Yearning (31 page)

Hating him. Loving him. All at the same time. She’d barely grunted when Poppy emerged with a wet slurp into the waiting hands of the midwife. Max’s relief filled the room as the baby wailed. He looked like a child as he nursed the yellow and blood-smeared grub of a being. His tears splashed over the baby’s cheeks and he kissed the top of her head over and over again. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ he whispered. ‘You’re amazing.’ It was the first time he’d ever said anything like that to her.

After they named Poppy, Max gave himself over to the three of them as if it were penance for every abusive word he’d ever spoken. Joshua and Poppy were his breath, he said, the reason his heart kept beating. Sometimes she wondered if it was his way of punishing her after all the grief he’d given her about having kids, but when she heard the earnest patience in his voice she knew he was genuine. She noticed a new gentleness in his hands, a new softness in him. She hardly recognised him as the same man she’d run away from only seven months before. His being in the world had become a prayer: Stay with me. Forgive me. Love me. Let me love you. Please.

He hungered to be back living with them, but she wasn’t ready for that yet. Weekend visits were enough for now. She needed to know he could hold himself together in the long term. She was testing him, appraising him,
giving him a measured chance. He tried hard to impress her, even taking the kids out alone.

‘Give you some time out,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right.’

She held Poppy in her lap and watched him pack a bag with bottles, wipes and nappies. Joshua ricocheted around the house marshalling favourite toys to take with him. When Max was ready to go she surrendered Poppy to him reluctantly, watching as he tucked her into her car seat. She worried, but Joshua loved it so much she didn’t have the heart to say no.

Alone, she wandered through the house looking at the mess left behind and cursing. She had so little time to herself, had wasted so much energy surviving, getting through a day, she was lost in the sudden freedom and she didn’t want to waste it cleaning up. A day without the children was a soundless vacuum. Everything paused while they were gone, the house holding its breath, waiting for the tumult of their return. Much as she loved the idea of time to herself, once she had it she had no idea what to do with it. She moved about the house with the uncertainty of an animal let off a permanent leash, wary and unsure, picking things up and putting them down again.

It was peaceful, but she missed them. Without their distraction it was harder to keep thoughts of Solomon at bay. She lay on the children’s beds and smelled their sheets, dug their little singlets out of the laundry basket and held them against her face, breathing in the sweetness left by their baby bodies and feeling a maternal tingle in her nipples. This is why, she reminded herself. The smell of my children is why I am here and still trying with Max.

It was so pointless, being alone. When it got too much
for her she pulled out some old, crumbling charcoals and an artists pad and tried drawing. Months ago, before the trouble and with Solomon’s encouragement, she’d joined a life-drawing class at the local gallery. It was a guilty pleasure, especially now, on a waitresses wage, but it had saved her sanity. There was solace in the dark lines as she marked out the unknown curves of a model’s sensuous body. She loved the contrast of light and shadow and the shafts of sunlight caressing their skin. And the model, staring over her head, oblivious to the sun’s desire, its rays lapping gently at their skin like a devoted lover. Drawing them like this, unknowing that the sun was making love to them, stirred her deeply.

Art absorbed her and the pain of being alone passed with the hours. It was afternoon when she heard the car pull up at the front of the house and she realised she’d forgotten to have lunch, again. She was hungry, relieved, and ready to be a mother again. She ran to the front door with her arms open, ready to capture the hugs and kisses of her grubby and beaming son, tucking the legs of her baby daughter around the flesh of her hip. Max came behind them, but asked nothing of her. She would offer him nothing, not until she was sure of him, and so she made him wait, which he did patiently.

Perhaps it was the week-day separations, or maybe he’d realised he didn’t want to end up like the silent scrabble of a man his father was. Whatever it was, the new Max was light-hearted and brimming with enthusiasm for their time together as a family. He arrived on the weekends and played with the kids, helped her with dinner, mowed the lawn and smoothed over their damaged edges. She made
him sleep on the couch, which he did without complaint. She wasn’t ready to jump back, feet first, into their marriage just yet.

Her mother was right. Max was a man who, in spite of the ruin of their past, was still willing to be there for the long haul. She shut Solomon out of her mind as best she could and tried to focus on the stable life Max offered. She told herself it was for the best. For their children, and herself. But it wasn’t easy. The habit of Solomon was strong and his memory returned to her with the persistence of waves rushing to the shore. She knew she shouldn’t dwell on him, it only made things worse, but she couldn’t help but look over her shoulder to his shadow shifting in the dark corners of her memory.

She pulled into her parents’ driveway and Joshua burst out of the door like a jack in the box, bouncing and bobbing around the car in an excited gush.

‘Mum! Mum! Dad says I can go to work with him tomorrow. He sayed it on the phone.’ Joshua was almost leering with excitement.

‘Yeah? Sounds like fun.’

‘Can I go Mummy? He sayed I can use a hammer.’

‘You have to be careful with Daddy’s tools, Joshie.’

Josh rolled his eyes, exasperated. ‘I’m a boy, Mum. I can use a hammer.’ She smiled. He was her father all over again.

A curse flew from the front door and she knew her father had appeared.

‘Poppa, that’s a naughty word,’ Joshua cried.

Her father stood with Poppy wailing in his arms. ‘Where the hell have you been? This kid is going nuts.’

She smiled. ‘Dad, I told you 3.30, and that’s what time it is.’

He grumbled. ‘Can’t stand this heat. I can’t keep these two amused inside all day. Don’t know why you can’t work on the days your mother’s at home.’

She climbed the steps and plucked her chubby daughter from her father’s arms. She fumbled with her bra and released a bulging nipple, gasping at the painful tingle of letdown as Poppy latched on and suckled greedily.

‘Jesus Christ,’ her father cried, ‘Do you have to do that in front of me?’

‘You’re the one complaining about the screaming. When did Max call?’

She hadn’t spoken to Max for a few days. Their conversations hiccoughed like an old car engine, only sometimes gaining enough spark to go anywhere. They were trying so hard to be nice to each other. Was this how most marriages survived? By using polite niceties to ignore all the real problems that lay underneath? By covering over all the unmet expectations? By bypassing the broken promises? She looked at her father, fussing with one of Josh’s broken cars, and knew that was the truth of her parents’ relationship.

‘Lunchtime. I’ve set him up on a job with Gary,’ her father said as he walked back into the house.

‘Will Josh be safe on a worksite?’

‘For Christ’s sake, girl, Max’ll look after him. You’re gonna be a builder, like me and your old man, aren’t ya, Joshie?’

Joshua jumped up and down tugging on his grand-father’s shirt. ‘Just like you, Poppa, just like you.’

‘No bloody trumped up, high falutin’ book-worming for you, eh Josh?’

She sat down at the kitchen table with a glass of water. Her dad took every opportunity to remind her of what he thought of Solomon. He hadn’t forgiven her, still blamed her. It had always been her fault in his eyes. Her fault, even though she was only sixteen. Her fault even though Max had been an abusive drunk. Her dad thought she was dumb for not seeing Solomon for who he was: a smart-arse, a poofter, a useless bastard. Her father never minced words. On the other hand, in her father’s eyes, Max was a perfect man.

Relieved the day was over, she tumbled the boisterous clutter of Josh and Poppy into the car and thanked her father with a dutiful kiss on the cheek. Joshua sang tuneless nursery rhymes on the way home, showing Poppy the actions with his hands. Poppy burped and gurgled through wet gums, nodding sleepily in the heat. She arrived home with her head full of chores, settled Poppy for a nap in her cot and Josh in front of the television before collecting the mail and checking the answering machine. She flicked absently through the mail as she listened to a phone message from Max. A voice filled with restrained affection, resigned and overly cheerful.

‘Hi. Did you get my message from your dad? I’m on site out of town tomorrow and thought I’d take Josh with me. I’ll pick him up at seven-thirty. I’ll organise lunch. Have you got sunscreen? And his footy? Give Poppy a kiss for me. See ya then.’

The answering machine beeped but she wasn’t listening. She was gazing at a postcard that had come in the
mail. High on a cliff, overlooking a smear of sandy beach, a phallic, red-tipped lighthouse reached into perfect blue sky. Solomon’s serene handwriting spoke from its back in cool tones. A secret rush of excitement faded as she read the inane words. What had she hoped for? A declaration of love? Now?

She read the postcard again with anger rising up her spine. What was he doing? Why bother with this stupid message that said nothing except tell her where he was? It annoyed her beyond belief. Who cared where he was? Why did he think she’d want to know? What was the selfish prick trying to do? Surely he realised she was trying to stitch her threadbare life back together? She wished she could make him disappear, take an eraser and rub him out of her memory, out of her life. He’d never wanted her, not really. She pushed the heel of her hand into the centre of her forehead, pushing back the fury and frustration, bursting through her. Damn him. She’d had enough. Cursing under her breath she tossed the postcard into the wastepaper bin under the desk and stomped out of the room in a temper.

*

Her name was Anna. Her sheer top clung feverishly to her breasts, the scooped neckline showing off her brown skin. She took her coffee sweet and milky. Her skirt lifted as she crossed smooth elegant legs adorned with sharp heels. Her make-up was heavier than he preferred and her jewellery made a disconcerting clatter against the table top.

She jittered as she talked, laughing in a gush at his interjections. A fitness and health fanatic, she complained
about the local men. ‘Hairy pot-bellies, singlets and thongs, stinking of fish – they’re disgusting. This place has no idea,’ she said, rolling her eyes. She smiled at him, lowering her eyelids, ‘I like a man more like yourself, with a bit of class.’

Solomon smoothed his trim goatee with his thumb and forefinger, smothering a grin. This would be so easy it was almost boring. He focused his attention on her feet, the tease of her painted toes bursting rudely from her shoes like little lollipops. He’d always been a sucker for a stiletto. He watched as she hitched her skirt higher and probed him with questions. He pretended to answer her, careful not to give too much away. He diverted attention away from himself, returning the talk to her and where she fitted in the town. As he listened to her, he imagined her muscular legs either side of his hips and the stilettos digging into the side of his thighs. Brazenly he set his gaze on her chest, letting it rest there, knowing she would eventually notice him feasting upon her.

Anna’s flood of words stammered to a halt. He didn’t take his eyes off the lush melon-like mounds of her breasts. Too round for her age, he thought. He glanced up at her face and she was smiling. She leaned forward so the loose top of the shirt drooped open. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Solomon shifted in his seat, leaning forward to get a better view. She raised a salacious eyebrow.

‘Do you like what you see?’

He cleared his throat and his pants began to bulge. ‘Yes. Very much.’

‘We can go some place now if you like. I’m free.’

In a moment he’d reached for her hand and drew her over to sit on his knee. She blushed with the unexpected shift in him, from cool to boiling in less than a second. His hand drifted over her thigh and up her skirt to the tight orb of her buttocks. She was firm to his touch. His fingers explored until he felt the thin strap of a G-string. Pleased with what he found he whispered, ‘Let’s go to my place.’

He pushed her to her feet and, with a hand gently at her back, guided her to his car. Her torrent of silly words dissipated into breathy expectancy. He could tell it had been a while since Anna had been with a man. He sensed her ripeness. She was brimming, ready and waiting. He guessed she’d probably ridden all the half-decent men in the town and now, in her early forties, had run out of options.

Once in the driver’s seat he began to talk. In the short time he’d spent with her he’d guessed her preferences. She was bold and physical. Dirty talk would be her thing. He started by telling her what he would do to her when he got her to his bed, how he’d caress her curves, how the smell of her was making him hungry for her pussy. He told her how wanted to lick her and listen to her moan until she came over and over again. He asked her what she enjoyed most, what she most wanted from him, then promised to give it to her.

In the eight minutes it took him to drive to his house he knew he’d made her wet without having to touch her. This was the power he loved. The way women opened themselves up to him without being touched. She was breathing a little harder, mute with the intensity of his words. Before they stepped from the car he hesitated.

‘Would you let me shave you?’

‘No need. I’m waxed.’

He growled with hungry eagerness and got out of the car. He moved quickly to her side and pushed her before him, watching her walking the gravel path to his front door. Long legs, reedy and slender, shaped perfectly to fit childless hips and a willowy waist. Her body was a mark of her life. Fussy, obsessed with physical beauty, a woman on the edge of losing out to age and finicky preferences, clinging to fading youth, her chances of having a family long gone. He saw all of this in her, but didn’t let it disturb his focus. It had been a long time since he’d done this, but he could feel his old passions shifting inside him, blocking out everything about her that he disliked. This is good, he thought, this is how it should be.