Dilemma

Ron stood up. There was an aridness in Norma’s voice that all of a sudden opened up a desert before him.

‘Goodbye,’ he said and walked the long walk to the wide front doors. Norma didn’t turn her head to watch him, which was a pity. He had never known the meaning of dignity, but tonight he accomplished it, even if he was unaware of it. His back was straight, his pace steady.

Come to think of it, Charlene would say later, he looked cold-blooded. Which would be damning, but was wrong.

3

He was a tall lean man with a bony face that stopped just short of being handsome. He had thick dark hair with already a touch of grey at the temples; he would be grey-haired by the time he was forty-five, thirteen years away. He moved with an unhurried easy grace, as if he knew he was destined for a long life and minutes and seconds saved did not matter. He wore a blue button-down shirt, a purple-and-green striped tie, a brown tweed jacket and grey slacks. He had a habit of standing with his right hand in his jacket pocket, rather like 1930s British actors in late-night movies. He was noticeable, though not by intent.

He was on his way back from Katoomba, where, due to the bungling of the locals, he had had to work longer than he had planned. He had come down from the Blue Mountains and was on the freeway heading for the city when his bladder began to assert itself. He was coming into the outskirts of the suburbs and began to look for a place to pull off the freeway. A curving exit opened up ahead and he took the Mitsubishi Magna up it and brought the car to a halt. He got out, relieved himself, felt the relief of a long piss, one of the unlisted small joys of life. He was about to get back into the car when he saw the big neon-lit building about a couple of hundred metres along the crossroad. All at once he felt thirsty and hungry. Later he would remember, with sour humour, that the whole tragic night had begun with an urge to piss.

He drove into the car park of the club; it looked large enough to take at least a thousand cars, but tonight there were less than two hundred. He knew of it, it was famous, the first of the clubs that had started back in the fifties. It had drawn the local residents together, given them a haven and distraction from the sterile suburbs in which they lived; it had provided what the urban planners had not thought of, a focus. It was wealthy, had voting power with the other clubs, and it spread money where it was needed in the district. A sign by the wide front doors told him: All Visitors Welcome.

He walked in, was overwhelmed by the size of the huge room. He was accustomed to smaller places, had grown up in a three-bedroom semi-detached in Collaroy and size, especially interiors, still impressed him. There were a fair number of people in the room, most of them lined up before the banks of poker machines that sat, with smug faces, like creatures from outer space waiting for the suckers to pay homage. One woman wore a long black glove on the hand that pumped her machine; he wondered if she drew it on like a surgeon about to operate. He was not a gambler, never had been, and he wondered what other strangers like himself, coming in, thought of the machines and their brazen look.

He walked up to the bar. ‘Can I get something to eat without going to the restaurant?’ He could see a restaurant up on a mezzanine floor. ‘A sandwich or something?’

The barmaid had the sort of smile that she gave to everyone, whether she was favouring them or disappointing them. ‘I can get you some sandwiches from the kitchen.’

‘Thanks. And a beer. You have a Heineken, by any chance?’ He had a pleasant voice, every word distinct.

‘We have everything. You name it, we’ve got it, definitely. You moved in around here or just visiting?’

‘Just visiting.’

‘I’m Charlene, the oldest inhabitant. I was a teenager when I started here.’

He hoped she wasn’t going to tell him her life’s history. She was in her mid-forties, he guessed, bright, bouncy and unembarrassed by her openness: you got what you saw. Her hair was a blonde dome, some hairdresser’s self-monument. One would not have been surprised to find an autograph on the wearer’s forehead. But she was efficient and he could see why she had lasted so long. Members, he was sure, would say she was a pillar of the club.

She brought him his beer and sandwiches. ‘It’s ham-and-avocado salad. Nice – I had one m’self for supper. You’ll have to take it to a table. We don’t allow ’em lining up here at the bar to eat. You know what men are like. Let ’em near a bar and they think it’s their mother’s tit, if you’ll forgive the expression.’

‘Of course.’ He couldn’t remember his mother’s tit, but was sure he hadn’t hung round it after he’d left babyhood. He had been one of five children and his mother, deserted by their father, had never had the time to coddle any of them.

He took his right hand out of his pocket to pick up the beer and the sandwiches and only then was it apparent why he kept the hand hidden. It was crippled, a twist of claws. He grasped the sandwich plate, took the beer in his left hand and went across to a table some distance from the bar. He sat down and only then noticed the woman three tables away from him. She looked at him without interest, then got up, went to the bar and brought back a drink. She was an attractive woman, everywhere but in her face: pain was there and anger and those emotions were never attractive. He had seen them before, in his work.

He watched her while he ate and drank, taking his time. It had been a long, hard, full day and now he was enjoying the relaxation, no matter how short it might be. The woman interested him: what had brought the pain and anger to her face? In profile they were less obvious; he shifted his chair so that she remained in profile to him. The more he looked at her, the more he became interested in her. There was a sensuality to her that he had missed at first: something in the line of her body, the way she moved when she raised her glass to her lips. But she paid him no attention and at last he decided it was time to go. He had at least another three-quarter of an hour’s drive to home.

He stood up, went across and paid the barmaid. ‘Thanks. I’m refreshed.’

‘Half your luck. I’m done in. I’m not as young as I used to be. But don’t tell anyone.’ She gave him the smile. He liked her friendliness, but wondered why she played the part she had created for herself. When she got home, did she take off the front and throw it aside like a dirty brassiere?

‘I never tell on a lady,’ he said, smiled at her and left.

Out in the car park he was about to get into the Magna when he saw the woman moving unsteadily towards a grey Volvo. He paused, watching her. She stopped by the car, opened her handbag, took out her keys and dropped them. He heard her swear, then she leaned on the side of the car and slowly slid down, her free hand groping for the keys on the ground. He shut the door of the Magna and moved across to her.

‘Can I help?’

She looked up at him. ‘I’ve dropped my keys.’ She stood up, slowly, still leaning on the car. They were close and he could smell the liquor on her breath. ‘I think the night air’s got to me.’

He found the keys, but didn’t hand them to her. ‘Do you live far from here?’

She waved vaguely. ‘About five minutes. I dunno – I’m not much good at distances. I’m not much good at closeness, either.’ She giggled.

‘I think I’d better drive you home. Or get you a cab.’

‘No cab. You go back in there, ring for cab and someone’s gunna ask you if it’s for me again. No thanks.’ She was still leaning against her car, but with her back to it now. She looked carefully at him, as if making a decision on him; then she nodded back at the club. ‘I saw you looking at me in there. Why?’

‘I often look at attractive women.’

If she had giggled he would have walked away. But she just nodded, as if she knew that was the most natural thing in the world for men to do. He wondered how much experience of men she had had, but guessed she would be able to handle them.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Fred.’

‘Fred what?’

‘Just Fred. What’s yours?’

‘Norma. Just Norma.’ Then she straightened up, stepped away from the car. ‘Drive me home, Fred.’

She gave him directions and it was indeed only five minutes’ drive. She said nothing during the five minutes, just sat side on looking at him. He could smell her perfume; and something else? Did desire have a perfume? When he slowed, looking for her street, she spoke at last. ‘The next street on the right. They all look alike around here. It’s the egali – something or other look.’

‘Egalitarian.’

‘That’s it. One of my clients said it – she’s a teacher, a real bolshie. I’m a hairdresser. What do you do, Fred?’

He could see something was building here. He would go along with it, she attracted him, but he was still cautious. If this was going to be a one-night stand, that was all it was going to be. ‘I’m an adviser.’

‘I could do with some advice.’ She continued to look at him, then she smiled to herself, shrugged and said, ‘How are you gunna get back to your own car?’

‘I’ll walk.’

‘It’s a long walk. You want me to ring for a cab?’ She opened the car door, got out. ‘Come in.’

He was not a floater, someone who picked up women like fish; he had always been steady, almost careful in his courting. This, though, wasn’t courting; nothing in this, if anything happened, would remain in the memory of either of them as anything of consequence. He was not inexperienced in women; he recognized he was being invited inside for more than a phone call for a cab. He got out of the car, already big in his trousers, and followed her in through the front gate and up the narrow path.

‘Don’t step on the garden. It used to be my husband’s pride and joy. It’s gone to pot now.’

He paused in his step. ‘Where is he?’

She stopped and looked back at him. ‘Don’t worry. He’s looking after someone else’s garden somewhere. We’re finished,’ she said, fumbling with the front door key. He wasn’t sure whether there was pain or anger in her voice, as there had been in her face at the club. ‘Finished. Bugger!’

She had dropped her keys again. He found them, put a key in the door and opened it. They were close together; he could smell the perfume and the heat of her. But he was not going to kiss her on the doorstep. ‘After you, Norma.’

He followed her into the house, closed the door behind him. She turned back, gave him the direct look again. ‘Do you wanna call a cab?’

‘Not yet.’