knows, however, what is coming and has to do something. A mess on the rug will send him into apoplexy and may undo what this experience may finally achieve, but Mr. Pyne unknowingly comes to her aide. As he feels whatever-it-is-that-is-going-to-happen getting closer, his body tenses, his arms spread wide and his head slowly falls back as he faces heaven. Susan’s hands are full but she must get the discarded singlet lying on the sofa. She judges his rhythmic thrusts and as skilfully as a timpani player lets go of his buttocks, grabs the singlet from behind her and lets it fall at his feet, and grabs his arse again. Too close! If this is his first orgasm, which she believes it is, the singlet may be too close. She times her grab again and gets the singlet where she wants it to be.
By now his body is rigid with his hips thrusting widely, arms and eyes wide with some sweet agony he does not understand. He gasps! He shudders! Susan doesn’t release either hand but keeps an eye on him. He gasps again. Shudders again and she can feel his body relaxing. She thinks he is going to fall forward as his knees give way, but she manages to angle him as he gives out a piercing cry of wonder and release, and she lets him collapse backwards into an armchair. She grabs at the singlet, rolls it, and shoves it under the sofa. He lies there panting, staring at nothing. What must he be feeling? Susan wonders.
He slowly pulls his head forward and looks around the room, looking at everything just as it was before; the furniture, the glasses in the cabinet, the boomerangs on the walls, all the same. Susan sits on the sofa, hands in her lap gently smiling at him. He is incredulous, wide-eyed and says quietly as if he only has the energy for a whisper, ”And nothing happened. It seems impossible, but nothing happened.”
Susan chats away as if what has just happened is the most natural thing in the world. She helps him into his new clothes, a pair of cotton, cream-coloured trousers, with a dark blue polo shirt, and no singlet. He seems distracted, uneasy but calm.
Once she has packed her bag and neatly folded all his discarded clothes she says holding out her bag to him, “You can carry this to the car for me.” This little walk to the car has only been a recent addition to the routine but today now, he offers no hesitation, no reluctance. He takes the proffered bag and slowly follows her out of the flat, down the stairs, through the garden to her car on the street. Susan gazes up at the balcony and notices that he has left his front door ajar. They walk silently to the street. She opens the back door of her car, takes the bag from him, says “Thank you Mr. Pyne,” puts it on the back seat, closes the door and stands and looks at him smiling gently.
He gazes around the incredibly normal suburban street and then looks at her. He seems incredibly sad.
“Shall I expect a message from you, Mr. Pyne?”
“Yes, Susan,” he says, then “Ah!” He suddenly looks behind him as if he has just heard something fearful. A dove has just landed on the garden fence. It sits there coo-ing. “Is everything like this?” he asks, looking around and then back at her, “so, so ... unconcerned?”
“It’s just the same as before.”
“No, look again. Look all around you again.”
Susan does as she is asked and says, “No, just the same. Normal.”
“Normal?”
“Yes. Normal, common, same as before, the everyday.”
“Every day,” he repeats slowly; and then, “What do you think happened?”
“I brought you your new set of clothes for you to try, and you look very smart; very smart indeed.”
“Of course. Thank you Susan.” They shake hands. His is soft, warm, but before he lets go of hers he squeezes it gently. She watches him walk his short-step gait back through the overgrown garden until he disappears. She gets into her car and drives away.
Had she waited a little longer she would’ve realised that when he entered his flat he did not close his front door.
5
Just before she opened the front door to let Jack in she reminded herself not to comment on his appearance. Weeks went by between visits usually because his father was taking him somewhere exotic. Last month he'd chosen East Timor as research for his school project. All the other children relied on the Internet for their research. Jack’s father, Ray, actually took him to East Timor. She had always found it hard to compete with his father's newfound wealth.
It was true, but every time she saw him he had grown, altered, changed in some way; and now knowing that he didn't like such comments she still found herself a little shocked at his grown-up appearance. He was tall, pale, handsome, serious, but still soft and quiet.
When she opened the door, with an already rehearsed and now fixed smile on her face, she said “Hi!” but checked herself a little too late because a gasp escaped from her mouth.
“What?” said Jack. He was standing there laden down with a computer, his school bag, a large bag of groceries and a pot plant: a moth orchid in a pot wrapped with a blue bow. But it wasn’t his accoutrements that made her gasp it was the five-o’clock’ shadow on his face. She hadn’t expected that. She couldn’t say anything so found another reason.
“What's all this?”
“Just some groceries and stuff from Dad.”
“I’m quite capable of affording my own groceries, thank you very much.”
“I know, but give me a break will you? It’s his latest peace offering. Let him have his fantasies. Throw them away for all I care. Can you take the plant, please?”
“What’s this for?” said Veronica taking the offered orchid but failing to keep the biting tone out of her voice.
“Relax, it’s not for you, it’s for Nan. Can I come in?”
“Oh sorry” and she stepped aside letting him enter and proceed down the hall. She followed and watched the back of him. His shoulders were definitely wider.
He dumped everything on the kitchen island bench and then picked up the orchid and took it out the back to the shed, to Nan’s shed. She heard her mother shriek a little at the gift and noted the sing-songy responses to Jack’s gruff questions and comments. Veronica rifled through the bag of groceries. Thank god there wasn’t toilet paper, detergent, or fly spray; there were just things she absolutely loved: caper berries, smoked salmon, horseradish cream, smoked oysters, Sicilian green olives, artichoke hearts, Ortiz anchovies - very expensive, as well as water crackers, tonic water, ginger beer - that was for Jack, and three very ripe mangoes.
“What’s for dinner?” asked Jack as he re-entered the kitchen.
“Sausages and mash.”
“Great. Put some of that horseradish in the mash, will you? It’s one of Ray’s ideas. It’s great.” This little bit of information was bound to make sure that the horseradish went nowhere near the mashed potatoes. She changed the subject.
“What’s all this?” she asked again, as she indicated the pile of books and papers on the island bench.
“My new project.”
“I thought we were going to spend some time together.”
“Yeah, doing my project.”
“I
