thing or another. I know all about the count to ten thing but at 3 pm, doesn't matter. If you cross my lane while I swim or you cross my lane while I drive, if you cut in front of me at the supermarket or if you spill your milk, once I start yelling, I just can't stop. It's like an orgasm. Not that you should worry. Though I suppose it'll be best if you stay out of my way after three. Actually, I thought we might really never be in the same room at the same time. If you see me coming, just float on over to another room and make yourself busy. By eight at night, you go back into your part of the house. You can go out – use the door in your room, okay? – and meet the other maids. Have dinner, do something nice, but you can't come into our part of the house. Just be sure you have everything you need back there by eight. Okay? I don't want you to worry about going hungry in the middle of the night and not being able to set foot in our kitchen, so, here, take this.' I hand her $800. ‘Get yourself a little fridge, a toaster oven, a microwave. Hey, if you want, buy yourself a nice little rice cooker too. Whatever else you need. Okay, so why don't you go now and do all of that getting settled in stuff and I'll see you at five. It's Halloween tonight. You have to dress up and give out candy. Look, I'm sorry about the room. You'll get it feeling cosy. Okay, out you go. See you at five.'

‘Ma'am?'

‘Call me Fran, for goodness sake. You're part of the – you live here now.'

‘Ma'am Fran, what is the Halloween? What is an uncucumber?'

‘Huh? Good, good, I'm glad you're asking questions. Never mind, just go and do.'

I pretty much shove her out the door. I hate her and I don't know why. I'll just send her cheques to Amahville and we'll never see each other. I'll leave notes about everything and before I come into a room, I'll announce, ‘I'm coming in here now.' I don't want to look into her wide-set eyes that are full of confusion or see her sad little suitcase again.

I take the kids to the major grocery store at Parkway in the bike cart. We stop off at the Children's Library, which probably has a better inventory than any in the US. Classics and new titles from around the world cram hundreds of shelves. Unfortunately, randomness reigns, and it's too chaotic to ever find anything in particular. The shelving system is as arbitrary as the whims of the staff. For example, the three Muslim volunteers do it according to colour, placing the dark covers in front and the colourful ones behind (those without any covers at all are cast aside). Another set of volunteers shelve by price. When we have the true, children's-book-loving, certified librarians, the alphabet rules but sometimes by title, sometimes by author, sometimes by publisher.

After we take out the eight books we're allowed I ask the kids what kind of Halloween candy they want. They want lollipops.

‘Yuck,' I say.

‘Jelly worms?' asks Sadie.

‘Nah, it's gotta be wrapped.'

‘Jaw breakers!'

‘Do you know how many kids choke on them a year?'

‘Gum?'

‘Against the law.'

I can't believe my kids.
Chocolate
is the answer. What complete idiots.
Chocolate
, I think hard enough to send the message through.
Say ‘chocolate'
. The correct response is:
chocolate
.

‘Those, I want those.'

‘What a sticky mess that would be. The moms would hate me.' She was pointing to the Tic Tacs.

While Sadie is looking up and down, weighing up the endless possibilities, I toss in 20 bags of mini Snickers.

‘Okay, honey, I got your favourites.'

‘They are?'

‘Oh, sure. Let's just go home now.'

The candy costs $200.

I push the stroller home while Sadie and Huxley look at books. The journey takes about 30 minutes and there's lots of hefting and hauling to get the thing over enormous obstacles: the canals, construction, curbs up to my knees, foreign workers sleeping on the sidewalks. I'm shaking with fatigue when I get home. It's the hottest part of the day and I've been walking alongside cars and buses, negotiating this heavy thing and trying to make it fun for the kids. I just need a quick drink of water and to sit for a minute.

‘Can I have some water? Can I have one of those candies?' asks Sadie.

‘Can you just wait a minute? Take, take, take, peck, peck, peck. I get thirsty too … Do you ever stop to think that I am a person?' She looks at me. ‘Ohh, now you see it. Yeah, I am. Sometimes I even have to go to the bathroom … for longer than a minute. Sometimes I just want want want too …' I go on and on like this for I have no idea how long. I stomp and slam and bang down cups to punctuate the tirade. All I know is that, yeah, it's about 3 pm and, unfortunately, it was the kids who crossed my lane this time. When it's out of my system, and the kids are staring at me in fear and misery, I pour them a cup of milk and grab a bag of candy. The chocolates have melted, soaked through the wrappers; they're entirely unsalvageable.

‘Mommy's really sorry. I'm really stupid too, huh?' I show Sadie the bag of thick Snicker sauce. I put my head in my hands and cry. I don't want to be this mother, this person who can't hold on to a single thought or emotion long enough for it to be any more real than an idea.

‘Vance sells candy, Mom,' Sadie says. The world has answers for her.

‘I know, sweetie.' I kiss her head. ‘Let's go there for some.'

Vance is the man who runs the little store. He's always kind to my kids and to me. I flirt with him because I'm sure no one really ever has. It makes him happy and nervous at the same time. Like it should. We bring home ten bags of Pokémon-shaped lollipops for $40.

We're all jazzed up about Halloween. It promises to be a big deal here. How it works is that families sign up on a sheet posted at the store and there is to be someone at home giving out candy and someone to take the kids around to participating addresses. Five or six sets of lists are drawn up and we're to break into groups and visit the units on the sheet in the order they're written so as to keep the flow consistent. We're all to assemble at the barbecue pits at 6 pm to get into our clusters and receive our destinations.

I dress Sadie as a fairy with butterfly wings I bought in the US. I figured I'd have some brainwave for Huxley. I miscalculated my brain and at the last minute just cut some holes in an old pillowcase. It was perhaps the oldest surviving pillowcase on the earth. Frank's mom gave it to us for some reason. She's a bit like that, giving us things that I never dreamed I'd need and laughed at only to later say, ‘That's just what I needed' and mean it. Like the olive tongs which are hideous, scary even, but work like a charm, or the ‘Doesit' which can hang hundreds of pounds from your walls without making a hole. She had used this particular pillowcase well, apparently, because the silhouette of her head was visible on the pattern, like a cameo. I couldn't bear to sleep on it without the irrational sense that I had to keep my head where she did. But, with a few snips, it works perfectly as a caveman toga-like thing. With some face paint and a tie, Huxley becomes Pillowcase Boy.

Posie gets home. I am determined to stay sunny. I drape a sheet over her and pour fake blood on her chin. While I tease her hair out, I tell her about Halloween. I give Sadie and Huxley their cue to say, ‘Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat.'

‘That's when you open the door and put candy in the bags, Posie. It's fun.'

‘Yes, Ma'am.'

‘Fran.'

‘Yes, Ma'am Fran.'

I'm wearing black shorts and an orange T-shirt. Frank, who has come home early to join in, is wearing a hideous rubber mask he found in New York. He stuffs a few beers into a backpack and takes pictures of the kids. He thinks to include a few with Posie and the kids.

There is a considerable crowd, and everyone has gone all out – elaborate homemade costumes on kids and adults; papier-mâché goody bags with hand-painted monsters. We have ‘Pillowcase Boy', a Hooters wannabe, a fairy who ditched her wings after two minutes and Frank asphyxiating in a rubber mask. I find Tilda, her husband, Hugh, and their two kids, Tom and Lucy, and shepherd Frank and the kids over to them. They're standing next to Lisa, Roy and David (Huxley's age), a Canadian family. Unlike most of the couples at Fortune Gardens, both Lisa
and
Roy have jobs in Singapore. They're bankers. I introduce Frank all around.

‘How's it going, Lisa?' I ask.

‘Who knows. I only had ten minutes to get home, make dinner and put together the costumes. I got a call just as I was about to leave and had to finish a project.' She says it like I wouldn't have a clue what this is like. To the naked eye, I am living the typical expat-wife life, but the truth is I am waking up at four in the morning to work and staying up until 12 at night to finish, and doing a bit here and there throughout the day, and stressing about this wrinkle or that disaster in my job. I have no fewer than 50 emails to respond to on any given day, and 30 pages of contracts, not to mention manuscripts to download and read and send out. But because I am also at the pool, at the playground, committing to playgroups and socialising with leisurely ladies, no one really seems to get it.

‘Yeah,' I say, ‘I have two contracts to vet tonight. I'm hoping this doesn't last too long.'

‘But you're so lucky. You can do your work whenever you want.'

‘Are you kidding me? I start to panic if my kids aren't in bed by eight. I know it just makes my night longer.'

‘At least you see your kids.'

‘You get home and the work is done. For me, it's always there, faxes, emails, phone calls … always hovering.'

‘I have to go to Jakarta tomorrow.'

‘Yeah, and stay in a nice hotel.'

‘I guess you haven't been to Jakarta. Not exactly like hanging out at the pool, eh?'

We have to stop there because Samantha, our ringleader, has just given a loud whistle between her teeth. ‘Hey, everyone. Listen up. Get into a group with about ten kids. Some moms will be handing out right here, then you go to the units on your list. Have fun!'

I break into a little sweat. I don't know how I'll find a group. No one can really call me their friend yet. I wish someone would say, ‘Fran, come on' but it seems understood that all the good, dear, old friends will be together. They are taking photos of each other and asking me to hold the camera. I get the picture.