When Roger got ready to leave at the end of the night, he stood for a moment beside the front door, his jacket draped over one wrist and his other arm extended to shake Sam’s hand. As the evening wore on, Sam had realised that he didn’t really like the sound of Roger’s voice. It was deep and thick, and he always spoke slowly, as though he were trying to explain something very complicated to people unable to understand. It was a tone Sam had noticed most adults using when speaking to him since the operation—although Roger seemed to do it to everyone. But as Sam felt his hand being surrounded by Roger’s palm, and as he heard that loud, low voice calling him the ‘man of the house’, saying it was a pleasure to see him again, he felt larger all of a sudden. Older. There was a warm sensation in his chest, and for the first time since leaving the hospital he didn’t see pity in his mother’s eyes as she smiled down at him.
The front porch light spilled out onto the road. As his mother walked Roger to his car, their bodies were yellowed beneath the glare. Katie had fallen asleep on the couch, and Dettie woke her gently, ushering the children to their rooms to get ready for bed. Katie slipped straight under her covers, not bothering to change out of her clothes, but as Sam washed his face in the bathroom and began brushing his teeth, he could hear through the window the murmur of voices echoing up the driveway. Finally, the sound of an engine starting filled the empty street, and when the noise had faded away the front door eased open again and pulled shut.
‘So you’ve said your goodbyes?’ Dettie was whispering, but her voice carried up the hall.
‘Yes. Both got early mornings tomorrow. He said to say thanks again.’ Sam could tell by the way his mother’s voice trailed off that there was something else she wanted to say. ‘Are the children in bed?’ she asked.
Dettie grunted. ‘Just settling down now. Too much excitement for one day.’
Their voices rose as they walked through to the dining room. Sam went on brushing slowly so that he could still hear, spitting quietly into the sink.
‘I think that went rather well,’ his mother was saying. There was a soft clatter of dishes and cutlery as they began clearing the table. ‘Roger loved the children. Obviously. And I think they took a liking to him.’
Dettie cleared her throat. She was quiet.
‘Everyone—I think everyone got on quite well.’ Over the tinkle of empty glasses, Sam could hear that same tone in his mother’s voice—she was getting ready to say something. ‘Everyone was comfortable. They enjoyed themselves, I think.’ She was in the kitchen now, and it was only because the house was so quiet, the street outside so empty, that Sam could still listen in. ‘It got us talking,’ she said. ‘Roger and I. We started thinking that—well, since it went so nicely—in a week or so we might take the next step.’
‘Next step? What next step?’ Dettie’s voice sharpened.
‘Well, we just thought…’ Sam’s mother took a breath. ‘We thought it might be good for the children if we spend some time over there. At Roger’s house.’ There was a clunk that sounded like pots being stacked. ‘So we can all get more comfortable. All together. Next Friday, we were thinking.’
By now Sam was standing by the bathroom door, peering out, toothpaste dribbling from his mouth onto his hand. He could see shadows from the kitchen cast against the hallway wall, but they were still.
He heard his aunt exhale. ‘I don’t want to go over to his house, Joanne,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to, and I won’t.’
‘That’s fine. That’s—that’s actually okay. We were thinking it might be a good idea if the children and I went by ourselves. We thought we’d give them some real one-on-one time.’
Sam’s mouth was filled with paste and saliva. He wanted to spit again, but was afraid it would break the silence. He knew he was eavesdropping—that he shouldn’t be doing it—but lately it seemed he was always overhearing things. Suddenly, he had a faint recollection of listening in on his mother and aunt like this once before. Was it before his operation? What was it they’d been talking about? His father? Soup?
‘The children? Over to Roger—’ Dettie stammered. ‘What, alone?’
‘Not alone. I’m going to be there.’
‘But—why? What purpose—’ Even from the next room Sam could make out her indignant panting. He could picture her wringing her hands. ‘Does he not want to come here anymore? Is that it? Is this not good enough? Because this is where you live. Where the children—’ She was talking faster now. Almost hiccoughing. ‘Why do the children have to go there? To him? All that unnecessary hassle. Fuss. Why not have him come here? This is their place. Where they feel comfortable.’
‘It’s really not a big thing, Dettie. Really. We just want everyone to relax. To get used to one another.’
Dettie didn’t respond. There was a quick tapping, a fingernail on a table, but as Sam looked on, the two shadows stayed motionless on the wall. No one was speaking. From the next room he thought he heard the squeak of Katie turning in bed. Eventually, Dettie cleared her throat and there was a tinkle of glasses. The shadows moved. They slipped apart, and somebody started the kitchen tap running.
Taking advantage of the noise, Sam turned on the bathroom faucet softly, rinsed his mouth and spat.
‘I mean, it’s perfectly natural,’ he heard his mother saying. ‘Would it be so bad if—’
‘So this is who you’ve been spending your time with? Who you’ve been having your children spend time with?’ Dettie said.
‘What? Roger? What’s wrong with Roger? Everyone had a lovely night.’
‘A lawyer, is he?’
His mother took a moment to reply. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was a lawyer. What’s your point?’
‘And all the drinking. All night. The bottle never left his hand.’
‘He had two beers, Dettie. What are you on about?’
‘You know what they’re like.’
The word they hung in the air a moment. When his mother next spoke her voice was firm. Slow.
‘Know what who is like?’ she said. ‘Lawyers?’
‘Don’t be so naive. You know full well what he is. Black as the ace of—’
A stack of plates slammed down on the table.
‘No! You are unbelievable. How dare you.’
‘Oh, don’t get all—I’m just saying, there are certain realities, Joanne. Cultural differences. Sensitivities.’
‘No. That is appalling. No, Dettie.’
‘It’s being realistic. When I was a girl my father had a farmhand—’
‘Shut. Your. Mouth. You are not poisoning my children’s minds with that kind of disgusting, ignorant—’
‘I’ve called Donald.’
Dettie had lowered her voice, but it was as if she had shouted for quiet. The house was suddenly still. As soon as Sam had heard his father’s name he’d leapt back over to the door. For a moment, as he pressed his ear closer, wiping his mouth on his wrist, there was nothing. He could feel the silence stretch out, picture his mother’s face, her mouth ajar.
‘You what? You—when?’ she said. He saw a shadow shift. ‘What in God’s name—why, Dettie? Why would you do that?’
‘I called yesterday. I think he has a right to know who his children are spending their time with, Joanne.’
‘No. No, he doesn’t, Dettie.’ His mother’s voice was fierce. ‘He doesn’t have the right.’
Sam heard his aunt sniff. She was rattling a handful of cutlery. ‘Well, he’s not very impressed.’
‘Do you think I give a damn what that man—’
‘He’s your husband, Joanne. He’s your children’s—’
‘It’s none of his business! It’s none of your business! You are so far out of—’
‘When I lost my Ted—’
‘Oh, don’t start with all that.’
Dettie exhaled. Sam heard water swishing. ‘Call Donald, Joanne. Call your husband. Talk to him.’
‘That is enough!’ There was a crash as plates and pans scattered, something rattled against glass. In the quiet of the house, the sudden noise sounded like a roar. ‘I am not having this conversation again.’ His mother was talking slowly. ‘Your behaviour.’ She sighed. Loudly. ‘I don’t even know where to begin.’
‘I’m just—’
‘Goodnight, Dettie. Go home.’
There was a moment’s silence before a clatter of dishes echoed in the sink and his mother’s shadow swept down the hallway, through to her room, and slammed the door.