I Am the Messenger Page 4

  I try to go on a Monday but don't have the courage.

  I make a second attempt on Tuesday but don't manage to leave the house, reading an awful book as an excuse.

  On Wednesday, however, I actually make it out onto the street and head across town.

  It's nearly midnight when I turn onto Edgar Street. It's dark, and the streetlights there have been rocked. Only one survives, and even that one winks at me. It's light that limps from the globe.

  I know this neighborhood quite well because Marv used to come here a lot.

  He had a girl here, on one of these slummy streets. Her name was Suzanne Boyd, and Marv was with her back in school. When the family picked up and left, almost without a word, he was devastated. Originally he bought that shitbox car to go and look for her, but he didn't even make it out of town. The world was too big, I think, and Marv gave up. That was when he became extra tight and argumentative. I think he decided he'd only care about himself from that moment on. Maybe. I don't know. I never give Marv too much thought. It's a policy I have.

  As I walk, I remember all of that for a while, but it disappears as I edge forward.

  I make it to the street's end, where number 45 is. I walk past it, on the other side of the road, and head for the trees that stand up and lean all over each other. I crouch there and wait. The lights are off in the house and the street is quiet. Paint flakes from the fibro and one of the gutters is rusting away. The flyscreen has holes bitten into it. The mosquitoes are feasting on me.

  It better not be long, I think.

  Half an hour passes and I nearly fall asleep, but when the time comes, my heartbeat devours the street.

  A man comes stumbling over the road.

  A big man.

  Drunk.

  He doesn't see me as he trips up the porch steps and struggles with the key before going in.

  The hallway explodes with light.

  The door slams.

  "You up?" he slurs. "Get your lazy arse out here now!"

  My heart begins to suffocate me. It keeps rising until I can taste it. I can almost feel it beating on my tongue. I tremble, pull myself together, then tremble again.

  The moon escapes from the clouds, and I suddenly feel naked. Like the world can see me. The street is numb and silent but for the giant man who's stumbled home and talks forcefully to his wife.

  Light materializes now in the bedroom as well.

  Through the trees I can see the shadows.

  The woman is standing up in her nightie, but the hands of the man take her and pull it from her, hard.

  "I thought you were waiting up," he says. He has her by the arms. Fear has me by the throat. Next he throws her down to the bed and undoes his belt and pants.

  He's on her.

  He puts himself in.

  He has sex with her and the bed cries out in pain. It creaks and wails and only I can hear it. Christ, it's deafening. Why can't the world hear? I ask myself. Within a few moments I ask it many times. Because it doesn't care, I finally answer, and I know I'm right. It's like I've been chosen. But chosen for what? I ask.

  The answer's quite simple:

  To care.

  A little girl appears on the porch.

  She cries.

  I watch.

  There's only the light now. No noise.

  There's no noise for a few minutes, but it soon starts up again--and I don't know how many times this man can do it in one night, but it's certainly an achievement. It goes on and on as the girl sits there, crying.

  She must be about eight.

  When it finally ends, the girl gets up and goes inside. Surely this can't happen every night. I tell myself it isn't possible, and the woman replaces the girl on the porch.

  She also sits down, like the girl. She's got her nightie on again, torn, and she has her head in her hands. One of her breasts is prominent in the moonlight. I can see the nipple facing down, dejected and hurt. At one point, she holds her hands out, forming a cup. It's like she's holding her heart there. It's bleeding down her arms.

  I almost walk over, but instinct stops me.

  You know what to do.

  A voice inside me has whispered, and I hear it. It keeps me from going to her. This isn't what I have to do. I'm not here to comfort this woman. I can comfort her till the cows come home. That won't stop it happening tomorrow night and the night after.

  It's him I have to take care of.

  It's him I have to face.

  All the same, she cries on the front porch, and I wish I could go over there and hold her. I wish I could rescue her and hold her in my arms.

  How do people live like this?

  How do they survive?

  And maybe that's why I'm here.

  What if they can't anymore?

  I'm driving my cab, thinking, It has to get better than this--my first message and it's a bloody rape case. To top it all off, the bloke I have to take care of's built like a brick shithouse. He's a unit if ever I've seen one.

  I tell no one. No friends. No authorities. Something beyond all that needs to be done. Unfortunately, it's me who's been chosen to do it.

  Audrey asks about it when we're having lunch in the city, but I tell her she doesn't want to know.

  She gives me that concerned look I love and says, "Just be careful, Ed, okay?"

  I agree with her and we're back in our cabs.

  All day, I can't help thinking about it. I also dread the other two addresses, although part of me explains that they can't be any worse than the first one.

  I go there every night as, gradually, the moon goes through its cycle. Sometimes it doesn't happen. Sometimes he comes home and there's no violence. On those nights, the silence of the street is swollen. It's scared and slippery as I wait for something to happen.

  Anervous moment arrives one afternoon when I go shopping. I'm walking along the dog food section when a woman walks past me with a little girl sitting in the trolley.

  "Angelina," she says. "Don't touch that."

  The voice is mild but unmistakable. It's the voice that calls to the night for help when she's slumped down on the bed, being raped by a drunk with a libido like Kilimanjaro. It's the voice of the woman who quietly sobs on her front porch in the silent, uncaring night.

  For a split second, the girl and I lock eyes.

  She's blond with green eyes and beautiful. The mother's the same, only tiredness has worn down her face.

  I follow them awhile, and once, when the mother's crouched down looking at packet soups, I see her fall silently to pieces. She crouches there, dying to fall to her knees but not allowing herself.

  When she stands back up, I'm there.

  I'm there and we stare and I say, "You okay?"

  She nods and lies.

  "I'm okay."

  I have to do something soon.

  At this point, you can probably tell what I've decided to do about the whole Edgar Street situation. Or at least you'll know if you're anything like me.

  Cowardly.

  Meek.

  Positively weak.

  Of course, in my infinite wisdom, I'm choosing to leave it for a while. You never know, Ed. It might just work itself out.

  Now, I know that's pathetic in just about its purest form, but there's no way I can deal with this kind of thing so early. I need experience with this. I need a few wins under my belt before I can test myself against the rapist built like Tyson.

  I pull out the card again one night as I drink coffee with the Doorman. I gave him some Blend 43 the previous night and he was quite taken by it.

  At first, he wouldn't touch it.

  He looked at me. He looked at his bowl.

  Back and forth.

  It took me nearly five minutes to realize that he saw me putting sugar in my mug that says Taxi Drivers Aren't the Biggest Shitheads on the Road. Once I gave him some sugar he became much more enthusiastic. He slurped and licked and carried on, demolishing the entire bowl and looking up for more.


  So it's the Doorman and me in the lounge room. He's going at his coffee while I stare at the card, at the other addresses. Thirteen Harrison is next on the list, and I make my mind up to go there the next evening, six o'clock sharp.

  "What do you say, Doorman?" I ask. "This one'll be better, you reckon?"

  He gives me a grin because he's all hopped up on the Blend 43.

  "I'm telling you." Marv points his finger at Ritchie. "I did knock. I don't care what you say."

  "Did he knock?" Ritchie asks me.

  "I can't remember."

  "Audrey?"

  She thinks a moment and shakes her head. Marv throws his hands in the air. He has to pick up four cards now. In Annoyance, that's the way it works. You get down to two cards and you knock. If you forget to knock before you put down that second-to-last card, you pick up four. Marv forgets to knock quite frequently.

  He scowls as he picks up the cards, but secretly he's trying not to laugh. He knows he didn't knock, but he'll always try to get away with it. It's part of the game.

  We're at Audrey's place, on her balcony. It's dark but the floodlights are on, and people look up as they walk past the lot of town houses. It's a street around the corner from mine. A bit of a dive, but nice enough.

  In the first hour of play, I look at Audrey and know that I'm in nervous love with her. Nervous because I don't know what to do sometimes. I don't know what to say. What can I tell her when I feel the hunger rise in me? How would she react? I think she's frustrated with me because I could have gone to university and now I just drive a cab. I've read Ulysses, for God's sake, and half the works of Shakespeare. But I'm still hopeless, useless, and practically pointless. I can see she could never really see herself with me. Yet she's still done it with others who are pretty much the same. Sometimes I can't bring myself to think about it. Thinking about what they've done and how it feels and how she likes me too much to consider me.

  Even though I know.

  It isn't just sex I'd want from her.

  I'd want to feel myself mold with her, just for a moment, if that's all I'm allowed.

  She smiles at me when she wins a round, and I smile back.

  Want me, I beg, but nothing comes.

  "So whatever happened with that weird card thing?" Marv asks later.

  "What?"

  "You know very bloody well what." He points at me with his cigar. He could use a shave.

  Everyone listens as I lie. "I threw it out."

  Marv approves. "Good idea. Load of shit, that."

  "Damn right," I agree. End of story. Supposedly.

  Audrey looks at me, amused.

  For the next few games I think of what happened earlier, when I went to 13 Harrison Avenue.

  I was quite relieved, to tell you the truth, because nothing really happened at all. The only person there was an old woman who has no curtains on her windows. She was in there on her own, making her dinner and sitting there eating, and drinking tea. I think she ate a salad and some soup.

  And loneliness.

  She ate that, too.

  I liked her.

  I stayed in my cab the whole time, sitting there watching her. It was hot, and I drank some old water. Often, I hoped the woman was all right. She looked gentle and kind, and I recall the way her old-fashioned kettle whistled till she went over and soothed it. I'm quite sure she spoke to it, like she would to a child. Like a baby crying.

  It kind of depressed me to think a human could be so lonely that she would comfort herself with the company of appliances that whistle, and sit alone to eat.

  Not that I'm much better, mind you.

  Let's face it--I eat my meals with a seventeen-year-old dog. We drink coffee together. You'd think we were husband and wife, the way we carry on. But still...

  The old lady did something to my heart.

  When her hands reached out and poured the tea, it was as if she also poured something into me while I sat there sweating in my cab. It was like she held a string and pulled on it just slightly to open me up. She got in, put a piece of herself inside me, and left again.

  In there, somewhere, I still feel it.

  I sit here playing cards, and the image of her is splayed across the table. Only I can see it. I see her hands shaking as she brought the spoon up to her mouth. I want to see her laugh or express some kind of happiness or contentment to let me know she's okay. I soon realize, though, that I have to find out for sure.

  It's my go.

  "Your go, Ed."

  It's my go and I'm not going.

  I'm down to two cards and I have to knock.

  The Three of Clubs and the Nine of Spades.

  The only trouble is, I want more cards tonight. I'm not interested in winning. I think I know what I have to do for the old woman, and I make a bet with myself.

  If I pick up the Ace of Diamonds, I'm right.

  If I don't, I'm wrong.

  I forget to knock and everyone laughs at me as I go to pick up.

  First card: Queen of Clubs.

  Second card: Four of Hearts.

  Third card: yes.

  Everyone wonders why I could possibly be smiling, except Audrey. Audrey winks at me. She knows without asking that I did it on purpose. The Ace of Diamonds is in my hand.

  This is much better than Edgar Street.

  I'm feeling good.

  It's Tuesday and I'm putting on my white jeans and my nice sandy-colored boots. I pull out a decent shirt. I've been to the Cheesecake Shop, having been ably assisted by a girl called Misha.

  ("Don't I know you?" she asked.

  "Maybe. I can't quite--"

  "Of course--you're the guy from the bank. The hero."

  The fool, more like it, I thought, but I said, "Oh yeah--you're the girl behind the counter. You work here now?"

  She nodded. "Yeah." She was a bit embarrassed. "I couldn't handle the stress in the bank."

  "The robbery?"

  "Nah, my boss was a total prick."

  "The acne and the sweat patches?"

  "Yeah, that's him.... Tried to stick his tongue in my mouth the other day."

  "Ah well," I said. "That's men for you. We're all a bit that way."

  "Ain't that the truth." But she was friendly from start to finish. When I was outside the shop, she called after me. "Enjoy the cake, Ed!"

  "Thanks, Misha," I called back, but not loud enough, probably. I don't like making noise in public.

  And I was gone.)

  I think about it briefly as I open the box and look at half a mud cake. I feel for the girl because it can't have been too nice having that guy all over her like that, and it was she who quit. The bastard. I'm scared out of my mind before I try to put my tongue in a girl's mouth. And I don't have acne or sweat patches. Just shithouse confidence. That's all.

  Anyway.

  I give the cake a last examination. I smell good. I'm decked out in my nicest clothes, ready to go.

  I step over the Doorman and close the door behind me. The day is silver gray and cool as I walk over to Harrison Avenue. I'm there by six o'clock, and the old lady is attending to the kettle again.

  The grass on her front lawn is gold.

  My feet crunch over it, like the sound of someone biting into toast. My boots seem to leave prints, and I truly feel like I'm walking over a giant piece of toasted bread. The roses are the only things alive, standing resolutely by the driveway.

  Her front porch is cement. Old and cracked, like mine.

  The flyscreen door is torn at the edges. Fraying. I open it and knock on the wood. The sound rhymes with my heartbeat.

  Her footsteps climb to the door. Her feet sound like the ticktock of a clock. Counting time to this moment.

  She stands.

  She looks up at me, and for a moment we both get lost in each other. She wonders who I am, but only for a split second. Then, with stunning realization clambering across her face, she smiles at me. She smiles with such incredible warmth and says, "I knew you'd come, Jimmy." She
steps toward me and hugs me hard, her soft, wrinkled arms encasing me. "I knew you'd come."

  When we move apart, she looks at me again, till a small tear lifts itself up in her eye. It trips out to find a wrinkle and follows it down.

  "Ohh," and she shakes her head. "Thanks, Jimmy. I knew it, I knew it." She takes me by the hand and leads me into the house. "Come in," she tells me. I follow.

  "Are you staying for dinner, Jimmy?"

  "Only if you'll have me," I reply.

  She chuckles. "'If you'll have me....'" She waves me away dismissively. "You're such a card, Jimmy."

  Damn right I'm a card.

  "Of course I'll have you," she continues. "It'll be lovely to go over old times, won't it?"

  "Of course." She takes the cake from me and puts it in the kitchen. I can hear her mucking around in there, and I call out to see if she needs any help. She tells me I should just relax and make myself comfortable.

  The dining room and the kitchen both face the street, and as I sit at the dining room table, I see people walk past, rush past, and some wait for their dogs and move on. On the table is a pensioner's card. Her name's Milla. Milla Johnson. She's eighty-two.

  When she comes back out, she brings a dinner identical to the one she had the previous day. Salad and soup and some tea.

  We eat, and she tells me all about her day-to-day travels.

  She talks for five minutes to Sid in the butcher's shop but doesn't buy any meat. Just chats and talks and laughs at his jokes, which aren't really funny.

  She has lunch at five to twelve.

  She sits in the park, watching the kids play and the skateboarders do their tricks and swerves at the skate bowl.

  She drinks coffee in the afternoon.

  She watches Wheel of Fortune at five-thirty.

  She has her dinner at six.

  She's in bed by nine.

  Later on, she gives me a question. We've cleaned up the dishes, and I'm sitting again at the table. Milla comes back in, nervously sitting in her chair.

  Her shaking hands reach out.

  To mine.

  They hold them and her pleading eyes open me.

  She says, "So tell me, Jimmy." The hands begin to shake a little harder. "Where have you been all this time?" Her voice is painful but soft. "Where have you been?"

  Something's stuck in my throat--the words.

  Finally, I recognize them and say, "I've been looking for you." I speak that sentence as if it's the one great truth I've ever known.

  She returns my conviction, nodding. "I thought so." She pulls my hands over to her, leans over, and kisses my fingers. "You always did know what to say, didn't you, Jimmy?"