off quick enough. Just remind me to come to the eviction party.”
The Doll lay back down on her sofa, and after a time drifted off to sleep. When she woke, she surfed the tv, taking none of it in, until she noticed the same security camera footage of Tariq and her on another station, blown up so that their distorted faces filled the screen.
“Police are fearful,” said a voiceover, “that two terrorists who escaped a midday raid at Potts Point may strike somewhere in Sydney any day.”
The Doll quickly changed stations, then switched the tv off, put some Cat Empire on up loud, then switched that off and put the tv back on. She tried to focus on Wilder’s advice, but wasn’t able to do what Wilder said; she couldn’t just focus on the good , and Wilder’s everything blows over seemed only a dumb cliché that turns out to be a lie. Rather than calming her, it made her uneasy.
The Doll turned the tv off once more. She fought her growing panic by grasping for words that might help hold her up as flotsam does a drowning man. But there were no words of hope, only a dimly perceived sense that something unknowable had changed, something terrible had taken place, and her life was no longer as it had been.
31
The Doll rang Wilder again.
“Wilder …” she said, and then she didn’t know what else to say.
“Can I come over?” the Doll asked finally. How could she say she was frightened? It was ridiculous—what was there to be frightened of? No, she wasn’t frightened.
“It’s nothing, really,” continued the Doll. “I just don’t feel like being by myself at the moment.”
Before leaving, she changed once more. She stared for some time at an old black Prada dress that she had never much liked because it seemed somehow bland and inconspicuous. And then she put it on.
She caught a taxi to a run-down brick tenement in Red-fern that Wilder had rented for as long as the Doll had known her. ‘It’ll pass,’ she told herself as she walked up to the front door, open to vent the house, thinking of all the shit she had waded through in her life and how, compared to that, this was nothing, really, nothing at all.
She walked down the narrow hallway to the rear of the cottage where a small extension doubled as a kitchen and family room. There, the Doll found Wilder lying on an old red leather couch, wearing only a black bikini and a denim mini, reading a Freedom Furniture catalogue.
“Oh, thank God it’s you, Gina,” said Wilder. “I’m dead.”
Wilder paused, picked up a can of UDL gin and tonic that sat next to the couch, sipped, and started talking again.
“You’ll make Max’s day. Did you see us last night? My back’s shot. That stupid dildo—my God, it was like carrying a baseball bat around. No wonder men moan all the time.”
There was a child’s yell from a room up the passage.
“Picked Max up an hour ago from his father and all he wants to do is play. All I want to do is die.”
A small boy clad only in a pair of wet Spider-Man jocks peeked his white-haired head shyly out from a doorway. When he saw the Doll, his face lit up and he bolted down the hall into her arms.
“Maxie!” the Doll cried, grabbing him and whirling him around. “You’re a big fella now! Two days to your birthday,” the Doll cooed. “How old?”
Max held up six fingers.
“Three!” said the Doll in mock surprise.
“Six,” said Max, “six years old.”
“How could I ever forget,” said the Doll, and she pulled him in to her, held him close, rubbed her face in his tiny chest, smelt him musty and doggy; felt him writhe, his limbs longer, his thrusts and clutches stronger, and every movement felt at once incredibly sweet and incredibly bitter to her, as if with his growth something in her receded and shrank, as if with his increasing brightness something further dimmed in her. And yet the Doll loved Max as if he were her own son, and Max loved the pretty dark woman who wrapped around him like a towel after
The Doll lay back down on her sofa, and after a time drifted off to sleep. When she woke, she surfed the tv, taking none of it in, until she noticed the same security camera footage of Tariq and her on another station, blown up so that their distorted faces filled the screen.
“Police are fearful,” said a voiceover, “that two terrorists who escaped a midday raid at Potts Point may strike somewhere in Sydney any day.”
The Doll quickly changed stations, then switched the tv off, put some Cat Empire on up loud, then switched that off and put the tv back on. She tried to focus on Wilder’s advice, but wasn’t able to do what Wilder said; she couldn’t just focus on the good , and Wilder’s everything blows over seemed only a dumb cliché that turns out to be a lie. Rather than calming her, it made her uneasy.
The Doll turned the tv off once more. She fought her growing panic by grasping for words that might help hold her up as flotsam does a drowning man. But there were no words of hope, only a dimly perceived sense that something unknowable had changed, something terrible had taken place, and her life was no longer as it had been.
31
The Doll rang Wilder again.
“Wilder …” she said, and then she didn’t know what else to say.
“Can I come over?” the Doll asked finally. How could she say she was frightened? It was ridiculous—what was there to be frightened of? No, she wasn’t frightened.
“It’s nothing, really,” continued the Doll. “I just don’t feel like being by myself at the moment.”
Before leaving, she changed once more. She stared for some time at an old black Prada dress that she had never much liked because it seemed somehow bland and inconspicuous. And then she put it on.
She caught a taxi to a run-down brick tenement in Red-fern that Wilder had rented for as long as the Doll had known her. ‘It’ll pass,’ she told herself as she walked up to the front door, open to vent the house, thinking of all the shit she had waded through in her life and how, compared to that, this was nothing, really, nothing at all.
She walked down the narrow hallway to the rear of the cottage where a small extension doubled as a kitchen and family room. There, the Doll found Wilder lying on an old red leather couch, wearing only a black bikini and a denim mini, reading a Freedom Furniture catalogue.
“Oh, thank God it’s you, Gina,” said Wilder. “I’m dead.”
Wilder paused, picked up a can of UDL gin and tonic that sat next to the couch, sipped, and started talking again.
“You’ll make Max’s day. Did you see us last night? My back’s shot. That stupid dildo—my God, it was like carrying a baseball bat around. No wonder men moan all the time.”
There was a child’s yell from a room up the passage.
“Picked Max up an hour ago from his father and all he wants to do is play. All I want to do is die.”
A small boy clad only in a pair of wet Spider-Man jocks peeked his white-haired head shyly out from a doorway. When he saw the Doll, his face lit up and he bolted down the hall into her arms.
“Maxie!” the Doll cried, grabbing him and whirling him around. “You’re a big fella now! Two days to your birthday,” the Doll cooed. “How old?”
Max held up six fingers.
“Three!” said the Doll in mock surprise.
“Six,” said Max, “six years old.”
“How could I ever forget,” said the Doll, and she pulled him in to her, held him close, rubbed her face in his tiny chest, smelt him musty and doggy; felt him writhe, his limbs longer, his thrusts and clutches stronger, and every movement felt at once incredibly sweet and incredibly bitter to her, as if with his growth something in her receded and shrank, as if with his increasing brightness something further dimmed in her. And yet the Doll loved Max as if he were her own son, and Max loved the pretty dark woman who wrapped around him like a towel after
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