A . M . : Agatha has had enough.
7:43: She packs her large handbag with everything she needs. Her Age Book. Two watches and a small battery-run clock from the cupboard. Spare underwear. Two blouses. Some Anzac biscuits. Her jar of Bonox. Her notepad for writing complaint letters.
8:12: Agatha knocks on the little girl’s front door. She grips her handbag tightly and has her suit jacket buttoned up.
Have you tried your mother again?
Agatha says when the little girl opens the door.
The little girl looks at her feet.
Her phone’s still off.
The first sign of one of those telephone machines, you’re ringing her!
The little girl notices Agatha’s handbag.
Where are you going?
And you’ll be ringing her the entire way! She can’t get away with it that easily!
Are you taking me somewhere?
If you think I’m getting on one of those jet planes, you can think again!
Pardon me?
And I can’t take you to the police! I know what they do to women like me! Who live in places like that!
She gestures toward her house.
They’ll lock me up! Put me in some home with all the dribbling people!
The little girl looks unsure and doesn’t move.
Don’t just stand there! Pack your bags! We’re going to Melbourne!
The little girl disappears for a moment and returns with a backpack.
Is that it?
She picks up a long plastic object that lies on the ground beside the door and nods.
What on Earth is that?
Agatha says.
The little girl hugs it to her chest.
It’s a leg.
karl the touch typist
K arl did not own a computer, typewriter, or even a keyboard. He touch-typed on garbage-bin lids, on air, on the heads of small children, on his legs. He typed questions out with his fingertips before he asked them, just to make sure he wanted to. In the privacy of his own home, before he moved in with his son, Karl drew keyboards on coffee tables, on walls, on his shower curtains. He loved the way typing made hands move, the way fingers square-danced around one another, doing the do-si-do. He had watched his mother’s fingers, then eventually Evie’s, bouncing off the keys like drops of water on hot asphalt, and found the crooked typing finger of a woman to be as elegant and arousing as the arch of her foot or the nape of her neck.
When Karl’s son said good-bye in the nursing home, he said,
We’ll see you soon, Dad
, and kissed him on the cheek. Karl felthis son’s scratchy face against his, and it was suddenly unfathomable to him that his own son had to shave. Life had been one blink and one breath and one piss, and now he was here, sitting on a bed in a room full of old men who couldn’t keep their shit to themselves. He stood at the window and watched his son cross the parking lot. He walked so deliberately, that boy, from heel to toe always, and Karl thought,
When did he decide to walk like that?
Evie’s footsteps had been so light and unpredictable, like salt falling from a saltshaker. His son seemed conscious that each step was bringing him closer to something of which he was unsure. Heel to toe, heel to toe.
It was his daughter-in-law Amy’s idea.
I walk into my own house and brace myself to see a dead man in the recliner
, he heard her say one night through the papery walls that separated their bedrooms. She was a pointy little woman, one whose perfume always arrived before she did.
He’s my father
, his son, Scott, replied.
I’m your wife!
She paused.
You know what the doctor said about my blood pressure.
There was a long silence, and Karl lay in his bed with his arms straight at his sides, as though he were waiting to be shot out of a cannon.
Okay
, his son said finally. Karl squeezed his fingers together.
I’ll talk to him
.
Karl turned his head to one side and felt the pillow on his cheek. He squinted into the darkness.
Evie
, he whispered, and held out his hand like a peace offering. He traced her body in the air with an open palm. He tried to feel her nose on his, her breath on his face, her hand across his
7:43: She packs her large handbag with everything she needs. Her Age Book. Two watches and a small battery-run clock from the cupboard. Spare underwear. Two blouses. Some Anzac biscuits. Her jar of Bonox. Her notepad for writing complaint letters.
8:12: Agatha knocks on the little girl’s front door. She grips her handbag tightly and has her suit jacket buttoned up.
Have you tried your mother again?
Agatha says when the little girl opens the door.
The little girl looks at her feet.
Her phone’s still off.
The first sign of one of those telephone machines, you’re ringing her!
The little girl notices Agatha’s handbag.
Where are you going?
And you’ll be ringing her the entire way! She can’t get away with it that easily!
Are you taking me somewhere?
If you think I’m getting on one of those jet planes, you can think again!
Pardon me?
And I can’t take you to the police! I know what they do to women like me! Who live in places like that!
She gestures toward her house.
They’ll lock me up! Put me in some home with all the dribbling people!
The little girl looks unsure and doesn’t move.
Don’t just stand there! Pack your bags! We’re going to Melbourne!
The little girl disappears for a moment and returns with a backpack.
Is that it?
She picks up a long plastic object that lies on the ground beside the door and nods.
What on Earth is that?
Agatha says.
The little girl hugs it to her chest.
It’s a leg.
karl the touch typist
K arl did not own a computer, typewriter, or even a keyboard. He touch-typed on garbage-bin lids, on air, on the heads of small children, on his legs. He typed questions out with his fingertips before he asked them, just to make sure he wanted to. In the privacy of his own home, before he moved in with his son, Karl drew keyboards on coffee tables, on walls, on his shower curtains. He loved the way typing made hands move, the way fingers square-danced around one another, doing the do-si-do. He had watched his mother’s fingers, then eventually Evie’s, bouncing off the keys like drops of water on hot asphalt, and found the crooked typing finger of a woman to be as elegant and arousing as the arch of her foot or the nape of her neck.
When Karl’s son said good-bye in the nursing home, he said,
We’ll see you soon, Dad
, and kissed him on the cheek. Karl felthis son’s scratchy face against his, and it was suddenly unfathomable to him that his own son had to shave. Life had been one blink and one breath and one piss, and now he was here, sitting on a bed in a room full of old men who couldn’t keep their shit to themselves. He stood at the window and watched his son cross the parking lot. He walked so deliberately, that boy, from heel to toe always, and Karl thought,
When did he decide to walk like that?
Evie’s footsteps had been so light and unpredictable, like salt falling from a saltshaker. His son seemed conscious that each step was bringing him closer to something of which he was unsure. Heel to toe, heel to toe.
It was his daughter-in-law Amy’s idea.
I walk into my own house and brace myself to see a dead man in the recliner
, he heard her say one night through the papery walls that separated their bedrooms. She was a pointy little woman, one whose perfume always arrived before she did.
He’s my father
, his son, Scott, replied.
I’m your wife!
She paused.
You know what the doctor said about my blood pressure.
There was a long silence, and Karl lay in his bed with his arms straight at his sides, as though he were waiting to be shot out of a cannon.
Okay
, his son said finally. Karl squeezed his fingers together.
I’ll talk to him
.
Karl turned his head to one side and felt the pillow on his cheek. He squinted into the darkness.
Evie
, he whispered, and held out his hand like a peace offering. He traced her body in the air with an open palm. He tried to feel her nose on his, her breath on his face, her hand across his
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