The Turning (10 page)

This is boring, said the other boy, Jared.

Yeah, said Ricky faintly, treading a line between solidarity and mutiny.

Well, you’ll think differently in a minute, said Dyson. Here, climb up between these big posts. See these little flat bits? Lie there. Here, I’ll show you.

Dyson crawled up beneath the supports of the wooden bridge and lay on his back in the moist gravel so he could look up at the sky slatted through the timbers. Sceptically, the boys joined him.
He sensed that he was about to make a fool of himself and shame Ricky by association but he didn’t have a better idea to entertain them with. He was also suddenly mindful that this was
something he’d discovered with Fay. There was such a long list of local things he couldn’t dissociate from her; she was there at every turn.

Dad? murmured Ricky, embarrassed.

Stay down. I can hear something coming.

The boys fidgeted beside him. Jared smelled of Plasticine or something else slightly musty. He was, very distinctly, a stranger, someone else’s child.

Just then a semi broached the bend and Dyson began to laugh in anticipation. Within seconds the truck was on the bridge and the piles and sleepers roared. Spikes spat and rattled and the dirt
beneath them shook. Dyson began to yell. It startled the boys a second until his voice was swallowed up by the great, hot shadow that passed overhead.

Hey, said Jared quietly in the aftermath. Cool.

For another half hour they lay there waiting, giggling, yelling and laughing themselves to the point of hiccups.

As she took delivery of her muddy son, Jared’s mother seemed brazenly curious about Dyson. He stood blushing on her verandah as she sized him up. It seemed that word was
out on him. He wondered if it was his apparent availability or his wife’s suicide that interested her. Either way he didn’t linger.

It was almost dark when they got home. The harbour lights were on, the jetties pretty in a way that they could never be in daylight. Dyson was only halfway out of the car before he saw a shadow
on the verandah and then the glow of a cigarette. He knew it would be her. Ricky pressed against him as they mounted the steps.

Just me, said Fay.

Her face was little more than a white dab in the gloom.

Fay, he murmured.

Didn’t mean to startle anybody.

That’s okay.

First ciggie I’ve ever smoked on your mum’s verandah, that’s for sure.

Dyson found the lock and opened the house. He hesitated a moment before switching on the porchlight and when he did Fay seemed to cringe beneath it. Her face was pale, her hair without
lustre.

It’s getting chilly, he said. You’d better come in.

I can’t stay.

No. Fair enough.

Dyson tried to understand what he was feeling. It was so strange to see her again. She blew smoke from the side of her mouth, the way she always had, and tossed the butt out into the yard.

This is your little boy.

Ricky, said Dyson.

Your dad and me, Fay said with an attempt at brightness. We went to school together.

Ricky licked his lips. Dyson ushered him inside toward the bathroom and stood in the doorway.

Mum told me about your wife.

Oh, he asked, startled. She did?

I’m sorry to hear it.

Well.

And she told you about me, I imagine.

A bit. She didn’t elaborate. I met Sky.

Isn’t she great?

Yeah. She looks like you.

So Mum didn’t give you the gory details.

No.

God bless her.

Well, he said. She’s a trouper.

Dyson tried to look past Fay to the harbour lights and the navy sky still tinted by the vanished sun, but even thin and wan as she was in the unflattering light, she had a compelling presence.
The cargo pants and jumper hung off her and her lips were chapped. She seemed wrung out, chastened, even. Yet she took up all the available space out there on the verandah.

For some reason I wanted to tell you myself, she said looking him straight in the face, her arms folded across her breasts. Once I found out you were home I had to explain myself. We go back so
far, you and me. I didn’t want you finding out from someone else.

Sure, he said uncertainly.

Funny, you know. I’ve had to give up worrying about what people think anymore. Burnt all the bridges. But with you . . . it’s different.

It shouldn’t be. Fay, we don’t even know each other. I don’t mean to be . . . but we were kids.

And here you are.

Dyson folded his arms.

I was in rehab, Pete. I’m six months clean.

That’s good. That’s great.

I fucked up. Been fuckin up for years.

You don’t have to talk about this, Dyson said, hearing water purl into the bath up the hallway.

But I want to. Maybe you don’t wanna hear it.

I’ve got Ricky to get through the bath, he said. The hot water.

Yeah.

Maybe you’d better come in?

No. It’s alright.

Can . . . can I do anything for you?

Like, why am I here? she said with a wry smile, eyes glittering.

It’s just that I’m not that steady yet, myself. You know? I don’t know what I can offer you.

I need a friend, that’s all.

Dyson sighed, torn.

I know it’ll be hard to trust me.

Fay.

I’m supposed to seek out good people. But it’s alright. I understand. I’ll see you.

Chilled and miserable, he let her walk down into the dark while behind him water pounded into the bath. He hadn’t even let her tell him what it was that she was addicted to; he
didn’t even offer her that kindness. But how could he tell her that he wasn’t as uncomplicatedly good as she imagined? How could he be honest with her and say that he was afraid of her
and afraid of his own reactions, frightened of lapsing into old habits? Self-preservation – did it ever feel anything but ugly?

He pushed the door to and switched off the porchlight.

In the morning, bleary and unrested, he came upon Fay outside the school gate. He supposed that for a while at least such meetings would be inevitable. And then one day
she’d be gone again. The sky hung low and dark. There was a bitter wind from the south. Fay wore a huge stretched jumper that looked like one of Don’s and she hugged herself as she
turned to him.

Haven’t done that for a while, she murmured.

Bring her to school?

I think she was embarrassed.

Ah.

Hurts, she said fishing out a fag. But I spose I deserve it.

Dyson walked uphill, careful not to hurry, and she fell into step beside him.

Sorry about last night.

Well, he murmured. Me too.

Out over the sea a storm brewed. The air in its path felt pure and steely. Dyson couldn’t help feel that Fay’s cigarette was an offence against such clarity. In even thinking it he
was, he knew, his mother’s son, but that did not make it less true.

How’s your folks? he asked.

Good. But I don’t know how long I can live with them. They want me to stay a while but nobody’s naming dates. I’m kind of on probation with Sky. And with them, I spose. They
won’t give her up easily. Not that I blame them. They’ve been good to me. Dad used to drive three hundred miles every fortnight to visit me in rehab. They’ve been great, you know,
but I think I’ll go mad if I stay too long.

Where would you go? he asked.

Oh, I’ll stay in town. Rent somewhere close so they can all see each other. Sky needs them now. She knows I’m a fuck-up so she’ll need reassurance. I have fantasies about a
little house on one of those old dairy farms out along the coast. Something clear and clean, somewhere I can start again from scratch. You know what I mean?

Yeah, he said. I do.

But there’s nowhere you can really
do
that. Everywhere you go there’ll be some link. A bit of history. Anyway, I’m broke. Need a job but still feel a bit too ginger to
cope with the stress.

I understand.

But in the meantime I’m going nuts. Jesus, I thought rehab was tough. I’ve got Mum watching me like a hawk and Sky expecting me to piss off at any moment. And the old man desperately
trying not to spew out all his resentment and scare me off.

I spose it’ll take time.

She sniffed angrily. Yeah. Time.

They came to his street and paused a moment.

You ever see any of the old crew? she said.

No, he murmured. To be honest I can hardly remember anybody else.

Scary.

He shrugged.

Well, she said. I’ll leave you alone. Don’t worry.

Dyson arranged his mouth to speak but found nothing to say.

Looks like I’m still trouble, she murmured. For you at least.

Did he imagine it or was there really a tiny twist of satisfaction to Fay’s mouth as she said this, a thread of pride in knowing that she had a lingering influence over him?

He mumbled goodbye and walked home in the same turmoil that he’d stewed in all night. How could you help someone like Fay? How could you trust her? If it wasn’t the drugs it was the
old thrill of the power that she wielded. He just wasn’t strong or confident enough to battle it right now. Wasn’t his first responsibility to Ricky, to his own sanity? He had his own
problems to deal with. Yet he felt like such a bloodless bastard and so disloyal to Don and Marjorie after all their years of kindness. He’d all but grown up in their home and here he was
refusing to help their daughter. And that poor, wary little girl. How could he live with himself?

Rain fell all day. He sat inside with a fire burning, the household chores mounting up around him. It was the kind of day you could feel descending upon you, when you drag everything out and
hash it over once again despite yourself. When you looked back at Sophie and the pregnancy, wondering what signs you missed. The precious time it cost after the birth before you realized something
was badly wrong, before you finally spoke, acted, asked. And the dozens of times when you didn’t hear, when you reacted clumsily, said and did the wrong thing. The drowning weight of it.

There were times, even while she was alive, when Dyson questioned his attraction to Sophie. They met in his early years of teaching. She was a physiotherapist with dark, short hair and green
eyes. Any stranger could take a look at Ricky and see what Dyson had seen in his mother. They shared the same smooth, olive skin and vanilla scent. Sophie exuded a seriousness of purpose that some
people thought solemn. He loved her calm trust and the simple delight that lit up her face. Once, even before she got sick and everything began to seem forced and provisional, he allowed himself
the bitter possibility that he may have fallen in love with Sophie from sheer relief that she wasn’t Fay Keenan. Because when they met he was still raw. And there Sophie was, pretty,
considered, dependable, a sanctuary from the narcissistic and mercurial. He did love her. But it gnawed at him then, as now, that he might have loved the safety of her above all else. Maybe she
knew it all along. It was a nasty thought, because if she did then he could not truly console himself with the doctors’ talk of chemical imbalance and postnatal depression. She would have had
plenty to be miserable about, and he would have to wear some blame for her misery and maybe even her death. Even the weak are cruel in their way. You couldn’t cling to victimhood all your
life.

The fire was so bright in the hearth that even at the brink of despair he found himself finally and mercifully anaesthetized before it. As he sat there into the afternoon it sucked the air from
the room and danced before him like a thought just out of reach.

He woke to a banging at the door and when he staggered up from the couch Fay was at the window. He opened the door. Ricky stood looking up at him with frank curiosity.

Rick. Hell. I fell asleep.

So we see, said Fay wryly.

Damn. But thanks for bringing him, Fay.

I know the way, said Ricky.

Yes, mate. Course you do.

Dad, said the boy holding up a sheet of butcher’s paper. Look at my picture.

Dyson took the crumpled painting and held it away from him to see it. Jacky’s Bridge! he said.

Here’s me. Here’s you.

Of course. And what about Jared?

Aw, I forgot him.

Dyson smiled. He looked up and saw Fay smiling too. Then he noticed Sky standing out on the steps in the drizzling rain.

You’re all wet, he said. You better come in. Hey Rick, let’s get some towels.

The fire was almost out but the house was still warm. Dyson towelled his son dry and watched Sky submit to the care of her mother. It was painful, the selfconsciousness of it. Outside the rain
intensified, the day darkened.

I can’t believe I slept through, he said.

Things happen, said Fay.

I’ll drive you home.

No, it’s okay.

It’s pouring.

Fay shook her head.

You’ll get drenched.

There were tears in Fay’s eyes. Dyson stood there confounded.

The kids wandered over to the kitchen window to see water spill from the iron tank outside.

He’s got a cubbyhouse, said Sky over her shoulder in a tone of accusation.

My Dad made it, said Ricky.

Dyson removed the booster seat so Fay could sit in the front of the car beside him. He made sure the kids were buckled up before he eased them all out into the deluge.

I had a blue with Dad, said Fay. He wanted to drive us, I wanted to walk. Well, I’d rather drive but I’ve lost my licence. Stupid, stupid.

Spose you just want some independence.

Life in a cleft stick, eh.

Dyson drove them out toward the beach where little weatherboard cottages seemed to cower under the downpour.

God, this rain.

Thought you hated winter, she said. What a joke, coming back here, then.

Over the tin roofs the sea was steely-smooth and the Norfolk Island pines rose like a stockade against the south.

That painting, Fay said. That was our bridge, right?

He nodded. They coasted in to the Keenans’ place.

I won’t tell them, she murmured.

Tell them what?

That you slept through.