Pecking Disorder

Five

Five – Mum’s Not ForWords

I spend ages reorganizing my notes fromclass. I am convinced a higher authority has guided the removal ofthe chaos in my briefcase. Meticulous piecing together of dog earednotes is the final act. At last I have a space where nobody willintrude.

I am kidding myself I am studying but allthat is happening is a semblance of the act. But if I candemonstrate to the Omnipotent I am fair dinkum about understandingXerxes motivations when he returned home then I will be assessedfavorably by the Supreme Being.

Only the Supreme Being isn’t setting theexamination papers and no amount of spiritual persuasion is goingto get me across this line.

One end of the kitchen table is my temporaryterritory at night time while I’m home. This demarcation probablyconvinces no one but that part of myself which I have trained byrote. Is it an outward impression or just self-deception?

The other end of the quiet table Fiona isengaged in something much more interesting. She has an art projecton the go. Sticks of charcoal and conte crayons drop and hiss. Theinterchange between Laminex table and project book adds to theprocess leading to final composition. I want to see what she hascreated.

‘How’s that?’ she asksinterrupting my attempts to piece together Xerxes blunders inGreece and his efforts to remake his name on return toPersia.

Fiona holds up her project book to displaythe Easter Island ashtray. She has sketched the butt ends of Mum’scancer sticks. Much more accurately than the real thing on themantelpiece.

‘You’ve brought the fagsto life. Did you receive guidance from the God of nicotine?’ Iquip.

Mum coughs in the bathroom above the soundof running water. Fiona’s charcoal sketch assumes a life of its ownas the sound of our mother’s persistent coughing muffles throughwalls, floors and ceilings.

I wonder if she smokes in the bath.

Knowing heavy condensation forms in thenewly renovated fibro bathroom, I realize this is highly unlikely.Unless of course she has a secret stash of water proof filters.

The stench from the dog tucker isunbearable. I move the tin outside. I can’t be bothered if theoffal isn’t cooked thoroughly. There is a lot of talk in thedistrict about not feeding dogs raw offal. The risk of spreadinghydatids is heightened with undercooked meat. ‘Sheep to dog noworries but dog to humans is a risk,’ Kevin Mayne alwaysemphasizes.

A fleeting thought about my carelessnessturns to a fresh focus on Phillip.

Perhaps he has some kind of illness thatrequires immediate action and no one knows how to treat it. Musthave confided in Grace. She couldn’t deal with it alone.

I decide to finish cooking the dog tuckerthe following morning.

Later on Mum says goodnight. She only popsher head around the door. There’s no opportunity for furtherquestions. Attempts at understanding the motivations of a Persianwarrior are pointless and my sister is struggling to demonstratecalm with all that is still unknown. The rhythm of her crayonschange. She’s about to do a carbon pressing of the table.

‘It’s awful not knowingwhat’s up with Phillip.’

She doesn’t look up. I detect her anguish.The table shakes. She thinks the pair of us will work out what thebig secret is.

I meticulously pack up my study attempts,hoping again this is observed in all its detail by a sympatheticAlmighty.

‘They don’t want to tellus yet.’

Immediately I utter those words somethingclicks. I am voicing my thoughts about the previous evening. I haveto be vigilant. Careful. Thoughts not words. But the situation hereis different.

But what is the situation here?

I fail the test to remain in the present. Ishudder as I revisit the discomfort of thoughts which have theirroots in my own pure filth. I am in my sister’s company and I haveto carefully find a way to diffuse those naked feelings. I searchfor distractions so I can cease comparisons of a city dormitorywith a country kitchen.

‘If he’s had to go to thedoctor then he must be sick,’ I say mouthing words appropriate tothe time and place.

‘There’s nothing wrongwith him. You know that. You’re not going to be Tasmanian ScullingChampion if you’re sick.’

I am forced to react to Fiona’s words andreposition how I react. The mystery about my brother deepens. I amgrateful for Fiona’s logic. Why would a healthy man be going to adoctor on a Friday night? And why the rush to see a doctor anyway?But more importantly why is my father going with him?

An inordinate pause takes hold. The kindthat Mum has employed all evening. I try to imagine the illnessthat Phillip has contracted. I end the challenge to remainquiet.

‘I am going to have a bathnow. I want to clean up a bit. Need to make sure that I don’t catchwhat Phillip’s got.’

Fiona recoils.

‘Don’t be awful. It’s notfunny. It could be you.’

The eventual smile that widens on her faceindicates she is glad my flippant remark has loosened the air oftension. It lightens the load before sleep.

‘Me?’ I say, looking ather puzzled while maintaining an outwardly querulousmanner.

‘I’m going to do anotherashtray. Won’t be able to sleep. I might wait up until Phillip anddad are back.’

It could be you.

Desperately I present an unblemished personaand in doing so pretend that the events of the previous night havenot exposed my own secrets. Thankfully thoughts are not words. I amsafe and I am saved. I have discovered there is to be no discovery.Only the pressure to stay quiet.

But I badly need to talk. Yet just who Iwill open up to is uncertain. I have to think about everyone else’sreactions and forgo my own feelings.

Do I need to have secrets like theadults?

I leave the room with more haste than isintended. I am reminded again of the Pride of Ringwoods which growunder Australian conditions. Below this house. They are strong andresilient. They have to be. If not everyone of the hills will begrubbed and burnt. And replaced with another variety.

I want to go to bed with Michael. He knowsthat I want to be with him again. To do what we did last night.

But nobody must know that. Will anybody everknow? Or will it be a secret all my life until I die?

How long will this go on for?

I seek guidance from higher up but I thinkthe Supreme Being is finding me too challenging.

For now I tell myself that at least theunknown hasn’t the power to finger point.

Or the desire.