Joe Simpson had a headache. He got out of bed and walked to the porch. Only now had he realised how bad his breath smelt. His clothes reminded him of last night, the cigarettes, the Jim Beam and the sour taste of sweat that lingered as he rubbed the back of his neck.
It was all a blur. The regulars were there, the Blackmore brothers and Sheryl. The publican Darrell with one bottom tooth missing who seemed to age a year every three months. Joe nodded to him and Darrell poured a cold one and plonked it on the bar bench. He was good like that; efficient, no bullshit.
Sheryl hovered by like a buzzing bee, though she probably thought that she was elegant more like a butterfly. You could sense her coming from a mile away. Didn't matter how drunk Joe got he could always smell her pungent perfume, like a shark sensing the blood but in a bad way.
'How wa ya darl?'. It wasn't even half past six and Sheryl was already pissed. Joe was aroused and repulsed all at once. He could feel the hair on his back pricking up. Blood was rushing to the core of his body. She made him nervous.
'Alright, alright... you?'. Joe could feel the heat of her hand on his leg he shifted his feet unevenly on the bar stool, his eyes scanned sideways looking for an escape. Sheryl leaned over , her other hand tapped on his shoulder. Joe felt trapped like an insect in a spider's web.
'Come over tonight will ya? It's been a while...' She whispered into his ear. That did it, the stupid woman had to do it thought Joe. Resolutely Joe got up from the stool and mechanically turned and walked towards the far dark corner of the pub. There was a pool table where the fluro tube flickered. A couple of aluminum chairs strewn nearby.
Joe grabbed one chair pushed it against the wall. He sat on it and hooked the other chair near him and put his feet on it.
The first time he had sex with Sheryl was at the back of her caravan. That didn't count as free will since he had passed out at Darell's pub and Sheryl had to take him. Since then he'd been dropping by her place more frequent than he would have liked. Fuck, he couldn't help himself. A bit like the guilt a drug addict gets after he has just woken up from a high.
Joe walked unevenly to the kitchen. He fished out a used mug from the sink and turned on the tap. There was a dull vibration from the plumbing and slowly the water poured and then quickly swelled up. Joe drained the mug and wiped the vestigial liquid away from the corner of his mouth. He could taste a hint of tea but the coolness of morning tap water refreshed him. He flicked on the radio. The speaker crackled. The hum of the electricity slowly morphed into the chatters of the talkback radio. Some woman was complaining about the price of the carbon tax and how much more the groceries would cost or some such. Joe let out a good fart.
“Now how much carbon tax is that worth Miss?” He chuckled to himself.
He returned back to the porch. He breathed in deeply. His shoulders rose and hurt a little as he did but the cold air woke him. Joe scanned across the horizon. The sky was painted with shades of blue and grey. The clouds were heavily pregnant with moisture and promised an impending storm with its turbulence and fluidity.
Joe stretched his back and whistled for Blackie. The family kelpie jumped out of nowhere and raced around the porch and it landed on top of the chicken coop tail wagging. The morning stillness disappeared suddenly. Life was bursting at the seams.
Joe looked at the eager bugger. He really couldn't be stuffed, but he walked down to the back of the house. He opened the gate to the paddock where the cows used to be. All that were left were the dried cow packs and the empty tin sheds. The grass was overgrown, obscuring the farm track. He looked at his watch. 11:32am. Dylan was probably on his way. Joe rubbed the pointy end of his elbows and wondered what that would bring.
The huge station wagon gently came to a stop at the front yard. Blackie sprang up like mad and momentarily ignored all the whistling and swearing from Joe. A young man in his late 20’s stepped out of the car, clean shirt and jeans.
“Hey Dad, how you been?”
“Yea, alright mate, you looking good, going up in the world...”
Dylan squinted his eyes a little, sort of a smile and a slight nod. He thrusted his hand out to Joe. Joe looked at him for a second ignored the hand but patted Dylan lightly on the shoulder.
“C’mon, better get in. Gonna piss down in a minute.”
The fly trap door swung open. Joe roughly scraped his boots on the mat and walked into the kitchen.
“Wanna cuppa?”
“Nah Dad, had coffee on the way up here.”
“I’m havin’ one. Had nothing since I got up.”
Dylan sat down on the kitchen chair. He looked around. The old wall paper was still there getting frayed and yellowing at the edges. Sinkful of dishes and the damp kitchen bench. Nothing had changed here except maybe being messier and grittier.
”Not much is left now is there Dad?” Dylan spinned his mobile on the table looking on uneasily at the back of Joe. Joe said nothing listening on to the boiling of water and letting the silence drag on a little.
”WelI am still here ain't I?”
”Yeah... but you can't go on like this Dad.
It's time Dad... it's time to move on."
Joe stirred the tea gently in the cup, his eyes concentrating on the white of the milk slowly mixing with the tea. He let out a sigh.
”I can't mate, this is everything. My life... it's all here."
Joe looked into the back of the paddock. He could almost see Flora again. Dylan's voice seemed distant, like he was hearing him underwater. She was dressed in a blue skirt. A beautiful piece of fabric with some sort of flowers on it. Her hair flowed with the movement of her body as she came out of the old Holden. She looked intoxicatingly beautiful and when she looked at you with those blue eyes Joe could feel his tongue touching the top of his mouth.
Those were the good times. The dances. No kids to worry about. Everything was growing in this country. Joe felt the confidence that only good luck and hard work could bring. Plenty of money for everyone; that's if you weren't lazy. Joe worked his backside off and he was happy.
”Hey Dad, you alright?” Dylan patted Joe on the shoulder unsure of where to go from here.
Joe's eyes refocused back to the present. His fingers feeling the groves of the kitchen sink. He turned to look at Dylan, tried to mouth a word but all he could muster was a vague nod.
”Listen Dad, you can still get rid of the farm, it won't be much but you could get something smaller in the town.”
”Mate I know you mean well but I just can't.
What am I gonna do in town? I don't want to be a burden to ya. I really do just fine here. The Pasquini's next door are good to me. Luisa brings food over all the time.”
”Dad, just look at this place. You need people to look after you.” Dylan rubbed his chin and he knew the old man was not gonna budge.
And you know it's bull about the Pasquini's, I saw the sale sign in their property on the way here.”
”I am just not ready son, I can look after myself, really." Joe offered the final ultimatum. ”This place's been good to me, I started out here with your mother and this is where I will end up”
”Dad, we're all very worried about you, ever since Mum passed away."
Dylan felt desperate that the conversation was falling like a lead balloon. His mobile rang disrupting the stalemate.
Joe seized the opportunity and stepped out onto the verandah. Blackie leaped from his kennel and trailed closely behind him. He slipped on his boots and walked towards the old cow shed. Joe felt the cool air through his flannel shirt, the earth crumbled under him at each step. His vision blurred over and another view was coming into focus.
Flora was hanging the washings on the Hills Hoist, white sheets rippling with the breeze. Her blouse almost translucent. She turned around one hand on the waist and smiled. Her lips were the colour of strawberries. For a moment Joe forgot everything. All was good again. Joe could feel the blood pulsing through his body. He felt alive.
A dull rumble ripped through the clouds, momentarily before Joe noticed the flash of lightening at the corner of his eyes. He was now near the waterhole and rain drops wet patches the size of 50 cent coins. Joe pressed his hat firmer on his head, feeling the cool of rain on his arms and seeping slowly into his shirt.
He saw Dylan's car pulling away in the distance. He felt relieved and started to feel the chill.
'C'mon'. He whistled to Blackie and ran towards the house.
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By the time Joe woke up the sky had already darkened to a crisp magenta blue. Stars twinkled like shards of broken glass across the horizon. He wiped the saliva off his face with the back his hand. Blackie sat nearby the sofa, his ears twitched slightly but dug his nose back under the folds of sheets and sunk into a deeper slumber.
The TV flickered against the silhouette of Joe's back. He felt a great unease inside him. He looked towards the telephone. Without hesitation and before he was overcome by regret he grabbed the handset and dialed the keypad with a natural reflex.
"Ummm. Hullo?" The voice on the other end crackled as if she had also woken up from a deep sleep.
"It's me, you free tonight?' He just blurted it out like a poker player showing all his hands on the table.
"Hey, how wa ya love? You sure know how to pick your time... Yeah com'on over and bring some whiskey with ya, it's been ages since I had a propa drink..."
Joe knew the drill. No bullshit. He would bring the grog alright.
'I will see ya then...' Joe removed the handset away from his ear all the while he could still hear Sheryl talking but he was intent on hanging up. The handset dropped onto the phone with that Sheryl's voice was gone.
Joe pulled the ute in front of a waist-high steel fence. The metal door clanged as it wasn't closed properly. He killed the motor. It was dark without the high beams lighting up Sheryl's caravan. He gingerly navigated the front yard careful to avoid buckets of paint and other rubbish strewn across the ground.
Sheryl pushed open the door. A flood of yellow tungsten light left Joe dazed and he tried to shade his eyes from it.
'well com'on in Joe Simpson... You know you dissed me at the pub the other day. That was a bit rude wasn't it?'
'ummm sorry was in a hurry that's all' Joe mumbled as he quickly shuffled a few steps and closed the caravan door behind him. He handed the whiskey bottle in a brown paper bag to Sheryl.
'ah... the good stuff, thanks love'. Sheryl put the bottle on the kitchen bench and hugged Joe around his neck. Her fingernails lightly tickled Joe's neck.
Joe switched off the light that's been hurting his retina for the last minute and he started to feel the ends of Sheryl's hair with his fingertips. Sheryl responded to his touch, sighing lightly and tried to kiss him on the lips. Joe pulled her face away from him with his thumbs on her temple. His hands deftly moved under her robe, his fingers feeling the heat from her body. He peeled off Sheryl's underwear and pushed her face towards the window with her back facing him.
He could feel the blood rushing in him looking for an outlet. He thrusted his whole body forward, once, twice... His legs tightened, his body flexed and relaxed all without too much mental effort. It built up to a nice rhythm. His mind was almost blacking out, the back of Sheryl's head seemed to turn into a whirlpool rotating, swallowing up everything. His breathing seemed to have slowed but the heart beats got louder.
Joe opened his eyes and looked around. He was in the farm house. Everything looked familiar but the wallpaper looked new. He walked into the bedroom and saw Flora lying on the bed. Her eyes looking at him languidly and her blouse half undone. He could see the tips of her pink nipples. She arched her back, her top falling away. Joe could see her lips moving but he couldn't hear a word. He felt like an insect stuck in the sticky nectar. Waves of warm current cursed through him rendering him incapacitated. Slowly Joe could again feel the twisting of Sheryl's body.
'com'on let me see your face... I want to see your face.' Sheryl pleaded half turning her head looking at Joe. Joe felt a spasm through his legs realizing his body giving up from the exertion. Sheryl quickly turned her body around as she pulled away from him feeling the loosened grip. She grabbed the top of his singlet and pushed him onto the bed. The coils of the bed groaned under the weight. Sheryl climbed on top of Joe, triumphant, she pushed her body deep onto Joe. She tried to build up a rhythm but was out of sync with Joe's.
Then that was it. Joe Simpson was done. He felt the weight of Sheryl and the mixture of sweat and perfume on his neck. Women always got what they wanted, in the end. Sheryl rested her head over his chest, her breathing now even and mixed with nasal noises. Joe could smell the fried chicken and beers that had gone off. The taste of whiskey from Sheryl's mouth. He felt a shiver and recoiled to touch his forehead, wiping off the sweat that'd become cold. Joe gently pushed Sheryl to one side and sat up. He found his underwear and pants. He put them on and fished out the keys from his shirt pocket. Joe opened the door of the caravan and for a moment he looked back. There was no indulgence in this. Whiskey and sex. She would have got the grog from somewhere else if not him. Joe looked at Sheryl lying in bed half covered with the doona. He bent down and stretched it out to cover her back. His hands felt the heat giving off from her body. Joe wanted to kiss her and smell her hair. But something inside was pulling him away. The moon was high in the sky and flooded everything with the colour of silver. Joe observed it all in silence trying to soak up the rare moment that he could tolerate Sheryl. Maybe she was his angel only when she was unaware, nearly lost to the world.
Suddenly he felt thirsty. Joe went back inside the caravan and opened the fridge. There was a lonely tomato on the rack. Joe grabbed it and took a big bite. He closed his eyes feeling the rush of cold juice that poured into him. His mouth moved noisily trying to suck up all the seeds. Joe closed the door on the caravan and started the ute. This time he didn't look back. He kept the lights off and drove for a distance. The diesel engine hummed, its vibration seemed to inject a new dose of energy into him. He put his foot down on the gas and flicked on the high beams.
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Tony had been at it for a while now. He took one hand off the binoculars and wiped the sweat off his brows. Then he got right back into it, squinting his eyes into the dark scope, trying to catch the moonlight to make out the shapes in Joe's backyard. Nothing was moving except for the flicker of the TV escaping through the window. It was obvious that no one was home. Tony was getting bored and thought maybe he should turn on the radio and listen to a bit of late night talk show.
Suddenly his eyes were flooded with a pair of halogen high beams that were searing his retina. The ute came out of nowhere and just appeared. The engine was still revving and the tires screeched hard on the gravel. Tony lost balance and fell backwards from the stool. The binoculars crashed loudly onto the wooden floor and his right wrist took the full force of the fall. Tony let out a yelp in agony.
The peace of boredom was gone. Joe's kelpie cried behind the back door wanting to be in on the action. Joe saw Tony's eyes through those enormous bino's and deliberately revved the engine hard then braking even harder. He heard the fall and secretly smiled a little.
For dramatic effect he slammed the cabin door and scraped his boots extra hard. Then yelled at Blackie to shut it. As he was about to duck inside the house, he took one last look towards his neighbour's window.
Tony, full name Anthony Pasquini must be in a world of pain but the shame of being spotted was somehow even a greater shame. He held his breath gently rubbing the sore wrist. Joe let out a whistle and called it a night.
Luisa heard all the commotions. She felt a bit sorry for Tony. Then she thought, 'served the nosy bastard right...' She tugged her nightgown a little tighter around her waist. Her arms crossed in front of her chest, her fingers squeezing tightly on her gold cross. A pang of loneliness enveloped her. She wondered if Tony would come back to bed and when that would be. Maybe after he listened to the radio for a bit. Or maybe he would just stay in the other bedroom.
'Oh I hate him...' She quickly motioned a cross and kissed her gold chain. She secretly blamed this on herself. If only she could give him a child. This marriage would have been saved, blessed by God and everything. God must had something to do with it all. But God was always in the way of life for her. Tony loved children but Luisa couldn't give him one. And now it was all too late. She saw the way he looked at other people's kids. It killed her inside. She so wanted to adopt but Tony wouldn't budge. Then one day Luisa watched this ad for World Vision. She thought if she couldn't be the mum for her family then she would become one for others.
She now regularly received letters from all corners of the world. She treasured them. Every page, every word. She looked over her reading glasses to get close to the outlines of the strokes. Squiggly lines in pencils and sometimes in pens. She wondered if the boy or girl was patient, sensitive, curious or adventurous. Did they believe in God? Were they Catholics? Who cared. So long as they were happy.
Luisa read the letters over and over. She memorized every word even the punctuations.
'dear Mrs Pasquini... I am very well... I am 7 years old.. My village has a big willow tree... I have 3 brothers and 2 sisters. Do you have elephants in your country?' Luisa wanted every detail. So much innocence, so many lives. She wanted to know if the boy Jenga did enjoy other things than school. That the village water well could not be the only highlight of his life. Did he have fights at school? Was he ever bullied and fought back? Luisa imagined herself standing right next to Jenga as his mother. A swarm of children shouting backing for each side. Jenga held his face low, his fists ready to strike his bully, a much bigger kid. For some reason the bigger kid looked a lot like Tony. Sweat would roll off their faces and stain the collars of their white shirts mixed with the dirt in the air. Luisa would support him. Shouting her lungs out. Hit him. Hit him hard!
When her friends visited her house, she'd swung her arm across the kitchen wall. A dozen photos of children with smiles and round faces plastered across.
'these are my kids, little warriors all over the world.' She knew right then that God had nothing to do with it. It was all her. Her and her children of the world.
The light was still on in the kitchen. Luisa did feel sorry for Tony, but not that sorry. She turned around and shut her eyes. Tomorrow she would talk to Joe and put forward her proposal. She had waited too long for this to happen.
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