From Under the Overcoat Read online

  Too late, he realises the barman has opened another beer for him.

  Back at the table with Neil, David drinks most of the bottle in one gulping, heady mouthful. Then he sends a text to Trudy to say he’ll be late.

  IT’S TEN O’CLOCK WHEN he gets out of the taxi. He’s ready for it. Ready for an argument. He wants one. He wants Trudy to come storming out the front door and go at him for all the things that are hard and unfair. For being late, for being drunk, for spending money on alcohol and a taxi (and losing the bike) and then, finally, in one big beautiful rage, for Jamie.

  The taxi drives off, leaving him in the silent street. The heat of the afternoon has gone but the evening is still. David leans against the streetlight outside their house, finding his feet. A sweet sound forms a backdrop. Crickets.

  He hasn’t heard the chirp of crickets since he was a boy. After his mother died, his father never noticed that he roamed the golf course late at night. He’d take a torch and collect balls abandoned by careless players. His flashlight swung in wide arcs across the fairways, picking up the gleam of the little white balls in the waterways and rough. The crickets flew into his head: a low fast thud against his face or a manic beating in his hair. He sold the golf balls back to their owners the next weekend, a dollar each.

  He’s stabbing at the lock with his key when Trudy opens the door. He listens for the sound of Jamie crying, but hears nothing.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Sorry ’bout this. Drinks.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she says.

  The house is tidy, clean and calm. David doesn’t understand. ‘Jamie?’ he asks. He has a sudden, terrifying thought. ‘Is he alright?’

  Trudy’s exhausted, David can see that, now they are inside under the lights. Her face is pale; there are dark hollows under her eyes.

  ‘Mum and Dad have taken him,’ she says quietly, not looking at him. ‘For the night. To give us time on our own.’

  He still wants the fight, it surprises him. He wills her to explode, lash out at him. ‘Why didn’t you phone me? I would’ve come home.’

  ‘I did. About an hour after you texted me.’

  David pulls his phone out of his pocket. There it is — the missed call a blur of grey markings on the screen.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says again.

  Trudy opens cupboard doors, pulling plates down. ‘You’d better eat,’ she says. She reaches for bread. ‘Toast? Or a toasted sandwich, cheese …’

  ‘Not hungry.’ David collapses in an armchair and points the remote at the television. ‘Hey, I’m going away for a weekend.’

  He says it as though it happens all the time, him taking off with the boys. As though Trudy does it too — packs a little bag and shoots over to Sydney with her girlfriends for shopping. As though that’s the sort of couple they are.

  Trudy sets bread and cheese in the toastie machine. David watches as she wipes the bench with a cloth. She rinses the cloth under the tap and wrings it out. This is it, David thinks. Here it comes.

  ‘I’M SARAH,’ SAID THE woman doing the ultrasound.

  Trudy’s belly was smooth and round and white and in the darkened room it reminded David of a photo of the moon. The gel glistened in the faint green light of the screen. The handpiece passed over the tight skin, backwards, forwards, then across sideways in slippery waves.

  David held Trudy’s hand; a corny gesture he’d always thought, until he sat down next to her. Their hands had crept around, found each other independently. The baby’s profile was clear on the screen before he noticed how tight Trudy’s grip was.

  ‘So, you see here, one leg, and the other.’ Sarah spoke softly, staring at the screen with a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. ‘And the feet! See? Toes, there … sorry, I forget … do you want to know the sex of the baby?’ She turned to David and Trudy.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.

  ‘Do we?’ said David, finally, looking at Trudy.

  ‘No, we don’t. Remember?’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ David repeated. It didn’t matter. He was pretty sure he’d already seen — he caught Sarah’s eye and smiled back at her.

  The handpiece moved on, over the tiny torso, the pumping heart. Around, gently, the head, then back again.

  ‘So amazing, just perfect, isn’t it,’ said David.

  Sarah lifted the handpiece and put more gel on Trudy’s belly. She placed it on her again. Over the belly, up and down, backwards and forwards, before moving it back to the baby’s head.

  ‘Isn’t it,’ said David again.

  One last time down the length of the foetus, slowly, then back to the head.

  IT HAD STARTED OUT as a discussion — discussion was the honest term for the words that were exchanged at the beginning. This was weeks later, after more scans and blood tests and an amniocentesis and God knows what else by way of invasive procedures that David believed would do more harm than good.

  The discussion took place in the car leaving the hospital, after they’d sat, stunned, in the obstetrician’s office and listened to talk about risk.

  ‘Fifty per cent, David,’ said Trudy. ‘One in two chances of bringing a terminally ill baby into the world.’

  ‘No,’ David said. ‘That’s not what he said.’

  ‘What did he say, David? That’s what I heard.’ Trudy’s head was down. ‘A fifty-fifty chance of the baby having a serious genetic disorder, of some sort.’ She was crying. Tears fell on to the top of her belly; they sat there for just a second before soaking into the fabric of her skirt. She smoothed the material flat, down over her bare legs.

  ‘He said that he didn’t know what the problem was, or even if there was a problem. He wasn’t sure about anything.’

  ‘And then he talked about fifty per cent. Didn’t he. He talked about one in two. Half half. It all adds up to the same thing, David. The same risk.’

  David looked at the ordinary world occurring outside the car. A woman hurried past, dragging a tired child by the hand. The little girl wrenched her hand free and crouched low on the footpath, picking at something on the ground. Chewing gum, probably. The woman grabbed at the girl’s elbow, pulled her up again, and muscled her down the street. A healthy child, David thought: one more healthy child in the world, one of the lucky chances already taken.

  Fifty-fifty. A clean split down the middle of a circle.

  ‘I wish the risk was greater,’ Trudy said, as though reading his thoughts.

  The discussion turned into an argument, then a fight, then a screamingly silent ceasefire that lasted days. Late one night, Trudy stood in the bedroom doorway, her arms folded.

  ‘I’m having an abortion,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he replied.

  THE SMELL OF TOASTED sandwiches makes David’s stomach groan. He wants it again, the argument, the shouting, the accusation. He’s tired of wanting it, then not wanting it, then wanting it again.

  ‘It’s a golfing thing, a guy from work.’ The TV screen flickers in the dark room. ‘Freebie, more or less. Some new golf course in the Coromandel.’

  ‘You should go, David.’

  He listens for sarcasm, but Trudy is not a sarcastic person. She sits next to him, on the arm of the chair. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and kisses the top of his head.

  ‘It would do you good to go.’

  ‘Yeah … well.’

  ‘I mean it. How often do you do it? Take a break from everything … from Jamie?’

  A FEW MONTHS AFTER Jamie was born, Trudy’s parents Ross and Vivian came for Sunday lunch. The dishes had been cleared. David noticed the looks between them: Ross nodding at Vivian, Vivian reaching for her handbag.

  ‘We wondered … if you would have a look at this?’ Vivian took a pamphlet from her handbag, pushed it to the centre of the table.

  It was bright green. On the front a little boy was playing on a swing. David stared at the photo, at the features of the child: the pronounced forehead, the puff y eyes, the flattened bridge of his
nose.

  Trudy was sitting next to him and he took her hand, under the table, and held it tightly. She too was mesmerised by the image of the boy: David watched as the word Jamie passed silently from her lips.

  Ross and Vivian sat across from them. Vivian was nervous, David could see. From the day Jamie was born his motherin-law had been on hand to help. Careful, at the same time, not to interfere.

  David and Trudy read the pamphlet silently. It was for a drug, Prolaze.

  ‘It’s not a cure,’ Vivian said quickly. Her manicured nails drummed on the wooden table. ‘But they say it can help a lot. It’s brand-new, the only one available for babies. Replaces the missing enzymes and it can make a real difference. To walking … apparently … and other things, too, possibly … as time goes on.’

  Vivian faltered and Ross put his hand over hers. The drumming stopped.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ Trudy grabbed at the pamphlet. She turned it over, reading quickly.

  ‘Jeff Strange gave it to me, when I went in for a check-up last week,’ said Ross. ‘I’d already told him about Jamie.’

  Trudy’s gaze flicked back and forwards, between David and her parents. ‘Why didn’t the hospital tell us about this … this Prolaze?’ She said the word slowly, rolling it around her mouth like a stolen sweet. ‘If there’s something out there, why didn’t someone tell us?’

  Vivian hesitated before she spoke. ‘They probably didn’t discuss it at the hospital because it’s not funded,’ she said. ‘That’s what Jeff told your father. The government won’t pay for it.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Trudy. ‘Can we even get it? If it’s not funded?’

  David heard irritation creeping into her voice. He took the pamphlet from her and held her hand again, threading their fingers so they locked tightly together.

  ‘Yes, yes you can,’ said Vivian. ‘You can get it if you can afford to pay for it.’

  From the bedroom came Jamie’s cry — a startled squawk that would quickly become a piercing scream. David thought Jamie had slept a long time but when he looked at the clock it had been ten minutes. Just the usual.

  ‘How much is it?’ David scanned the brochure, looking for a price. There was no mention of money. He looked at Vivian, eyebrows up.

  ‘It’s $8000.’

  ‘A year?’ Trudy asked.

  ‘A month.’

  There was just the sound of Jamie for a moment, then Trudy began to laugh, a strained, tight giggle that changed mid-breath into a choking sound, as though someone had put their hands around her neck.

  ‘You’re joking,’ she said. ‘Who can afford that? We can’t afford it. There’s no way we could find $8000 a month …’

  ‘We’ll pay for it.’ Ross spoke quietly. ‘We’ve got the money. We’ll do it for Jamie.’

  The words hung between them. Trudy pushed back her chair. She walked slowly around the table, as though she was sleepwalking. David watched as Ross stood and wrapped his arms around his daughter. She was crying. Jesus, she cried so much.

  ‘No,’ said David.

  ‘What do you mean — no?’ Trudy was frowning, staring at him.

  ‘We want to do it, David. He’ll be our only grandchild …’ said Vivian.

  ‘Oh really? The only one? When was that decided?’ David was relieved to find something tangible to be angry about. ‘Trudy? I don’t remember that discussion.’

  Trudy stepped away from her father. She put her hands on the back of a chair and stood quite still, with her eyes closed, leaning into it for support.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ said David. ‘I didn’t mean no — it’s not what I meant, at all.’ What did he mean? He had no idea. ‘It’s um … look. It’s incredibly generous of you. Ross — Vivian — it’s a wonderful offer. For Jamie, for us … for everyone.’ David looked around the circle of confused faces, saw the mess he was making of it.

  ‘I can pay for it … for most of it. Probably quite a bit. I’ll work out how much. Then we can talk about the rest.’

  THE LATE FRIDAY AFTERNOON drive east to the Coromandel Peninsula from Hamilton is easy at first — small hills giving way to the outer lip of the Hauraki Plains. But as the Range Rover crawls through the hairpin corners on the steep Hikuai road, David’s breakfast curdles in his stomach.

  He’s doing everything right — keeping his eye on the scenery, head up, focusing on the conversation. They’re talking about the last golfing trip, how the fourth guy — the one David has replaced — cheated. How they eventually pulled him up on it but still, he’d persisted. It had been funny, then serious, then too awkward to include him any more.

  It’s not all travel sickness. The moment he met Mitchell and Ciaran at the airport, David felt it; the familiar jolt. The guys were loaded. There were the obvious things — the top of the range travel bags, Majesty Prestigio golf clubs, clothes — and the intangible, the self-confidence that comes with knowing that all of life’s problems can be paid to disappear. It’s nothing new to David, but it sits there anyway, a tiny cold stone in the pit of his stomach. He slips into his silent habit — dividing the wealth of others by $7000. That’s what he and Trudy ended up putting towards Jamie’s monthly treatment, after weeks of humiliating negotiation with Ross and Vivian. It was thousands more than they could afford, but every time he and Trudy talked about it, the debate ended up at the same dead end: the potential quality of Jamie’s life versus every material good. Jamie won, of course.

  They’re nearly at the summit. Punga trees form a thick canopy over the road. Steam rises from the tarseal after a downpour. Full charcoal clouds drape over sharp mountains, waiting to burst.

  Mitchell and Ciaran are from Auckland. They drove to Hamilton, picked up Neil and David at the airport. Mitchell’s an orthodontist. He’s driving. He’s talking about women who insist their children have braces, whether or not they need them.

  ‘Look at my bloody teeth,’ he says. He stretches his mouth wide and pokes his face into the rearview mirror, revealing a neat rectangle of crooked incisors and big gaps. ‘I tell them they’re wasting their money — that their kids’ teeth are fine. Do we all have to have American smiles?

  ‘I say this to them, and they say nothing, these women. They just stare at my mouth with their botox eyebrows halfway up their foreheads and this look on their faces.’ He pulls a condescending pout. Everyone laughs. ‘What can I say? The kid goes into the chair, the money meter goes on. Years of metal in their mouths for no reason.’

  ‘Why don’t you get your own teeth done?’ says Neil. ‘You’re not much of a poster boy.’

  ‘No way. That’s the point. I mean, it’s different if there’s an actual problem, overcrowding or whatever. But they’re fine, my teeth. They do the job they’re meant to.’

  ‘So what are you saying? You’re saying that these women put their kids through all the shit of having braces, all the expense, just for perfect-looking teeth?’ asks Neil.

  ‘No. I’m saying they put their kids through all that shit so they can be seen to be able to afford to put their kids through all that shit.’

  Halfway down the other side of the hill, David feels better. He can see, by the milky sky, that they are nearly at the coast.

  IT’S AFTER SIX O’CLOCK when they arrive. The course is closed for the night, the golf carts locked away. They make themselves known at reception, then decide to play just one hole, the tenth, while there’s still enough light.

  The pines along the fairway are fully grown and throw long arrow shadows back towards the tee. The beauty of the course takes David’s breath away. His father has told him about places like this — greens and fairways grafted onto magnificent natural landscapes — names like Banff Springs, the Teeth of the Dog in the Dominican Republic. David understands now, what the old man was talking about. He feels a sudden knowing, adult sadness for his father. How unhappy has he been, a widower bringing up a child?

  The tenth hole’s a par 4, 394-metre dogleg left. David tees up and tak
es another look at where the green must be, around the corner. His father spent months teaching him to draw the ball. The lessons began on a hole like this. He held David by his shoulders over the tee, gently manoeuvred him to an uncomfortable, contorted stance, his right hand too far over the left on the grip. David, the snarling teenager, glared at his father and repositioned himself correctly — shoulders down, right hand locked back in place, head over the ball. Ron said nothing, but stepped forward again and repeated the manipulation. David struck the ball hard, grimacing at the jarring, then watched in amazement as the ball soared and swung away to the left, to where it needed to go. It had landed on the apron of the green.

  Neil, Mitchell and Ciaran are quiet behind him. David looks down at the tee again and blinks. The ball’s gone; he’s already hit it.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Neil squints, shaking his head, pacing in circles. Then he turns to David with a smile. ‘How the fuck did you do that?’

  ‘Bad habit,’ replies David.

  ‘Jesus …’ says Neil again.

  ‘Lucky the old hook cropped up on the dogleg.’ Ciaran’s grinning too. ‘And here’s me with a permanent hook I can’t get rid of.’ He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Let’s have a go.’

  Ciaran sends the ball too far to the left. It lands in the rough three-quarters of the way down the fairway. He swears under his breath.

  Neil and Mitchell tee off, making safe but short shots. The light is fading and a new breeze carries the smell of the ocean.

  ‘Your old man undersold you, David,’ says Neil, on their way to the green. ‘Stunning golf. Stunning. What do you play to?’

  ‘Haven’t had a game for ages,’ says David. ‘Played to a four handicap when I was younger.’

  It’d been so long since he’d held a club, but his hands meshed into the golfer’s grip as though he played every day of his life.

  IN THE COOL MARBLE lobby of the resort, they take out their credit cards and hand them to the girl behind the desk. She taps the details into the computer. While the others talk about handicaps, David glances down at the print out of his bill.

  He’s reading the numbers upside down. The figure he thinks he sees is $700. His eyes dart again to the number; he has read it correctly. A small bead of sweat touches his left temple. He brushes it away and leans forward over the counter.