‘Did you?’ His mouth formed a wide, stiff smile. ‘That’s wonderful, sweetheart! Is that the one I helped you with?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
‘It was another one.’
‘Oh.’
Two weeks later, twelve cups of coffee later, Milly and Harold admitted they didn’t really like coffee and decided to see a movie instead. Midnight Cowboy at the Tamalpais. She drove them in the family station wagon, tossing shoes, candy wrappers and dog leashes onto the back seat. The windscreen wipers beat time to her heart, as the car sluiced through puddles. Neither knew what the movie was about, only that it starred that new short guy, Dustin Hoffman. They sat near the front, where a seat had been removed to make room for Harold’s chair. Milly’s seat was much lower than his chair, and she had to reach up for the popcorn he held on his lap. The theatre was warm and full of people. It didn’t feel like the afternoon. It felt like 9:00 in the evening, and for whole minutes she couldn’t recall where she kept her maple syrup, which of Jack’s teeth was false, how old exactly her children were. All the answers existed, of course, but just beyond her ken. There they orbited, the essential minutiae of her life, about three inches from her skull.
By the time Ratso and Joe Buck were on the bus heading out of freezing New York, Harold and Milly were holding hands. Ratso coughed and grew quiet and then he died, slumped against his friend, who did not know what to do. The bus driver said nothing could be done till they got there, so it was best to just carry on. Big, dumb Joe Buck sat and looked out the bus window as Florida came into view, palm trees, oranges and tiny pastel houses. Their big dream, come true. He put his arm around Ratso who was not breathing, whose stink of urine had begun to draw disgust from fellow passengers. Joe Buck looked like a little kid trying to pretend he was brave, and Milly felt her throat tighten. Oh, why did a young man’s distress tug at her so? Boys were so stupid, so reckless, they could break your heart. Joe Buck’s arm around Ratso tightened, not confidently, but as if he couldn’t think what else to do.
Milly suddenly thought of all those children and babies in Jonestown, trustfully accepting their Kool-Aid. ‘Drink up,’ their mothers would have said, but surely some of them would not have been able to keep their voices normal. Some of those children must have sensed something, and paused a second before swallowing. And then slumped against their mothers – who, for all their wickedness, would not have been able to drink their own cyanide till their loved ones were safely dispatched. They had never been rich or lucky people. They had all been desperate, with nothing to lose. Jonestown was supposed to have been their heaven on earth. Their Florida.
The lights went on and Harold and Milly still sat. Sadness swamped her, muted her in a delicious choking wave. They didn’t look at each other, and their hands remained clasped in a sweaty embrace as the song finished and Ratso and Joe Buck rode into the glare of a Florida day.
I’m going where the sun keeps shining, through the falling rain. Going where the weather suits my clothes.
CLEANING THE HOUSE
SIX YEARS EARLIER
October 8th 1972
San Miguel, Marin County, 11:17am
‘Ah, honey, I’m going to really miss you,’ Jack said, and instantly felt his heart lift.
‘You look like one of the dogs,’ she replied. ‘When they’ve been digging up the garden. Happy – guilty.’
He didn’t answer, but looked down to his open suitcase on the bed. After three years, they’d both become accustomed to the extra weight of the word guilt. It could never just be said anymore. Billie was standing in the bedroom doorway. Willy clung to her leg, blank-faced, his nose running into his mouth. What is wrong with that boy? thought Jack, then calmly recommenced packing. He was good at travelling; in fact, it might be his finest skill. If they offered degrees in travelling, he would have a doctorate. Doctor Travel.
‘I want to come to Frankfurt,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been to a book fair. Take me with you. Take me away from this nuthouse.’
Down the hall behind her, the usual chaos of voices bickering and loud music and the dogs were barking. Truman was three months old, a golden ball of fluff with no sense at all; Ike seemed mature by comparison – even by Labrador standards. Nevertheless, Jack hated them both.
‘What’s the problem with your dogs?’
‘No problem, Jack. Your kids are just teasing them as usual.’
Suddenly Elisabeth’s treble squeal cut through the boys’ broken bass notes and the barking:
‘Mom! Tell them to leave the dogs alone!’
‘You cannot leave me with four teenagers and a puppy. It’s inhumane, Jack.’
‘Stop exaggerating.’
‘It’s probably a mortal sin.’
‘Well, I don’t know. Kill them?’ He rolled a pair of khaki pants and wedged them tightly into the case.
‘Okay.’ Frowning. ‘But then Willy would be an only child. You’d have to give me another baby.’
Jack wondered yet again: should he tell her about August? If she knew about August, she’d never want another baby. Infant from hell, if ever there was one.
‘What’s the matter with him? He’s eating his own snot. Willy, use a Kleenex.’
‘He’s upset because the boys are calling him Penis Head again.’
‘Idiots.’
‘Maybe Willy isn’t such a good name after all. Maybe kids will bully him at school. Maybe all little boys call their penis a willy.’
‘I definitely never called mine a willy. Think it’s a British affectation. Anyway, a little late for renaming him,’ he said, choosing a paperback from his bedside table. Rabbit Redux by John Updike. He slid it into the outside pocket, along with a comb. ‘Ah, Willy, cheer up, son. Anyway, nothing wrong with being called Penis. I’d be proud if Penis was my name. Penis MacAlister.’
‘How about the name…Billy?’ asked Billie.
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘We could spell it different. Billy with a y. The boy way.’
‘Have you seen my cuff links?’
She sighed and Willy sniffed. Jack kept packing. His flight was a mere three hours away, but he was not panicking. He rolled four pairs of light socks into his spare shoes, then slipped them in sideways, one shoe to each side. The case was the largest size allowed in the overhead luggage rack. It was not one of those new cases with wheels. Those were for old ladies and amateur tourists. His case was soft canvas, with a leather handle that extended so he could swing it over one shoulder leaving both hands free. He zipped his case closed, and began emptying his jacket pockets of old receipts, then slipped his passport, tickets and wallet into the inside pocket. He imagined that packing minimally was paring back to his original self. The real Jack. Jacko. Get out of my way, here I come world. But then he admitted to himself, he didn’t really want to be the original Jacko again. He’d been so shy, not a born charmer. In fact, he had clear recall of loneliness. But all those years of learning how to be funny and confident had paid off. He surveyed his bag and briefcase and smiled vaguely. Well, will you look at me now!
‘Look at you – already half gone, aren’t you?’
‘What?’
