Who is she grateful for? Lily, of course…
1. Lily.
Josh could’ve chosen someone less agreeable. Jen doesn’t write that. It’s not what she means and not nice to Lily who is marvellous.
2. Dr McGuire. She has to give it him. He’s wonderful with the elderly, being almost elderly himself. And he lets her run the reception and the books the way she wants to.
3. Ally. Her dear sister, so much bravado. So supportive.
Jen flushes with goodwill.
4. Mum. How can one not be grateful for one’s mother? Delivering Joshua is the hardest thing Jen has done, but Bradley was there, holding her hand and offering his small encouragements.
5. Bradley. Everybody says he’s a nice man and he is.
If Jen were to be picky though, she would say how much she hates it when he leaves the television on at full volume and wanders off. She finds the remote now and aims it at the screen. A crowd is shouting, waving placards. A bent figure in prison garb is hustled out of a police van, his hands cuffed before him.
The camera cuts to a young reporter on the courthouse steps. ‘As you can see, this heinous crime has struck at the heart of our community.’
Jen admires the reporter’s jacket and lowers the remote. It’s cherry red with black piping. She likes how it flares at the hips.
‘Last April, Rebecca Rawling was stabbed in the chest eleven times with a kitchen knife. Her husband, Bernard Rawling, who has been unable to provide the police with an alibi, was charged with her murder last week.’
Jen’s mouth gapes and a string of saliva makes a run for the tabletop. Mr Rawling? It can’t be. The camera pans to the man in handcuffs. It is him though. She sees it when he raises his head to navigate the courthouse steps. He’s much older of course, rougher in the face with pores as large as thumbtack holes.
The stair treads creak and Bradley appears.
‘In other news —‘
‘What’s on the box, love?’
Jen switches off the television. ‘Nothing.’
Bradley lingers by the sunlit entry, dazzling in his hi-viz. ‘Are you working late?’ he asks.
‘Shouldn’t be.’
‘Okay, don’t forget the groceries for Ally’s birthday barbecue. You said you’d get them.’
‘I did, didn’t I?’ She had forgotten.
*
‘Terrible business, this!’ Dr McQuire shakes his head. He is watching the subtitled news report on the muted television in the waiting room. ‘Poor, poor woman, but they have him, at least, hey Jen?’ Dr McQuire often searches her face to see if he has struck a chord.
Jen shuffles papers at the reception desk.
‘Bring back corporal punishment, I say,’ he adds, still staring.
‘What?’
‘You know, the electric chair or hanging.’ Dr McQuire mimes stringing himself up, rolls his head and sticks out his tongue.
Good grief. She checks the appointment book, runs her finger down the list of names. George Fussell, rectal exam, Robert Schmidt, wound dressing with the nurse, Jonathon Fairly, update referral, Bernard… Roldenfeld, skin check.
*
‘Did you hear about old Rawling?’ Ally swivels in the garden chair to catch Jen’s attention. The dappled sunlight makes splotches on her cheeks and neck.
‘Rawling? Rawling? Where have I heard that name?’ Bradley is manning the barbecue like he’s DJ-ing a rave.
‘He was our art teacher,’ Ally says.
‘What that bloke who stabbed his wife?’ Bradley raises an eyebrow at Jen.
‘Yep. Taught art! When he wasn’t looking up our skirts.’ Ally guffaws, spraying clots of sound around Jen’s garden. ‘You remember that, don’t you sis?’’
Jen aligns her napkin with the edge of the table. ‘Not really.’
Alison gawps. ‘Come on! You had the serious hots for the guy back in the day. ‘
‘I didn’t!’
‘You wouldn’t look twice at him now. Bradley’s much nicer looking, isn’t —.’
‘Happy birthday, darling!’ Marguerite Vanham strides across the lawn toward them.
Ally uncurls from her chair and greets their mother. They are thick-plaited warrior women. Jen joins them and receives a kiss in turn.
‘You look thin, darling.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘How is Dr. McGuire?’
‘He’s good.’
‘He’s almost dead. I don’t know why you still work for him,’ Ally says.
‘How is the estate agency?’ Bradley asks.
‘Estate Agent of the Year for the third time!’
‘That’s wonderful, darling.’ Marguerite squeezes Ally’s shoulder.
They all sit, except for Bradley, who is scraping the barbecue with a metal egg flip.
‘Mr Rawling killed his wife. Did you hear, Mum?’ Ally says.
Scrape…scrape.
Jen flinches.
‘Who?’
‘Our old art teacher from Saint Mary’s. You remember him, don’t you?’
Their mother sucks in her cheeks and the bones in her face sharpen. ‘I always thought him a bit odd. Too enthusiastic by far.’
Jen stares over her roses at the dove grey bird house on its lofty white post.
Her mother huffs. ‘Anyway, now’s not the time to speak of it. It’s your birthday, sweetheart.’
Ally snorts. ‘What else shall we talk about? It’s not every day we learn we know a serial killer.’
‘Not a serial killer, Al. Just a wife killer,’ Bradley says, swishing oil in figure-eights on the hotplate.
Jen wants him to stop with the flourishes. ‘Alleged,’ she says.
‘What?’ Ally pauses while opening a wine bottle.
A silence ensues and Jen can see Bradley is squirming behind the barbecue.
‘Jen has a Gratitude Journal,’ he says, as if this explains everything.
‘A what?’
Bradley looks to Jen.
She ignores him and addresses Ally instead. ‘Isn’t a person innocent until proven guilty.’
‘That’s rubbish, Jen. We all know Rawling did it. She was a mousy little thing, ripe for a good stabbing.’
Bradley slaps the steaks onto the sizzling plate from a height and Jen’s gorge rises.
*
‘You’re alright?’ Bradley is packing the dishwasher after Alison and her mother have left.
‘I’m fine.’
‘It’s just…’ He pauses, a plate in mid-air.
‘What?’
‘You seem low, that’s all. Unsociable.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A bit stand-offish. Ally was being Ally, that’s all.’
‘It’s not Ally. I thought she was a bit tactless, I suppose, but it’s not that.’
Bradley draws his attention away from his task and focuses on her. ‘Did you have a crush on Rawling?’
‘What?’
He frowns. ‘He didn’t do anything to you, like…you know?’
‘God no. He was my art teacher. That’s all.’ A muscle in her husband’s cheek unbunches. ‘He suggested I go to art school.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
Jen waves the idea away.
‘So why didn’t you?’
‘What?’
‘Go to art school?’
‘I don’t know.’
Jen examines Bradley’s bald patch as he replaces the cutlery basket.
Nice use of colour, Jennifer.
*
‘Sorry we couldn’t make it to Aunty Al’s birthday.’
Josh leans against the kitchen cupboards with his elbows crooked behind him and Lily is at the breakfast table, one long leg curled beneath her. Together, they reek of promise.
‘That’s okay, love.’ There had been no expectations.
‘Was it fun?’ Lily asks.
Jen folds her tea towel aligning it to the table’s edge. It’s become a thing, this folding and aligning.
‘Mum?’ Josh urges.
‘Yes. Sorry. It was fun. Thank you, Lily.’ Jen sees a look pass between them, the same look. Raised eyebrows, pursed lips.
‘Josh! Lily!’ Bradley stalks into the kitchen from the yard.
His work boots are stained green with cut grass. ‘Shoes!’ Jen yells too loudly.
‘Sorry love.’ Her husband wedges one toe against the heel of a boot, stretches the elasticated sides and flicks it through the door onto the porch. Tufts of grass fall short on the white tiles. ‘I’ll clean it. I’ll clean it,’ he says, grinning like an idiot.
Jen realises this is how they are when Josh and Lily visit, a pantomime couple.
She removes the quiche from the oven and carries it to the table. By this time, the tiles are clean, and Bradley is sitting in his favourite chair crowned by the framed photo of his dead parents.
‘Let me help,’ Lily says. ‘I’ll get the plates and forks, shall I?’ She unfolds her leg from under her and is already striding into the kitchen.
So, Jen sits across from Bradley and together they bear the flurry of activity in the kitchen, the meaningless to-ing and fro-ing to the breakfast nook, the giggling as Josh and Lily collide with one another.
‘Don’t stab me with that?’ Josh shouts as Lily passes with a kitchen knife. He presses down on his stomach and mimes injury.
Jen knows what will happen next. She sees her husband’s lips part in slow motion and the tip of his tongue double tap the roof of his mouth. She wants to dive at him. Bring him down.
‘Did you hear about that bloke who stabbed his wife eleven times?’ Bradley cocks an eyebrow at Jen. ‘Rawling, was his name wasn’t it love?’
They look to her, but Bradley doesn’t wait for her answer. ‘He was Auntie Ally’s and your mother’s old art teacher.’
Lily’s eyes widen and her mouth opens. ‘Really?’ Suddenly, Jen is interesting.
Well done, Jennifer. Very well done.
*
It’s a moody landscape, all greys and purples and midnight blues. She senses Mr Rawling at her shoulder even now, waits for his cautious ahem. One for your portfolio, Jennifer. But instead her phone rings downstairs. She rolls her painting into a scroll and takes it with her.
‘Hello darling.’
‘Mum?’ She moves her journal to one side and lays the painting flat on the breakfast table, anchoring it with a tomato sauce bottle, top left, the sugar bowl, top right, and the salt and pepper shakers on the bottom corners. The thick art paper bows but doesn’t spring free.
‘Jennifer?’
‘Yes?’ She remembers mixing the colours, adding a scrape of black to the palette and swirling it into the blue.
‘I’m wondering if you could look after Marcel for me. I meant to ask you yesterday, but it slipped my mind.’
‘What?’ She hasn’t wanted to look after her mother’s Pomeranian since it peed on her outdoor lounge. ‘Can’t Ally have him?’
Her mother sniffs. ‘Your sister works long hours and Marcel needs walking in the evening. You know that.’
Jen does. She also knows Marcel is a faux prancer, legs extended but no headway made, and walking him is long and boring. Out of frustration, Jen often picks him up and conveys him around the block in the crook of her arm.
‘Where are you going?’ Jen realises she has capitulated.
‘I’m off to Melbourne for a conference. I’ll bring Marcel around tomorrow afternoon, shall I?’
*
The crowd heaves like a cresting wave. Jen is pinned at the shoulders and raised until her feet are no longer on the ground. When she finds her footing again, she is wedged against a police officer’s back. ‘Sorry,’ Jen says, but the officer doesn’t hear her.
She wants to leave now. She should never have come. As she tries to turn away, an elbow drives down on the point of her shoulder. The pain is explosive, and she wants to cry. A white van approaches. A man shouts. ‘Murderer! Bastard!’ The crowd surges again and Jen is spat into the narrow path maintained by the police cordon.
‘Madam! Step away!’
Jen raises her hands. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to.’ She attempts to re-enter the crowd, but Mr Rawling is there, shuffling toward her, his head bowed, his hands cuffed before him. He raises his head and appears to assess her. For a second, she thinks he remembers. Nice use of colour, Jennifer. But his lips peel back to yellowing teeth. ‘Fuck off, bitch!’
‘Madam! Get back!’
Fingers bury themselves into the flesh of her upper arm and she is yanked away and pushed into the crowd.
‘Bring back the death penalty!’ shouts a man to her left.
‘How could you?!’ a woman screams at Rawling.
Jen moves with them now. The pain in her shoulder is massaged away by the bodies around her.
‘You fucking murderer!’ she yells, as Rawling reaches the top of the courthouse steps.
*
Nestling beneath the junk mail in Jen’s laser-cut wastepaper bin, lies her gratitude journal.
THE END
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