The Turning

21

21

Marilyn Spencer finally resigned from her doubt and called the Wilton police station. The phone rang out twice, greeted by Craig Morris’s voice on the message machine. His wife, Carol’s mobile number was mentioned as she called back two or three times just to catch the number again, her wrinkled hands slow and jittery with the pen. She migrated to her rocking chair because it had more support on her back than the couch, and began to punch the number into the cordless receiver. She waited for Carol Spencer to answer.

“Hello Carol, its Marilyn here, how are you love.”

“Who?”

She laughed. “It’s Marilyn. From Wilton.”

“Oh, yeah, how are ya?”

“Good love, was just wondering if your husband was around?”

“Nah, he should be home from work now but. Something wrong?”

Marilyn peered out the window. There was not a soul out there. No cars or people, not even the local postman delivering the mail. What it amounted to was that something was amiss, and it had to do with those gunshots. The sly slither of fear had remained wedged in her stomach but she continued to ignore it.

“Well, I tried calling your house and the station but there was no reply.”

“I’d say Craig is probably at the club, having a schooner. He gets the weekends off now. Are those blokes at the pub being grunters?”

Again she thought of the pub, all closed up and silent across the road and yet it was almost three-thirty in the afternoon. Prime knock off time. Why, in all things logical and reasonable, was it closed?
“No. I’ve… I was just outside and I was hearing some sort of loud banging, like guns going off and shouting and I just thought I’d better call Craig just to be safe.”

Carol sighed. She was standing in Big W in Griffith, watching her son sift through reduced clothing with a disinterested, bored. She had picked him up from the airport half an hour ago and he had barely said a word to her. It seemed that all he wanted to do was talk to this girl, Maddie whatever her name was. She was beginning to feel a real pang of something like betrayal; she and Craig hadn’t seen the kid for almost a year, and yet now here he was, giddy with love and not a screw to give anything or anyone else.

“Well, you know it could be hoons, kids or anythin’. Car’s backfiring tend to sound like guns going off and the kids do it for that reason.”

Marilyn was shaking her head. "No I don't think so," she said softly. "I know what gunshots sound like and I know what a car back-firing does too. They're not exactly the same, love.”
Carol thought for a moment, massaging her forehead. A dull tension headache had formed behind her eyes and had migrated to her temple, steadily worsening with the sound of Marilyn's voice. She had always felt sorry for the old lady considering that her husband was almost ten years gone and that there seemed to be no one keep an eye on her. But she knew well that the reason she had wanted to call Craig was that she was afraid of calling Leeton. As soon as the Leeton police heard her, they'd completely disregarded her. Her husband was always the first point of contact in town because he actually listened and dealt with the issues at hand. But now that her headache was worsening, the last thing on her mind was playing Craig's messenger-girl. She just wanted to go home.

“All right, this is what I’ll do. I’ll call Craig and talk to him. I’ll get him to go look around. But I really don’t think it’s anything to be worried about, Marilyn. Like I said he’s probably at the pub so he would know if something was wrong.”

As an afterthought, she added, “If you like you can have dinner with us tonight, might make you feel a bit better. My son’s down, I know you’ve been asking how he is.”

Did you just get yourself into something you might regret, Carol?

Again Marilyn glanced at the pub across the road. It might as well have had a For Sale sign hanging from the door.

"… that's very nice Carol, be good to see you. Thanks. Sorry to bother you, love."

Carol went to ask if she was all right but the line disconnected. She peered at her phone a moment and then slipped it back into her handbag.

In Wilton, Marilyn began to rock in her husband's old recliner, listening to the clock and the other sounds from outside. But it seemed now that it had all come to a halt. Perhaps she had been overreacting after all. Perhaps it had been a neighbor's radio or something like that. It wasn't just possible now that she thought of it, it was likely.

I overreacted.

A smile of real relief stretched across her lips and she closed her eyes, sighing, surprised by how nervous she had been.

It probably is a car backfiring and Craig will find them and book them. Good bloody riddance too.

She glanced up at the clock on the wall which read ten to five and got up, bringing her walker around from beside the seat and shuffling feebly into the kitchen. Seeing that she was far too old to be pouring herself a glass of wine anymore, it was time for her ritual cup of tea. There were lamingtons in the fridge, her dirty little secret, and she'd indulge a little, just so as to encourage the jitters to roll out of her system. Everything in the world was all right. There was North Korea to worry about and the Yanks with their rude, unconvincing president as well as the usual famine and violence and death going on here and there. But in Wilton, it was just another day and a car back-firing didn't signal the end of existence. Besides, there were better things to be thinking of. Deal or No Deal would be on soon and she didn't want to miss it. She loved Andrew O Keefe.