Bench

By Nick Choo

A solitary wooden structure sits bathed in the shade of a tree. The small, inconspicuous neighborhood park bench seemingly has the power to summon a select few who need a brief respite from life.

Matthew Leigh, a headstrong college student, just wants a peaceful break from the musty university library. As he sits on the bench to eat his lunch, he forges an unlikely friendship with a six-year-old boy that eventually forces him to rethink his entire philosophy on life.

Derrick Weston has just faced rejection from the woman he wants to marry. As he seeks solace on the bench, he has no idea he is about to learn that his girlfriend has a secret that will dramatically impact both their lives.

Joe Cooke and his friends just want to feel free. As they meet at the bench illuminated by moonlight, they all soon learn that actions have consequences and that blood is not always thicker than water.

Septuagenarian Graham Hanson sits there with the love of his life, and learns the true meaning of marriage, companionship, and the phrase, Till death do us part.

In this compelling tale, several ordinary people forced to confront complex issues are connected by one common denominatoran old, neglected bench in the middle of a grassy square.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475946895

Nick Choo

Nick Choo graduated from Murdoch University in Western Australia with a master of arts degree in journalism and creative industries. He has worked as a writer and copy editor with media companies in Kuala Lumpur and Singapore. He is also an accomplished playwright, composer, and musician whose musical and theatre works have been performed in Malaysia and Australia.

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Copyright © 2012 by Nick Choo.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4759-4688-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-4690-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-4689-5 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012916001

iUniverse rev. date: 09/26/2012

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

The Aftermath

Part One

Flyin’ Real Fast

Prosperity And Marital Bliss

A Slow But Sure Disintegration

Drunken Ecstasy

Spinning Circles

Part Two

Rufflin’ Feathers

Skewed Ratios

Rooted

Stained

Till Death Do Us . . .

Giddy

Eyes Blown Wide Open

Whetting The Appetite

Big Guys Don’t Cry

Better Left Buried

Screwing With The Concept

Fertility Can Yield Unexpected Fruit

Too Late For Regrets

Happy Are Those Who Do Not See . . .

A Desperate Display Of Persuasion

A Cruel And Unreasonable Ultimatum

Party Till You Can’t Party No More

Simple Pleasures

Vodka Oranges And Odd Jobs

Big, Fat Fish And Small Favours

A Strange Sort Of Feeling

Bear With A Sore Head

Loony-Bin Candidate Potential

You Gotta Have Friends

Two’s Company, Five’s A Bitch

Unperturbed By The Congestion

Daunted By The Prospect

Anal Retention Can Be A Pain In The Butt

Hitting The Fan

On The Subject Of Loss . . .

Big Beyond Comprehension

Faith, Hope And Geraldine

Quick To Judge

Slow To Bless

Into Thy Hands, I Commend . . .

Part Three

No Presence Without Absence

Having A Blast

Confusion Is The State Of Mind

Complete And Total Oblivion

A Solid Stone In The Stomach

One Last Drive Around The Square

Helpless Against Such Circumstances

Wrong Number, Please Try Again

All Hell Breaks Loose

Mass Destruction

All Good Things . . .

Flushed With Triumph

Hoping Beyond Hope

An Excerpt From The Diary Of Maggie Cooke

Epilogue

Conversations Across The Hands Of Time

About The Author

For those who’ve stuck with me

through the highs and the lows.

Especially the lows.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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A debt of gratitude to Judi and Jo; Terry; Juliana & Kai; Bernie; Beattie; Becky; Debs, Phaiks & Chrissie; and Dave Naylor.

To Carol H; Carol C; Josie; Chris, Jade & Arielle; Michelle Q; cousin Andrew; Juan; Adam & Eva; Alex, Mel and the boys; Andrea, who loves D-grade horror; Jenny and the CT stalwarts, including Jason H and Andrew K; Dom and Ben; Cat of Goodputty, for the footprints; the TNG team, particularly Jac and Deb; Alisha; Alex and Jo; Kev, Rin and the kids; Alisa; Ben C; Emma, who called the Derrick storyline a plot on crack; Marcella Polain, for an earlier version of Derrick’s tale; and the housemates in 2002 for their namesakes: Derrick, Sanjeev, Chitra and Geraldine.

A big thank you to Val, for her keen eye, and invaluable feedback and expertise in making this manuscript shine!

To Mum, for her love and support.

To Ashley, my therapy dog.

And to JD, who inadvertently made things unravel, purportedly for my own good.

PROLOGUE

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THE AFTERMATH

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His mouth was locked in a silent scream, and his hands were held out in front of his face in a futile attempt at warding off the impending disaster. Mere seconds ago, the sight of the old man in the middle of the road had rendered him immobile. Suddenly he saw with cruel, mocking precision the fatal consequences of his decision to detour off the road and into the field. He was unable to think or move, unable to make a sound, unable even to breathe; it was as if the act of swerving off the road had caused his spirit to become detached from his body, and he was now hovering above himself, observing helplessly, stuck in that stance with his hands held out in front of his face to fend off the impending blow—

Straight into the field, headed for the bench, for the people gathered under the tree . . .

If only he could move his arms, turn the wheel, step on the brakes, do something, anything—

But he didn’t, couldn’t.

He could only gape in heart-stopping panic as the car sped towards its target.

The aftermath was a scene right out of a movie. The woman frantically tugged at the car door, screaming and wailing, while her daughter tried to hold her back, crying, Mum, Mummy, don’t, don’t—! The vehicle itself looked as if it was trying to climb the tree, its entire front section smashed up against the trunk, headlights aimed at the sky, one still shining into the branches. The two couples stood trembling some distance away, glass, splintered wood and other debris at their feet, stunned by their near-brush with death, and marvelling that what had only moments ago been a scene of calm had so suddenly turned into one of chaos and destruction.

Residents, young and old, were rushing out of their homes, all a-twitter at the drama that had unfolded in their usually quiet neighbourhood. Some of them gathered around the old man lying bloodied and unmoving by the side of the road, while others congregated around another, younger man, also unconscious and in worse shape than the elderly gent, his leg bent at an ugly angle, clearly broken.

Next to this man was a girl in tears who called his name, and the agitated neighbours hurled questions at her—What happened? Are they all right? How on earth . . . ?—even as the emergency personnel turned up and hurried across the grassy expanse, and the media arrived on the scene to speak to the strangers united by this horrific turn of events.

PART ONE

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FLYIN’ REAL FAST

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Matthew Leigh surveyed the area, squinting in the glare of the midday sun. Two little girls chased each other across the grass, squealing and giggling, their blond hair almost white in the sunlight. Somewhere, a dog barked a repeated pattern of three high-pitched yaps in rapid succession. In spite of the tinted glasses propped on his nose, Matthew’s eyes began to hurt, and he decided he had best find a place to have his lunch or else head back to the university library, where he had been cooped up for three and a half hours that morning. But he needed a little fresh air, no matter how hot it was. If anything, the sweltering atmosphere outside was a relief compared to the mustiness of the bookshelves.

On the west side of the field a solitary wooden structure stood bathed in the shade of a tree. Matthew went over to it. Perfect. Sheltered, private enough in the open space. Made of a sturdy wood: Rough and jagged but securely constructed, stable as he sat.

The girls shrieked and giggled, thoroughly enjoying their game. Fucking annoying, he thought. Birds fluttered in the branches above his head, and he looked skyward warily. A lone car chugged slowly along the road that ran the perimeter of the field, separating the grassy area from the houses that lined the Square. In a quiet, suburban neighbourhood like this, there was no need for speed.

For a while Matthew sat under the umbrella of the tree, taking his time to pry his chicken sandwich from its plastic casing. In the intermittent silence, punctuated by the occasional squeals of the children and the crackle-squeak of plastic in his hand, his mind filled with thoughts of his frustrating morning in the library, with the broken-down air conditioning and hidden textbooks on subjects he couldn’t give a shit about.

Go home, Robby! The shrill voice of one of the girls.

A little boy’s voice cropped up, whiny, followed by the girl’s insistent Go home, Robby! Get out of here!

And then the other girl’s voice, more calmly: Go on, Robby. Three’s a crowd, you know.

The boy protested again, and Matthew heard the grating bell-like laughter of the girls gradually fade as they undoubtedly skipped away into the distance.

He bit into the sandwich and felt a spurt of warm mayonnaise on his tongue.

Somewhere behind him, there was the sound of footsteps, soft and light. He heard quiet intakes of breath, interjected with a sharp gasp and a sniffling of the nose. It did not take a genius to figure out that the boy was crying, or was on the verge of it.

There were crackling noises, and the snapping of a twig.

Then, emerging from behind the trunk, the boy stepped towards the bench, towards Matthew, a grubby hand wiping tears from his eyes. Matthew felt his heart sink to his stomach. Don’t come near me, kid, he thought sourly, and took another bite.

Sniffling loudly, the boy made his way to the wooden seat and plopped his little behind upon it, on Matthew’s right. The child snivelled, and fresh tears ran down his cheeks. He wiped at them, painting his face with grey streaks.

Matthew glanced askance at the boy. Sandy-haired, his freckled face now stained. One of those cherubic brats with snotty noses and dirt-encrusted hands with blackened fingernails. He shifted further away from the child, and took a third bite, wondering offhandedly if expiration dates on pre-packed sandwiches could really be trusted (Prepared today, the pack declared unhelpfully, expires in three days)—

They won’t let me play.

Matthew nearly choked on the sandwich. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and stared at the kid. Little Robby wasn’t looking at him; his head was woefully in his hands, and he gazed at the grassy ground as if the dead leaves and foliage were most exciting to look at. Head bowed, the child whimpered pathetically, Mister, they won’t let me play.

Matthew sighed inwardly but remained quiet. Go away. Go away, go away.

They won’t let me play, the boy said again, and looked up at him expectantly.

Matthew exhaled. Well. That’s . . . tough, he said curtly, and chewed.

There was silence, followed by three high-pitched yaps from the dog, and the boy’s sniffles.

Then: You wanna play?

Matthew nearly choked again. Irritation swept over him, and he turned sharply to the child. Little Robby looked up at him, his eyes red and puffy, his irises gleaming with a touching, innocent display of anticipation that failed to move Matthew in the least. His response was short, albeit not too sweet: No.

Oh.

Another tension-filled silence. How quickly the sweet spot had turned sour—how the solitary, tree-shadowed bench had fast become a sitting-place of contention. Too good to be true, Matthew thought, shaking his head as he chewed on soggy lettuce.

The boy wiped his nose audibly with a grimy arm, then looked up at the branches of the tree, where the birds chirped noisily. He said, I wish I could fly, mister. Matthew’s jaw worked soundlessly. Mister? Little Robby scooted a little closer to tap Matthew’s leg with a dirty-nailed finger. Hey, mister?

It took every ounce of resistance for Matthew not to shove the kid off the bench. Instead, he shifted to the left, so that the gap between them widened. He hoped the brat would get the hint.

The brat got the hint. He remained where he was, and returned to staring at the treetops.

After a moment, he said, Birds don’t fight.

Matthew flinched.

Birds get along very well, don’t they, mister? I wish I was a bird. How come you don’t ever see two sparrows fightin’, mister? The child craned his neck, looking up into the leaves. You see two, three, four, five sparrows, all together, havin’ fun and buildin’ nests and flyin’ around and singin’, and they don’t fight, do they, mister?—oblivious to the hostility emanating off Matthew in waves. They don’t say ‘go home’ to each other, or—or say ‘three’s a crowd’, do they, mister?

Jesus, how old are you, kid? Matthew snapped.

Six.

You think too damn much for someone who’s six.

The boy considered this. If I was a bird and other birds was mad at me, I’d fly away and find new birds to be friends with. I wish I could fly. I wish I was a bird. Somethin’ small, like a sparrow. Don’t wanna be a vulture or buzzard. They’re big, and they’re scary, and they fight. I don’t wanna fight, mister. My mummy says buzzards and vultures are big and scary and they like to fight. I’ve never seen ‘em. Don’t know if my mummy has ever seen ‘em neither.

Matthew stuffed the remains of his sandwich back into its plastic casing impatiently, trying to think of a clever retort that would end this inane dialogue. The best he could come up with was: If you were a bird, you’d be a crow.

Nice one, Matthew. You’d make a terrific lawyer.

I don’t wanna be a crow, little Robby replied, ignoring the barb, or maybe just not getting it. Don’t mind bein’ a sparrow. They’s everywhere, but they’re nice, and they’re quiet, and they get along. Or maybe a hummin’bird, ‘cause they fly real fast and their wings, they go bzzzz, bzzzz, ‘cause they’re movin’ really quick, y’know? But I don’t like crows, he proclaimed, and folded his arms across his chest resolutely. "Crows are big and black, and they make this horrible noise, this awwwwk, awwwwk! The boy looked at the man. What bird you wanna be?"

This time, Matthew chuckled, but it was filled with condescension. I don’t want to be a bird. Birds shit all over you, and they’re noisy, and they wake you up in the morning, making you think the freaking planet’s all bright and cheery and everything’s all right with the world, when in reality, things sure as hell are not.

If the crudeness bothered him, the child didn’t let on. He mulled this over. Finally, he asked, Why isn’t the world all bright and cheery?

‘Cause it isn’t! Matthew barked.

Seems bright and cheery to me.

Well, when you grow up to be my age, you’ll realise the world’s a much bigger and badder place than your puny six-year-old brain could ever perceive it to be, and you’ll see that there really isn’t any point in waking up all fucking cheerful and singing at the top of your fucking lungs, all right?

Silence.

For a while, the only sounds were the leaves rustling, and the birds cheeping, and the dog barking from one of the buildings somewhere in the Square, and Matthew’s noisy chewing as he disgruntledly resumed his lunch.

The boy said, You sound like you’re a chicken.

He balked. What?

Chicken.

A chicken?

Yeah. ‘Cause chickens . . . they’re, like, always cooped up, right, mister? And they becomes food for us to eat, right? So I’m thinkin’ chickens aren’t happy. They’re thinkin’ the world’s a bad place to be. And if you’re gettin’ up every mornin’ and you’re thinkin’ the world’s a bad place to be, then you’re probably—stumbling over the word—thinkin’ what the chickens are thinkin’, right?

What??

So you sound like you’re a chicken.

Flummoxed, the older glared daggers at the younger. Little Robby’s expression revealed no signs of impertinence, and suddenly Matthew felt warm in the face. Was he flushing? Did the boy really do that to him? Christ! He clenched his fist, only to find that he had squished the sandwich he was holding.

Above their heads, the birds flapped, and the leaves swayed, and the branches jostled in the post-noon light. Perhaps sensing that he had said too much, little Robby slid off the bench and sprinted away from the shade, leaving Matthew to stew in his hostility. A low squawk rang out from the overhanging branches, followed by the almost perceptible whistle and splat of bird-doo as it sailed downward and mingled with the warm mayonnaise oozing from between the tooth-marked slices of bread.

PROSPERITY AND

MARITAL BLISS

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Heat soared through Derrick as he ran hell for leather towards his apartment building. His heartbeat pounded loudly in his ears; his blood was rushing through him, coursing through his veins, thrumming at his temples. His teeth were tightly gritted, and he repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fists as he tried to make sense of what was happening. Two hours ago life had been perfect—and now, a mere two hours later, it was cast into a maelstrom of sorrow and despair.

How? he shrieked in his mind. How did this happen? How? How?!

He’d been preparing for this occasion for ages. He’d gone and bought the best diamond ring his money could buy. He had spoken to his friends Sanjeev and Chitra about it, and they’d cheered him on—although Chitra had added, nonchalantly, that the occasion had been long overdue. Derrick didn’t think so. Twenty-seven was the best age to get down on bended knee. With Geraldine being just two years younger, it was also the right time for her.

At least, that’s what he’d thought.

Derrick had always assumed the proposal would go smoothly. They’d been together for years. She had a steady and well-paid job at the local paper, a position she’d held since leaving college four years ago. She’d never spoken of going back for further study; neither had she complained about her duties as a sub-editor for The Tribune—a stimulating career that promised a good future, including a rise to prominent journalistic positions, if she stuck with it.

So wherein lay the difficulty? What was stopping her from accepting his proposal? It wasn’t as if getting married would inconvenience them in any way—they were, after all, neighbours; he lived in apartment 2A, she in 3B. All she had to do was move in with him downstairs. What was the problem? What? What?

He’d planned so painstakingly for this night. The restaurant had been booked—Emilio’s, the best seafood place in the city, the most romantic. Getting a table there on a weekend was no easy task, and he’d had to book several weeks in advance, pull a few strings, kiss a few asses. Then there were the flowers, and the champagne, and the car that would take them up to the Point to overlook the sights and lights of the city. If that wasn’t romantic, what the hell was? And the suit. He’d gone out and had it tailor-made for the evening: A double-breasted dark-blue dinner jacket over dark pants, with a Windsor-knotted necktie and navy silk shirt. Not too fancy, but not too plain, either. Not too expensive—but not too cheap, either. All in all, the whole affair had cost him a bomb, and he’d expected it to, but he’d told himself it wouldn’t be a problem, since the smile on her face—as he’d imagined it—would make up multi-fold for the expenditure. Nothing, he’d told himself decisively, nothing was going to stand in the way of their happiness tonight.

Except, perhaps, for the unexpected rejection of his proposal.

As he tore down the road, his leather shoes click-clacking against tar and kicking up tiny pebbles that bounced off and peppered his shins, the events of the evening repeated in his mind like a film reel that had got stuck and was playing the same scene over and over and over again. (Breathe!) His jacket was growing heavy; his lungs were burning as he inhaled and exhaled heavily, inconsistently, breathing only because he had to. A pain had begun to creep up his left side. He ignored it. Fuck. Fuck!

Derrick had picked Geraldine up in the black Peugeot that Sanjeev owned. It was no limo, but it was fancy enough. They had reached the apartment at 6:45PM on the dot, as according to plan (Not a minute sooner, not a minute later!), and Derrick had sprinted up to Geraldine’s. She’d greeted him at the door, looking absolutely ravishing in a stunning dress that flowed from collar to ankle: a dark shade of red that contrasted exquisitely with his blue, a silken sheen that accentuated her curvaceous figure as she walked. Around her neck a silver chain, complete with a crucifix. Around her wrists sparkling bracelets that, in Derrick’s hopelessly romantic eyes, paled in comparison with her shimmering beauty. Her hair—dark brown, the sweet, luscious colour of honey—was done in a different way, falling down her shoulders effortlessly, shiny as her dress. She was intoxicating. She was amazing. And she was his.

So he’d thought.

My God, he said, stepping backwards. "You look

—incredible."

She laughed, a tinkling sound, like wine glasses being clinked together in a toast: To bright futures! To prosperity and marital bliss! To years and years of happiness! And she said, Rick, what’s the occasion?—the question she’d been asking since he’d first told her about tonight, over a week ago. In response, he smiled enigmatically and offered her his arm.

Down the stairs, inhaling her sweetness. Outside, into the open, where a cool breeze sent wafts of her perfume into his every breath. Her hair brushed lightly against his face, and he revelled in the sensation of it. Into the Peugeot, where Sanjeev sat waiting in the driver’s seat with a baseball cap propped backwards on his head in an admirable but less than successful attempt to emulate a chauffeur.

Then it was off to Emilio’s, where their table awaited. Their maitre’d, Luis, helped them get seated, and soon they were dining on the fresh and succulent seafood that Emilio’s was famous for, complete with bubbling glasses of pink champagne. Derrick struggled to maintain his composure, but as they reached the end of the meal, he felt himself growing increasingly excited. The moment was arriving. The little box was waiting in his suit pocket, ready to be presented and exposed to the whole room in its full, incandescent glory. What was she talking about? Something about how a foreign newspaper had come under fire for mistakenly reporting an assassination attempt on its nation’s prime minister, and honey, I still don’t understand what’s so special about tonight, why did we have to dress up like this, it’s not like we haven’t dined here before . . . ?

Not when I’m about to propose, we haven’t, he thought, casually dismissing her questions by signalling for a waiter to top up their champagne. He hoped he wasn’t drinking too much, that would be a giveaway. He hardly drank—a can or two of beer if he was hanging out with his friends, a glass of wine or two at social events. He wondered if he was imbibing too much in his bid to calm his jittery nerves. He wondered if he was going to be adversely affected by the overindulgence. He wondered a lot of things.

Finally, the Moment arrived, by which time Geraldine was revealing a slight displeasure at being kept in the dark about the Big Secret, and by which time Derrick’s heart was pumping so frantically against his ribcage that he imagined the other diners looking about in puzzlement, wondering, What the hell’s that rapid but steady dual-beat rhythm . . . ?

Honey, he whispered, taking her hand. His own was cold and damp, but if she noticed, she didn’t show it. Curiously she stared into his eyes, and he swallowed repeatedly, his mouth too dry to speak. He managed to choke out, I’ve—I’ve got s-something for you.

What? she demanded, squeezing his hand so hard it made him wince.

His other hand dug into his jacket pocket. His fingers danced about, and for a fleeting moment he panicked, thinking, It isn’t there! Dear Jesus, it isn’t there, oh my God it’s gone it’s gone it’s gone it’s gone it’s and then he found it, fished it out, and gently disengaged his fingers from hers so that he could present it to her with both hands.

As he moved the box across the white tablecloth, he pried the lid open, revealing, in its aforementioned full, incandescent glory, the ring.

He heard her gasp, saw her sit more erect in her chair.

Geri, he said breathlessly, honey . . .

Oh, my God, she whispered, staring with saucer eyes at the glimmering diamond, flashing gold and white in the light of the restaurant chandeliers. My God, Rick, that’s the biggest rock I’ve ever seen . . . !

Honey, he tried again, and managed a nervous smile. Will you . . . His voice faltered, and he cursed himself for being so apprehensive. He powered through. Will you marry me?

She paled. At least, he thought she had; it was hard to tell in the light. Nonetheless, all of a sudden, the spectacular, magical Moment transformed into one of utter despair. She pushed her seat back with the silent screech of wood against carpet, and, much to his consternation, uttered a frantic and seemingly frightened I’ve got to go, Derrick! As abruptly as she’d risen to her feet, she’d grabbed her purse and got the hell out of there, leaving him alone, box and diamond in hand, pink champagne bubbling indifferently away, looking stupid and confused and feeling even more so.

It was only several stunned and seemingly interminable minutes later that he’d rushed to the entrance of Emilio’s, pocketing the ring, while Luis had exclaimed with his heavy accent, What ees wrong? El nino, what ees da matter . . . ?!—and he’d shot out onto the pavement, into the cool wind that had suddenly strangely become ice-cold, to scan either direction for Geraldine.

He was too late. She’d disappeared.

And so, it seemed, had Sanjeev in his battered and suddenly unromantic Peugeot.

Geri! he’d shouted, causing several passers-by to jump, turn and stare accusingly at him. Geriii!

Why? Why? Why??

Now, as he ran in the direction of the apartment block, feeling the icy sting of the wind in his eyes and drying the sweat on his skin, he wondered where he’d gone wrong. His breath steaming up in front of his face (Do I have halitosis? Is that it, is that why she won’t marry me?), he pushed himself to the limit and ran, ran, ran, round the corner, down the dark and rank alleyway with its resident rats, round another corner and into the Square, where the Kiara Apartments sat.

Ignoring the glares of the few strangers and fewer familiar faces on the street, Derrick tore up the pavement to the front door of the building, punched in the security code to get the door open, and, having thrown himself through the open doorway, fumbled up the stairs. His feet thumped loudly against the carpeted steps, and for a moment he fretted that the noise might wake the neighbours—only to remember that it was 8pm, not after midnight; after midnight being, of course, the time he’d expected the evening to end . . . !

He pulled to a halt in front of apartment 3B. For a while he remained bent over with his hands on his trembling knees, his body racking as he gasped and panted, listening to the rapid explosion of his heart. Sweat, cold and clammy, dripped down the sides of his face. The jacket was now too constricting.

Derrick knocked on the door, three hard thuds, and waited. Waited, thinking, Geri, have you come home? Please, please, answer the door. Please!

The sound of footsteps made him bolt upright. He wiped sweat away from his face with his sleeve. There was a series of clunking noises as the lock was disengaged, followed by the click and squeal of the knob being turned. Then someone peered through the crack in the doorway. Derrick, licking his lips and tasting salt, exclaimed, Hope! I’ve got to talk to Geri, where is she?

Hope Brewster pulled the door wide open and looked at Derrick with a blank expression—one he suspected was reserved only for him. As usual, she was chewing gum, an idiosyncrasy that always struck Derrick as rather clichéd on a character like her. It complemented her shocking-pink hair—short, like a football helmet—and her tight clothing, and a tattoo of a musical segno symbol on her neck. Hope had spunk, she had attitude, she was no pushover, and, above all, she was very protective of her housemate and best friend, Geraldine.

Glaring at Derrick with one raised eyebrow, she removed the wad of gum from her mouth and said with a burst of Tutti-Frutti breath, Geri? She ain’t here. Ain’t she supposed to be with you, Dick? What the hell happened?

Derrick groaned, shaking his head. Droplets of sweat fell to the scuffed wooden floor beneath his feet. I don’t—oh, God, Hope, I don’t know what the hell happened. One minute we were having dinner and everything was fine and going so well, the next she was running out of there as if she’d left the iron on and her pants were on fire. Several seconds went by before he added, Oh, and I asked her to marry me.

Hope didn’t look surprised by the announcement. She didn’t look at all affected: her face remained blank. Popping the gum back into her mouth and chewing with an air of insolence about her, she said, That’s exactly what I figured. Figured you’d wanna tie her down, what with her getting all dolled up like that. She said no, did she? A snort. Well.

She didn’t say no! Derrick exclaimed loudly. He quickly looked around to see if anybody had heard. Lowering his voice, he added, She just upped and hopped it. I don’t know why.

Maybe you freaked her out.

Why would she have freaked out?

Have you guys ever discussed marriage?

Well—no, but come on, isn’t it obvious that I would . . . one day . . .

Can’t assume anything these days, she said, matter-of-fact.

We’ve been going out for eight years; it was only a matter of time before . . .

Yeah, whatever. She looked at her nails. Listen, Geri ain’t here; you’d better check her usual hangouts. That outlet she likes to go to when something’s eating away at her. When you’re down in the dumps, a little retail therapy works wonders, you know?

Down in the dumps, he said sullenly. So that’s where you buy your stuff.

Derrick was about to make his way back down the stairs when he heard Hope call out to him. He turned, looked sadly at her, and she said, softer now, I’m sure everything will be fine. You probably just surprised her, that’s all. Give her a couple of hours, a day or two, she’ll call you, let you know.

Why the surprise? he retorted, throwing his arms up in a gesture of helplessness. I don’t get it. I just don’t get it!

Take care, you dick, she said, and shut the door.

He began the slow trudge down to his apartment. At the landing, he decided that he wouldn’t stop, but would head out of the building to the field in the middle of the Square. He’d always found comfort there—a space to clear his mind and get things into working order.

Tonight, there was a lot of clearing and reworking to do.

Door closed, Hope made her way into the living room of apartment 3B. Geraldine Bateman sat in the middle of their lumpy and threadbare sofa, her head in her hands, her hair mussed up. I should have seen it coming. I really should have seen it coming.

Hope sat next to her and put an arm around her, pulling her close. Oh, honey, I’m sorry.

Hope, I don’t want to break his heart!

I know. She squeezed a little tighter. I’m sorry. That Dick’s a nice guy; I don’t want his heart to be broken either, you know that.

If only I’d ended it sooner. If only I’d known . . . Geraldine shook her head in despair. But we’ve never talked about it! We’ve talked about every other damn thing from here to the end of the universe, but we’ve never spoken about getting married, or settling down, or having babies or whatever. Jeez, Hope, I just—I don’t know, all of a sudden he decides he wants to propose? And I have to accept? No!

Sssh. Don’t. Calm down now.

I can’t. Geraldine sighed. I can’t calm down. I just . . . I don’t know.

A moment of silence went by, during which Hope rocked them both from side to side: a gentle, succouring movement that Hope’s mother had performed whenever Hope herself had been upset. And Hope, in her twenty-eight years, had had many things to get upset over. The offer by renowned hairdresser Frankie Marcioni to take her under his wing and whip her into a professional stylist was the best thing that had ever come her way. It was, as Marcioni liked to tell his friends, the sure-fire way of getting Hope off the streets and stopping her from sucking her mother dry of the limited income that she had.

Hope felt a surge of warmth at the thought of Marcioni, who had always been good to her. It was Marcioni who’d sourced out her apartment four years ago, and had offered to cover the rent until she could afford to pay for it herself. She’d been happy, and immensely grateful, but Hope had suddenly found herself lonely, friendless. So she’d put an ad in the paper for a roommate, and Geraldine had turned up. Later she’d discovered that Geraldine had been waiting forever for a vacancy in the building; after all, Derrick lived in the apartment below. However, Geraldine’s strict and pious Catholic upbringing had stymied any prospect of her living with her boyfriend—not to mention the strict and pious Catholic parents who had barred Geraldine from moving in with Derrick. Heck, they had even tried to stop her from moving in with Hope. Fortunately, Geraldine had won the latter battle, and, three years ago, she’d become her roommate.

And now she and Hope were the best of friends. Like sisters.

Only closer.

Geraldine stopped rocking. Quietly, she said, I guess I don’t have a choice.

Hope shrugged sympathetically. I guess not.

Rick and I . . . we have to end it.

I guess.

I don’t want to . . .

I know you don’t, sweetie. But if not . . . what then?

It was a question that Geraldine couldn’t answer—and didn’t want to.

Hope pulled away and moved off the sofa. Across from them, an open window allowed a cool breeze into the apartment. Hope, seeing Geraldine was shivering, ambled over to it. She was about to pull it shut when her gaze drifted to the field in the near distance, where the distinct figure of a pained Derrick Weston could be seen hunched on the bench under the tree, bathed in near-darkness. Hope knew the bench was where Derrick and Geraldine would sit when they needed to talk, or when something was troubling them, or when they simply wanted to relax and enjoy the serenity of their surroundings.

As Hope stood there, the wind blowing against her face and ruffling her fluorescent pink hair, she saw Derrick lower his head into his hands. From the shaking of his shoulders, she could tell he was crying.

Silently, Hope pulled the window closed. She turned to Geraldine, who was already making her way into the bedroom, and followed her roommate to the bed.

Hope was comfort, and comfort was hope.

Tonight, Geraldine needed hope more than ever.

And Hope was ever ready to oblige.

A SLOW BUT SURE DISINTEGRATION

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The eight committee members of the district’s residents’ association met once every other month for an evening of lively discussion, coffee and cake, and a couple of rounds of Gin. Tonight, as Derrick Weston lamented in the field and Geraldine found Hope in her bedroom, the committee members sat in Jessy Cooke’s kitchen with half-finished cups of warm coffee on the table, and a smattering of cake crumbs in their laps.

The main issue of the evening was what was considered the appalling state of the neighbourhood.

The problem is the weather, Bertha Asterville from Number 23 pronounced in her mouse-like voice. In the day, the sun comes out and it’s hot as the netherworld; when evening descends, the cold winds blow and it gets to freezing. This prompted several others to nod their heads enthusiastically, as if they were all meteorological experts who had been diligently observing the climate change. "What happens is, the houses expand in the day and contract in the night, resulting in cracks in the walls, holes in the sideboards,