Tim Winton - Eyrie

Keely saw the ceiling rose behind her head. The pendant light-fitting like a halo.

Tom, love, are you with me?

As opposed to what? he replied. Against you?

Her hands on his neck and face were greasy. He knew the smell from childhood. Oil of Olay. Clearly Doris hadn’t heard about the animal testing. And now maybe wasn’t the right time. He was on the floor in the livingroom, and his limbs were treacherously slow, but he felt so alert. His mother clanked and rattled over him and he felt the boards under his arms, the Afghan rug prickling at his back. There was no getting around it. He’d checked out momentarily. He knew he should be terrified but right now he felt too embarrassed to be afraid.

I gather it’s not morning, then.

No, she said. It’s just after ten.

I wonder if that fish was alright.

It was fine, she said.

I must have tripped on the rug.

Maybe, she said, unconvinced. I was about to call an ambulance.

Call it what?

You’re squinting.

Am I?

Tom, are you taking something?

I wouldn’t steal from you, he said with a grin. Check my pockets.

Don’t worry, she said. I already have.

Through the jarrah floor he felt the fridge cycle off, shaking itself like a pup. A clock dripped. He felt the sound on his tongue.

Love, is there something you need to tell me?

I don’t think so, he said, levering himself by seven stages into a sitting position.

Doris sat back on her haunches. He looked at the big, saggy T-shirt, her bare legs. His mother went to bed in a Midnight Oil tour shirt. He never knew.

I fancy a shower, he said gamely.

Are you up to it?

It’s just water, he said.

I think I should call someone.

No, he said. Not tonight. You can’t do that now.

Doris pursed her lips.

I’ll be right in a moment.

Tom, we need to talk about this.

Look, he said woozily. I’m up. It’s fine. It’s these bloody Afghans, they’re all trying to kill us. That’s a joke.

If you say so.

He surfed the hallway to the bathroom. There was a towel, a spare toothbrush. Dear, dear Doris, he thought. Always two kicks ahead of the game.

Afterwards, cleaner, clearer, he stood in her doorway. She was on the bed cross-legged with a book in her lap. She glanced up a moment and turned the page. On the dresser a little desk fan turned its head to and fro. He leant against the architrave with a nonchalance Doris wasn’t buying.

What’re you reading?

A biography, she said. Dorothy Day.

On the bedside table there were more hardbacks. From here he could see something about Paul Robeson, a Brian Moore novel, the Bill McKibben he’d given her at Christmas.

Feeling better?

Yeah. Good.

What was that about, Tom?

He shrugged. I don’t know.

You just fell down.

Tired. I guess. Bit of vertigo.

Nothing you want to tell me?

He offered a counterfeit laugh. I haven’t even slept the night yet, Doris. You’re starting in early.

Has this happened before?

He shrugged again and she pushed her specs impatiently back into her hair.

It’s nothing, he said.

The sleepwalking. You asked me about sleepwalking.

Let’s just drop it. There’re bigger things on.

Do you have headaches?

Just an ear infection.

You never said anything about —

Ages ago. And, look, I haven’t been sleeping too well. It’s nothing.

I’m worried you’ll fall in the bathroom, somewhere else.

I won’t fall.

But you’re big, love, she said, at the verge of tears. I can’t lift you up.

Mum, you won’t have to.

He went in and held her. She was cool and trembling. He could feel her. And his arms burned a little.

Really, he said. You’re making this into a big deal. And no, I’m not on heroin. Budgetary reasons, mostly.

She sniffed, suffered the embrace a moment, then pressed him away. He sat on the bed, guilty, mortified. She reached for a tissue and blotted her face with fierce detachment. The book lay face-down between them, wings out like a fallen bird.

It’s fine, he said.

If you say so. But Gemma and Kai. They’re here now.

Yes, he said, sensing a corner having been turned.

Doris straightened herself.

And now, to an extent, they’re my business too.

He nodded, waiting for it.

So you better listen to me.

All ears, Mum, he said, trying to match her tone.

I know you haven’t got a plan.

No, I’m just —

That’s fine. I understand.

But .

In the absence of a plan, you need a stance at least.

Stance.

A considered position. An act, as my younger clients like to say. You need to get an act. Even your father figured that much out — too late, I’ll admit.

What’re we talking about here?

Your own survival, for one thing.

Oh, Mum, I don’t think the situation’s that fraught.

Don’t be so literal. Just give yourself a bit of distance. That’s all I’m saying.

You mean from them? Gemma and Kai?

Doris nodded.

Geez, he said. You’re a surprise.

You’re trying to do the right thing, I know. It’s how we raised you, the both of you. But you save yourself first, Tom. That’s something I do know, it’s what I’ve learnt. You save yourself, then you look to the others.

Keely was confounded. He took a breath but she cut him short.

Perverse, isn’t it, how we could teach you that in the water but not on land, in life. We didn’t see it. We were such innocents.

You’ve lost me.

Swimming lessons, Tom. Lifesaving. How you approach a swimmer in distress.

You’re kidding me, aren’t you?

Feet first, ready to fend off.

Okay, he said, shaking his head. Wise as serpents, innocent as doves. Tick that box.

Tom, I’m serious. To save a drowner you need to be a swimmer. Remain a swimmer.

You’ve really thought about this.

For thirty-five years, she said with a heaviness that flattened his scorn.

Keely ran his hand over the dark dimples of her book. He slipped the page-marker back into the gutter, closed it and felt its heft.

You think you’d still have him if he’d been more of a swimmer, had an act?

She sighed and reclaimed the book.

Who knows, she said. When somebody burns that hot you don’t really expect a long haul.

But he never did have a sense of professional distance.

Not when it might have served him best. Nev was so bloody impulsive.

Being careful, though. After a while it grinds you down.

I’m not talking about your job.

Feels like submission, Doris. Being careful.

I don’t think you know as much about submission as you’d like to imagine.

But wasn’t I always too careful? Hasn’t that always been my problem?

Presently, I wouldn’t see it as your chief problem.

I didn’t want to make the same mistakes. Nev was like a bull in a china shop.

He was a giant surrounded by moral pygmies.

I’m not saying he wasn’t. I just wanted to be smarter.

Smarter?

More effective.

There’s no virtue in saying you’re not like Neville Keely, so don’t sit on my bed and talk bullshit, it’s insulting.

Sorry, he said, angry, humiliated, confused.

And don’t kid yourself, Tom. Your father was transparent. I could read him like the form guide. You’re not so different.

Keely got to his feet, anxious to disentangle himself.

How are you getting Kai to school tomorrow?

Gemma’s off at five, he said meekly. So there’s the car.

Right, Doris said, taking up her book. The car.

Chastened and bewildered, he took himself off to the couch and the livingroom and the long night ahead.