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On my last night I took Adie to see Chicago and afterwards jammed into a forgettable Soho eaterie, then in the morning took the train out to Heathrow. I got the exit seat I asked for, in cattle class of course, and after the lunch cart came through I popped a sleeping pill.
By the time I woke, many, many hours later according to my TV monitor, we were over the Arafura Sea. And there it was, far below, flat, grey, untroubled. The smiling Singaporean cabin crew were handing out hot flannels. Coffee and croissants and something listed as a fricassee arrived over the Northern Territory. Soon we were above central Australia. In the bright morning light the plane cast a birdlike shadow for the eye to chase, and I stared at that ancient coloured floor with thoughts of my father. I imagined he was with a new woman, despite the onset of age. I haven't seen him for twenty-five years. Whenever I am forced to admit this I always find myself rushing to say it's nothing, really; the truth is, I don't feel anything. There is no anger. Whatever anger I felt at the time has well and truly passed. If I think of him at all it's usually at Christmas because that is when his annual postcard used to arrive. On one side a colour photo of a wombat or a huge fantastic-looking lizard, or a cane toad. Frank had a sense of humour at least. On the other side a few quickly scratched words—'Hope all is well, Harry. Be good. Your dad.'
The last time I saw Frank was the year after I finished high school. With my best friend, Douglas Monroe, I flew across the Tasman and took a train up to the mining town where he was working at the time. Over the years I had shared my father's postcard correspondence with Dougie, the pictures of the goanna and the Opera House and of Ayers Rock. I used to spread them over my bed and that's where Dougie had seen them. With Dougie, at least, I could talk freely about my father. For when Frank left us the effect on my mother was awful. She went through a bout of depression that all but disabled her, although I don't recall anyone using the word 'depression' to describe what was happening to her. Sometimes she appeared to freeze, and it was like she'd hit quicksand while passing from one room to another, and then she'd forgot what had brought her in there in the first place. Purpose flew out the window. She would have sunk into the ground if I hadn't been around to move up behind her at such times and give her a gentle shove to get her going again. Sometimes I'd sit her down and she'd ask for a cup of tea, 'If you don't mind, Harry.' But I didn't always know what to do. Sometimes I would hurry up the hill to bang on the door of our neighbour, Alma Martin—it seemed he was never too busy to put aside whatever he happened to be doing, to pick up his drawing gear and come down the hill with me and sketch her. It worked like a spell. My mother would fall into a dreamy state; she became serene, accepting. She became like a woman in a painting. But that was only while Alma was there. He'd pull the curtains back and encourage her to come over to the window and look out at the world. 'See how it changes? Look, Alice, the trees are budding.' Slowly, patiently, he would manage to will a smile on to my mother's face—a brittle smile, but a smile nonetheless. At some point, though, he would have to leave and the silences would return. The house became more shadowed. Now my mother took the solution into her own hands. She immersed herself in long baths. She'd lie in them with the lights out until the water turned cold. And I'd stand outside the closed door listening for sounds, anything that would reassure me that I could safely leave the house and cycle over to Douglas Monroe's house with my father's latest postcard shoved up my jersey.
Compared to ours, the Monroe house was a hub of noise and high spirits, of lives going forward. Briefly it was possible to forget about my mother soaking in brackish water and Frank off somewhere unknown. But then it would be time to cycle back home. Crossing Chinaman's Creek I'd force myself to look up at the dark windows and the gloom that awaited me. Alice hadn't thought to switch on the house lights. Over a short period, one by one, the light bulbs failed. I had to remind her to buy new ones. It was a small thing. But it was alarming to think that she hadn't noticed. More likely, she had and didn't care.
Excerpted from Paint Your Wife by Lloyd Jones. Copyright © 2016 by Lloyd Jones. Excerpted by permission of Text Publishing Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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