Who’s that dancing with my mother?
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 25: After the Crisis
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by Lloyd Jones
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We were living in Napier at the time. My father pulled the keys down from the hook in the kitchen and my mother asked where he was headed.
‘Up the coast,' he said, and my mother went on slicing the ends off the beans for the meal she now knew he wouldn't be around to eat.
‘Allie,' my father said by the kitchen door. ‘I feel like being alone for a while.'
My mother quietly emptied the colander of beans into the sink. She turned around to face us both.
‘Just say where it is you are going.'
My father looked at the keys in his hand, and turned down the challenge. He crossed the lawn to the Hunter parked in the driveway. My mother followed as far as the porch. There she stopped, as if the lawn was a slippery area she would rather not cross, and yelled out, ‘Why can't you say it, you lousy stinking coward!' My father settled behind the wheel and backed down the driveway. My mother raised her hands to her face. Then she noticed me; and that seemed to be the last straw.
‘What are you looking at...goddamnit!'
From being hurt, she wanted to be forgiven. It was a confusing moment. Her face screwed up with anger, and she drew me over and said, ‘Hug your mother, Charlie.' I was happy to, of course, but when I looked I noticed she had drawn herself into two parts: one I hugged, and the other – her proud face – had already turned with a thought to something inside the house.
I followed her inside, through to the living room. She walked directly to the bookcase, where she pulled out a thick book on flora. Most of our books were on plants, lichen and mosses. My father worked in the ecology division of the DSIR.
The book fell open, and the photo of my father fell out. It was taken near the snowline. There was no snow in the photo but you could tell from the rocks and the lichen grown over them that snow was not far off. My father had on his hiking boots. His arm was draped around a woman, an Australian. She was a plant illustrator, who had come here for dinner one night, a long time ago.
My mother studied the photo. She seemed to be trying to prise a bit more from it than the contents were prepared to tell. I couldn't say what she found. Perhaps it was because the photo was deliberately vague that she got so angry. She tore the photo into quarters and watched them settle over the carpet. My father's head was now severed, his whiskery smile even more of a mystery.
My mother stepped back and almost fell over. She had forgotten I was there. She swore, then smiled bravely. ‘Know what we're going to do, Charlie? No. Second thoughts, I'm not going to tell you. Let's make it a surprise.'
Our town held few surprises, although it was useful to pretend otherwise. I was just as happy not knowing in any case, because we ended up at Chee's.