Social Distancing: & Other Stories.

By Michael K Freundt

10 short stories; different voices; unsettling content; gender bending; experimental.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tablo Publishing
• Release date: Jan 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649695321

Book preview

1. SOCIAL DISTANCING (April 2020)

‘Don't come near me!’ she screams.
 He strikes her hard. With a fist to the face. She falls against the sideboard with a thud. The sound of breaking glass. Her mother's set of champagne flutes. The ones with the gold trim. She staggers back instinctively as if she is to blame. She thinks of her mother. So this is what she meant. She takes another blow to the side of the head and falls to her left. She sees flashes of light and then dark, then bright again. She uses a small door knob of the side-board to haul herself back to her feet; back into his range. Why does she do this? He hits her again. Harder this time. The door is still open a bit. She falls against it and hears a rib crack. Knives rattle together like rocks in a can. It takes her a moment to focus. She knows she doesn't have much time. She yanks open a drawer. She reaches inside.

‘What are you doing?’ he says.

She reaches further in among the knives.

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

She pulls out a gun, turns and points it at him. That makes him stop.

'What the fuck!’

‘Stay away from me,’ she says. Her voice cracks.

‘What’s that!?’

‘What's it …?" More words are hard to say. She swallows, blinks, and wets her lips. Her left eye throbs. ‘What's it look like?’ She can feel her heart bumping in her chest. She wants to run.

‘Where did you get that?’

‘Does it matter? Get away from me!’

He takes a step back. She feels the taste of rare control.

‘What are you doing with a gun in the house?’

She thinks this is funny. ‘Well, considering…’

‘Whose is it?’

‘Mine.’

‘Fuck!’

‘I can use it!’

‘You don't know a fuckin' thing abou…’

‘Try me,’ she says mildly. She can see he is unsure and she tastes that feeling again. She straightens her back. She winces and wonders if she can really go through with it.

‘Give it here,' he says like a Dad.

'No,' she says like a kid.

He stares at her.

She holds his gaze. She swallows.

'Is it loaded?' he asks.

' … I don't know.' 

He steps towards her.

'Maybe.' The sound and feel of that word surprises her. She feels she has the upper hand. It occurs to her that he isn’t in control as much as she has always believed he was. She has given in to him on so many occasions. Even the choice of this side-board; it’s too high she’s always thought. Why has she done that? It isn’t just the gun, it’s him. He fades a bit. But if the gun isn‘t loaded everything will change. There is only one way to find out.

He stops. 'You kept it there? In the cutlery drawer?

'You never open the cutlery drawer.'

She can see his anger rising again.

'What the fuck is my wife doing with a gun in the house, for fuck sake!?'

'Just as well, ay?'

'You fuckin' bitch,' and he moves.

She lowers the gun and fires.

The sound is weak. Surprising. It doesn't fill the room. Her ribs hurt. She thinks for a moment she hasn’t done it right. But yes, it’s loaded.

He screams and drops to the floor holding his knee. Blood oozes between his fingers. His shrieks fill the room.

She thinks of pigs. 

'You fuckin' shot me!'

Yes, I did. Yes. That’s what I just did. She repositions her fingers around the thing. It is warm now. Still pointing it at him. It is her only help. Her life-line.

His screams become moans.

‘Get back from me. Get back.’ She takes a step forward from the sideboard but standing on her own feels uneasy. ‘Get back!’

He manages to sidle his arse on the floor and retreats from her.

She takes a step back to lean against the sideboard. She reaches into her jeans pocket and pulls out her phone. Her breathing is shallow and quick. She feels a little dizzy. With flickering glances at the man writhing and groaning on the floor she dials a short number.

'Yes,' she says. She tells them her full name and address. 'The police. Yes. An ambulance. Yes. I've just shot my husband. What? No. He’s fine. There’s a bit of blood. OK.' She puts her phone on the sideboard. She tries to control her breathing, slow it down, breath deeper.

'You'll go to jail for this,' he manages to say.

'Probably.'

'Why the fuck did you go and shoot me!?'

'I didn't kill you,' and she raises the gun, points at his head. 'I could’ve.’ And then with an intent and attitude she has never used before. ‘Can you feel it?'

'What?'

She waves the gun slightly to the left and fires into an armchair. The sound is weak and tinny. Like it was before. Maybe that’s how it is. Maybe that’s what a gun sounds like. She waves the gun back to his head. 'Feel it now?' She can see that he can and it feels good to her. 'Now you know what it feels like.'

'You're fuckin' crazy!'

She gives a little harrumph and says quietly. 'Now I know what it feels like.' She smiles.

'You were havin' it off with that sparky bloke.'

'What? No.'

'Susie Driscoll told me.'

'She saw me fucking the electrician? No. She saw me talking to Jim in the car park.'

'Oh, it's Jim now, is it?'

'Yes. That's his name. Jim. He offered to load my trunk for me. I said thanks but it's OK. He told me about his little boy's questions about the virus. They were apposite and cute.'

He gives a grunt. 'You were flirting.'

'I smiled at him, yes.'

‘What else?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Not my fault.’

‘Well this is your fuckin’ fault. You shot your husband in his own living room. In the knee! For Christ’s sake. I’m a fuckin’ rugby player.’

‘There’s no more runball until the end of next month; and that’s even in doubt.’

‘Stop calling it that. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘You need to see a doctor.’

‘You’re the one gushing blood all over the floor.’

‘A psychiatrist. You need to see … Did you plan this? So you could be with Jimmy boy?’

‘You’re such an idiot. Why would I plan a punch to my head? Three punches to the head. Ha? How would I plan such a thing?’

‘You’ve had a gun there all this time. Loaded.’

‘Mum gave it to me.’

‘She’s always hated me.’

‘She doesn‘t hate you. Just like she doesn’t hate Dad, despite what he did to her.’

‘If she’s anything like you, I don’t blame him.’

‘You’ve never blamed him.’

‘Can you get me some pain killers?’

‘No.’ Her right arm is aching. She lets it drop a little.

He moves towards her and she points it at him again with added intension and uses her left arm to help her hold it out.

‘Getting tired?’

‘Yeah. I can use my left hand,’ and she takes her right hand away and shakes it. ‘But I’m a little shaky with my left, I might miss your other knee and hit something else.’

‘ … let’s just think this through. What about the boys?’

‘You’ll have to look after them.’

‘I’ll be in hospital.’

‘For a few hours maybe. You’ll be home before the boys get back. You can hop from room to room. You don’t need legs to cook, do the washing, do the ironing.’

‘I don’t know how to cook.’

‘Put water in a pot. Add beans. Turn on the gas. Wait.’ She shrugs.

He dismisses her sarcasm with a ‘Phut … What if I’m not back?’

’You’ll have to call someone. Your sister.’ She looks at her watch on her right wrist and moves the gun back to her right.

‘The police aren’t coming.’

‘They’ll be here.’

‘You’ll going to jail.’

‘Oh, did you hear on the news this morning? The jail’s overcrowded making social distancing impractical so they’re moving low security prisoners into hotel rooms, and anyone on remand will be placed in isolation in a hotel room too. I’ll be in The Intercontinental for two weeks courtesy of the government, ordering room service, and watching my own Netflix choices.’

‘If the police were coming they’d be here by now.’

‘They’ll be here soon.’

‘I could press charges.’

‘So could I.’

‘For what?’

She uses her left hand to touch her left eye and cheek. She can feel its heat and her vision through that eye is now blurry. It must look like a spilt blueberry trifle. She curls her fingers in to point at her face.

‘What’s that compared to a gunshot wound?’

‘I was protecting myself.’

‘A little disproportionate don’t you think?’

‘No. What more were you capable of?’

‘Oh please. I was upset.’

‘I was bashed because you were upset.’

‘I thought you were screwing the electrician.’

‘I wish now I was.’

He points at her. ‘That’s evidence against you. When I’m asked to give evidence in court I’ll say you wanted to screw the electrician. You told me so. I wasn’t wrong, you see?’

‘It was a sentence of conditional wish fulfilment, not admission of an action but a desire that something had happened but didn’t, knowing what I know now.’

He sighs. ‘Spare me.’ And then, ‘I’ve got to get attention to this knee.’

‘They’re on their way.’

They look at each other, each daring not to look away. Being alert. Everything in the past is a blur. It’s like their lives have appeared out of nowhere. They began from that moment ago. How did they get to this? This moment of no past and no idea of the future. Time seems stretched. How long since either have spoken? 

He moves onto his other hip. She watches him closely, gun ready. He uses his left hand to get his phone out of his pocket. ‘I’m going to make my own call. Call an ambulance. To report a shooting.’ He holds his phone up. ‘Here you are in our family home with a gun pointed at your wounded husband.’

She shoots the phone out of his hand. The sound disappears as quickly as it erupted.

‘Jesus!’ Blood appears on his fingers. ‘Fuckin’ hell!’

‘I’ve got three left. Just stay where you are. And wait. And while I’ve got the floor you can tell me about you and Susan Driscoll.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘We’ve been locked down here for three weeks. Jigsaw puzzles. YouTube. Bananas in Pyjamas. Rugby’s Best Fucking Tries. We haven’t been out of each other’s sight. Now that the boys are back at school you thought it would be good time to bring it up. Reinforce yourself. Mm? How could Susie, not Susan but Susie Driscoll, you said, Susie! How could she speak to you about … You’ve been calling her.’ She thinks about where he could call so she wouldn’t know. ‘You’ve been calling her on the toilet. Haven’t you?’

‘I know what you’re doing,’ he says but she can see he‘s rattled. He won’t look at her. He sucks the blood from his fingers.

‘So do I. I know exactly what I’m doing.’ She tries hard for her face to reflect what she wants to believe.

‘Let’s be sensible here. What are we going to tell the police?’

‘The truth.’

‘And they’ll believe you?’

‘I shot you. Deliberately. In the leg – not in the head or the chest – in the leg, to stop you hitting me again. What’s not to believe?’

‘It’s the end of our family.’

‘Probably, yes.’

‘Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you shot me.’

‘Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you hit me.’

‘I’ve hit you before.’

‘I didn’t have a gun then.’

‘We got over it.’

‘Did we? You may have.’

‘Sometimes men hit women.’

‘Oh Yes. It’s a biological attribute. I forgot. Like a dick.’

‘And we have reasons.’

‘So did I. And my reason is stronger than your reason.’

‘Really?’

‘I was defending my life. You were defending your masculinity.’

This has never occurred to her before. She’s never been in this situation before. But now it all seems so clear. So true.

‘You won’t be able to see the boys.’

This knocks her. ‘… I’ll have visiting rights.’

‘Only if I let them.’

‘What are you going to tell them?’

‘That you shot me! Twice!’

‘And when they ask why, Why Daddy? Why did Mummy shoot you? What will you say?’

‘That you don’t love me anymore, that you were in love with someone else and wanted me out of the way so you can be with him.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘You won’t have the opportunity to say so.’

‘So our two sons have become rewards in a game.’

‘What does that mean?’ He can see she’s wavering. ‘That’s what you always do, rub my lack of a degree in my face. Sprout some literary jargon that means shit when you come down to it. I speak plainly. The boys are mine.’ He can see water in her eyes and sees his chance. ‘Look. We’ve got time to agree on a story. I won’t press charges and you won’t press charges. I’ll have a few hours in hospital and maybe you’ll have to give a statement or something. We’ve been cooped up here at home for three weeks. We got on each other’s nerves. A … a …. a little game developed without the kids around, you know, what you read about, some kind of kinky game thing. You know. And if we support each other we can go on as before. We just have to agree. Agree and stick to it.’

‘Same as before.’

‘Yes. Same as before. The four of us. Together with the boys. Otherwise you’re on your own. And you’ll never see your kids again.’

Two adults stare at each other. Two adults who once evoked for better or worse. They hear cars outside coming to a stop. Footsteps on the path, then nothing on the grass, then louder on the porch. Then an urgent knocking on the front door.

‘Open up! Police!’

‘Coming!’ she calls out.

‘Sweetheart…?’

She breaks her gaze from her husband, walks to the front door, opens it, turns the gun around and hands it to a gloved police officer. ‘He’s in there.’

Several officers all wearing masks and gloves walk past. One of them, a female officer, takes her by the arm. Para-medics dressed all in white plastic like attendants in a nuclear power plant follow with equipment and a stretcher.

About twenty minutes later as he’s being wheeled to the ambulance and she’s being led to the police car she turns to him and says across the unmown lawn …  

She thinks she should tell him there’s a lasagne in the freezer, but instead she says, ‘Jamie doesn’t like tomatoes in his sandwiches and Russ won’t eat overripe bananas.’

Both are taken away.

2. WATCHING TIME

Sa’an sits in her little room above the garage. It is late in the day; the leafy street is about to receive the workers coming home for the evening. She can see seven houses and she knows them all. It is the time of day she thinks of as hers. All her work is done, there will be no need for complaints; the table set, two of everything, and the dinner prepared. All the school children who come straight home, no after school care, no quick trips to town to wait in the office, these are trusted children; they are doing their homework now, peeling potatoes, walking the dogs. Good children, older children like Shanti and Gordy.

First she sees Mr. Avenel. Tall and coated, he walks from the train with a backward leaning gait that makes him recognisable from afar. Mrs. Avenel is a teacher and will bring the children, Cinnamon and Connie, home with her in the Honda Accord. Mrs. Avenel dresses in a very modern style: matt, subdued colours with chunky jewellery made from resin. Connie sets the table while Cinnamon prepares the vegetables. Then they go to their room to do their homework while Mr. Avenel cooks dinner. Mrs. Avenel marks essays and makes crossword puzzles for her English class. Sa’an can see it all.

Mr. Wild and Mr. Liatov have a computer business together. They live next door to each other and so arrive home together in Mr. Wild’s ute. Sometimes they use Mr. Liatov’s Toyota Camry. Mrs. Wild is always with them: she does the books and office work. Mr. Wild is a keen gardener and not long after getting home he is out in the front garden tending to it, staring at it, even talking to it sometimes. He is in a world of his own. Mrs. Wild prepares dinner and checks on their only child, Patty, who is a very quiet girl who loves birds and has many books and photographs in her room of birds from all over the world. She does not keep birds in cages: she thinks this is barbaric. Why would you do such a thing to a creature with wings? But Sa’an knows that people do such things.

It was the Wild family that she thought about last night when Sa’an and her father were watching Q&A on the television, when that Christian man talked about the bond between a man and a woman and their children. Mr. and Mrs. Wild were very proud and doting on their daughter, Patty, but Sa’an knew her to be a bit stand-offish - someone once said.

She is aware that the light is fading

Mrs. Liatov is in hospital at the moment so Mr. Liatov, after changing his clothes, drives with their three children, Mark, Sally, and Ivan, to visit her in the hospital. She will be home in three days. Mrs. Liatov is a very large woman who, apparently, has a golden heart.

Michelle Aboud lives right next door and Sa’an supposes that she is her best friend although no one, not even Michelle or Sa’an, has said as much. Michelle always calls her by her full name, Sara-Ann, but most people when they have the opportunity call her Sa’an. Oh! She thinks; no. She realises she hasn’t heard her name, Sa’an spoken since her mother left. She thinks of herself as Sa’an but now it is only Michelle who actually speaks her name, Sara-Ann. It is this special treatment that Sa’an knows makes her feel this way towards her neighbour. Michelle’s parents have a fruit and vegetable shop in the main street near the train station. They work together, live together, do everything together so Sa’an imagines that they are never apart.

She wonders what that would feel like.

Mr. and Mrs. Achebe were the first black people Sa’an had ever seen. They are from Africa. There was some problem when they moved in but Sa’an could never quite work out what it was all about. They have seven children, all as black as each other; made more so by their very white, and large, teeth. They are certainly all the children of Mr. Achebe who has the largest white teeth Sa’an has ever seen. Mrs. Achebe always wears very colourful clothes and a long