Golden Boys (17 page)

When she hears the car pull into the driveway she gets ready; part of her was hoping he would never come home. It's Wednesday, payday, early evening, not late for him. She listens as he moves into the house, his footsteps always random at first, as if he's never been here before, and his greetings to the girls which sound as if he's never met them: ‘Yes, hello Marigold, how are you, Dorrie.' She hears her mother's voice and, below all of it, the yammer of the TV. She sits on the edge of her bed, her hands under her thighs. She hears him go to the kitchen and inspect the dinner put aside for him. She sees it all happening in her mind but feels a kind of blindness, and a sense that she's stopped existing as herself, Freya Kiley, and become instead a kind of sneaky insect whose squeezing in under the door brings destruction to the house. But it's not, she reminds herself, only good things that can end.

When he goes into the lounge room without bothering to eat the meal she stands up immediately and walks the length of the hall to the lounge, passing on her journey the bathroom, her brothers' room, her parents' room, the front door and the kitchen – the entire house. Her house, in every way. Bought because she had to be brought home. She's endured such guilt, and now she must do this terrible thing to make amends: but really, she hasn't only taken.

‘Hello, Dad,' she says.

He is standing with his back to her, propped against Syd's armchair and watching the television. Her mother is there, and all her siblings, the three youngest stretched out on the carpet. It takes a second for her voice to register, and when it does he turns awkwardly. ‘Hello, Freya.'

‘Drunk again,' she says.

It's as if she's thrown a rattlesnake to the floor: there's a collective recoil and intake of breath. Marigold looks at her with wide-open eyes, Syd yanks his feet up under him. Freya presses on; she had known it wouldn't be easy. ‘I don't know why you come home when you're drunk. No one wants you here.'

Marigold cries, ‘Oh, Freya!'

‘Well, we don't. He stinks. He's revolting.'

Joe says, ‘Watch your mouth, you little bitch.'

She has never been sworn at by an adult, and it's disconcerting almost to the point of being derailing. But she tightens her fists and holds her ground and says, ‘What a pig you are.'

To Syd it must appear that his sister has gone crazy: he's kneeling on the armchair saying, ‘Freya, no no —'

‘Be quiet, Freya!' warns their mother. ‘Get out of here.'

‘Why?' Freya whirls to her. ‘Why do I have to be quiet? Why can't I tell him he's disgusting?'

But even as she speaks she is taking small steps in reverse because her father is advancing on her with equally small steps, and her heart has become a sparrow in a cage slamming at her ribs for escape. She sees how much bigger and stronger he is – much bigger than when they fix the station wagon together, much stronger than when he cooks her pikelets for breakfast. Not the same person: the knowledge both alarms and whips her on. He's closer, just three steps away, near enough that she can see the button undone on his shirt. ‘You make me sick!' she cries. ‘I'm embarrassed to have you as a father!'

‘Get out,' he sneers. ‘Get to bed —'

‘No!' She shouts it as loudly as she can. ‘
You
get to bed! Get out of this house! I've had enough!'

His arm flies out, swinging as if to smash her from his sight but colliding with the Christmas tree, which collapses sideways without any resistance at all, hitting the carpet with a spiritless huff. Decorations spill from it, the angel capsizing from the peak. The entire family stares at it, the stubby upended cone of plastic suddenly seeming the worst of omens. Then Dorrie unleashes a godless wail, and Peter throws his head back and howls too, and Freya screeches at her father, ‘Now look what you've done!'

Joe glares, his head tossing as though he'd shake off what he hears like bees. Then, ‘Get out!' he yells. ‘Out of my sight!'

‘Freya, stop!' says their mother, and there's no fear or pleading in her voice, just an iron intolerance Freya hasn't heard before. Declan has jumped up from the couch, Dorrie and Marigold and Peter are shrieking a noise like a whirlwind. Joe swings a splayed hand, and Freya darts out of reach – but she's misjudged something, her house has turned against her, the yellow-eyed monster that hunts her suddenly snags her in its claws, because instead of slipping lithely past the door she hits the doorframe and for the tiniest instant she is trapped, unable to take the step that would carry her beyond reach. And this man whom she has never seen looms in front of her before she can raise her hands, a man who so clearly despises her that it sucks the air from her lungs and the strength from her legs. His fist is up, a solid mallet aimed at her drained face. ‘Oh no,' she gabbles, ‘no, don't —' and then the room itself seems to roar. ‘
Do not!'
says their mother. ‘
Don't you dare! 
' And Elizabeth is there, gripping her husband's arm and pulling him back with irresistible force. ‘Don't you dare hit her!' So Freya's father hits her mother instead, an unhesitating punch to the jaw which makes a deadly sound and slings their mother like a soft doll into the wall. And the cries of the children become colliding screams of terror, Freya glimpses them scuttling on their knees as her mother buckles to the floor. Declan dives beside her, but Freya does not wait to see more: she turns and bolts from the room, out the front door and across the garden and into the open street. She's young and fit, she can run like an animal and that is how she's imagined it, flying up the hill the way a deer would sprint the distance in an effortless gallop: in fact she runs in agony, tears streaming down her face, sobbing into herself great painful gallons of air. The evening is hazy, the streetlights are on, but it isn't yet dark and some birds are out, swooping and weaving ahead of her as she stumbles along the path. She struggles to go faster but it's the running of a nightmare, her legs are as heavy as anvils, each stride requires all her strength yet seems to propel her nowhere. She's turned the corner and is labouring uphill and she can see the front fence of the Jensons' house, their porch light beyond the trees, but it's almost impossible to haul herself closer and she understands the monster has curved its paw around her heel and is toying her inevitably into its embrace. Something has gone disastrously wrong, her poor mother thrown to the wolf, and Freya is nothing but a stupid child who pulled the bolt that held back something infinitely more ferocious than she.

And then she is charging up the concrete steps and hammering on the Jensons' door. In her mind she's always seen Rex but in real life it is Tabby who opens the door. Her pretty face drops at the sight of the girl: ‘Freya! What's happened?'

‘My dad is killing my mum!' she bawls.

And suddenly Rex is also there, appearing behind his wife with a frown across his handsome brow. ‘Calm down, Freya, just be calm —'

‘No!' she yells. ‘You have to help us! It's my fault, I didn't mean it, he's hurting her – please, please!'

In her dreams he'd dashed out in a flurry of something like eagle feathers; instead he looks her up and down and she sees him hesitate. His mouth opens and closes over white teeth, and Tabby says, ‘Call the police, Freya. That's what you must do.'

Rex nods rapidly. ‘Yes, that's the thing. Call the police. It's not my place to interfere.'

She rocks on her feet. ‘But Mr Jenson – I need you —'

He says, ‘What specifically do you expect of me?'

‘Call the police,' says Tabby. ‘Don't get involved, Rex.'

Freya looks from her, this miserable woman, to him, who should be rising on wings but instead is lurking – almost hiding – behind his wife. They stare back at her from the dark side of the door, their admirable faces empty. Expecting her gone, now they've told her what to do. Repulsed that she's brought this to their doorstep, but ready to forgive if she will go away. Otherwise, it is over. She blinks into this new blond light, says, ‘There's no time to call the police.'

‘I'll come with you, Freya.' It is Colt: he slips between his parents and out the open door. ‘No!' says Tabby, and grapples for him, but already he's beyond her reach; and although Rex says, ‘Colt, listen!' he doesn't pause, but takes the steps two at a time, and his father does not try to catch him. And Freya, her hands knotted at her mouth, gives Rex a last glance, because it is him she needs – a grown man – even if he's not the man she came looking for, which is something she will never forget. And Rex looks pained and says, ‘Oh, for goodness sake,' and follows his son out the door, and Tabby throws her hands up and spins away as if she's witnessed something beyond describing.

But Freya's heart leaps – sluggishly, but it leaps. It leaps and lurches down the street with Colt and Rex, and part of her finds it blackly amusing that her plan is going so haywire while also managing to stay largely on track. Rex is coming to the rescue, but everything has been lost. She's unbolted a castle door and found not only a monster, but that she's a monster herself.

At the white house the screen door is open, and Dorrie is standing on the veranda in her pink nightdress and bare feet: she bleats when she sees Freya, her arms reaching up, but Freya storms past without stopping. Her father is in the kitchen stomping about randomly, and he has made his usual mess – cutlery is scattered, food has been buffeted from its plate, chairs have fallen over, one cupboard door has been kicked off a hinge. The kitchen smells like he does, of cigarette butts and dregs. Elizabeth is on a chair in the lounge room, a wet cloth pressed to her jaw, and Syd and Marigold and Peter are clustered round her, Peter clinging to his brother, Marigold with her head on her mother's lap. Declan is hovering nearby, gripping the neck of a heavy vase that was a wedding present to Elizabeth and Joe. His face is pale and he looks at Freya as if she's unknown to him. The television is still loyally screening, indifferent to being ignored. Freya halts in the hallway junction where the lounge and kitchen meet, and Rex steps up behind her. In his arms he's carrying Dorrie, whose small hands push against his chest. He looks over Freya's head to Joe, and Freya knows, although she can't see and has never seen it, that he has no idea what to do. ‘Ah,' he says. ‘Joe. Hello.'

Freya's father has barged into the wall near the stove; at the sight of Rex he plants a foot against the plaster and levers himself away. His hair is mussed but otherwise he looks like her father again. ‘Good evening, Mr Dentist,' he says. ‘What brings you here? Bleeding gums? Rotten molar? Would you care for some dinner? A drink?'

Dorrie squirms to be put down but Rex keeps her to him. ‘No thanks, Joe, I've eaten. And I don't drink on a work night. Nothing worse than a dentist with shaky hands.'

But Joe is not listening. He looks around at the smeared food, the listing cupboard, the newspapers on the floor. ‘It's a mess in here,' he says. ‘Is your house a mess, Rex?'

‘Sometimes, Joe.'

‘You'd think it wouldn't be hard to keep a house tidy. I don't know what she does all day.'

‘That I can't tell you,' says Rex.

Dorrie kicks frantically, and Rex puts her down. The girl bolts to her mother, shoving Marigold aside. Elizabeth, Freya sees, has closed her eyes, as if the scene is wearying. Colt stands further down the hall in the shadows, as silent as if he's not there. Joe says, ‘I've been thinking about that deck around your swimming pool. You want to get it built as soon as you can. I can get you some second-hand timber, or do you want new?'

‘Either is fine,' says Rex. ‘Anything that will do the job.'

Freya's father nods; he looks down at his dinner plate. The chops and potato have sloshed over the rim and only a scatter of peas remains, trapped in a streak of tomato sauce. ‘Can I get you a drink, Mr Dentist?' he asks.

‘Dad!' Freya shouts. ‘You hit Mum!'

Joe lifts his head and blinks incuriously at her. He takes a long moment to respond. ‘Rex,' he says, ‘I don't know if you've met my eldest daughter, Freya. She speaks whether spoken to or not. You mightn't want to meet her, actually.'

Freya does not flinch. ‘You hit Mum,' she says stonily.

‘Don't be stupid —'

‘Dad!' cries Declan, and Elizabeth opens her eyes.

‘Well, Joe,' Rex says, ‘I think you did. I'm sure you didn't want to, and maybe you don't remember, but it seems you did.'

Joe's blue gaze moves over him – over his face and chest and arms. Rex is tall, with long athletic limbs, and Joe is a small man: but Rex is like a tree branch, and Joe is made of stone. ‘Who said so?' he asks.

‘Well, Freya said. I can see the evidence.'

‘
Freya said
,' Joe echoes, ‘and you can see the evidence. What evidence? Evidence of what? You were here, were you, or do you just believe what you're told? Who are you anyway?' he says, and although he hasn't moved a step away from the table, each word is bringing him closer. ‘Who are you to come in here, into my own kitchen, and accuse me of doing something without proof?'

‘Dad!' says Freya. ‘Stop lying! Look at Mum!'

‘Tell the truth!' says Elizabeth.

‘You're right, you're right.' Rex's hands have come up. ‘Let's not have any trouble. This is your house, Joe, and I agree it's not my place to tell you what to do. But the children are upset. Maybe it's best to say goodnight. Go and sleep it off, hey?'

From across the kitchen Joe regards him and Freya knows the look, the dull loveless light that is what's left when her father has gone. ‘I should throw you out on your arse,' he says, and gives the plate a shove which sends it rushing to the edge of the table. ‘Throw you and every one of them out into the street.'