The Way Out Is Through

By Peter Englebright

A widow, a struggling musician, a university graduate, a teenage girl trapped at home and a police detective take turns to tell a peculiar interlocking story in which they all cause problems for each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Firewood Books
• Release date: Aug 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516319329

Book preview

Chapter 1

Julie got up and left me alone at the table with the man who would later become my husband.  While she was away getting another coffee for herself and her brother I asked him to repeat what he had just said.

‘I can’t respect women.’

‘In what way?’

‘I just can’t take them seriously anymore.’

‘Why?’

He shifted in his seat and put his hands around his nearly empty china coffee cup.  ‘Women are too bizarre.  I overheard two separate conversations between women.  It was so absurd.  It was almost profound how shallow it was.’

I was intrigued as I was always up for a bit of casual misogyny from a man.  ‘What did they say?’

He lifted the cup to his mouth and finished the last of it.  Both of them suffered from insomnia, it must have ran in the family, so the constant coffee drinking probably wasn’t a good idea.  He placed the cup back on the saucer and said, ‘In both conversations they were going over old memories.’

‘And what was so bad about that?’

‘It was how they remembered.  It revealed a terrifying look into the inner workings of the female mind.  Overall I think it was more funny than depressing.  But only just.’

‘How did they remember?’

‘You really want to know?  This might offend you.’

‘We’re too far gone to stop now.  You can’t suddenly become coy and change the subject.’

He smiled with mischief.  ‘I could.  I could just not finish my line of thought and leave you high and dry with tantalising frustration.’

‘But then you can’t insult me.  Isn’t that what you really want to do?  To insult me.’

‘To insult you?’

‘I suspect you’re the type of person who enjoys insulting people to their faces.  You like saying outrageous things.  You strike me as the type to be rude or patronising on purpose to get a rise out of people.’

‘You think I enjoy getting up peoples noses?’

I nodded.  ‘You like to make an impact.  But you’re probably a cowered about it.  You would never risk a physical confrontation.  So you pick your targets.  Either a big crowd with others to step in if things get out of hand.  Or you unleash it one to one with women.  You want us to think you’re a misogynist.  But you’re not.  Not really.’

‘I’m not?’

‘You’re really an equal opportunities offender.  You just find it safer to keep your audience to women as all you will get is a slap or something thrown at you.’

‘Do I remind you of someone you know?’

‘No.  Why?’

‘It’s just this insight you’re giving me seems awfully detailed considering we’ve only just met.’  He looked at his watch.  ‘And that was what?  Fifteen minutes ago?’

I gave him a cool look in response before saying, ‘I would like to be offended.  So please, I’m giving you full permission.  Tell me your story.’

‘Well okay.  There were these two women I know.  They were talking about a holiday they went on together.  They must have gone like three or five years ago.  It was a distant but not ancient memory.  I assume.  One of them was telling an anecdote.  I think the story was set on a beach.  Anyway, something of note happened.  The one listening couldn’t remember it.  She drew a total blank.’

He stopped and looked for signs that I wanted him to continue.  I nodded to show I was listening.

‘She spent a good half minute trying to jog her friend’s memory.  Nothing was coming back to her.  It wasn’t until their clothes were described in detail that she remembered the incident.  Instantly she had a good recall of that time on the beach.  By remembering the clothes she remembered the incident.’

He slouched back and shook his head while keeping his hands on the table.

I said, ‘So?  What’s so bad about that?’

‘You really are very female aren’t you?  Try being a little less female about it for a second.  Do you not see how absurd that is?  The clothes were more important, more relevant, and more memorable than the actual drama they lived through.’

‘Okay.  I suppose that is a little silly.  I’m still not ready to throw my sisters under the bus over that.’

‘What surprised me the most was how they can even remember what they were wearing.  When I recall past events I never, never remember what I was wearing.  Unless it was super relevant.  Like a tuxedo to a fancy dinner party.  Or a shirt that people made fun of.  When I think back to something, I rarely remember what we were wearing.  Why would I?  Who cares?’

‘Do you not even recall a sexy outfit a girl had on?’

‘Perhaps.  Maybe I’ll sometimes picture that.  But I doubt that would be a dominant part of the memory.  It would have to be proper sexy to stick in my mind.’

‘It’s different for women.  We spend a lot of time on our clothes.  It’s not just thrown on with barely a flicker of attention.  Some thought goes into it.  Sometimes a lot of thought.  That concentration turns into memories.  To a guy it’s not even a detail he notices.  To a woman it’s everything.  She’ll fixate all night on her little bows or the length of her skirt.’

Julie came back and clattered the two coffee cups onto the restaurant table.  As she sat down I said, ‘Your brother’s an interesting guy.’

Julie said, ‘Ben doesn’t know what he’s talking about.  Ignore him.  If he ever actually talked to a woman he’d find out...’

He interrupted her by saying, ‘Let me finish.  There was a part two.’

Julie rolled her eyes.  She had obviously heard these stories more than once.

He turned to me and continued.  ‘So months later I overheard another group of women talking.  One of them was about to tell a story about what she did on the weekend.  Fair enough you think.  What can be odd about this?’

I nodded for him to keep going.

‘I’ll tell you what was weird about it.  Instead of launching into the story, like a normal person would, she first starts by describing what everyone was wearing.  She spent something like two minutes detailing what she and everyone else in the story was wearing.  She literally didn’t mention a single thing about what happened until she had finished talking in exhaustive detail about the clothes.  None of the clothing was even relevant to the story she was telling.  And you know what makes it worse?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘The other two women listening to her obviously knew her wardrobe inside and out.  They talked with authority about it.  They said things like, You mean the one with the stripes you wore to your birthday?  Yes, that one paired with the full length trousers with the back pockets.  The black ones?  No, the dark blue ones.  You know, the ones I mean?  Yes, the ones I borrowed for my sister’s baby shower.  That’s insane.  Women are walking around with a complex, up to date, itemised knowledge of everyone’s wardrobes.  Intelligent, educated, professional women know this trivial information.  They obsess over it.  They say men are shallow and basic.  I think women are even worse.’

We both looked at him.  I was aiming for unimpressed.  Julie perhaps was going with withering

He wasn’t finished.  He added, ‘I can’t recall what these women were wearing when they had these conversations.  My point exactly.  Because it doesn’t matter.  I can tell these stories and their clothing never needs to be mentioned.’

We turned and looked at each other.  We then turned back to him and I asked, ‘Is that it?’

‘Yeah,’ he said.

‘I was hoping for something...  Something a bit more substantial.  Something insightful or shocking.’

‘So you’re not offended?’

I looked down at his left hand as it curled around his coffee cup.  I said, ‘I think you’re an original thinker.  I’ll give you that.’  I couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t have a wedding ring.

––––––––

Many years later and I was by my husband’s hospital bed, holding his hand.

His last whispered words to me were, ‘I lied.’

I leaned in and asked, ‘About what?’

‘I’m not really an atheist.  I’m agnostic.’

––––––––

We walked at a measured pace through the empty suburban streets.  It was dusk as I told Julie that I was leaving.  ‘I’m going to take off.  Maybe for a long time.’

‘Travel won’t help you.  Wherever you go you’ll take yourself with you.  Your memories, your pain and your sadness.  You can’t run from it.  You can’t leave them behind.  You take all your ghosts with you.’

‘I understand what you’re saying.  I just want to be alone for a while.’

‘We can be alone together.  With family.’

‘Ben’s dead.  I need to be away from all this.’  I indicated the familiar streets that we lived in and around.

She bit her tongue for a moment as she weighed up the risks of asking an impertinent question.  She decided it had to be voiced.  She framed the question as an observation.  ‘I haven’t seen you cry.  At the funeral you were stone.’ 

I didn’t perform my grief in public.  My sadness was for me, not for everyone else to enjoy.  It was a very personal thing that didn’t need spectators. 

I said nothing.

‘Are you feeling this?  Or is it just sliding past like germs under a microscope?’

‘I cried my tears in private when he died.  After that it’s just self-indulgence.’

‘No it’s not.  It’s grief.  No one expects it to be done and put away within a week.’

‘I don’t have the inclination to wallow in it.  It’s not practical.’

‘Practical isn’t the point.’

I repeated, ‘It’s not practical.’

We walked on in silence.

We rounded a corner before she spoke again.  ‘Did you love him?’

‘That’s an awful question.’

‘Is it?’

‘Why would you even ask?’

‘We spoke for hours at night on the phone when we couldn’t sleep.  You have no idea of the whole other life he lived while you were sleeping.  He let slip one day, near the end, that he thought you were having an affair.’

I tried not to react but I felt an involuntary flinch.  I didn’t say anything. 

We continued walking in silence.

Eventually she said, ‘Were you having an affair?’

It was a point blank question.  It deserved a point blank answer.  ‘Yes.’

‘Yes?  You were having an affair?’

‘Yes.  I was cheating on Ben.’

‘Did you know he suspected?’

‘No.  I thought I was very discreet.’

‘Are you still with this other man?’

‘No.’

‘Why did you have an affair?  Wasn’t Ben enough for you?  He seemed like a loving husband.  He loved you.  And I think; I believe and still do, that you loved him.’

‘Of course I loved him.  He was my husband.  It’s just I loved another man as well.’

Momentarily Julie couldn’t think, or at least frame her next question, so we continued strolling without speaking for about a minute.  We were circling around the general area with no destination in mind.  The purpose was just to clear our heads.

I was the one to break the blessed calm surface of our silence.  ‘Do you hate me now?  Or does knowing the truth with the uncertainty removed make you hate me less?’

She shook her head.  ‘I don’t hate you.  I don’t think anything of you.  I’ve decided not to judge.  It’s arrogant to pass moral judgement without knowing all the facts.  And I don’t want to know the details.  At least not right now.’

‘I loved Ben very much.  I’m glad he never confronted me with his suspicions.  I couldn’t have left either of them.  And then Ben left me anyway.  After that...’  I halted for a moment before picking up the thread of what I was saying.  ‘Staying with the other man seemed disgusting.  Obscene.’  I changed the subject.  ‘I want to leave.  I don’t want to be known only as Ben’s widow.  I signed on to be his wife.  Not his woman in black.  I don’t want to be defined by his death.’

‘It’s not your choice to make.  That’s the way fate or random chance rolled the dice.’

‘I’m leaving.  I’m not running away.  I’m moving on.  It might seem callous or inappropriate to you.  But it’s what’s best for me right now.’

‘What about the rest of us?’

‘What do you need me for?  Do you want me around to remind you of your brother?  I can’t be the figurehead for your grief.  I can’t cheerlead it for everyone else.  You can cry and remember without me.’

‘It doesn’t sound healthy.  You seem so...  Removed.  Untouched by it all.’

I chuckled.  ‘I felt it all.  And now I choose not to feel it.  It’s unproductive.  Life moves on, with or without us.  I’m not going to forget him, but he’s now the past.’

‘He’s the present.’

‘He’s the past.  What do you want from me?  A good cathartic breakdown with tears to make you feel better?  If I gave you that