The broom closet

From Griffith REVIEW Edition 20: Cities on the Edge
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.

Written by JT Glazebrook

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It's like this. Your baby is howling just as loud as the never-ending stream of stinking road-trains, and Jemimah's in the kitchen killing ants with a soup spoon, her dirty bare feet tensing as she applies force and laughs at the little popping sounds. The final blood-red smear of sunlight is sliding towards the horizon. With one palm on the dusty sill in the back room, you stare out the window into the terrifying dusk. Karen-Anne is in the front room bouncing on a bed and singing along to one of those surreal afternoon children's programs, about bananas and elephants being the best of friends. Alexis sits by your legs, reading from a book of love poetry you were given by someone long forgotten.

‘Mamma, who's Cole-ridge?'

Your upper lip twitches. Nothing more comes.

The dry, cool desert night is pouring in the window at you and, despite the waxy mask of horror carved on your face, you stand to face it. Again and again and again. Alexis is no longer at your feet. You don't know where she is. You don't ... really care. Across the way, the next trailer's lights come on and you see Mrs Hannibal shuffling through the front room, phone to her ear, face animated with happiness. You think she is a poor old fool to be happy in this torn-up world. It's not safe for you to feel like this. They shouldn't have let you out of hospital so soon.

You walk outside, and while standing in the dusty patch of land he left you to pay off all those years ago, a brief, vague hump of pride churns up into the top of your chest before being sucked back down into the pit of your gut. You move your feet through the dust softly. It used to feel nice. It used to feel like home. This dust. This metal shell. And this horde of children, each a spindly collation of tireless needs, each as foreign to you as the billions you've never met.

HE COMES UP TO YOU in the dark while you're gone with the night and touches the back of your neck. You don't even flinch.

‘Hey girl, been waiting for you to come outside.'

You mumble a greeting he takes for a sulk and his next words flop out defensive and cutting.

‘Well, I'm sorry I couldn't come over this morning ... but my wife's home with the cold and I had to take a run into town for some errands ... it wouldn't be so bad if you didn't have all them kids, then I could come whenever.'

‘I just came out for the washin'. I didn't ever notice how big the moon was. It's real big.'

‘What you on about?'

‘Nothing.'

You both look at the moon for a minute and you sigh. He is mad because he knows the place you're in and it means he's going to have to go back to his own trailer and try it with his wife, and she with a cold is probably going to refuse him too. He thinks about the new youngster in the old O'Brien place across the highway and wonders about her. He touches your neck again and you lull your head to the side. He moves forward and stands behind you and puts his head down and his mouth to your neck and the brindles of sandpaper shadow break invisible furrows in the surface of your skin and it feels like something at least.

‘D'ya think that space is all empty, Trapper ... like just nothing, you know?'

‘I don't know what you've been drinking but you're freaking me a little, babe. Why you gotta think about space and such?'

‘I don't know. It's just there, so big, and I never thought about it for a long time. Like I'm thinking now, there's more space up there than there is ground down here so why don't we just both float up into it, like?'

‘You're a crazy pumpkin, honey.'

He puts his hands around your waist. For a moment you think you can remember the way it feels to know completeness. But all the stinking facts of life won't let you hold the thought. The dark looks of his wife push through your mind and his hands on your belly don't feel so good anymore.

‘I haven't even fed the kids yet.'

‘Why you thinking about those kids?'

‘Trapper, will you still love me when the baby grows and my tits aren't so big and all?'

‘I don't love you now, sweetheart. I never said anything about love.'

Your little word trick usually works. But Trapper's losing interest in you. He doesn't crave the look of your sharp face or the smell under your arms anymore. He doesn't crave the way your feet lock behind the small of his back or the warm feel of your breath on his chest and stomach. Trapper's moving on, like they all do, like they all will. But it doesn't make you hurt much more than usual. It is what it is.

You try to remember what's it's like to smile. You even try it out just to see, but it makes your cheeks hurt and your brow creases weirdly.