The Blinding Light (10 page)

Patrick.

(And handwritten in nearly illegible print on the side was the word “please,” underlined three times.)

Dear Patrick,

• Your gray suit is hanging in the wardrobe. How do you know it’s gray?
  
• Next Tuesday for dinner then. Shall I cook?
  

Cheers,

Jake.

Dear Jake,

• I know it’s gray because it says so on the braille label.
  
• Yes, you can cook. Pick up whatever ingredients you need when you shop next.
  Please.
  

Sincerely,

Patrick.

Dear Patrick,

• Why did you need your gray suit? Did you have a date? How did it go?
  
• Your gardening guy didn’t show up today. Was he meant to?
  

Cheers,

Jake.

Dear Jake,

• Can you
  please
  post these letters for me?
  
• It wasn’t a date. I don’t do those. It was a business meeting.
  
• Thank you for telling me about the gardener.
  

Sincerely,

Patrick.

Dear Patrick,

• I’ll post the letters on my way home. I ride past a post box.
  

Cheers,

Jake.

Dear Jake,

• Why don’t you have a car?
  

Patrick.

Dear Patrick,

• Because I sold it when I needed money. Why don’t you have a car? What’s your excuse?
  

Jake.

I
T
WAS
silly, but I found myself missing Patrick at odd times over the weekend. It wasn’t like I even saw him, but I lived surrounded by him during the week. I was in his house, touching his things, looking after him. I realized I was… territorial almost.
He
was mine.

I found myself smiling about things that amused me and I wanted to share with him. I worked my usual shift on Sunday at The Gardie Tav and found the hours flying past. Sunday wasn’t as busy as a Saturday, but there was plenty going on. I made my way through the crowd of dancers and drinkers with a wire tray balanced high in the air above their heads. At each table I stacked the empty glasses before hoisting it again, fluidly avoiding the tightly packed bodies with ease and experience.

Back behind the bar, I began to stack the glasses into the dishwasher. Charlie moved up beside me.

“What’s wrong with you tonight?” he asked in a puzzled tone.

“Huh?”

“You. That pretty boy over there has been desperate to get your attention all night. He practically groped you as you went past and you never even saw. And there’s the older dude over in the corner giving you goo-goo eyes, and the guy with a plank up his arse who’s now talking to Gary. I’ve never seen you pick up while you’re on the job, Jake, but you usually flirt with them. Tonight it’s like you’re blind.”

Blind.

Wham! And suddenly Patrick was on my mind again.

“See!” Charlie continued. “You’re not even listening to me. You have a silly look on your face. Aw, hell! Are you in love?”

Shit! Love?
If there is one word guaranteed to send a twenty-six-year-old guy running from the room, it’s the word “love.” Yeah, okay, I can think of a couple more, like “sexually transmitted disease,” “unplanned pregnancy,” and “menopause.” But seriously, love? How could I be in love with a guy who firstly wasn’t gay, and secondly I’d seen only a couple of times?

“Fuck off, Charlie,” I replied good-naturedly. “So I missed a couple of guys flirting. How did you make the leap from not flirting to in love?”

Charlie just folded his beefy arms across his chest. “It was the dopey look in your eyes. I’ve seen it before. You’ll soon run through the whole of the seven dwarfs. You start dating and it’ll be Bashful and Happy you’re imitating. Then you start fucking the guy and you’ll turn into Sleepy. Then it’s just a matter of time before you have a fight and it’ll be Grumpy. Then the relationship will be all over and you’ll be wiser at the end of it all, just like Doc.”

I shook my head at his convoluted thinking. “What about poor Sneezy?”

Charlie looked at me like I was dumb. “It was an analogy, dude! Work with me here. No analogy is perfect. Just like you’re no Snow White and the poor guy you’re mooning over is no Prince Charming.”

“Well, I’m glad. Because if there was I’d have to put you in the role as the wicked queen and I really don’t want to see you in a dress!”

He clapped me on the shoulder. “See! There’s the Jake we all know and love. Welcome back. Now smile nicely at that pretty boy and see if he’ll buy another round of drinks for his mates.”

M
ONDAY
I
had some bad news for Patrick. I was upset at the news, but once again family won over friendship. And this was for family. Entering Patrick’s home made me feel better because the house was a reflection of Patrick himself. It smelled like him. Or I guess more accurately, his sheets smelled like him. I found myself burying my face in his pillow to get his scent.

There was no sign of any sexual activity in the bed, and I even checked the bin in the bathroom for used condoms. It was low of me. Very, very, very low. But I was cheered to find nothing sinister in the white receptacle.

Patrick’s note was calling to me like a beacon, so I hurried down to the laundry at the back of the house.

Dear Jake,

• How was your weekend? How did your sister do on her exams?
  
• What’s your second job? I found myself wondering during the weekend, so if you can enlighten me, I would appreciate it.
  Please?
  
• To answer your question from Friday, I don’t have a car because I don’t know how to drive. For some reason I never learned. I’m glad you pointed it out to me, because it is something I should’ve done before now. Learning to drive will be going to the top of my “Things In Life To Do” list.
  

Patrick.

I felt a curious sensation in my chest when I read his note. He’d been thinking of me over the weekend and had asked about it. And he’d asked about my sister. I was chuffed that he remembered Maria’s exams and had bothered to ask.
Chuffed?
Oh, my God! I was definitely crazy about the guy if I used words like “chuffed.”
What’s next, macho man? Calling him honey pie and making his favorite dessert just to cheer him up?

I worked extra hard at Monday’s set tasks, making sure everything was perfect to make up for the bad news I had for him. I reminded myself that it was
my
bad news and that maybe it wouldn’t affect Patrick at all. After all, perhaps he had asked me to dinner only because he felt sorry for me.

Dear Patrick,

Bad news, buddy. I’m going to have to cancel dinner tomorrow night. I’m really sorry and believe me, I feel really bad about it. You asked about my second job? I work at The Coolgardie Tavern over in East Fremantle
—
washing up and tending bar and things. That is, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights from 6pm to 1am.

So I have to cancel dinner because I managed to score myself a third job over the weekend. Nothing too crazy or too well paid. I’m going to be delivering newspapers on Tuesday and Friday afternoons. It sounds great
—
they’ll give me a scooter to use and everything. They say it should take about three hours, so that doesn’t give me enough time to make dinner for us. I won’t be finished until nearly 7pm, and it will take me longer the first couple of times to do the route, because I need to memorize the map.

So that also means can I ask another favor? My contract with you is for six hours a day, five days a week. I was hoping to leave about 2pm on Fridays. So can I either start work an hour earlier on Fridays, or can I work an extra hour on Thursdays or something?

Let me know if another day suits you for dinner, and let me know about the hours. I’m feeling really bad about the dinner, so let me know if Wednesday suits you instead. I can visit Ellie and Skylah and dash back to do dinner.

Also, thanks for asking about Maria’s exams. She’s doing really well with them. Two more this week and she’s finished.

I’ve noticed Gregor has chewed or ripped his doggie bed. Did you know?

See you soon,

Jake.

I soon discovered that delivering newspapers is boring and repetitive and there are a heck of a lot of vicious dogs in the area. I was nearly mowed down three times by soccer mums in their big 4WD vehicles reversing out of their driveways without looking. I also had a lot of fun playing “dodge the tree.” The scooter that I borrowed from the newspaper was a gutless wonder. I was sure I could’ve ridden my bike a lot faster.

I rode with my left hand, throwing papers on front lawns and driveways with my right arm. By the end of the three hours, my biceps were killing me and I had a lot of respect for the guys who did this every day for hours.

That night I sat down and went over my finances again. It was slow going since I only had pen and paper to do my calculations. Plus, it wasn’t like I had a finance degree or anything. I worked out how much extra money I had from delivering newspapers, then added in the extra money I was currently giving to Lizzy on a weekly basis so she could make it week-to-week without starving. With her exams over, she could pick up some more hours at the café where she was now working, and maybe even find a second job. If Lizzy could get a job using her degree in the next couple of months, she would be able to save enough for a decent place, and even maybe pay me back some money in a year’s time. But until then, I really had to work out a way to get some more dough.

The interest rate on the personal loan I’d taken out to cover Mum’s debts was killing me. For a moment I wondered what sort of money porn stars made, then laughed at myself. Who in the hell was going to hire me as a porn star? My employment history showed that I was really crap at taking directions from anyone, so how would I do in a porn movie?
Yes, yes. That’s it, Jake. Lick me there…. No! I said lick! No! Don’t….

At the end of the day, the bottom line was crap. I was going to be in debt for a long time and there was no way in the world that I’d be able to afford a car or even move out of my crappy, shared flat anytime soon.

Feeling despondent, I cycled to work on Wednesday morning, barely glancing at the river views along the way. Patrick’s place was waiting for me, the house sparsely decorated and the garden amassed with pink flowers. It called to me in a way no other place had.

I unlocked the door, turned off the alarm, and looked up the hallway with hope, but no doggie footsteps came running to greet me and no half-naked, blond gods were lingering near the bedroom door. Pity.

I poked my head in each room as I made my way to the back of the house, checking to make sure there was no unexpected mess for me to deal with. It was mopping day, which meant I had to dust the furniture and vacuum all the floors before taking the mop out. I liked mopping day. It was a physical workout as well as a chance to crank the music and just zone while I worked.

In the laundry, I looked for Patrick’s note, but was unable to find it. I thought that maybe it had been dropped on the floor, or a breeze had taken it, but it was nowhere to be found. I was extremely puzzled and a little bit hurt. Patrick had never
not
left a note, even before I’d met him. Since the day he’d been sick, the notes had changed in tone. They were more friendly and less demanding, and even personal at times. But they were always there.

Confused, I retraced my steps and searched the obvious places. It wasn’t in the kitchen or the scan-and-read machine, and it wasn’t in the study where Patrick would’ve printed it off. It wasn’t anywhere.

Finally, I concluded that Patrick hadn’t left a note for me that day. I thumbed my mobile phone, and even considered sending him a quick text message to ask if he was okay, but I decided that contacting him went beyond the bounds of the employer-employee relationship. The man was probably fine, just too busy to write to me.

I reluctantly threw myself into the day’s work, not bothering to turn on my dance music, as I had somehow found myself in a blue funk. I needed a beer and a blowjob to cheer me up, and whaddya know? I couldn’t afford either.

Nearly three hours later, the house had been dusted, vacuumed, and tidied, and I was halfway through mopping my first room, when the phone in my pocket buzzed furiously and began to play the latest Tame Impala tune. I reached for it in surprise, only to go weak-kneed when I saw Patrick’s name flash on the screen.
Patrick calling…. Answer?

Heck, yes!

“Hello?”

Patrick’s voice came back at me through the device, and I could tell he was standing outside, near a busy road somewhere. “Jake? It’s Patrick.”

“Are you okay?” I had no idea why the man was calling me and the only thing I could think was that he was in trouble. Had he been hurt? Was he lost? Was something wrong with Gregor?

“Sure. I’m doing great. Listen, are you at my house at the moment?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Can you do me a huge favor, Jake? I’m expecting a delivery at the house in about fifteen to twenty minutes. I don’t think they will need you to sign for it, but they need to hand it over to a person. Can you please grab it for me?”

“No problem.” The sound of his voice had lifted my funk. Sure, I was just a housekeeper and recipient of courier packages for him, but he knew I was alive.
Pathetic, Jake!