‘What you got on today?’
‘Nothing special …’ Greer’s voice is muffled by the padding of the table top.
‘Long lunch, eh?’
‘Not exactly.’ He closes his eyes. Strong hands on his body. The smell of therapeutic oils. Silence. Nothing like silence, he thinks. The masseur starts on his shoulders.
‘So … what line of work are you in?’
This question, Greer does not like. When he has to fill out official forms, he is always as creative as possible with occupation. Explorer. Psychic researcher. Oxygen Metabolist. He’s done it all.
‘The oldest profession of all.’
‘Er …?’
He lets them sweat. ‘I’m a full-time carer.’
‘Oh, right. Oldest profession, yeah, I suppose it is. Ha ha.’
‘If you think about it.’
‘Nice one. So, how many?’
‘Three. Seven and five, but the five-year-olds are twins.’
‘And another on the way.’
The masseur whistles. ‘So you sent her out to work, did ya?’
‘That’s right. Sent her out to work.’
The masseur laughs. ‘They can bloody support us for a change, eh?’
‘How about you? Kids?’
‘Yeah, a girl. She’s thirteen. She’s a real little lady.’ He walks round the head of the table. ‘Yep, a real little lady. But it’s not like having a daughter. We’re best mates, eh. We can talk about anything. It’s not like that father-daughter sort of thing at all.’
Greer shifts on the table. Bet he doesn’t live with her.
‘Yeah, I wish I could see more of her but she’s down in Christchurch with her mum, so … you know.’
But Greer doesn’t know, not at all. Some people have no idea, he thinks, none at all. Silence again. The masseur moves to his back. The primal pleasure of being rubbed.
‘So tell me a bit about the old back.’ The masseur lays a proprietorial hand on Greer’s lower dorsal region.
‘Well it’s pretty sore. It’s stiff. If I get in the wrong position, sometimes it just goes. I get stuck. I can’t move. And it wakes me up at night.’
‘Does this hurt?’ The masseur places a thumb on one of Greer’s lower vertebrae. He presses, gently.
‘This?’ Pressing harder.
‘Not especially.’
‘This?’ His body jerks like a fish on the bottom of a boat as a million volts shoot from the base of Greer’s spine to the end of his left leg and back again.
‘Mm … not so … pleasant.’
The masseur starts to work, carefully. ‘Looks like you’ve got yourself a bit of disc trouble.’
‘I see.’
‘And the disc is pressing on a nerve.’
‘Cunning little devil.’
‘Been to the quack?’
‘Don’t believe in ’em.’
The masseur works for a while. When he speaks again, his tone is careful. ‘This is just something for you to think about, eh …’
Greer waits. He’s going to tell me how to run my life.
‘I mean this might not be you at all, right, but I get quite a lot of guys with lower back pain who are in a situation where the traditional roles are reversed, and where they’re, like, not the bread-winner.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yep. When the kids come along. That’s what does it.’
‘Does what?’
The masseur digs deeper. Greer tenses, but there is no pain. Instead a kind of dull melancholy rises up from the pit of his stomach. It reminds him of apricots. The masseur starts to talk again. ‘It’s all instinct. If you think about it in terms of evolution of the species, right, it was only yesterday us guys were out there spearing mammoths, right? And that was a job for the fellas. Right? I mean, no bull, the bigger, uglier and hairier you were, the better. That’s just how things were. Today, you start a family, that instinct is still there. It’s telling you, get out there and bring home the bacon.’
‘I thought you said mammoth.’
‘Cos instinct-wise, nothing’s changed. But anything else-wise, everything’s changed.’ The masseur starts on his legs. ‘Instinct. Yeah. So. All that instinct’s got to go somewhere. Right? So where does it go?’
‘I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.’
‘Straight to your lower back.’ He slaps Greer’s left buttock for emphasis. ‘I mean, that’s just something for you to think about. I’m not saying that is definitely you.’
‘Oh, that’s me all right.’
‘Yeah?’ The masseur sounds pleased. ‘Because a lot of guys find that hard to deal with.’
‘That’s because it is hard to deal with.’
The masseur bears down on a pressure point beside Greer’s left hip. Greer feels a dull, releasing pain. Again, apricots. ‘So you do get those kind of feelings from time to time?’
‘What, “Go hunt a mammoth you useless bastard.” That kind of thing?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh, all the time, there I am, down Lambton Quay on a Friday night, a mammoth waiting at the lights, and me without my spear …’
The masseur chuckles. He works at Greer’s left calf. It hurts. ‘You know what you have to do? If you get those thoughts coming up, you gotta jump on ’em. Knock ’em straight back down. Cos they’ll stress you. They’ll go straight to your back and they’ll stress you every time.’ The masseur works harder. It feels as if his leg is being savaged by a toothless pit bull. ‘Mate, these calf muscles are tighter than a fish’s arsehole.’
‘Hm.’
‘You know what you have to do?’
‘Hm?’
‘Listen to your body.’ The masseur leans on his work. ‘You want to know what your body is saying?’
‘Hm …?’
‘Your body is saying, chill. Chill, man, chill.’
On the way up the hill, for no good reason, Greer is having a good rational think about bank robbery. Assuming an initial outlay of say fifty dollars for a second-hand Chinese .22, plus a few more dollars for stockings, hair dye, razors and petrol, he calculates a return on investment of maybe a hundred thousand percent. That’s a very attractive proposition. Sure there are risks, but assuming adequate foresight and planning they’re probably easy to overstate. After all, the majority of criminals are young men and even some of them succeed. A mature balanced individual like himself would stand every chance of success in a properly conceived bank raid. Only trouble is, the way things are right now, he’d have to get the nice young man behind the desk to help him to the car. Forty years old and he’s walking like an octogenarian. The massage has done him no good at all. He won’t go back. He only went because he didn’t dare face the doctor.
Turning to the irrational side of bank robbery, he knows exactly which bank he’d rob. He knows the branch, too, and he knows the hostage he’d take. The manager. The one who in a recent mortgage meeting addressed the first three sentences to him:
1) Sit down, sit down.
2) Coffee, or tea?
3) What exactly are your respective incomes?
Miraculously, Greer became invisible from this point on.
A yellow Rolls Royce zooms up the road. There’s a young man at the wheel. Must be doing eighty kilometres an hour. Doesn’t he know that children die, every day, on streets like these, up and down the country, because young men like him drive too fast? Hurt my children, I kill you. Now there’s an instinct. Young men …
He puts a foot wrong, and pain stabs his buttock. There’s something seductive about it, all this pain.
He hates young men. They’re out of control. They have no sense of responsibility, fear or mortality. Young men ride their skateboards on the road and their mountain bikes on the footpath. They run, full tilt, through shopping malls. They laugh too loud. They drink beer during the day. Late teens to late twenties, they’re the ones. Like that terrible, irresponsible TV ad. The one where they’re playing soccer and they charge through a child’s sand castle. Sylvia said they were the Brazilian national soccer squad, but that just made it worse. The message was that it’s cool to kick the sand castles of innocent children. Well it isn’t cool.
He checks his watch. Two-twenty. Almost time to pick up the children. He’s got three days’ worth of washing in the basket, dishes from last night and this morning, the place hasn’t been vacuumed for a fortnight and the dog’s been crapping in the polyanthus again. While he is looking at his watch, the gradient of the hill changes abruptly. He staggers, there’s another agonising jolt through his lower back and down his left leg.
‘Jesus!’ he exclaims aloud. He can’t move. His upper body is inclined at an angle of about thirty degrees. He can’t straighten up and he can’t bend down. Nor, however, can he stay where he is. It’s a kind of paradox. He wants to giggle. His legs give way and he starts to fall, but just manages to get a hand out to a nearby wall. He leans against the wall, easing his back slowly, slowly. When he thinks he’s ready to walk again he sets off at an old man’s pace, every step a controlled, under-ambitious act. He shakes his head. Forty years old. Sixty’s going to be a blast.
He stops at the corner and looks back at the city, spread out in front of him, white in the sun, cradled between the hills. So many houses.
He walks on.
A few doors along is a newly completed block of townhouses. Next door, in the eternal shadow of the new block, is his own modest bungalow. Double-parked on the street outside the townhouses is the yellow Rolls Royce. A local motorist is easing his vehicle, with equally exaggerated care, through the narrow span of public road left available to him by the massive yellow saloon. The developer always double-parks.
The developer himself is standing on the footpath. He knows the developer, by sight. He’s seen him haranguing workmen on many a morning and afternoon over the last year and a half of intermittent construction. A year and a half of banging and drilling, of trucks and radios and an incremental blocking out of the sun.
He’d be hard to miss. Overweight, but tall. Flash suits. Collar-length reddish hair with a merino crimp to it, longer at the back than the sides: a truly ghastly haircut, a neo-Elizabethan nightmare. Drooping moustache. Yam for a nose. Suspicious, lost eyes that really wish they could trust you. Navy blazer with gold buttons with anchors on (he assumes the anchors, he’s never actually got that close), putty-coloured slacks, slip-on shoes, light as ballet slippers. Appears in a range of luxury cars. Mercedes, BMW, Audi – and of course the Rolls. Probably has more trouble deciding what to drive than what to wear.
Today the developer is haranguing an electrician: ‘What the fuckin’ hell am I supposed to fuckin’ think if he’s never fuckin’ here when he says he will?’ He spreads his bear-like arms to show his bewilderment and hurt. He looks up and down the street, wide-eyed. The electrician shrugs and scratches his neck. The developer pulls out his cell phone.
‘Where the fuck have you got to?’ he barks into the cell phone as Greer approaches.
The electrician goes back to his work. He’s got a panel open in the gate post, and a mass of blue and red wires spilling out like guts. The electrician checks the wires one by one with a voltage meter. He works very slowly. He’s a young man too. He looks Jamaican, but he’s got a tattoo on his arm of a dragon, over the legend CYMRU.
Greer picks his way with care across the broken-up, muddy, rubbish-strewn stretch of public footpath outside the units. Over the last year and a half, the developer has used the public footpath as a metaphorical lavatory. He has dumped the refuse of his construction on it, left water flowing across it for weeks on end, strung power cables across it – at neck height – stored materials on it, blocked it with concrete mixers, utility vehicles and luxury saloons, and now, when the units are complete, the signs are up and the window boxes planted, the only unfinished thing is the footpath.
Throughout the construction period, Greer has regularly phoned to complain about the footpath. The city council have been crisply, efficiently, useless. Every time he rings they put him through the same intricate and highly developed complaint logging procedure, noting the time of his call, his name, address, phone number, the details of his complaint, even giving him a special six-digit complaint identification number for ease of future reference. He is told that an inspector will go immediately to the site, to determine what action is necessary, and that he will be informed of the outcome. Nothing has ever happened.
At the gate to his once pleasant little bit of front garden, he stops and looks back. ‘When are you going to do something about this footpath?’ But the developer hasn’t heard him. He’s arguing on the phone. The electrician is watching, though, as Greer takes a step towards the developer. The developer, still talking on his cell phone, gets into his car and zooms off, still talking. The electrician gives Greer a half-smile, and shrugs.
‘Don’t worry about him, man, he’s just a cunt.’
That night, the Commonwealth Games are on TV. The children are in bed, the dog is snoring in the corner. Sylvia is exhausted. Greer is exhausted, and in a huff. He’s been in a huff all evening because Sylvia was late for dinner and she didn’t phone. She came in with a hang-dog expression and a story about a last minute call from head office and a computer crash, which only irritated him all the more because it sounded important and exciting.
‘Why didn’t you phone?’
‘I’m sorry, I forgot.’
‘You don’t care. You just don’t care.’
‘I do, I do care. I just forgot. God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
‘If you really cared, you wouldn’t forget.’
‘Everything happened at once, I didn’t get a chance. I’m sorry.’
‘For a ten-second phone call? The dinner’s ruined.’
‘Stop saying you’re sorry.’
Running over it now in his mind, he is astonished. Where does he get this stuff from? There he was in the hall, clutching a teatowel, hands on hips. If you really cared, you wouldn’t forget. Incredible.
After that the huff set in, and things went smoothly if silently. The children were bathed, brushed and bedded. The dog was tripped over (by Greer), kicked (by Greer), petted (Sylvia), fed (Greer) and kicked (Greer again). The dinner was eaten in silence.
Now, the Commonwealth Games is on TV, and Greer’s huff is close to expiring. A huff has a limited shelf life, and he is keenly aware that if he exceeds it he will provoke a counter-huff of even greater severity.
The 4 x 100 women’s relay is about to begin. The shining young women saunter to the starting line, shaking their legs and arms.
He reads the signs: Sylvia pouring a glass of water without offering him one. Sylvia getting out some papers without comment. Sylvia doing some work without apology. Greer has an uncomfortable feeling that he’s already left it too late. There’s nothing worse than the moment when you realise that you’ve overplayed your huff. Easy to do of course; huffmanship is a complex and subtle sport, demanding concentration, stamina and determination.
The runners are crouched on their blocks, their bodies taut.
‘If men are the sport-watchers of the nation, I cannot for the life of me understand why women’s athletics is not the most popular sport on television.’
Nothing. Not a flicker.
He sighs and looks across at her. She’s doing her tax return. He knows what the big figure is. Total taxable income. He did his own return earlier in the month. Took him ten minutes.
The starter’s pistol cracks.
The IRD is the one institution with whom he resists the temptation to be creative about his job description. Housewife is what he puts. Housewife, followed by a string of zeroes. That pretty much sums it up.
He yawns, ostentatiously. ‘God, I’m shagged.’
It might as well be the sphinx sitting next to him, doing her tax return.
The young women are flying, their toes barely touching the ground.
Greer sniffs, wrinkles his nose. ‘Jesus, that dog needs a bath.’
Cold silence.
There is a roar from the television as a shining young woman, her bright blond hair flapping madly like a banner, bursts through the tape just ahead of several other shining young women. The four members of the winning team embrace, tears of joy in their eyes.
‘And chance of a refund then?’
‘Fuck off.’
A breakthrough. But be careful, mustn’t be too chatty, he’ll only come across as desperate. He yawns again, gets up and goes to the kitchen. His back is hurting. The kitchen is a mess. He actually caught up, briefly, today, about four-fifteen in the afternoon, just after he finally got last night’s put away and before he had to start on dinner for the kids. He still remembers that moment of purity, the bench clean and white, stretching away from him like a prairie.
Careful to make just enough noise so she’ll hear it in the lounge, but not enough so she’ll think he’s doing it on purpose, he clatters the dishes as he tidies.
‘How’s the back?’ Guarded tone, flat delivery. She comes up behind him, pours another glass of water. Careful now.
‘Oh, can’t complain.’ He turns and smiles bravely. Bravery is becoming a salient feature of domestic life. Sylvia is brave about working far too hard for a woman in her condition; Greer is brave about his lack of prospects and his back. ‘Feeling sick?’
‘Not particularly.’ She smiles bravely, and picks up a teatowel. She sighs heavily. ‘God I’m tired.’
‘Oh don’t.’ He regrets it the moment he’s said it.
‘Don’t what?’
‘There’s nothing more tiring than talking about how tired you are.’
‘I bloody am tired.’
‘So bloody am I. That’s the point.’ Damn. Damn damn damn. ‘Listen, kid, I know you’re tired, hell, I’m tired myself, if we weren’t tired we wouldn’t be human.’
She hits him with the teatowel.
‘Hey.’
She hits him again.
‘What’s that for?’
‘For being so bloody grumpy all the time.’
‘I wasn’t being grumpy, I was being amusing.’
She shakes her head.
The dishes are done. It’s now ten-thirty. They’re shagged, fucked, utterly exhausted. His back is burning. Her stomach is queasy. His leg aches. Her vision is blurred. All they can think of is bed. And now, to work.
‘What about this? Four bedrooms, secluded bush setting.’
‘Forget it.’ Sylvia turns a page aggressively.
‘No sun.’
‘But it doesn’t say anything about sun.’
‘Exactly. Unless it specifically says “all-day sun” or at least “sun-drenched” it’s as dark as the pit of hell.’
‘Okay what about this then – “sun-drenched site, drive-on access, family living at its best, range three-fifty–four-fifty”.’
‘How many bedrooms?’
‘Five. And a double garage, and a study.’
She looks across the table. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Not far.’
‘Where?’
‘Upper Hutt.’
She rolls her eyes. He’s always trying this one on. ‘I’m not living in Upper Hutt.’
‘Might be nice. Move out to the suburbs, get a horse …’
‘And drive forty minutes to work. Forget it.’
‘Some people commute two hours a day.’
‘Some people are stupid.’
‘The children would love it.’
‘I am not going to live in Upper Hutt. Face it. Why do you think it’s so cheap out there?’
He’s gone back to the paper. ‘Hey, wait a second, look look look. Now this is a serious proposition. Northland, four bedrooms, spa – nice touch – drive-on access …’
She’s leaning over his shoulder. ‘We’ve been there. Number forty-four. The one with the holes in the ceiling. Remember?’
He looks again. ‘Cunning bastards, they’ve changed the picture.’
By eleven-fifteen they’ve been through the property sections in both papers. They’re ringed half-a-dozen possibles. Greer will make the calls tomorrow.
By midnight, they’re in bed.
‘Sex.’
‘Yer what?’
‘You know. Sex.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘Yeah, that.’
‘I remember that. We used to do that, didn’t we?’
‘Like rabbits.’
‘That’s right. It was quite fun, wasn’t it?’
‘Mm-hm. Quite.’
‘Lights out?’
‘Lights out.’
‘Good night, dear.’
‘Sleep well and all that.’
Silence. Purple blotches in front of his eyes. His left foot is tingling. ‘I saw the bastard today.’
‘How was he?’
‘Fucking disgusting. A haircut to die of.’
‘Was he in the Mercedes?’
‘The Rolls.’
‘The yellow one?’
‘There is only one Rolls, sweetheart.’ Condescending.
‘I thought there were two.’
‘Not Rollses, BMWs. There are two BMWs. A yellow and a green. A 318i and a 740L. The 318 is the yellow one. It’s got spoilers. The 740 hasn’t.’ He shifts, gets a jolt, and grimaces in the dark. The purple blotches explode, scatter and regroup. ‘Remind me to phone the council tomorrow.’
‘I thought they never did anything.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m going to tell them.’
She plumps her pillow, and puts a hand on his arm. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’
He knows perfectly well there won’t be any good news. ‘Oh, the good news, by all means.’
‘I get a refund on my tax return.’
‘How much?’
‘Four dollars.’
‘Four dollars? Well, why didn’t you say so? Now we can buy that Roseneath residence with en-suite swimming pools and turbo bum-cleaner.’
His hip is already beginning to ache. He wonders how long he will sleep tonight. He’s been sleeping on his front the last couple of days because lying on his back hurts too much. As for lying on his side, the only position in which he finds it possible actually to sleep, that’s been out for the last week. He tries to find a more comfortable position. No dice. ‘What’s the bad news?’
‘I have to go to Auckland next week.’
‘Fuck.’
‘All-day meeting.’
Be brave. ‘When?’
‘Tuesday.’
‘What flight?’
‘The red-eye.’
‘Holy Jesus, Mother of God.’
‘Thought I was the lapsed Catholic in this house.’
‘Beg your absolution.’
‘Granted.’
He sighs. ‘When do you get back?’
‘Nine. And it’s Holy Mary, Mother of God.’
‘What did I say?’
‘Holy Jesus.’
‘Holy Jesus, Mother of God?’
‘I’m losing it. Holy Jesus.’
‘Mother of God.’
‘Night.’
‘Night.’
He shifts to get comfortable, but it only hurts the more. He groans.
‘Was that you groaning?’
‘Either that or we’ve got company.’
‘I feel sick.’
‘Why are we doing this?’
‘Doing what?’
‘Whatever we’re doing.’
‘What choice do we have?’
‘Oblivion.’
‘Nope, can’t do that. We’ve got children.’
‘Let’s face it. We’re husks of our former selves. We’re tired, depressed, our lives are meaningless, and our bodies don’t work. And from here on it only gets worse.’
‘If only we could find a house that we actually like, and is big enough for a family of four children, and we can actually afford.’
‘For Chrissake, this is ridiculous. If people like us can’t afford suitable houses, who can? We’re middle class. We’ve got it easy.’
‘We can’t complain can we?’
‘Middle-class complaining is traditionally frowned upon.’
‘And with good reason. I mean, God, once you’ve got the middle class complaining, you know what you’ve got.’
‘What?’
‘Revolution, that’s what.’
‘Oh, yeah.’
‘G’night.’
She reached out again. He feels her hand on his shoulder. ‘Will you still love me when I’m old and decrepit?’
‘Not a chance.’ She punches his arm. ‘Anyway, by the time you’re old and decrepit I’ll be old and dead.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Men always die first.’
‘Not always.’
‘Usually.’
‘How’s your blood pressure?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Weren’t you supposed to go to the doctor?’
‘I’m not going to see that bastard.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s going to put me on pills next time I see him, that’s why.’
‘Beta-blockers.’
‘For your blood pressure?’
‘Yeah. They calm you down too.’
‘You won’t know yourself.’
‘You know what the side-effects are?’
‘What?’
‘Loss of libido.’
They laugh, hollowly.
‘That’s something to do with sex isn’t it?’
‘Sex?’
‘Yeah, you know. That thing.’
‘Oh, that.’
He wakes at two a.m., on the dot. His hip is on fire. He suppresses a groan, and rolls out of bed. His back is so stiff he can’t reach to put shoes on, but he slips on a dressing gown. He goes into the hall. If he can walk it off, maybe he’ll get some sleep. He paces the hall for a bit, until Sylvia calls from the bedroom: ‘Can you not groan quite so loud, please?’
‘Sorry,’ he calls back, ‘I’m just in fucking agony out here.’ But there’s no answer. He sighs. He’s going to have to go outside. He limps to the kitchen and takes too many Disprin.
The moonlight is pouring down, saturating everything. The grass is white-blue. Cool between his toes. The stars are visible on the horizon, but for the rest of it, it’s just this huge cold fish of a moon. He wonders if it’s gibbous. He suspects it might be. He begins to pace. Up and down, up and down, from the fence to the hedge and back again. Every now and again he throws in a moan. He works out a routine. He does a single moan in the middle of the garden, and then a double moan at each end of the beat. He looks up at the moon. He moans. He’s moaning at the moon. ‘Things can’t go on like this,’ he says, aloud, to the moon. The moon shines down.
A half hour later the Disprin is taking just enough of the edge off. He can cut the moaning. He goes back to bed, eases himself in beside his sleeping, exhausted, pregnant, hardworking, very slightly snoring wife, and stares at the moon on the curtains. At some point he begins a fitful doze, but not a single one of the hours on the glowing face of the digital radio alarm escape him: three o’clock, four o’clock, five o’clock, he greets each one.
The alarm rings at six. Sylvia moans and gets out of bed. He tries to roll out of bed too and succeeds, but when he tries to stand he has to lean on the bedside table with all his weight to get into a position even approximating vertical.
Sylvia’s in the shower as he lurches to the kitchen, bracing himself on walls and in doorways. The children are still in bed. He decides to make lunches, fumbles in the cupboard, working with one supporting hand on the bench-top. His torso has skewed off to one side, and his back feels like concrete. He gets the bread on the bench, and the makings, but one-handed spreading of peanut butter sandwiches is an impossibility. He ends up waving the slice of bread on the end of the knife, like a flag of surrender. He shifts his weight, curses as the pain surges, gasps, puts both hands on the bench and carefully slips down the wall to the floor. He crawls back to the bedroom, hauls himself onto the bed and lies face down, breathing shallowly. Sylvia comes back from the shower.
‘Where’s my bra?’
‘Do you think you could get my jeans started?’ Unable to reach his knees, let alone his feet, he’ll have to rely on charity to get dressed this morning. Sylvia slips yesterday’s jeans over his feet and jerks them up to his thighs. He groans, and works them up the rest of the way. He isn’t even going to think about showering. ‘Socks?’ Swiftly, Sylvia finds him some socks, puts them on, and follows up with a pair of sneakers. She kneels and laces them for him. She strides about the room, frantic.
‘God, I’m so tired.’ She vanishes.
There’s a crash, a thump and a squeal. His body tenses involuntarily, and his ears prick up like an old dog at the hunting horn. Instinct. He should be there in the kitchen. He’s always there. There’s a crash as something biggish bounds into the room. He’s too exhausted to turn his head to see. It’s either Nathan or the dog. A wettish snuffling in his ear. Nathan.
‘Mum says are you going to make the lunches.’
‘Tell Mum sorry but I can’t move.’
Nathan bounds out. Greer decides he’d better try to get up. He puts a hand on the bed and tries to roll over, but it just hurts too much. Everything hurts.
Nathan’s back. ‘Mum says did you do any underpants for me?’
‘In the dryer.’
Crash. He’s gone. He can hear his ear-shattering soprano in the kitchen: ‘Dad says they’re in the dryer.’
An inaudible murmur. Crash. Nathan’s back. ‘Mum says did you iron her shirts yesterday like you promised.’
‘Shit.’
Crash. In the kitchen: ‘Dad says shit.’
‘No!’ calls Greer, ‘I didn’t say shit!’ No response. ‘Fuck!’ Gritting his teeth, he forces himself onto the floor, on his knees. He crawls to the kitchen doorway and climbs up the wall and onto his feet. He stands in the doorway, leaning heavily on the door frame, sweat beading his brow. ‘Sorry,’ he gasps.
She’s doing the sandwiches in her bra. Nathan’s eating toast, wearing his underpants on his head. Katie’s eating prunes, and her twin, Bella, is running round the room making aeroplane noises. The dog watches Katie eat her prunes, from bowl to mouth and back to bowl, like a tennis match. ‘I’ll wear yesterday’s.’
‘They won’t eat that jam. They don’t like it.’
Sylvia looks up from the sandwiches. She compresses her lips.
‘Well they don’t.’
‘Too late now.’ She drops the sandwiches in the boxes. He decides to say nothing about the raisins. ‘I have to go. I’ll have to get a taxi, I’m going to be late. Will you be all right to drive them?’
‘Yep.’ He pushes off from the door jamb to demonstrate and almost faints, but Sylvia hasn’t noticed. She grabs her briefcase, kisses the nearest child, pecks him on the cheek, and is gone.
He takes stock. He has to get the kids to school. He has to get down the path and into the car. ‘Nathan, come here.’ Nathan bounds over. ‘I want you to listen very carefully. Nathan, take your underpants off your head.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t talk to a boy with his underpants on his head.’
‘Why not?’
‘What in God’s name have you got on under your trousers anyway?’
‘They’re not trousers, they’re shorts.’
‘What’s under them?’
Nathan thinks. ‘Nothing,’ he says, brightly.
Katie is giving her prunes to the dog. ‘Katie! Stop that! The dog’s going to be inside all day.’
He turns back to his son. ‘Listen. I need you to help me, Nathan. Can you do that?’
‘Sure.’
‘I need you to put your underpants where they’re supposed to be. Then, I need you to help me get these two into the car.’
‘Easy-peasy.’ Nathan turns to the nearest twin, grabs her by the ear and begins to drag her, squealing like a stuck pig, towards the front door.
‘Nicely, Nathan, nicely!’
Nathan rolls his eyes.
‘And let’s start with the underpants.’
They make it to school, somehow, only twenty minutes late. After the kids have gone he forces himself to walk up and down the footpath, trying to get his back into some sort of working order. If he can just get it going, he’ll be all right. Late morning, early afternoon are his best times. After five or ten minutes he’s managed to correct the sideways skew, and he’s beginning to feel a little better. When he gets home he parks outside the front gate. In order to get out of a car, it is generally necessary to duck one’s head by about five or six inches. But this, he cannot do. If he tries to duck his head, a sharp tingling starts at the top of his buttocks. By the time his head has travelled two inches the sharp tingling has become an intense jabbing pain. From here the pain increases logarithmically. He sits for a few moments, sweating with frustration. He can see the electrician from yesterday, still working on the front gate of the units next door. He hesitates, then blows the horn. The electrician glances up, looks around, then goes back to his work. He blows the horn again. The electrician looks up again, sees Greer this time. Greer waves him over. The electrician waves back, and goes on with his work. Greer blows the horn again, and waves more urgently. The electrician puts down his screwdriver and saunters over, looking cautious.
‘Can I help you, man?’
‘I’m sorry but I wonder if you could move my leg for me.’
It takes them almost five minutes to manoeuvre him onto the footpath and over to the electrician’s gatepost, where Greer leans, panting.
‘Are you going to be all right man?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine, it’s just getting started. I’ll rest here for a minute then I’ll be right as rain.’
‘Well all right, man.’ The electrician doesn’t look convinced, but he takes up the screwdriver again. Greer watches. He’s always admired the skill of an honest tradesman.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Fixing this fucking gate, man.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Doesn’t fucking work, does it?’
He can’t tell if he sounds Jamaican or Welsh. ‘Where’s the boss?’
‘How would I know?’
‘How do you put up with him?’
‘He’s just a cunt, man, you get used to them in my line of business. He’s just a spoilt child. Believe me, I should know man.’ Probably Jamaican, thinks Greer.
‘Got kids yourself?’
‘No man, but I’m a spoilt fucking child myself. Takes one to know one, man.’
‘I’ve got three.’
‘For God’s sake, man, tie a fucking knot in it before it’s too late.’ On the other hand, could be Welsh.
‘It is too late.’
The electrician shakes his head. ‘What a bloody tragedy.’
Greer laughs, and a stab of pain travels up one leg. He leans more heavily on the gatepost. ‘Don’t you want kids?’
‘Can’t afford them, man. The wife, she wants kids, but I say to her, no fucking way, you stay at work until the fucking van’s paid off and we have a fucking deposit on a fucking house. I’m not bringing up kids in rental fucking accommodation.’ No, must be Jamaican.
‘But you do want kids?’
‘I’m resigned to the inevitable, man.’
‘What’s your wife do?’
‘She’s a receptionist but she goes to night school. She works fucking hard she does and a fucking bloody brain box she is too. She works harder than me. I don’t know how she does it. I get home every night and I switch on the television. Put my feet up and drink a beer. Or else I’m down the pub. But my wife, she gets home and she hits the fucking books.’ Welsh-Jamaican?
‘Good for her.’
‘And in bed, great God almighty in heaven, I can’t tell you. She’s a real woman all right.’ Welsh, definitely.
‘Been married long?’
‘Six weeks, man.’ The electrician sighs. ‘I tell you this for free, man, if women were running the fucking world today we wouldn’t be in the bloody fucking mess we’re in, man.’
‘Aren’t they?’
‘Aren’t they what?’
‘No, it’s a man’s fucking world all right.’
‘How do you figure that?’
‘Just look at the bloody fucking mess we’re in, man. That’s man’s work, man. No woman would do that, man.’
There’s a subdued eight-cylinder murmur behind them. Without turning around he knows it’s the Rolls. The developer comes across to the gate, ignoring Greer.
‘Gonna get that finished this arvo?’
The electrician shrugs. ‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
Greer feels solidarity. He wants to say something devastating but he can’t think of anything. The developer looks at Greer, up and down. Greer notices he has been parked in. They eye each other like knife fighters.
‘Are people actually buying these things?’ It was supposed to be caustic and cutting but it came out peevish.
The developer looks away, down the street. All Greer can see is the back of his head. ‘Yeah, they’re moving.’
‘How many have you sold?’
The developer squints at the sky, then back down the street. ‘Got one away. We’ll flick the rest on.’
‘It’s taken you long enough.’
‘First guy went belly-up. Council changed the rules on him.’ His tone is matter-of-fact. The developer dials a number on his cell phone. He lifts it to his mouth.
‘Sort of a Mediterranean look,’ says Greer, loudly, unwilling to be dismissed. The developer glances at Greer, then up at the building behind him. There’s a huge sign across the front: MEDITERRANEAN LIFE-STYLE UNITS. He turns away and presses the phone to his ear.
‘So when are you going to clean up the footpath?’
The developer looks away from Greer, down the street, way, way down the street. He starts to mutter into his cell phone.
‘I’m going to need my car in a while,’ says Greer, easing his weight off the gatepost. He’s skewed off to the side again, but he can walk.
There are six answerphone messages, all from real estate agents. He works through them, standing at the table in the hall, noting phone numbers, addresses, numbers of bedrooms. Then he starts ringing back.
‘Greer, how are you?’
‘Graham, great, thanks. Fury Crescent …?’
‘I think this really could work for you. It’s a lovely, tidy little –’
‘Is it sun-drenched?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Oh, sure, it gets sun.’
‘But is it drenched?’
‘Drenched?’
‘Has to be drenched.’
‘I’d say more … sunny and sheltered.’
‘Appreciate your honesty.’
He makes one appointment, for midday. Then he rings Sylvia: ‘I’ve got a possible at twelve.’
‘Sorry I can’t today.’
‘I’ll have a look and tell you about it.’
He puts on a load of washing, hooking the clothing items one at a time out of the basket, with a straightened-out wire coat hanger. He eats a couple of bananas and starts to feel better. When he comes down to the street at twenty past eleven, he’s walking more or less smoothly. He thinks he might be able to get back into the car.
He’s still parked in. There’s no sign of the developer. He goes over to the electrician.
‘Upstairs.’ The electrician points with his screwdriver.
It’s a top-floor flat, three bedrooms. Light floods into the west-facing windows. The smell of new paint, the thickness of new carpet, but the room is the size of a cupboard. It’s crap housing and in ten years it’ll be a slum. There’s no sign of the developer. Greer goes to the windows. It’s a fantastic day, sunny and clear. To his left the view opens out right across the city to the brooding varicose hills on the far side. To his right is a glittering slice of the inner harbour. This is his view. He’d recognise it anywhere. He used to stand at his front door and watch this view change with the seasons and the times of day. Now he stands at his front door and enjoys the back of the townhouses. He can see the Rolls in the street, parking him in.
There’s a loud cough behind him. ‘Can I help you, mate?’ The developer has come from the bedrooms. He puts his hands on his hips.
‘I asked you to move your car.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘You’ve parked me in, that’s the problem.’
The developer turns around, reaching for his keys. Greer can’t help himself. ‘When are you going to fix that bloody footpath?’
There’s no mistaking the belligerence of his tone. The developer stops, his small eyes shimmying. ‘When the fuckin’ builder comes round and finishes the fuckin’ job, that’s when.’
‘And when’s that going to be?’
The developer shrugs, spreads his arms wide. ‘Ask him.’
‘I’m asking you.’
The developer shakes his head, turns around and goes down the stairs.
‘It’s your responsibility!’ Greer is almost shouting, but the rounded, bearish shoulders have disappeared downstairs. Incensed, Greer follows. He comes out into bright sunshine, and is momentarily blinded. The developer is already reversing his car.
The electrician sings under his breath: ‘He’s a cunt, he’s a cunt, he’s a cunt, yeah yeah yeah yeah, he’s a cunt he’s a cunt, yeah yeah he’s cunt, he’s cunt, he won’t change any mo-ore He grins and winks. Jamaican, no question.
Greer looks at his watch. Eleven forty-five. He’s going to be late now.
Greer is standing on a buffalo-grass lawn. At his feet a bush clad hillside plunges dramatically all the way to the gleaming surface of the city reservoir. Beyond the reservoir is the city itself, shining and distant, fading into the shimmering blue harbour. Above and beyond, above the haze, are the mountains. They’ll be snow-capped in winter. Greer stands and inhales the view. Beside him, old-fashioned roses are arranged in beds. Bees are humming. The sweet smell of honeysuckle flows up the bank.
Behind him is a wide, level lawn, perfect for cricket, for romping and rolling, bordered by graceful shade trees. Behind the lawn is a quaint three-bedroom cottage. Tatty, to be sure, but lovably so. Short a bedroom, yes, but there’s room to build.
He looks around. There isn’t another house in sight. And as for the sky; up here the sky is as wide as the day is long. And how long is the day? It’s as long as the sun is in the sky. And as for the sun; drenched doesn’t begin to describe it. This is the real thing. This is sun as God intended it: true, full, unabbreviated sunshine from arsehole to breakfast, from breakfast to dinner, from sunrise to sunset. Whatever the South Pacific gets, this site gets it too. This is All Day Sun. Greer is dizzy with joy. He has completely forgotten his back.
‘Nice little spot, eh?’ There’s a young man in a shiny suit leaning on the woodpile, but Greer doesn’t care, he loves all life forms equally. He turns to him, his eyes shining. ‘I need to call my wife.’ The young man holds out a cell phone. Greer dials.
‘I’ve found it.’
‘My shirt?’
‘Our house. I’ve found it. It’s fantastic. It’s got roses.’
‘How many bedrooms?’
‘Don’t worry about all that, I’m coming to get you now.’
‘I’m in a meeting.’
‘Get out of it.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You have to. I’m serious.’
‘I’m sure.’
He arranges to meet the agent back here in forty minutes, walks almost briskly to the car.
He drives as fast as he can. Sylvia is waiting on the street. He babbles all the way back. At first she is infected by his enthusiasm, but as the road winds up out of the city and into the hills, she falls silent.
He drives right up to the front door. Gingerly, he clambers out. ‘Come and see the view.’ But she has already gone into the house. He follows.
She’s standing in the hall. She can’t bring herself to look at him, and her voice is low, controlled. ‘There are only three bedrooms.’
‘I know, I know, but we could easily build onto the kitchen.’
‘Who wants a bedroom off the kitchen?’
‘So we’ll move the kitchen.’
She steps into the kitchen and looks around.
‘They sure built ’em to last back then,’ says the agent.
‘We couldn’t possibly afford to do what has to be done here.’
‘Yes we could.’
‘No we couldn’t.’
‘If we get it for three-fifty.’
‘They’re asking four and a half.’
He can’t keep the pleading out of his voice. ‘Come and look at the garden. Just come and see.’
She follows him to the garden. He turns to her with his arms outspread. ‘Look at it,’ he says. ‘Look at it.’
She nods but her face is dead. ‘Very nice.’
‘It’s all day sun.’
Sylvia looks at him. She ticks off on her fingers. ‘The house is too small and it’s a mess. It’s dark, damp and needs major repair. It’s twenty minutes drive to the city in good traffic. I grant you the garden is nice …’
‘And the sun.’
‘The sun is good.’
‘No. It’s perfect. Perfect.’
‘All right, the sun is perfect. But everything else is completely wrong. And who’s going to look after a garden like this?’
‘I am.’
‘With your back?’
All the way back to town, Greer is trying to think of a reason why he should be married to this woman. He can think of three. He has to pick them up in an hour.
Dropping her off, he speaks flatly. ‘I don’t want you to go to Auckland next week. I’m in constant back pain and I can’t manage.’
She turns on him. ‘You resent my job, don’t you?’
‘I resent being taken for granted.’
‘I resent being made to feel guilty for having to work.’
‘Well I resent…’ He trails off. What exactly does he resent?
‘If you don’t like it, get a job yourself.’
As she gets out, she turns to him. ‘I’m going to be in a meeting for the rest of the afternoon, trying to make up for the time I’ve wasted today. I’m going to leave my secretary instructions not to pass on any calls. Including you.’ She slams the door, and storms into the building. He revs the engine as he goes.
The developer is leaning on his Rolls Royce, dialling a number on his cell phone. There is a man in green overalls scrubbing the window boxes under the ground-floor windows of the units. Water is running across the broken-up footpath, reducing it to a quagmire. Greer recognises the hose he’s using. It’s his hose. It’s connected to his tap, just inside the gate, on his property.
He gets out of the car. He walks towards the developer. He can’t see clearly through a thin red haze. As he passes the gatepost, he trips on a piece of four-by-two lying on the torn-up surface of the footpath. He gives a shout, and catapults forward, landing on his hands and knees. He whimpers, topples slowly onto his side, and lies in the mud, gasping like a fish out of water. The electrician hurries over.
‘Are you all right, man?’ He looks scared.
The developer comes over too, but stays at a distance. Greer is having trouble breathing. ‘This is your doing.’ He gasps at the developer. ‘This is your fault. I’ve complained a hundred times about this footpath and no one’s done a thing. I’ll sue, I’ll sue.’ He begins to weep.
The electrician looks at the developer. The developer looks at the man in green overalls, who looks at the electrician.
‘Shall I call an ambulance?’ says the developer.
‘Do you want an ambulance, man?’ The electrician bends down to Greer.
‘No,’ says Greer. He lies still. He sighs.
‘Do you think you can get up, man?’ says the electrician.
Greer makes a tentative move of his head, but collapses, gasping. He giggles, then falls silent. He notices the sky behind the electrician’s head. He’s all right, this electrician. He’s a young man, but he’s all right.
‘Well, what do you want to do, man?’
‘Is he all right?’ asks the developer, again. Greer can see the apprehension in his face. You’re worried now, you bastard. Greer concentrates fiercely on the electrician.
‘Tell him to –’ He breaks off.
‘What is it, man?’
‘What’s the time?’
‘My kids. I have to pick up my kids at three.’
‘Isn’t there someone we can phone for you, man?’
Sylvia’s face flashes before his eyes. ‘No. There’s no one.’ The electrician looks up at the developer. The developer looks at the man in green overalls. The man in green overalls looks at the developer. The developer looks up the street.
‘So what do you want to do?’
‘Just get me to my car.’
The electrician shakes his head. ‘I don’t think you should be driving, man.’
‘I have to pick up my children.’
The developer looks down the street. There is no one coming to his assistance. ‘All right, all right. I’ll go and pick up the kids. What do they look like?’
But Greer shakes his head. ‘They’d never accept a lift from a stranger. You’ll have to take me.’
Acting under Greer’s instructions, moving very slowly, the two men help Greer into the car. He lies across the back seat. The leather is yellow, and soft as a baby’s skin against his cheek. The whole car smells new. He closes his eyes and hears the heavy thunk of the driver’s door swinging shut.
‘Where to?’ The developer’s voice is full of controlled aggravation.
Greer names the school. ‘And make it quick. I have to be there in five minutes.’
‘Jesus Christ, they’ll wait for you, won’t they?’
‘I’m never late.’ The developer mutters something, the car surges forward, and Greer falls silent. Pins and needles shoot up and down his leg, and his left buttock and lower back throb mercilessly. They drive.
‘Where are we?’
‘Cambridge Terrace.’
‘Jesus. I thought we’d be halfway up Dixon Street by now.’
‘It always seems longer if you can’t see where you’re going.’
They drive. The engine sounds like an animal. Greer casts about in his mind for the right animal.
‘We’re turning right into The Terrace.’ The developer’s words are borne out by a sharp right turn that presses Greer’s feet into the opposite door. His spine explodes in all directions. Molten shards pierce liver, kidneys, spleen and lungs.
Greer moans.
‘You right, mate?’ Even the developer sounds concerned.
‘Yes, yes, yes, drive, drive,’ Greer snaps, but the developer sneaks a look over his shoulder. His moustache droops in alarm.
‘Jesus, you look fucked.’
‘Just drive the fucking car!’ he shrieks. Reason has left the building. The developer drives. Greer presses his face into the seat, his fingers digging into the leather. Time stops. Finally, the deep roar of the beast drops to a subdued murmur.
‘Here we are,’ says the developer. He leans over the seat and his face is almost tender. ‘You still with us?’
‘Open the door.’
The developer gets out and opens the door. If he raises his head, Greer can now see across the road to the school gate. They’re there, standing by the gate, looking around. Nathan is balancing on a wall and the twins are watching him. Katie turns for a moment, and looks across the road. She’s looking right at him, but she doesn’t see. ‘Katie,’ calls Greer, feebly, but it’s like one of those dreams where you call and call but nobody can hear you. She looks around, a vague, worried expression on her face. He calls again, but there’s no strength in his lungs.
The developer crosses the road, and Greer watches as he goes up to the kids. Nathan, teetering on the wall, bends down to listen and Bella edges closer, to take Katie’s hand. Instinctively, the three children step back. Greer wants to cheer. The developer steps back too, and turns and points across the road at Greer. The children look guardedly in his direction as he waves weakly from the back seat. Looks turn to surprise, then relief, and excitement. Nathan jumps down from the wall and starts to gallop across the road. ‘Look right and left!’ Greer bellows, hoarsely, but the developer can move faster than you might think. He has all three in line and marches them across, four abreast.
‘Why are you lying down, Dad?’
‘Who’s he, Dad?’
‘Is this our car, Dad?’
‘It’s really cool.’
‘Can we go for a drive?’
‘Is he coming?’
‘Can I sit in the front?’
Katie is quiet, looking uncertainly at Greer’s pale, pain-ravaged features. A brief silence falls.
‘Are you okay, Dad?’
‘I’m fine, sweetheart, I’ve just got a bit of a sore back.’
Nathan looks uncertain. ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Mum’s busy.’
The developer steps in. ‘You kids get in and we’ll get you home.’
But Greer holds up a hand. ‘Seat belts.’
The developer shrugs impatiently. ‘What about them?’
‘They must have seat belts.’
‘That’s going to be a bit hard with you sprawled across the back seat, isn’t it, mate?’
‘They have to be strapped in.’
‘Look, I’ll drive slowly, okay?’
‘No exceptions. Children must be strapped in.’
‘So what do we do?’
Greer braces himself.
‘I can just crouch down here, Dad,’ says Nathan, crouching behind the driver’s seat.
‘Yeah, me too,’ says Katie, jumping in to join him. But Greer shakes his head.
‘Must … wear seat belts. Always.’ He realises he’s beginning to talk like a radio play. He scrabbles feebly at the back of the seat, hooks a finger in the edge of a built-in ashtray, and pulls. The ashtray comes out and he is dusted with fine cigar ash. The developer curses.
‘Get me out.’
‘What are you talking about?’ The developer is alarmed.
‘I’m sitting in the front.’
‘You can’t sit in the front like that.’
‘My children will wear seat belts.’
Inching himself, feet first, out the open passenger door, Greer gets himself onto the footpath, and the developer helps him into the front passenger seat. As he settles into the plush leather, he hears rather than feels a billion-volt surge straight to the brain.
When he comes round he’s still in the seat, but the pain is so intense he’s astonished. It soars like a sea bird, rising, rising, and he is carried on it, forever moving, up and up, higher and higher. Pain replaces time as the medium of lived experience.
Sound floods suddenly into his ears. ‘Dad?’
The developer is ringing an ambulance.
Bella is telling Katie not to worry. Katie is telling Bella not to worry.
Nathan is calling him: ‘Dad? Dad?’ He wants to answer, but he can’t quite catch his breath.
I’ll die before you. When did he say that? To whom did he say that?
Bella is crying. Katie is crying. Nathan is crying. The developer leans down close to Greer’s face and tells him an ambulance is on the way.
‘Thank you,’ he tries to say it. He tries to keep utterly still, concentrating only on this: he is waiting for an ambulance. If he waits for an ambulance, an ambulance will come. This is all he needs to know. The children are crying.
Later, the kids have stopped crying. A man in a uniform is asking Greer if he can feel this.
Feel what?
They load him into the ambulance. ‘The children,’ he gasps.
The developer is standing by. ‘Don’t worry about the kids,’ he says.
They’re standing in a family group as the ambulance doors close, waving goodbye. ‘Seat belts,’ calls Greer, feebly.
He is lying on his back in a peaceful ward. It’s early evening. An unseen transistor radio is lisping in a corner, hospital dinner smells drift in from the corridor. Greer’s not hungry. He’s been given morphine. Surfing a particularly fierce wave, he smiles crookedly to himself as Sylvia, puffy-eyed in her business suit, wobbles towards him. She returns the smile but immediately breaks down. ‘Oh God, Greer,’ she brushes tears aside with the tips of her fingers. ‘I thought you were dying.’ She kneels at his bedside, picks up his hand and presses it to her forehead. ‘I was sobbing all the way. The taxi driver thought I was nuts.’
He sighs, joyously, and concentrates on his wave. After a while it begins to ease off. He strokes her hair.
‘I’m not dying.’
‘Well, the children are – to see you. I’ll bring them tomorrow. I left them with Ken, just in case.’
‘Who?’
‘Ken. He drove you to school.’
‘I never asked his name.’
‘Well, it’s Ken.’
‘Ken …’
‘He’s such a nice guy.’
‘Thank God he was there when it happened. The kids adore him.’
‘Do they?’
‘He had them set up in one of the units. Happy Meals all round.’
‘Which unit?’
‘Four.’
Greer ponders. ‘Harbour view?’
‘Christ, I wasn’t thinking about the view. I thought you were dying, Greer. I dropped in, saw the kids were okay and came straight on here. Ken said not to worry, they’ll be fine. He seemed to be enjoying himself. I thought we should say thank you. I could get him a bottle of Moët on the way back. What do you think?’
‘Lindauer.’
‘Sweetheart …’
‘Yes, sweetheart?’ There’s another wave gathering.
‘I’m sorry about today. I was thinking. We could make a go of that house.’
‘No.’ He takes her hand. His eyes rolls backwards in his head. ‘Wow …’
She sits forward, anxious. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing.’ He smiles crookedly.
Sylvia smooths his hair. ‘I won’t go to Auckland. I had a word with them, they’ll send someone else. I’m taking the week off and your mother’s coming down to help with the kids.’ She starts to cry again. ‘Just think, if you’d died, our last words would have been words of anger.’
‘Hey,’ says Greer. He takes her hand. ‘Chill.’ And kisses it. ‘Chill, man, chill.’
From Alpha Male.