Simpson Returns Read online

  She had tried to attach a length of hose to the exhaust pipe—she’d seen it done this way in the movies and could not understand why the hose wouldn’t fit. Making fine incisions around its circumference didn’t make it any easier, nor the fifty-millimetre duct tape she went back to Sunbury to buy. She’d given the children something to make them sleep and spent ages trying to get the thing to work—but every time she turned the key the hose popped off. In the end with a thousand curses she hurled it all from her. She got back in the car, put her head on the steering wheel and wept.

  Her husband had left her. A store manager in a furniture warehouse, he had taken up with one of his employees, a blond-haired woman called Belinda, herself recently divorced. Each week he dropped off a little cash and a note for the kids in an envelope slipped under the door. He thought this would keep things quiet, and for a time it had, until Shelley casually mentioned this arrangement one morning to one of the school mothers outside the school gate. No, said the school mother, definitely not, this wasn’t right, her husband should pay her more and she should speak to someone about it.

  Later that week Shelley found herself sitting opposite a social-welfare advocate: a tall, well-built woman in a loose-fitting cotton dress with fashionably cut grey hair. Around the walls of her office were posters of rainforests and colour snaps of herself hiking in them. The woman asked how she could help. Shelley stumbled over her words at first—she found it difficult to talk about money—then shaped a few sentences that seemed to explain the situation. But I don’t mind, she said; I can manage. The woman moved some things around on her desk, then moved them back again. Well, she said, Shelley, there are strict rules in this country governing spousal maintenance—not to mention the fact that as a single mother you are entitled to a separate fortnightly payment. Are you keeping a diary? Shelley didn’t understand and asked did she mean of her feelings? The woman smiled and said no, her schedule. She took some booklets from the drawer, and, using them to explain what she called the child-support percentage and the basic formula, roughly calculated her husband’s financial obligations to her. She slid the piece of paper across the desk. Shelley could see the sweat marks left by her hands. These figures are estimates only, said the woman, but if I were you I would quickly find a way of formalising these payments, in the interests of both yourself and the children.

  Shortly after this conversation, Shelley rang her estranged husband and asked him to raise his support payments from the modest sum he was paying to a minimum of three hundred dollars a week. He told her to get stuffed and if she wanted he’d see her in court. Shelley was going to explain the basic formula to him but then he hung up.

  Shelley Jaecks held out as long as she could. She tightened the belt at home and made the kids go without. She delayed her bill-paying. She rang her parents for help—they had never been close—but they just gave her the usual lecture about standing on her own two feet. Eventually she made an appointment with a lawyer recommended to her by the social-welfare woman; Garrison Moore sent her home with some brochures and forms and told her to make another appointment with his secretary for the following week. She left feeling good about herself again, but when she got home she found a disconnection notice from the electricity company, a final notice on the telephone and another reminder about her credit card. The following day, more disconcertingly, she received a package from the lawyer outlining his exorbitant rates and the costs she had already incurred. After putting the children to bed, Shelley drank the cask of red wine she’d bought the previous day and chain-smoked the cigarettes she could no longer afford to buy. The next day she rang the lawyer and explained how she couldn’t afford to pay; she was sorry, she would have to drop the case. But then in what Shelley tragically believed was a suggestive tone of voice Garrison Moore said not to worry, it was fine, they could ‘make arrangements’ and she should come to his office the next day to discuss it.

  Shelley knew she was walking into something she would regret. But what else was she to do? She had three kids to support, a household to run. She put on her best dress, her best lipstick, put up her hair and dabbed herself with perfume. Outside Garrison Moore’s office she had one last nervous cigarette and popped a mint in her mouth.

  The thing is, said the lawyer, annoyingly clicking the end of his pen, your case is nothing unusual, I see this kind of thing all the time. The courts are clogged with them. I blame the times we live in, the messages we’re getting from people in high places who should know better; we’re encouraged not to care for others—I mean, human beings are like that anyway, they don’t need extra encouragement from above. He smiled. You have a strong case to force your husband to pay child support, it is entirely appropriate that he does, but I suspect he won’t think he has to until the judge tells him otherwise. So it is our job to get this case before a judge as soon as possible and present to him or her the facts.

  Garrison Moore grabbed a couple of things from his drawer; he was working with an efficiency gained from years of experience, he could almost do it blind. So far he had barely looked at Shelley, instead addressing various objects around the room: the potted plant, the framed certificate, the spare chair in the corner. So what I’ll need from you, Shelley, he continued, are just a few specific incidents where your husband has failed to provide. He placed the pen very carefully on the desk in front of him and waited for her to speak.

  Shelley had been listening, but only with one ear. With the other she was listening to the inside of her head which was telling her that she couldn’t wait, that it was up to her now, that all this talk from the lawyer was just evasion; the only reason he wasn’t looking at her was so she could say (and say quickly) what she had to say without embarrassment. About the payment, she said, with a slight stammer. She leaned towards him: Would you take something other than money? Of course the lawyer looked at the dark crevice there, but he didn’t look for long. He quickly chose another object in the room to give his focus to. Shelley slid one finger around the scooped neck of her dress, forcing it open a few millimetres more, and leaned a little further forward. She felt ridiculous, she’d never done anything like this before; her cleavage, ruined by three merciless mouths, was not even worth showing. I’m happy to give you what you want, she said, if you can help me: I’m mortgaged to the eyeballs, nothing’s paid for, everything’s on credit. You’ve got to help. Shelley’s eyes were glistening. I’ll do anything, she said.

  Garrison Moore finally looked at her. He was calm, as he always was when a client out of nowhere revealed their darker side to him. Mrs Jaecks, he said, please, thank you for your offer but I don’t think I’m the lawyer for you: we’ll end our session there if you don’t mind. Good luck, I hope you find someone who will help. No! said Shelley. Please, I’ll do anything! There’s nothing you can do, said the lawyer. He was on his feet now; he moved away from the desk and took up a position between it and the door. Please, he said. Shelley stood up. Garrison Moore put his hand on the doorhandle and opened it. From her desk in reception his secretary turned and looked in. You’ll have to go, said the lawyer. Now exposed to witnesses, helpless, humiliated, Shelley Jaecks had no choice. She picked up her handbag and left.

  The lawyer’s office was behind the main street, in one of those mini-malls that through an arcade opens out onto a wide, white-lit space surrounded by cafés and shops. Shelley bought a coffee and a doughnut, found a spare table and sat. She could feel her life going off the rails, could feel inside a clunk and screech as of a train leaving its tracks. There was a local paper lying on the table; she pulled it towards her and flicked through it and stopped at a page near the back.

  I’m hungry, Mum, said one of the kids. We’re starving, Mum, said another. They were all waking up. Shh, said Shelley Jaecks. What are we doing here? they said. I’m talking to the man with the donkey, said their mother. The boys all looked out the window. Can we ride him? they asked. Not now, said Shelley. They can ride him if they want, I said.

  From out of m
y pannier bags I distributed some cheese crackers. Let them stretch their legs for a while, I said, the fresh air will do them good. We all stood by the side of the road. It was very quiet. There were paddocks either side, dry but for a scattering of green weeds, the one on the left rising up gradually to the top of Mount Kororoit, formerly Mount Misery, more a hill than a mountain really, and from the top of which rose a telephone tower. Murphy stood tethered to a fencepost with a morose look on his face. Can we ride him, please? the children asked. What could their mother say? If her children could see my donkey (and, presumably, me) then they were as much a part of this strange conspiracy as she: we were all in it together. Yes, she said, but one at a time; and go carefully, please.

  It was hard for them to go either one at a time or carefully, so much did these few words excite them. I put up a policeman’s hand and asked for a moment’s patience. I removed the pannier bags and hung them on the fence. I untethered Murphy and led him into the adjoining paddock. I gave the reins to Thomas and helped little Cooper aboard. Now you watch he holds on, I said to Jake, the other one: and if the donkey won’t move you give him a poke. I gave him my favourite goad. Jake wasted no time in using it and Murphy bounced up into a trot. Cooper held on as best he could while Thomas ran alongside.

  They seem happy enough, I said to Shelley. She wiped her eyes and nodded. Murphy himself seemed to have rediscovered a lost youth, in his mind perhaps trotting down the dusty backstreets of his ancestral village, the children chasing behind. Certainly I’d never seen such a lightness in his step. My beast seems happy too, I said.

  Why did you stop? asked Shelley: You could have left me here to die. Inveterate Samaritanism, I said. But didn’t you say you were on your way somewhere? she asked. I am, I said, as always: but I never seem to get there. Then shouldn’t you stop stopping? she said—sensibly, I had to admit. But I can’t stop stopping, I said. Then you’ll never get there, she said. True, I said. We then watched the children for a while, skipping and stumbling as they followed a light-footed little-legged Murphy around the farmer’s paddock.

  The number that Shelley Jaecks had rung was the one in bold print in a small block ad under the name of Jasmine who, the ad said, offered a ‘full service with extras’ to discerning clients in the comfort of their homes. Jasmine was a busy woman, but there was something in Shelley Jaecks’ voice that stopped her hanging up. I’m desperate, she said; I need to make money, I want to know how to set myself up. Eventually Jasmine cut her off mid-sentence (Shelley was explaining the basic formula to her) and said, all right, yes, they could meet tomorrow at the shopping centre opposite the school. But how will I know you? asked Shelley. I’ll wear something red, said Jasmine.

  She did indeed wear red, all the way down to the painted nails. It’s like this, said Shelley, once they were seated in the food court: my husband’s left me—Men are bastards, said Jasmine—and I’ve got three boys still at school. He was paying me for a while but then he stopped. I’ve got debts coming out of my ears. I just want a bit of advice, she said; what to do, what not to do, how to stay safe. Jasmine ran a finger around the rim of her cup. Listen, she said, don’t get involved in this unless you really have to. Make him pay child support. It’s just to tide me over, said Shelley.

  She did the first job in a house in a nearby suburb with Jasmine waiting in the car, then with increasing frequency any number of jobs alone in countless other houses that all felt uncannily the same. She worked in school hours only, and always for cash up front. The streets were quiet, the blinds drawn, the air-conditioners softly hummed. Everything moved slowly, as in a dream.

  Meanwhile, with the grey-haired welfare woman’s help, she applied for a single-parenting payment and got it. She didn’t tell them about her other work. It was not unusual now for her to pick up the kids from school and take them out to dinner. She started buying luxuries for herself too; sometimes after a job she might choose a fifteen- or even twenty-dollar bottle of wine to drink alone in the evening after the children were in bed. As for her battle with her husband, she felt it was a battle she had already won. She didn’t need him, or his money—surely that in itself was a victory? He didn’t try to see the kids anymore; even he would have to acknowledge that along with his refusal to pay Shelley child support he had relinquished his claim to them.

  But then a friend of a mutual friend happened to tell her estranged husband about Shelley’s extravagances, how she’d been seen buying new clothes for herself and bottles, not casks, of wine. Her husband reported her—there was little Shelley could say in her defence. It was true, she had undertaken casual work and received undeclared income and in the eyes of the public servants now charged with assessing the information that had been forwarded to them, the ends could not justify the means. She was asked to pay back what she had, officially, been overpaid. But pay it back out of what? she asked. She had put a little money aside against any forthcoming bills but once that was gone she had nothing. How could she pay what she didn’t have?

  She rang Jasmine for advice; she knew how it would go. You’ll need to work more hours, said Jasmine, and do the things you’ve been refusing. That’s where the real money is. Now, when Shelley picked the kids up from school and tried to kiss them, something shivered in her. Sometimes, at night, drunk and just before the pills kicked in, she might have a small moment in which she could see what had happened, how it had happened, and how she might change it. But it was all too complicated, and in the battle between these complications and the numbness to be got from the pills, the pills always won.

  It surprised no-one that under these circumstances her husband should seek to drive home the dagger of revenge and apply for custody of the children. He, by contrast, was financially secure and had bought a new house with Belinda in the outer north-east, a rambling old weatherboard with land attached. Here the children could run and play, there was a school nearby, he would reduce his hours in the furniture business and spend more time with his kids who, the court said, Shelley Jaecks was to deliver to him before entering counselling and rehabilitation by the following Friday—today.

  With a steak knife she cut herself a length of garden hose, took a bottle of vodka from the freezer and stopped at the local petrol station where she put twenty dollars of petrol in the tank. While inside paying she also bought a big bottle of soft drink and a packet of lollies which she hoped would keep the children happy to the end. When they asked her where they were going she said to Grandma and Grandpa’s and, having said this, for some reason Shelley thought it a good idea. Surely now they would help her? She drove the hour there (they lived the other side of Ballarat) but as soon as she saw the empty driveway and the curtains drawn she reversed out again and drove back. This was when she drank most of the vodka. The kids were restless, arguing and demanding something to eat. She stopped and bought three buckets of chips and another bottle of soft drink. She gave them each a tablet and told them to wash it down with the drink (Cooper couldn’t swallow his; she had to hide it in a chip) and after a while things went quiet in the back seat, things went quiet throughout the world, aside from the crashing and breaking in poor Shelley Jaecks’ head.

  She turned off the highway towards home and found a secluded roadside stop out on the old Exford Road. She parked the hatchback under a couple of scraggy acacias, the driver’s seat facing the road, then sat and drank for a while. She tried the hose, but the exhaust pipe was double its circumference. After trying to widen the end with a stick and then cutting slits with a pair of nail scissors she still couldn’t get it to fit. She got back in the car and drove off to get some tape from the hardware in Sunbury but the car ran out of petrol. The children were still sleeping: she let the windows down a little and locked the doors. It was bright and sunny, early afternoon. She started walking, slipping on the gravel verge, over-correcting and swaying out onto the road. A car veered past and stopped a little way up ahead: a man in overalls got out and looked back. Are you okay? he asked. I’ve run out of petrol,
said Shelley.

  Was it the red hatchback? asked the driver. Shelley nodded. There were kids in there, he said. They’re asleep, she said. The driver turned and looked at her. You shouldn’t leave them there, he said. They’re all right, Shelley said, they’ve got lollies. They were just outside Sunbury. There’s a petrol station coming up, said the driver. I need to go to the hardware, said Shelley. The driver didn’t argue: he regretted stopping for this woman and wanted to rid himself of her as quickly as he could. She filled up a can at the petrol station and waved the driver on. They pulled up outside the hardware. Without so much as a thank you, Shelley got out and walked inside.

  In the bright-lit hardware store she took a roll of fifty-millimetre duct tape from the shelf, shoved it down her jeans and headed for the exit. A security guard was watching and in his windowless office out the back he gestured for her to sit. The duct tape sat on the desk between them, the petrol can on the floor beside Shelley’s chair. It was an old routine, he’d been through it many times. You have been observed putting a roll of duct tape down your jeans and attempting to leave the store today without paying: do you deny this? he asked. Shelley shook her head. The guard continued: Do you have an explanation as to why you have attempted to take this item from the store today without paying? Shelley looked up at him, tried to keep her head still and her eyes focussed. My husband sent me down here to buy it, she said, but he doesn’t know that I’ve spent all the housekeeping money on grog. If he finds out he will bash me, he bashes me all the time: I just need to get through today then sort things out but if I don’t come home in the meantime with his tape he’ll kill me. And the petrol? asked the guard. But now Shelley’s head had flopped down on her chest again.