Art Ache (4 page)

JACK

No I won’t.

I watch the afternoon sun catch Jack’s hair. It’s the same colour as his dad’s. Well, the same colour his dad’s used to be. And his face is open and free, fresh and pure. My hand absently goes up to my face. I touch my forehead and run my hand down my cheek. I wonder what my face looks like right now.

The face of a Gen X woman who obviously couldn’t have it all. The face of a woman dumped by her husband. The face of the mother of a soon-to-be four-year-old boy, an actor and sometime writer. A daughter, sister, friend, but no longer a wife. The face of a suburban woman burdened with a mythological name.

In an effort to distract myself from the reality of the drama unfolding in my everyday life, I remind myself of Persephone’s story. Perhaps I’ll gain some insight from it, a revelatory realisation that will explain everything.

In a nutshell, she’s frolicking in a flowery meadow with some nymph companions one fine day when she’s seized by Hades. He whisks her off to the underworld. Today we’d call it abduction, but then it was seized or transported, or something far more palatable. Anyway, her mother, Demeter, despairs and searches high and low for her. Plot twist here: Demeter learns that pesky old Zeus has actually orchestrated the abduction. Again, in our day he’d be an enabler, a pimp, a creep. Nah, in Ancient Greece he’s a god! But good old Demeter plays the trump card and refuses to let the spring grounds bloom until her daughter is returned. Controlling the seasons, now that’s real power. However, Persephone has already tasted of the food of Hades, a pomegranate I think, so she is now required to spend a part of each year with her husband in the underworld, and the other part in the upperworld. Heavy stuff. A lot to live up to, but I’m not getting any huge revelatory realisation apart from the fact my husband doesn’t want his wife in the underworld or the upperworld. He just wants her gone.

I let out a spontaneous sigh, push Jack a little higher on the swing and have a fleeting memory of a spinach salad with pomegranate and feta dressing that Boofhead and I shared once upon a time.

Chapter 3

Our bedroom later that night. Alone.

“There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.” William Shakespeare.

I can’t get comfortable. The pillow is too hard, the sheets are too tight and the doona feels as heavy as a shroud. If shrouds are heavy. I’ve checked the bedside clock every five minutes for the past thirty minutes. It doesn’t make the time go any faster.

Did this really happen today? Did my husband really end our marriage?

Yes.

I get up and check Jack. Sound asleep.

I go back to bed, but still can’t get comfortable. I turn the bedside light on and sit up. I’m sick of pretending I’m tired. I hug my knees into my chest and contemplate my situation.

My husband has dumped me and now I have to work with him in less than two weeks. This is worse than it sounds.
I don’t mean we have to work together like we have to work in the same building or the same office. I mean we have to
work
together.
In a rehearsal room. It’s a very different kettle of fish. Collaborative, intimate, committed.

Do I really have to do this? Well no one’s holding a gun to my head, but jobs in the arts are hard to come by. When you work in the arts, you have
what they call a ‘portfolio career.’ I’m not sure who coined the phrase, but the funding bodies and government arts departments have picked it up and run with it. It basically means
instead of working a traditional full-time job, you work multiple part-time jobs. You suffer for your art. The part-time jobs can range from waiting tables to scrubbing dunnies.
Not that I’ve ever scrubbed dunnies, apart from my own, but I have promoted cladding in supermarkets—that’s a plastic coating you put over the wooden boards on your house. I’ve also been a fairy, taught drama to children at youth theatre and young adults at Uni, I’ve answered phones in a call centre, done telemarketing and worked as an appointment setter for a signage business. It was the appointment setter job that did me in and made me take action. I reached saturation point. Never again would I call random strangers or random businesses, suggesting they spend money they didn’t have on a product they didn’t want or need. I decided to focus on voice-overs. Smart move, because they are very well paid, a sensible use of my skills, flexible in terms of time and they’re usually enjoyable or if not, at least they’re brief.

So now I have a healthy voice-over career and I’m no longer appointment setting for a signage company. I’m doing a hell of a lot better than many artists in terms of financial remuneration, but I still have a portfolio career and it is exhausting. It means I juggle voice-overs, which are my bread and butter, with auditions for acting jobs for theatre or sometimes TV, and writing for theatre commissions and pitches for new projects and once in a blue moon, I’m asked to audition for a feature film. It’s dynamic, creative and fun, but my heart is still with theatre, even though I know it probably shouldn’t be. If I added up how much money I’ve made from theatre jobs, I’d make the dunny cleaners look good.

Doing voice-overs is terrific. You’re respected as a technician and the people you work with are, by and large, totally lovely. And the goal is clear. Read this script like this. Sell this product. The client has selected you from your demo tape so you know they like your voice and you don’t have to “prove” yourself to them. There is generally no audition required or if there is, they pay you for the privilege. In short, when you get the phone call you know you’ve got the gig. The process is very straightforward. You read the ad, they make changes and suggestions, you read it again and then you all go home.

Working in theatre is different. It’s creatively fulfilling, but far more subjective. There are many stakeholders in theatre and budgets are always tight. Everyone has a vested interest and there’s little margin for error. Yes, it’s collaborative, but because companies are nervous about funding and audience attendance figures, choices are often safe. Sometimes deadly safe. And it’s an industry based on poverty. There is not enough to go around, so it can become a dog-eat-dog world. I don’t particularly like some of the aspects of theatre, but I love the form. I love the live performance factor. We sit and watch live actors present a story in front of us, a live audience, at this moment in time. There’s something primal, universal, and ageless about it. Magical. Therapeutic. I have had so many moments as a theatre actor when I’ve been on stage under the direction of a good director who has a clue and their vision has merged with the playwright’s intentions. I’ve felt the words and actions just float out of my mouth and body and connect with the other actors. You can feel all the elements of theatre coming together and it’s clear the audience gets it; it has struck a chord with something meaningful, deep inside them. They have been changed in some way. And you can hear a pin drop. There is communion, understanding, and human beings connecting on a deep level in this time and place. Right here. Right now, able to reflect on what it is to be human.

But there have been many times when I’ve wished my love affair with theatre would end. When I’ve had a string of unsuccessful auditions, or no auditions at all. Then it’s like a lover who’s rejecting and/or ignoring me, pitching me against other women who are my type, comparing our height, our looks, our ability, sometimes even our teeth. And if you are the lucky one who gets the job, then the reality is theatre pays very little money and requires long hours. Then it’s gone, merely a memory once the show closes. It’s ephemeral. Theatre lives on in the audience’s mind, or not at all, depending on the quality or power of the production. Ironically, that’s part of its charm and power.

But despite all its shortcomings, theatre has a power over me. I return time after time. And the next time involves working with my soon-to-be ex-husband.

Let me paint a picture. I’ve written the play and he’s directing it. He’s also dramaturge. That’s like an editor, but it’s more than that. In the true German tradition, the dramaturge is a theatrical scholar but also a confidante, pedestal, rock, mentor. The dramaturge provides support, encouragement, clarity, and a reference point of professional excellence. The fundamental ingredients for a successful writer/dramaturge relationship are mutual respect, open communication, and the ability to work constructively together. Right now, it’s three strikes and we’re out. There is no respect, completely closed communication, and frankly, I’d like to destroy him from the base of his pasty white feet to the top of his early-onset-balding head.

I let out a deep sigh, switch the bedside lamp off and roll over onto my side. I’m gutted by the emptiness of the bed. Bruised by the silence of the room.

Chapter 4

The next day. Mum and Dad’s house.

“Love Art in yourself, and not yourself in Art.” Constantin Stanislavski.

I’m late. The voice-over took longer than it should have and the afternoon traffic was worse than I thought it would be. I pull into Mum’s driveway and race to the door. It’s always unlocked.

MUM

(Calls out)

In the kitchen, love.

She’s been baking with Jack. I can smell the buttery, fresh-from-the-oven biscuits.

JACK

Mummy! Look what we made!

Jack smells buttery too as I pick him up for a big hug and breathe him in.

MUM

How clever are you?

JACK

Very.

MUM

Go and wash your hands in the bathroom, sweetheart, and grab your toy bag.

Nice delivery, Mum. You sound firm, but loving. You have a warm smile on your face. Stop, Persephone. This is no time to be assessing your mother’s performance or delivery of the script. Back to reality, my friend.

JACK

Okay, I’ll wash my hands.

My mum doesn’t wear a lot of make-up. I’m reminded of this as I look at her flushed but happy face. She’s glowing.

“I don’t want to look like mutton dressed up as lamb” has always been her catch cry. “I’ll use a bit of mascara and a bit of lipstick, but I’m not putting eye shadow anywhere near my face.” Eye shadow is definitely the paint of the whore as far as my mum’s concerned. Fair enough. And she doesn’t look like mutton. She looks like Mum. Her skin is still good. Wrinkled, but clear and soft. Her eyes are bright and although her hair is a bit mannish, it’s healthy and has a nice sheen to it. Each time I discuss the issue with my sister, she fires up.

SISTER

What is it with old women wanting to look like blokes? Jesus Christ, they stop menstruating and then they think that’s a cue to start growing balls. No wonder their husbands don’t want to fuck them.

She’s very direct, my sister.

ME

How do you know their husbands don’t want to fuck them?

SISTER

Would you?

ME

Well, no.

SISTER

See? Why do they have to make it so challenging for the man in their lives? It’s hard enough to please a man when you’re hot, let alone when you’re a dry old post-menopausal wife who refuses to pluck herself or wear lipstick.

ME

Mum looks nice. She’s ageing, but she’s doing it without chemical assistance, and I respect that.

SISTER

I can guarantee I won’t be that brave when my time comes.

ME

Well, she looks fine and dandy to me.

SISTER

You’re living in a fool’s paradise, sweetheart.

Am I? Probably. Right now, all I know is that I don’t know how to broach the subject of Boofhead with my mum. I shouldn’t call him that. I should call him by his real name, especially when talking to my parents. If I use Boofhead, they’ll have no idea who I’m talking about. Call him by his real name—Tom.

Okay, how do I broach the subject of Tom with Mum? I was in a rush when I dropped Jack off so I didn’t go there, but now, I feel I must. I can’t keep it from her forever.

I’m overwhelmed by the significance of the statement I need to make, so I opt for a warm, reassuring hug instead.

She’s starting to smell old. Only slightly, but it’s there. Mingled with the Red Door Dad bought her for Christmas from the Malouf Chemist’s sale and the Mum roll on anti-perspirant, there’s that faint old-lady-smell. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Just starting to creep in. I have no idea why she insists on wearing Red Door. It dates her, throws her right back to nineteen eighty-something, but at least she’s moved on from Jean Nate. Well, she had to. They stopped making it. You could buy Jean Nate at the chemist for less than fifteen dollars. It was a bargain and it actually didn’t smell too bad. But it was so bargain basement. So Mum.

My sister brought her a bottle of Chanel No. 5 duty free last time she went overseas, but Mum can’t bring herself to wear it. “I’ll keep it for good.” Not a great idea when you live in our steamy climate. The “good” occasions that warrant Chanel No. 5 tend to occur just after the perfume has gone sour. But Mum doesn’t let that stop her and there she is at every family gathering (that’s considered “good”), resplendent in her “good” slacks, “good” earrings and “good” perfume. You go in for the hello hug and are assailed by slightly off Chanel No. 5. Not so good.

ME

We’re getting a divorce.

I blurt it out before I’m ready to say it and definitely before she’s ready to hear it.

MUM

A what?

ME

D.I.V.O.R.C.E.

MUM

Loretta Lynn.

ME

Tammy Wynette, actually.

MUM

She’s getting a divorce? Isn’t she dead?

ME

Not her. Us.

MUM

Us who?

ME

Boofhead and me.

MUM

Who?

Oops.

ME

Sorry, I meant Tom. Tom and I.

Mum sits down on the edge of her favourite armchair and looks like she might cry.

MUM

I don’t understand what you’re saying.

ME

Tom and I are getting a divorce.

MUM

But you’re married.

ME

Not for much longer.

MUM

But . . . why?

ME

He wants one.

She sits straighter than before and her spirit rallies. A moment of feistiness.

MUM

Of course he does. They all do. But you can’t possibly let him have it.

ME

I don’t have a choice.

MUM

Nonsense. There’s always a choice.

ME

No Mum, there isn’t. He’s over it.

MUM

I hate that phrase.

Mum swallows deeply, pushing her tears away. She always does this. Crying is something she doesn’t like doing.

MUM

You young people use such ridiculous phrases. “Over it.” “It’s all good.” ”Random.” What on earth do they mean?

ME

Well, “over it” means I’m over it. Fed up, had enough. The end. You get the idea. “It’s all good” means/

MUM

/He can’t be “over it”. Marriage isn’t a fence. You don’t get “over it.”

ME

Apparently, you do.

Her face is contorted into an anguished grimace, holding back the tears.

MUM

(whispers)

What about Jack?

Then she calls out to him in the other room, trying to stall him. Protecting him.

MUM

Make sure you pick up all those blocks, young man.

JACK

(calls)

Okay, Grandma.

She’s all choked up, but is determined to dam those tears. They will not fall. However, despite her iron will and years of stifling, the tears have a mind of their own today and start to drizzle down her cheeks. She cries so infrequently that when she does, it’s like she’s gagging. She tends to save crying for life’s major events, like the baby she lost. The one between my sister and I, the one she’s sure was a little boy. And for the death of her parents. And the death of Dad’s parents. And for the time my sister got a tattoo and showed all and sundry at a family dinner. And now for this, her daughter’s impending divorce.

She lets out a sob. It’s involuntary and scares both of us. More sobs follow. They’re strangling each other as they come out of her throat. They’re embarrassing, repressed and somehow shameful. I wish she’d just let them out. Howl at the moon, Mum. But no, she continues sobbing and crying, snot cascading from her nose, mingling with the salty tears.

I give her a hug. She keeps up the whisper.

MUM

How did this happen?

ME

What do you mean, how did it happen?

MUM

Well, these things don’t just come out of the blue.

ME

Sometimes they do. I don’t know.

She’s using an accusatory tone and I’m losing my through-line, my objective, my intention. I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to tell her. I release the hug and sit opposite her. She retrieves a hanky from her bra and wipes her nose. She gives it a good blow and wipes her chin.

MUM

You always know. Husbands don’t just turn up one day and tell you they’re leaving. There’s a process.

ME

Not this time.

MUM

Of course there’s a process.

Why do I suddenly feel like I’m the one who’s done something wrong?

MUM

There must have been problems.

ME

Name one relationship where there aren’t problems.

MUM

Your father and I.

Denial is a powerful weapon. Dream on, Mum.

MUM

Your father and I have been happy for as long as I can remember.

ME

You’ve had problems, Mum!

MUM

Of course we have, but you don’t just give up.

ME

I haven’t.

MUM

It sounds like you have.

ME

I haven’t. I went to see a counsellor.

MUM

So you
were
aware of something.

ME

I thought I might have been depressed after the baby.

MUM

Jack’s a big boy now.

ME

I know, but I was unhappy.

MUM

Why didn’t you tell me?

ME

I was mildly unhappy. But the counsellor seemed to think the problem was the marriage. She thought we could work through it. Maybe. Anyway, she suggested we go on dates.

MUM

What a load of rot! Dates? God help us. The last time your father and I went on a date was 1963! Man hadn’t even walked on the moon! Dates?!

ME

What am I supposed to do? Tie myself to his car, beg him not to go?

I don’t want her to answer these questions. She doesn’t.

MUM

Oh well, it takes two people to have a relationship, you know.

ME

And one to end it.

My voice cracks on the word
end
. Now
I’m
crying.

MUM

I’m sorry, love. Come here. I‘m just shocked, that’s all.

ME

Tell me about it.

She gives me a big Mum hug, complete with a couple of hard pats on the back. It’s like she’s trying to burp me.

ME

We had problems, Mum. Most people do, but I thought we’d stick it out. I thought he was committed.

MUM

So you didn’t want it to end.

ME

No. But how do you admit that you still want to be married to someone who doesn’t want to be married to you?

MUM

The writing was on the wall when he bought that car.

Everyone’s an authority after the fact.

MUM

A bloody sports car.

ME

It was a hatchback.

MUM

Same thing. All he needed was a tattoo and an earring.

ME

He’s got a yin yang symbol on his arse.

MUM

Mind your language, love. Just because you’ve been dumped doesn’t mean you have to become common.

ME

I haven’t been dumped!

MUM

Yes you have.

ME

I haven’t!

MUM

Suit yourself. Your counsellor wasn’t much chop, was she?

ME

I like her.

MUM

Well, she didn’t save your marriage.

She has a point. But I don’t think I was looking for the counsellor to save my marriage. I was looking for her to diagnose the problem. She did that within five minutes. I think I’ll need to check back in and get that lifejacket and those swimming lessons she mentioned. But in the meantime it’s all about survival.

MUM

Suggesting you go on dates? That’s what you do before you get married. Once you’re married, there’s children to raise, a home to run. Once you’re married, the lay-by’s been collected. There’s no need to make any more payments. If you’re not happy with the purchase, tough luck, because there’s no bloody refund. Buyers beware, I say.

ME

The dates were part of an ultimatum. She told me to give him three months to try harder and if it didn’t improve, then it was over.

MUM

Never a good idea. If you give men an exit clause, they’ll always bloody take it.

ME

Great.