a boy.’ She took a piece of toast from Andrew’s plate and ate a corner.
‘Hey. That’s mine.’
‘I’ll make you some more. Have one of these.’
She’d picked up a packet of biscuits on the way home and now she tossed it next to Andrew on the bed. Keeping his eyes fixed to the news, he pulled and pulled at the cellophane wrapper and finally she took it off him and used her back teeth, feeling a dangerous tug on her gums as she wrenched the packet away from her mouth.
‘Ruth called this morning,’ he said.
‘How is she?’
‘Oh, she’s in NA and SLAA and OA and a group for compulsive shoppers. Got a lot of language. Had a lot to say about intimacy. Rationalisation. Narcissism. Ownership. Addiction.’
‘Jesus.’ These were Ben’s terms, it appeared, part of his ultimatum. There would be no more solo trips to Europe or New Zealand; there would be no more Hank. Poor Ruth. ‘How was your day?’
His eyes searched the room as though the answer was written in the air. ‘Night school hasn’t opened yet.’
In the kitchen she slid bread into the toaster and pressed the lever down. It was broken and she had to push it again and again, metal rasping against metal, and finally hold it in place with a heavy chopping board. Propped by the bread bin was an internationally posted envelope with her name on it. The handwriting made the room tip. She tore it open while she took spreadable butter from the fridge and honey from the pantry, too many things in her hands, the paper resistant, thickly glued, she tore right through the return address. The bread began to toast. The crumb smell streaked the air like charcoal. Eve’s gaze. Her appetite had vanished; if anything she wanted a drink. From the envelope she took a printed rectangle of card that bore a photo of Daniel and a woman who looked about thirty. Dark-haired. Not the Rio blonde. The pressed text was notification of their wedding, the date already passed. Daniel’s note said Dottie – I finally did it – you’re right, it’s the best thing ever, and ended with kisses and love, D. ‘You’re right’? Her name was Maria. ‘You’re right’? When had she ever said ‘It’s the best’? WHEN HAD SHE EVER SAID THAT? Dorothy crammed the card back into the envelope. The stamps were from Spain.
‘Andy,’ she said – the word just came out of her mouth. In the window behind him the image from the screen was reflected: another weather map. She stood in the bedroom doorway and decided to do it before there was time to think. ‘Turn off the TV.’ In the kitchen the toast popped. The dark, cooked smell made her feel a bit sick. Her husband raised a godlike arm towards the screen and it fell silent. Unconsciously – really, Dorothy? – she lifted the words from Daniel. ‘Andy, you’re right. It’s for the best. We’ll get a divorce.’
The invisible cage around him atomised. You could almost see it break up into particles and float away. ‘Dottie.’ He looked amazed. ‘We’re having the talk.’
The phone rang, and they looked at each other until she said, ‘It’s OK. Answer it.’ While he was talking, she went out on the deck and sat on his karate mat, then stood again and tried to do downward dog, and felt blood rush to her face and straightened up and walked to the edge of the kwila boards, her head thudding, and made herself stop, not move. The yellow leaves prinkling that dark green tree. Look. Orange droplets of rust on the wind chimes.
17. Hungry Creek
The comment thread was a comfort, largely because the older divorcees who posted there were much unhappier than her, and seemed to struggle with language. ‘Life is so cool to be sad and depressed.’ ‘God loves your wrinkle and your failing hearing.’ ‘YOU OWN NO ONE NO ONE OWNS YOU.’ But Dot knew she should wean herself off. Someone had written ‘I haven’t been lonely once.’ She closed down the connection and returned to the world – Grace’s small living room – the chaos of morning.
Her grandson was making goofy faces at the crockery cabinet’s reflective glass doors. ‘Frankie!’ An echo of words hung in the room – his mother had spoken, given an instruction – the sense evaporated. He sprawled on the floor and commando-crawled towards the mound of clothes on the sofa. His wrists landed on the cushions as though pulling himself