Michael slipped and fell in the snow. He had managed to remain upright all the way down the road to Tim and Maureen’s store, but on his return to Lucian’s house had tripped over hidden stones and lost his balance so many times that his trousers were now completely wet through, with the sleeves of his jacket only marginally drier. Appreciation for the blanket of white that had descended upon the mountainside, its incongruousness with the dominant eucalypts, the sight of wallabies venturing into front gardens, and the general otherworldliness of walking through falling snow, had all begun to fade as Michael struggled back along Brenan Street. Maybe it was because he was walking up hill. Or perhaps his feet had grown too numb to work properly. Fear of frostbite tried to take hold in Michael’s imagination, but he told himself to stop being childish and step in the footprints he had made on his way down.
By the time he reached Lucian’s verandah he was shivering. He suspected the leather of his boots was frozen, and slipped them off inside the front door as he announced to Lucian that the roads were closed and he was taking a bath. No response came from the other side of the bedroom door, and Michael was thankful for the chance to shed his wet clothes without the delay of having to explain himself.
Lucian’s bathroom was a remarkable time capsule of nineteen-seventies fittings and tiling. Respectable to the point of functionality, it was nevertheless developing an impression of antiquation, bordering on neglect. As Michael waited for the long deep tub to fill slowly, he inspected his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror and wondered whether marijuana was turning his hair grey. He knew he could not smoke it every night without consequences, and saw how the creases across his forehead had grown deeper. The discolouration of his teeth also appeared to be worse, even though he had avoided tobacco for nearly two months. Maybe he wasn’t getting enough sunlight. Being cooped up with Lucian all day looked like it was making his skin grow pale. And a layer of flab was developing around his neck that Michael was convinced had not been present when he first arrived in Tasmania.
He examined the contents of the medicine cabinet. Not in search for illicit pharmaceuticals, of which there were plenty elsewhere in the house, but for clues about what medication Lucian might be taking to help him manage his condition. After almost a fortnight of caring for the author and his sprained ankle, Michael had identified definite signs of Lucian’s decline. Most obvious was his incessant opening and closing of cupboards and drawers to persuade himself he knew for certain the location of the peanut butter or the tea bags. The sound of double-checking created an atmosphere of anxiety that permeated the entire house, but in accordance with their tacit agreement the two men refused to acknowledge the unease, its source, or anything else to do with Lucian’s memory loss. For the moment such a pact was only mildly inconvenient, though Michael could foresee a time quickly approaching when he would have no choice but to speak the name of Lucian’s misfortune, if only so they could begin to face its ramifications head on.
As Michael lay in the bath, his body tingling beneath the hot water, he again acknowledged the quiet that had descended upon Mount Wellington with the snow. It seemed to amplify every sound, from the ripples of the bathwater to the creaking of the house constricting against the icy air. Michael was surprised not to hear the clack of Lucian’s typewriter, and wondered if he was reading instead. He sank lower into the bathwater. Maybe Lucian was reading the opening chapters of his manuscript. Michael had not anticipated being in Wood Green while this occurred, and decided to hurry to his office as soon as he exited the bathroom. That way it might be hours before they encountered one another. Plenty of time for Lucian to become distracted…and maybe forget all about the limitations of Michael’s abilities.