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Falling Backwards
James Quinn
[Lacuna]
2013
Contents
Autumn
It was about a year ago, when I wasn’t worth much of anything at all. I was wearing a cheap black suit, which was something that they used to make me do back then. Anything else would have invited mean-spirited remarks at the lamington drives and on bingo nights. The suit was cheap and I had no say in the matter. Too flashy and it would have undone all the lying and cups of milky tea. From where I was sitting I could hear the fridge burring in the kitchen and a magpie warbling in the frangipani outside. It was late in the evening and I could smell the garden cooling with the dew. I sat quietly in my lounge room in a fat old armchair, sharing the space uncomfortably with Donald and Mary. Together the three of us inhaled and exhaled away an awkward moment. Donald and Mary were regulars at my marriage counselling sessions and the topic for the evening was a difficult one.
Donald, Mary and I formed a lopsided triangle around a scuffed timber coffee table in the lounge room of my house. There was a writing desk behind me and behind that a wall of books. A big red Bible was wedged between a number of texts on the human condition. I glanced across at Mary. She sat very erect, her knees pressed together femininely, and she occasionally brushed a few strands of hair out of her eyes with her right hand and over her ear. I registered the tension in her posture and in her elegant spine curving out to her bottom. Donald leant forward in his chair anxiously, his hands clasped between his knees and head bowed. The sessions were very hard on Donald. He found it difficult to express his feelings and I used to draw every revelation and admission out of him slowly and painfully. Poor Donald. I feel sorry for him even now. I really do.
The topic for the evening was intimacy. It was really the same subject every week with those two. Specifically, the subject was the lack of intimacy between Donald and Mary. No sex for months and when it happened, he was premature. I still wonder why they even bothered. I didn’t need qualifications to know that Donald and Mary’s marriage was going down the toilet. Mary sat opposite me quietly as I tentatively drew a series of humiliations out of the man that she once loved more than words can express (her words, not mine). Donald spoke softly. Poor bastard. I recall going easy on him because he really didn’t deserve all this. And Mary? She didn’t look especially uncomfortable. If anything, I’d say she may even have been enjoying it. I looked in her direction and saw smugness, which didn’t suit her.
To tell the truth, I was tired. It had been a long day coming at the end of a long week. I had been woken at 4.30 that morning by another person who had needed to talk. And so we had talked. I guess that was my job back then. Talking. Actually, not talking, listening. I never used to say much at all and when I did, no-one really listened. But that’s okay. I got used to it. I made a living keeping a lid on it. It wearied me some days, and it was wearying me that day and so only distantly I heard Donald telling us that Mary’s body didn’t do it for him any more. He couldn’t say when it started and he couldn’t say why. Mary shifted angrily in her chair, clearly hurt, so Donald stopped talking and winced. He knew he had stung her, someone he still loved, and anticipated a sharp-tongued rebuke, but Mary stayed silent. Fearing that she might cry I stepped in, distracted her with a question, and then started wrapping things up. Poor Donald. Poor Mary. I was so tired and it was all so sad.
I recall Donald and me getting to our feet and the two of us shuffling towards the door. He relaxed a little as his escape approached. It was always a relief for him when he left my company, like most of the men I knew back then, which was another thing that I had learned to grow used to. Mary stayed seated in the other room. We had scheduled some follow-up one-on-one therapy, so Donald and I left the office and entered what we called ‘the lobby’. It was really just the sun room of the house that they gave me. We shook hands at the front door and then shared some more foot-shuffling. Donald looked incredibly grateful. I think he probably wanted to hug me. I told him that I knew how hard it was for him. I remember him agreeing and him telling me how difficult it can be to forget that I was also his pastor, the preacher at his church. I reminded him that I was a qualified marriage counsellor too and he nodded, and assured me that he understood. He shrugged then paused and smiled weakly. As he left I closed the door gently behind him and sighed. Such a long day. So tired. So weary.
I returned to the office. Mary had her back to me. She was bending over my desk with her skirt hitched up over her hips and I could see that she was wearing no underpants. Post-session sex was always the sexiest. Her gorgeous round bottom beckoned. She looked back over her shoulder and said softly, ‘Can you do it from behind tonight?’ I walked across the room to her. Mary remained bent forward with her bum sticking out and I stood behind her and closed my eyes as she pressed backwards into my groin. She was soft and womanly. Her hair, her neck, her shoulders were fragrant, a potent and female smell. I knelt down and pressed my cheek against her smooth round bottom. She rested her hands on her knees, shifting her feet a little further apart for me. She was so lovely and I was so tired. I closed my eyes and kissed her soft inner thighs thinking, why should I resist this and why should I feel shame? She had a warm kind heart. She loved me in her way. ‘Yes,’ I said, rising to my feet again and unbuckling my belt, ‘That sounds like a wonderful idea.’
* * *
Back then I would have said, ‘And who could blame me?’ And who could? That week had started with the phone ringing at 2am and me rolling groggily out of sleep to answer it in the darkness. An early morning phone call was always bad news and sure enough thirty minutes later I was on the front steps of a dingy terrace house in Paddington. As I walked in the door a policeman came out of the bedroom and moved down the hall, hunching his shoulders against the narrow space. It was Jamie, a Kings Cross veteran. ‘Simon!’ he said, looking a little relieved. ‘Thanks for coming, mate. We have a bit of a situation.’ He led me back into the bedroom where a woman lay on the floor beside the bed. She was curled onto her side and blood had dribbled from her nose, leaving a small dark puddle on the floorboards beside her nostril. Her eye was swollen and her forehead grazed. She was barely conscious, beaten senseless and high on drugs. Another copper stood by the window looking out onto the empty night-time street. He’d have been bored if he hadn’t been so disgusted. Jamie and I moved towards the girl and together we tried to turn her over. The other copper made no move to help so the two of us struggled with her ragdoll body and together we lifted her up and onto the bed. The woman resented us all the way, mumbling incoherently, squirming weakly to break our hold. She was dressed in tight jeans and a grubby t-shirt. Her feet were dirty and bare, the toenails painted blue, the nail polish peeling. Jamie told the other policeman to go
