What the Light Hides (9 page)

The dining table is set. Tea lights flicker in glasses. The table was a wedding present from Vera and me, made of ebony to match Maria's piano. It has a star-shaped inlay in its centre.

I hand Neil the bottles.

He inspects the labels. ‘Good choice, bro,' he says.

‘A break-in?' I ask, as I sit at the table.

Neil unscrews all three bottles, then pulls out a chair and sits across from me. He lowers his voice, pouring us each a glass. ‘We had a man walk into the house. Maria surprised him and then he left. End of story. But she's not taking it well. I've put an extra lock on the door, but she can't seem to get past it. Please don't bring it up. Let's have a good time together,' he says. ‘We all need it.'

Maria appears with a tray of sliced lamb on a mountain of roasted vegetables. ‘What do we need?' She puts the tray down.

Neil puts an arm around her. ‘Time together,' he says. ‘And that takes three bottles?' she asks.

‘They need to breathe, baby. We can always put the caps back on,' says Neil.

I look at Maria and wonder if Neil has actually noticed how much her appearance has changed. She looks like she hasn't slept in weeks.

‘Please start, David,' she says. ‘I'll be right back.'

‘Where's Jared?' I ask and help myself before passing the tray to my brother.

‘He fell asleep about an hour ago,' says Neil.

I catch a glimpse of the red slippery dip in the backyard as I help myself to the food.

Maria returns with a bowl of string beans.

‘Jared had Little League this afternoon,' she says and sits down.

‘He's still playing baseball?'

‘Yes,' says Maria. ‘He's good too.'

Neil sends her a warning look.

She throws up her hands. ‘What? For goodness sake, Neil. Surely we're allowed to talk about Jared.'

Neil doesn't look at her. Instead he lifts his glass and drinks.

‘The food is delicious,' I say. And it's true. Maria has always been a great cook.

Then we make small talk. It's mostly just Neil and me doing the talking. We discuss the advantages of living in the city versus the country. We talk about the introduction of creative courses into universities and whether or not it is appropriate. We talk about Shaggy, my mate from uni, who became a surfer instead of an academic. And we drink. We don't mention Ben or why I am staying in the city. And all the while Maria is quiet. Something is not right, but I don't know how to address it.

Neil pours more wine.

Maria shakes her head when he leans over to pour her another glass. ‘Any more and I won't be able to get us dessert.' She collects the plates, then leaves the living room.

I stand up.

‘She doesn't want help,' says Neil.

‘I'm going to ask her anyway,' I say and wonder when he became so old-fashioned.

I carry the tray across the hall, but stop short in the kitchen doorway. Maria is leaning against the bench. Her eyes are closed. Something in her body has gone loose. The apron that made her look so capable just a moment ago suddenly looks like an abandoned prop. Her breathing is shallow, her face is flushed, and I wonder for a moment if this is what she looks like when she makes love. I am about to leave when she opens her eyes. They are full of fear. ‘David?' she says.

‘Are you all right?' I step closer.

‘Yes.' She takes a deep breath, then turns and puts the stacked plates into the empty sink. She reaches for the kettle and fills it. ‘Did you want coffee or tea?'

I search for another way of asking her what's going on, but nothing comes to mind. ‘Coffee, please,' I say.

Something is obviously wrong. And Maria never wears black—she is fond of colour. I remember her wearing a bright blue dress at Ben's funeral. Later she told me that Ben once said the colour reminded him of an old video that Vera and I used to watch. I knew immediately which one he meant. It was the one with Jacques Cousteau diving into that great blue hole off the coast of Belize.

Maria gets dessert forks from the drawer and opens the fridge. ‘How's Vera?' she asks, pulling out an iced chocolate cake.

‘Okay,' I say.

She looks at me. ‘What you two are going through is harder than words can describe.'

She says it with such empathy that my eyes fill.

Then we hear music from the living room. The Ramones are belting out ‘Can't Get You Outta My Mind'.

‘Three bottles of wine,' we say in unison, sharing an old joke. I attempt a laugh, but Maria only gives me a hint of a smile.

The chocolate cake and red wine are a perfect match. I am eating a second slice and am well on my way to getting drunk. Neil puts the album on again from the beginning and dances his way over to the bookshelf to get his pipe. He still moves the way he did when he was younger: a kind of jerky march on the spot reminiscent of Ian Curtis. He has always been so assured in his belief that he is a good dancer that he almost pulls it off. He sways as he lights his pipe.

Neil is probably the last intellectual in Sydney who believes that smoking a pipe enhances his image. Slowly the living room fills with the smell of pipe tobacco, oddly reminding me of the pigeon manure in our mother's bird shed.

Pipe in hand Neil dances to the table and reaches for Maria.

‘Come on, darling,' he says, ‘dance with me.'

Maria shakes her head.

‘You are the light of my life,' he belts out, making up his own lyrics, ‘you are the queen of my existence.'

I shake my head. I'm not the only one who's drunk.

‘Neil, let go,' says Maria.

He clumsily caresses her cheek before sitting. ‘I almost got a smile out of you,' he says.

Then Jared appears in the doorway wearing his Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas and my heart begins to pound. He has grown since I last saw him. His blond hair catches the light and for a moment I am filled with wild jealousy. I want Ben back. I want my life back, my perfect, ordinary life.

Jared rubs his eyes as he walks into Maria's arms. ‘Why are you so loud?'

‘We are just talking,' says Maria. ‘Uncle David is here.' She kisses the top of his head.

‘Off to bed, Jared,' says Neil and glances at me.

Jared looks at me from across the table, then he walks around and leans into me, his body sleepy and warm. He reaches out and touches my watch.

‘Uncle David,' he says.

I put a careful arm around him and feel that I am about to burst into tears. ‘How are you, buddy? Are you okay?'

He nods. ‘Did you bring a present?'

‘No,' I say. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘That's all right.' He looks up at me, cheeks flushed with sleep.

Maria walks around the table. ‘Uncle David got you the ant farm, remember?'

He nods as she leads him away from the table.

‘I want some cake,' he says.

‘It's a cake for adults, you wouldn't like it.'

He absently takes her hand and follows her towards the door. ‘I would,' he says.

‘Trust me, darling. Come on back to bed. Wave goodnight to Uncle David.'

‘Goodnight.' He turns and waves, then follows Maria out of the room.

Their voices fade as they walk down the hallway. I think of Ben and the dream I had just before leaving the house. I am well on my way to getting drunk, but even in my stupor I see it clearly. It makes no sense to keep my promise to Vera if Ben is still alive. It makes no sense at all. I've been crazy to not check his flat.

Neil gets up and turns the music down. ‘Sorry,' he says without looking at me.

I swig the remaining wine in my glass. ‘What are you sorry for?' I ask.

‘Don't be like that,' says Neil.

‘It's always good to see Jared,' I say in the most sincere voice I can muster. I look at the cake on the table and suddenly the mixture of wine and cake doesn't sit well. I put my glass down and stand up. ‘I'm going,' I say, making sure I've got my keys.

‘Don't go, mate,' says Neil. ‘I have some scotch somewhere. Let's finish the night on a high.'

Maria comes back in. ‘He's asleep already.' She looks at me. ‘Are you leaving?'

Neil gets to his feet. ‘Stay and have another drink. Come on, mate.'

‘I've got things to do,' I say. I walk into the hallway and get my coat.

Neil follows me. ‘Tonight? It's almost one in the morning.'

‘Just let me go,' I say and reach for my scarf.

‘We didn't get to talk about Mum,' says Neil.

‘I've already said I don't want to see her.' I fumble with the lock.

‘David,' he says, I don't know if I can do it without you.'

‘Do what?' I ask.

‘Her,' he says. ‘I don't know if I can deal with her on my own.'

I give Maria a kiss and pat Neil on the arm. ‘See you, mate, get some sleep.'

I open the front door. The cold air is a smack in the face.

Norton Street is pitiful late at night. The Italian restaurants with their green, white and red signs look seedy. The garbage bins overflow and mist hovers in the park across the road. I wait at the bus stop. I wait for ages, but the street is deserted.

A plastic bag is picked up by the wind. It rolls like a tumbleweed across the street and into the dimly lit park.

Just as I consider walking back to Newtown a taxi rounds the corner. I climb into the back seat and give him Ben's address. The driver has the radio on. Sinatra's ‘My Way' booms through the speakers as we race past dark terraces and apartment blocks. I start to feel queasy, and the driver throws me a steely look in the rear-view mirror.

‘I'm all right,' I say.

We cross Parramatta Road and continue up Church Street. It has started to drizzle and the abandoned streets are shiny in the streetlights. We pass a lit-up sandstone church and then a deserted car park and a moment later we come to a halt in front of Ben's building.

I give the driver a fifty-dollar note and tell him to keep the change. I stand in front of the red-brick apartment block.

I hold the door for a young woman in rain gear with a blonde ponytail. She pauses in the doorway, looking as if she wants to ask me a question. But the nausea has returned and I don't stop. Instead I unsteadily climb the two flights of stairs to Ben's flat.

Once inside I lean against the door and wait for my stomach to settle. In the darkness I see the contours of Ben's bed and the ancient fridge that he bought at a garage sale. Outside the balcony doors it continues to drizzle and mist clings to the dull streetlights.

I flick on the light.

Nothing seems to have changed since the last time I was here. Ben's guitar leans against the wall next to his bed and Karl Marx still looks at me sternly from a poster on the wall. The kitchen bench is clean and so is the mahogany table that I made for Ben before he left home.

I open the desk drawers and go through them. I continue my search in the cupboards and the fridge. Nothing has been touched; everything looks the way it did the day Vera and I drove to the city to look for him.

That day the place had been hot and stuffy. A full bowl of Weet-Bix sat abandoned on the bench top. It was mouldy and smelled sour.

Vera had stared at the bowl. ‘Something is not right, David,' she said. ‘Something has happened.'

We went through drawers, cupboards and bookshelves searching for a clue to where Ben might have gone. In between a pile of textbooks I found his old picture book
Once I Had a Plane
. The cover shows a small boy in a checked shirt and cowboy hat standing with legs spread on the wing of a crop duster, cheeks rosy and hair butter yellow. For the first time since that morning fear swept through me.

I went out onto the balcony and tried once more to get hold of my mother. By that stage we had spoken to everyone else. No one had seen or heard from Ben all week.

She finally picked up.

‘He was visiting me the day after Vera's exhibition,' she said. ‘He was fine. As a matter of fact he was in a great mood.'

‘Have you heard from him since then?'

‘No,' she said. ‘But he's coming over tomorrow. We're going for a coastal walk. You know, Bondi to Coogee, past the old graveyard. Look, David, you're not going through his things, are you? He's not going to like that.'

‘I know my own son,' I said. ‘And right now our concerns override any sensitivity he might have.'

When I went back inside I found Vera crying at the computer.

‘Did you find something?' I said.

She shook her head.

‘Vera.'

‘No,' she said, ‘don't talk. Let's just go through everything again. There must be something here that can tell us where he is.'

Later we walked around the streets of Newtown looking for him. We didn't speak. The sun was setting as we went through Camperdown Park. Dogs were playing on the grass area, their owners chatting in small groups. The tall gums cast elongated shadows on the green. We ended up near the playground.

‘We should check it,' said Vera and gestured towards the playground. ‘Just in case.'

The suggestion was absurd. Surely someone would have found Ben if he was lying hurt in a playground. But I followed Vera through the low gate and just as we stood amid the swings and climbing equipment the park lights went on. Vera crouched and started crying again.

I tried to comfort her. ‘There's bound to be a good explanation. People don't just disappear,' I said, as much to myself as to her.

Vera kept crying. ‘David,' she said, ‘I have the most terrible feeling. I think he's gone.'

A man with a small boy opened the gate to the playground. Seeing Vera on the ground made him change his mind. As they walked away the boy said, ‘What's that lady doing, Dad?'

I had an absurd desire to call them back, to involve them. Everything suddenly felt too big for us to carry alone.