Starting Over

“If I’ve told you’ once, I’ve told you a hundred times! Don’t put the keys on that hook!”

“I’m sorry, Terry. I forgot”

“Forgot? Damn you woman, you’re always forgetting! If it’s not the bloody keys then it’s something else! I’m sick of it! A child’s got more sense than you!”

“Yes, Terry. I’m sorry.”

“You’re always bloody sorry. I’m sorry I ever married you! Get me a beer.” He stared at the wooden key holder and wondered if Mary was deliberately trying to bait him. That key hook belonged to Mike, it would always belong to Mike and he couldn’t believe that Mary would forget that; she had to have been trying to taunt him. “Where’s the glass? Haven’t I always told you to bring a glass?” Well. Haven’t I?”

“Yes dear, I’m sorry – I forgot.”

“You’d forget your bloody head if it weren’t screwed on!” Mary seemed particularly forgetful that today, as though her mind was on something else. He remembered how she’d tried last year to get him to attend a cricket match. Mike had played cricket and he was good at it too. She always tried to get him out of the house on this day. Didn’t she know that he would never change the routine of the day Mike died. ‘How could she be so damn stupid?’

“It looks like it’s going to rain today. Don’t you think so dear?” Mary twirled the edge of her cotton apron in nervous hands and glanced in his direction, shrinking away as though in fear of being hit.

“What the hell do I care” he grunted irritably.

“Perhaps we could go for a drive to the dam? I’d like to get out for a bit and the change would do you good.”

“I’m not going for a drive and we’re not going to change a damn thing, d’ya hear? Not. One. Damn. Thing!” He shouted angrily in exasperation. “Dammit woman, this is the day your son died. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“I loved Mike too, but he’s gone, Terry. He’s gone and no matter how long you sit around here it’s never going to bring him back!”

“Is that what you think this is?” he demanded bitterly. “An attempt to bring Mike back? Hmph! You’re stupider than I thought.” Terry stared moodily into his glass and swirled the copper liquid around watching absentmindedly as it spilled over the edge and fell in golden drops to create a small wet patch between his feet.

“I wish you’d stop calling me stupid. It’s not your fault that Mike died. You didn’t kill him, Terry, and it’s time to stop feeling sorry for yourself!”

“So I guess I wasn't drunk and driving then” Terry retorted sarcastically and added, "And I guess I only dreamed that I killed Muttboy."

“Okay” Mary sighed wearily, “so you were driving and you were drunk, but you didn’t kill Mike!”

“Fine, Mrs Know-it-all, you explain it to me then, hmm.”

“Are you sure you really want me to?”

“I’m listening, aren’t I?”

“You ran over his dog, Terry. It was the dog that you killed, not Mike.”

“Yeah. But if I hadn’t killed his dog he wouldn’t ‘ve run away.”

“He was upset Terry. He wouldn’t have been upset forever. If he hadn’t gone to the tracks then he wouldn’t have been there when the train came along and he would’ve lived to forgive you.”

“But-I-killed-his-dog” he responded in curt, clipped tones. “If I hadn’t killed Muttboy, Mike wouldn’t have gone to the tracks – would he? So yes, I killed him. I killed them both!” he shouted in anguish, slammed down his glass and stormed out of the house leaving the front door swinging open in his haste.

He drove to the pub, the same one he’d been drinking at the day Mike was killed more than a decade ago. Sitting at the edge of the bar he recalled the events of that day as though it were yesterday and not twelve years ago. Hunched over his glass he became oblivious to the rowdy atmosphere of the Duck ‘n Down. He didn’t notice the waitresses in their tight miniskirts; he barely acknowledged Len, the aged barkeeper and he paid no attention to the smiling faces of the patrons half-hidden in the shadows of private booths. He swallowed his whisky in one throw and ordered another without lifting his head. He twirled the cardboard coaster with its saucy caption between his thumb and forefinger whilst he waited for Len to serve up the whisky and closed his ears to the crooning mechanical voice of the ancient jukebox. He didn’t notice the woman sitting next to him until she bumped his arm causing a good portion of the whisky to slosh out and spill over onto his hand; it felt cold against the heat of his skin and he turning angrily towards the woman. He opened his mouth to curse but the words died on his lips when he saw Mary’s tear filled eyes staring back at him. Recovering his composure almost immediately he allowed his angry hurt to well up and cascade over her like molten lava. “Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you following me – or what?” He saw Mary wince in response and was about to continue his tirade but something in her large green eyes stopped him. He hadn’t seen that look in her eyes since…since a couple of days before Mike died. In the same instant his mind took him back – however unwillingly – to that time.

He’d come home drunk yet again. It was late, very late and Mike wasn’t in bed like he should’ve been. The boy had asked him for help on a school project and instead of telling Mike they would talk about it in the morning he’d shouted abuse and profanity – his words running over themselves in slurred haste. He remembered grabbing Mike and shaking him hard, so hard that Mike had begun to cry and he wasn’t a boy that cried easily. Mary had been like a tiger protecting her cub. Somehow she had positioned herself between him and the boy and her emerald eyes had spat fire, seeming to sear his skin. He had been taken aback then by her unspoken fury, just as he was now. His mind cleared and he was back in the dimly-lit smoke filled Duck ‘n Down.

“We’ve got to talk, Terry. NOW!”

“What’s there to talk about? We’ve been through it all over and over again. Talking’s not going to change anything. Nothing’ll bring him back!”

He looked at her blankly, daring her to disagree with him and saw grim determination on her weary face. Guilt swept over him as he looked at her furrowed brow and his heart ached as he realised his grief had done this to her – aged her before her time; robbed her of her youth and spirit. The best thing he could do was get out of her life, let her try to recapture some joy in living before it was too late. She was talking again and he strained to hear the words.

“…Mike’s gone. You’re still here – and so am I. You can cry. You can scream. You can shout, but you can’t bring him back Terry. We’ve lost our son – let’s not lose each other too” she pleaded.

“Whaddya mean? Lose each other?” his words slurred as the alcohol finally started to take effect.

“I mean that this is the end of the road, Terry. Either we start trying to move on. To make it work, or it’s over.”

“But I loved him, Mary. I loved him so much and I never told him. I could’ve been a better father – should’ve been a better father. There’s so many things I want do over again…properly. That’s what hurts – the guilt. The shame. It’s eating me alive…”

“I know, Terry. I know.”

“How can you know, Mary? You were always there for him and where was I? In this godforsaken pub, that’s where!”

She leaned against his shoulder and wrapped her arms around him; he could smell the distinctive scent of her favourite perfume and he closed his eyes allowing himself a brief moment of vulnerable softening. She was talking again – whispering against his ear and it felt like they were the only ones in the room.

“We need counselling. Will you go with me?”

Terry stiffened, hesitated for a moment then pulled away to stare into her lovely face and he knew he couldn’t survive without her. He knew that he shouted a lot, banged stuff about in a very masculine way but he knew that Mary was really the strong one. Her silent dignity had been the anchor of his adult life for as long as he could remember. Without her, his life would be truly meaningless – he couldn’t lose her, it simply wasn’t an option. “Yes” he said simply and smiled at her for the first time since they had lost Mike.