The Oddfits (24 page)

“When it rains, it pours,” Olivia said. And they both laughed.

“We haven’t had this much fun in years,” James said. It was true. This last concerted effort to prevent their son from escaping, from leaving them stranded in their otherwise joyless marriage, had enabled them to regain some semblance of the passion they had once felt for each other. Tonight, in the pleasant glow of romantic lighting, amidst the hustle and bustle and clatter of the restaurant, it felt almost as if they were in love again.

James raised his cup of sake. “To Murgatroyd!”

“To Murgatroyd!” Olivia repeated.

And together they drank in honour of their dear boy.

Elsewhere on the island of Singapore, a little over six kilometres away, Murgatroyd was on someone else’s mind. Seng Kay Huat was in his flat, eating dinner with his father. This was unusual, as Hong Low never took a break from running his char kway teow stall. Never. Ever since he had opened it, he had been there every day without fail. Until today. His son had insisted so strongly, ferociously even, that they should—
must
—have dinner together, that he had consented to close the stall and come home early. In fact, Hong Low had never seen Kay Huat act the way he had acted yesterday when he had asked his father to take the following night off. The boy had first pleaded, then began shouting, and finally burst into tears. His son had never been so hysterical before. All for an impromptu dinner? He wasn’t sure what to make of it. Reluctantly, he had consented. Something was wrong.

Even now, as he sat across from Kay Huat, picking at the pasta dish his son had made (Hong Low had never really liked the taste of western food) he wondered and waited for his son to tell him what all the fuss was about. But Kay Huat too was picking listlessly at his own food, absorbed in thought.

Hong Low cleared his throat. “Ah-Boy. Is there anything wrong?”

Kay Huat looked up, his face the very picture of innocent confusion. “Hah? Why would there be anything wrong, Ba?”

“Well, you know. You telling me to take the night off. This dinner. Just thought I’d ask, lah.”

“No, no. Nothing wrong. Just wanted to spend some time with you.”

“How come? Are you going somewhere?”

“No, no,” Kay Huat lied. “I
. . .
I feel like I’ve been taking you for granted. That’s all.”

Hong Low narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Are you sure?”

Kay Huat nodded.

“Ah-Boy, you don’t lie to me. You’re sure nothing is wrong?”

Kay Huat shook his head.

“You sick or something? No bad news?”

Kay Huat shook his head.

“You’re sure, hah?”

Kay Huat nodded. “Yes, yes, I’m sure, Ba. I just wanted to tell you
. . .
” Kay Huat reached over and touched his father lightly on the arm. “That I love you very much. You’re the best father anyone could hope for.”

Hong Low grunted shyly and feigned renewed interest in his pasta. Kay Huat smiled because he knew that he had gotten the message across, and that had been the purpose of this entire dinner.

Tomorrow evening he would be off—setting out to accomplish whatever the Quest required him to do, and at long last, achieving the greatness that he had always been destined for. (His father didn’t know the details, of course. Explaining would have been far too complicated, and it would be easier for both of them this way.) Kay Huat had always wondered exactly how he would become great. All the activities he had engaged in, hobbies he had taken up, knowledge he had acquired, had all been efforts to prepare for this point in his life. His academic excellence, his musical proficiency, his literary talents, his athletic abilities, and even his abstention from any bothersome romantic relationships: it had all been for the sake of this predestined greatness. The certainty that he was meant to achieve it had ripened in his mind over the past several years into a sweet, juicy peach hanging pendulously from its bough. And finally, the opportunity had arrived. His patience was now going to be rewarded.

Yet, lurking in the background of Kay Huat’s meditations on his future greatness was a small, skinny, scraggly silhouette. It was Shwet Foo. The unobtrusive, unremarkable, unassuming, and ever-trusting Shwet Foo. Kay Huat tried to tell himself that he wasn’t doing Shwet Foo any wrong. After all, now that his father had breast cancer, Shwet Foo had decided himself not to go on the Quest. He was simply supporting his friend’s decision not to go. And didn’t somebody have to take his place?

Do you honestly believe that Mr. Floyd has cancer?

Well, no, he admitted to himself. But just as it had never been any of his business to interfere with the Floyds’ dislike of their son, neither was it his business to interfere with what they chose to tell their son. Besides, even if Shwet Foo knew the truth about his parents, then what? He’d go on the Quest? Puny little Shwet Foo? It was too dangerous for him. Even if Shwet Foo had intended to go, it would have been Kay Huat’s duty to prevent him from doing so, to keep him safe and sound in Singapore.

As much as Kay Huat told himself that he was doing nothing wrong—told himself again and again in every way imaginable—the silhouette still haunted him, attending his every thought. For despite himself, Kay Huat really did love Shwet Foo like a brother, almost as much as he loved his father.

Sacrifices had to be made for greatness. There was no alternative.

Kay Huat and his father finished their dinner without another word. Gently nudging his father in the direction of the television, Kay Huat cleared the table, stored the leftovers in the refrigerator, and washed the dishes. Then he retired to his bedroom to make sure all the preparations were in place. Laid out on his bed were two envelopes. One contained a letter for his father, bidding him goodbye and explaining the arrangements he had made regarding finances. Effective two days from now, all of Kay Huat’s assets and investments would be transferred to his father’s name. The other envelope was addressed to Shwet Foo: a letter of apology and farewell.

Tomorrow would be his last day at work, Kay Huat reflected. He would leave the office a little early. He would drive to East Coast Park and park his car. Then he would depart forever.

I’ve done nothing wrong
, Kay Huat repeated to himself. Still, he couldn’t help but murmur out loud, “Shwet Foo, I’m sorry.”

“Murgatroyd, I’m sorry.”

In a faraway Territory of the More Known World, Ann was sitting on her dock, bathing her legs in the water. Something had compelled her to say that, although she wasn’t sure what. She felt that she had failed Murgatroyd somehow. She should have pleaded his case more convincingly to the One and the Other. She should have figured out what was going on earlier. It was ironic that despite her remorse for what she had failed to do, she remained ignorant of the adverse effects that Murgatroyd’s third visit to the More Known World was having on his continued safety in the Known World. Aware that Murgatroyd’s wellbeing was under threat, yet utterly unaware that Murgatroyd’s life was now in danger, Ann hoped fervently that Murgatroyd would show up tomorrow. What she didn’t know was that now his very life depended on it.

Back in the Singapore of the Known World, eleven storeys below Murgatroyd’s lighted bedroom window, stood a young man who was also contemplating Murgatroyd’s life—contemplating how he would end it. It was the Duck Assassin, crouching in the shadows of the building, seething quietly with rage. He had failed twice. The next time, he wouldn’t fail again.

Craning his neck upwards, the Duck Assassin never let his gaze shift from Murgatroyd’s bedroom window. Not when the lights were turned off at nine thirty. Not when they were turned back on for a few minutes. And not when they were turned off again for the rest of the night. The little
ang moh
was sleeping, but he had to leave the flat at some point. And when he did, the Duck Assassin would be ready for him.

The Duck Assassin had seen Murgatroyd’s bedroom light turn on and off, and he had wondered, briefly, why.
Probably a trip to the toilet
, he had thought. Actually, Murgatroyd had gotten out of bed not to empty his bladder, but to make a phone call. Just as he had lain his head down on his pillow with the intent of going to sleep, he remembered what Ann had asked him during their last phone conversation.

Do you believe everything your parents tell you?

He had turned on the lights and gotten out of bed to look up a number in the address book his parents kept in the kitchen. He had called the number and left a message. And then, he had gotten back into bed, switched off the lights, and tried to lose himself in the world of dreams.

CHAPTER 20

“Twelfth floor,” announced the automated female voice. The silver lift doors parted, revealing what they did every time Dr. Loy alighted on the twelfth floor: a very large pleasant painting of a lake, done in watercolour, framed in burnished bronze. Occasionally, Dr. Loy would have the satisfaction of having the lift doors open to reveal someone looking at the painting—usually a patient of his, or one of the other medical practitioners whose offices were housed in the same building. Sometimes, he thought he saw admiration and appreciation in their faces as they looked at it.

The reason Dr. Loy took such note of the painting and its beholders was that it was he who had painted it. It had taken two years of Sunday afternoons at the Botanical Gardens, but he had finally finished it six months ago, and decided to display it in the hallway outside his office. It made him feel like a real artist. If only he had time to paint more. But he didn’t really have any regrets; he was very satisfied with the career he had made and the life he had fashioned for himself. Someday, someday, it would be
that
time.
That
time would be the time to paint. Now was a different time.

Still, he often wondered what would have happened if he had become an artist instead of an oncologist. He had never seriously entertained the notion—after all, you can’t support your parents or start a family on an artist’s income. He had always reasoned that he could paint in his spare time, but these days the practice was thriving so much that he never had time to spare. He rather liked being a doctor, but he also dreamed of the retirement awaiting him many years down the road—of spending his twilight years travelling around the world, sketching water lilies in Monet’s garden and painting giraffes lumbering across the African savannah; of the exact tints and brushstrokes with which he would recreate the peaks of the Andes, enshrouded in morning mist.

He strode into his office. “Good morning, Betty. Any messages for me?”

The receptionist looked at her notepad. “Got three. Mrs. Kwee called this morning to ask if you can issue her another prescription. She lost the one you gave her.”

“What for?”

“Posilex.”

“All right. Next message?”

“The son of James Floyd left a message last night asking for more information about his father’s breast cancer.”

“Say again?”

“The son of James Floyd wants to know about his father’s breast cancer.”

“James Floyd?” Dr. Loy’s eyebrows lifted in astonishment. “I haven’t seen or heard from him for over two years! He has
cancer
? Oh dear.”

“He left a number. Should I call him back?”

“No, no, I should talk to him. His son, you say? Didn’t know he had one. I’ll call him right away.”

“Here’s his number.” She handed him a slip of paper.

He thought for a moment. “
Breast
cancer?”

Betty shrugged.

“Oh dear. You know that’s very rare—breast cancer in men.”

Betty shrugged again.

“And what’s the third message?”

“Dr. Matthews wants to know if you’re still on for racquetball this evening.”

“Oh, that’s right. I’ll call him too. Thanks, Betty.”

“Eh, wait. One more thing.” Betty hefted a large stack of files from under the desk into his arms. “You asked for these yesterday.”

“Oof. Thanks.”

Loy staggered into his office and sighed. Somehow, the sight of his desk covered with medical journals, documents, and files never ceased to overwhelm him. Clearing a small space, he unloaded the slip of paper and files with a heavy thud. Then he rang up Dr. Matthews to confirm their racquetball game at the club.

Betty’s voice came over the intercom. “Dr. Loy, Mr. Stanley Ng is here for his appointment.”

He sighed. “Send him in.” He was very happy that it was Friday. He was looking forward to getting some painting done on the weekend.

James and Olivia Floyd sat side by side on the sofa in their living room, the coffee table covered in novels, magazines, newspapers, and empty mugs containing soggy tea bags. As Olivia typed busily on her laptop, James flipped through magazine after magazine.

“Damn it, Olivia, I’m bored,” James complained, tossing aside his two-year-old issue of
The Economist
.

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Just treat it like a lazy Sunday afternoon.”

“But it’s
not
. It’s a
Friday
afternoon, and I am intolerably bored.”

“Do you want more tea?”

“No, damn it. I don’t want any more damn tea.”

“Well, you needn’t be so grumpy.”

“I’ll be as damn grumpy as I please. I don’t see why we have to stay home all the damn day long.”

“James, I told you,” Olivia said, lowering her voice. “We can’t risk him leaving.”

“Look, he already said he’s not going on the Quest. The boy may be stupid, but he doesn’t lie!” James stood up and began pacing around the room. “You know, I have a lot of work at the office that I could be doing right now.”

“You know, James, it’s not my fault that you forgot we agreed to stay in today.
Some
people
brought their work home.” Olivia gestured at her laptop and documents.

James paused midstep and coldly eyed his wife. “Damn you.”

“Damn yourself. I’m going to make more tea.”

“Damn the tea too. And damn that boy. What’s wrong with him anyway? It’s four thirty in the afternoon and he hasn’t even gotten out of bed.”

“Who knows? Depressed, I suppose.”

They both cackled with glee.

Murgatroyd was indeed depressed. He was lying in bed staring at the ceiling, the sheets pulled up to his chin. There was a sharp rap on the door, followed by the sound of his mother’s voice.

“Murgatroyd, dear. Do you want me to make you a cup of Milo?”

“No thanks, Mum. I’m all right.”

“What? I can’t hear you.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“What?”

“NO, I’M FINE.”

There was a pause. He heard his mother’s voice again. “Well, you needn’t shout. It’s bad enough that your father has cancer without you screaming at me.”

Murgatroyd rolled over onto his side and pulled the covers over his head. He knew that he should feel guilty for yelling at his mother. He also knew he should feel guilty about the resentment and exasperation which sat in his stomach like a ball of lead. But he didn’t. He felt unashamedly resentful and exasperated. And sick to his stomach. And ungrateful for the very bed he was lying in, and the hot water running through the pipes in his bathroom, and the miserable existence that his mother and father had given him. And he wanted to get away from this place, and he wanted to run away and meet Ann on Bedok Jetty. And he wanted to travel in the More Known World where it felt like home. And he hated stupid cancer and his stupid father and this stupid, stupid life.

And he felt selfish and childish.

And he felt trapped.

Trapped
. He pulled the blankets around him tighter and began to feel drowsy with despair.
Trapped . . . trapped . . .

The next thing he knew, there was a faint ringing sound in his ears and a voice yelling at him through the door. He must have dozed off.

“Murgatroyd! Can you get the phone?”

Even though it was never for him, even though the phone was in the kitchen, closer to
them
, and he was in his bedroom, it was
his
job to answer the phone. With the exaggerated sigh of a melodramatic teenager, he threw off the covers and got out of bed.

“Hello?”

“Ah, hello. May I please speak with . . . erh . . . Murgatroyd? Murgatroyd Floyd?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“The son of James Floyd?”

“Yes.”

“This is Dr. Loy, returning your call. Unusual name, Murgatroyd.”

“Oh. Hello, Dr. Loy. Yes, I just called about—”

“Sorry, I meant to call earlier today, but I was busier than I thought, and then your number got lost on my desk, and then—”

“It’s okay. I just wanted to know about my father’s—”

“Ah yes, your father’s—oh dear, oh dear. Let me just say, I was so shocked when the secretary told me. I
am
sorry. How is your father, by the way?”

Murgatroyd felt confused. “Erh . . . he’s okay, I guess?”

“Oh good. Give him my best. We should really play racquetball sometime.”

“Erh. I don’t play racquetball.”

“Ha ha. Sorry, I meant your father, not you.” Dr. Loy paused. “Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude. You . . . you could play too, if you like.”

“Oh . . . okay.”

“Dear me. Sorry, again. I didn’t mean to sound insensitive. Perhaps racquetball might not be the best, given your father’s condition.”

“Oh.”

There was silence, which was eventually broken by Dr. Loy’s voice.

“So . . . why did you call me?”

“Huh? Oh. I wanted to ask about my father’s cancer.”

“Yes, breast cancer. Very rare in men, you know. I
am
sorry. How is he taking it?”

Murgatroyd peered through the open door into the living room where his father was sitting, eating vanilla ice cream straight out of the container with a spoon.

“Erh. He seems okay. He was very sad a few days ago, though.”

“Yes, I can imagine. That’s terrible. Do you know how advanced it is?”

Murgatroyd frowned. “Sorry. Say again?”

“I said, ‘Do you know how advanced it is?’”

“What? Don’t you know?”

“Why would I know?”

“Didn’t you know?”

“Know what?”

“He has cancer?”

“Yes, you told me.”

“No, no.” Murgatroyd took a deep breath. “He said that
you
said he has cancer.”

“Come again? I’m very confused. He
does
have cancer, doesn’t he?”

“Doesn’t he? I thought you knew!”

“I only got the news when you called. I haven’t seen your father for two years!”

“What?! But he said
you
told him he has cancer.”

“What? I never told him he has cancer.”

“I—”

A wave of dizziness swept over Murgatroyd. Leaning against the wall, he peered again at his father comfortably ensconced on the sofa, contemplating his spoon. A rivulet of melted ice cream dribbled slowly down his chin. James looked up and glanced in his son’s direction.

“Ah, dear boy! Glad to see you’re up and about, finally! Could you look in the fridge and see if we have any chocolate syrup?”

“I—”

“Who are you talking to?”

Murgatroyd stared at him. “You. You—”

“Yes, I
know
you’re talking to
me
,” his father said impatiently. “But who are you talking to
on the phone
?”

“You . . . you . . .” The phone fell from his hands and clattered onto the floor. Dr. Loy’s voice sounded faintly over the receiver. “Hello? Hello?”

Murgatroyd took a step in his father’s direction and pointed a trembling finger at him. “You don’t have cancer.”

James lowered his spoon. “Who told you that? Who was that?”

“It was Dr. Loy. You don’t have cancer.”

A look of panic crossed James’s face. Eying his son as he might a hungry wolf, James slowly set the ice cream carton down on the table. He called out to his wife. “Olivia!”

“I’m in the loo! What is it?”

“Olivia, just get out here now! Hurry!”

There was a flushing sound, and Olivia emerged, hands unwashed, from the bathroom. “James, what is it?”

James looked at his wife, then again at his son. “He knows.”

Olivia was quiet for a while. “How much does he know?”

“I don’t know,” James answered. With apprehension, they both regarded their son.

Murgatroyd couldn’t believe it. And yet, he could. He believed it, and moreover, somehow, he had known it all along. Staring at his mother and father’s faces, taking in their expressions of shock, dismay, nervousness, and a certain
something else
that had always been present but that he had never been able to quite figure out, Murgatroyd realized that he knew everything. He felt out of breath, lightheaded. As if the air around him had become thinner, as if his body were only barely anchored to the ground beneath his feet. Weightless. Stretching out his arms, he steadied himself against the kitchen door frame.

When he tried to speak, he choked, and tears sprang to his eyes. He tried again. The voice that came out of his throat was thin, small, pathetic. He knew what the certain something else was. And he wanted to know why it was.

“Why do you hate me?”

Much to their surprise, James and Olivia too felt the warm saltiness of tears running down their own faces. James answered truthfully.

“We don’t know.”

“You
don’t know
?” Murgatroyd repeated. He was panting, sucking at the air in long, painful draughts. “How . . . how long?”

Olivia answered this time, as gently as she could, for it seemed as if the boy was going to collapse.

“Ever since you were born.”

Ever since you were born.
The words astounded him. And somehow, he knew that too.
Ever since I was born.