Thirty Sacks

Audrey Molloy

‘I ’m just taking the dog out for a walk,’ she said, pulling on a black puffer jacket and grabbing her keys. She strode along the pavement, past low fences lined with shaved hedges. Behind tidy gardens, leadlight windows reflected a hundred winter suns. The dog pulled her off the path to sniff intently at specific trees—identical in all respects as far as she could see, but special, somehow, to the dog, who ignored so many, then made a bee-line for the chosen ones. She let him sniff his fill. For dogs, smell is the strongest sense. You couldn’t rush it. As soon as she was past the houses she unclipped the lead from his collar and the dog was gone, padding his way down the railway sleeper steps to the park below.

She loved it down here in the evening. Just when she thought her nerves must surely fray, she would use this excuse to get away for half an hour. It was a lifeline. She sat on a bench and stared at the water for some time while the dog investigated the sloping bank. Mostly her mind drifted aimlessly, but occasionally she thought of him.

She took a different route on the return journey, strolling now, aware of what lay ahead. Arsenic hour—that time of day when it all unraveled with the kids. And then, once they were asleep? Perhaps that was what she dreaded more. The dog was tired now and plodded beside her, tongue flapping from his joker’s smile.

The woman turned the last corner onto their street and that’s when she saw them; dozens of black garbage sacks, neatly lined up like a colony of emperor penguins on pack ice. They completely covered the nature strip, each one full to the top, which was tied with a piece of garden twine. Her neighbour was bending over one, retying it. Another was ripped, soft toys and kids’ books spilling from it.

‘The eyes have been picked out of this lot already,’ he said to the woman, a jerk of his head referring to the line of sacks. ‘A couple came through with a van and ripped open a whole bunch of them and took heaps of stuff. God only knows what they would want it for—it’s just rubbish,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing what they take. Last time we had a household waste collection someone took a broken ironing board. Honestly!’

‘That’s quite a spring clean you’ve done there, George,’ said the woman, flustered at the last moment in case she had his name wrong—she’d only spoken to him a couple of times in the years she had lived there. She knew his kids’ names, although she had never spoken to them. He lived several houses down and on the opposite side. His kids were about ten years older than hers. She was on a different timetable to him, a different circuit of sports, music lessons, play-dates.

She could still recall meeting him the week they had moved in. He’d come into the garden when the guys were unpacking the truck.

‘Welcome to the neighbourhood,’ he’d said, and shook her hand hard. ‘It’s a great street—you’ll be happy here.’ There was a kid on a skateboard; skinny calves above converse sneakers, fair hair falling in his eyes. ‘That’s Rich,’ he’d said. ‘He’s our eldest. You’ll always remember my kids’ names because they’re R-P-A, just like the Royal Prince Alfred hospital where they were born. Rich, Pete and Annabel.’ He’d smiled a train-spotter’s smile.

That was nearly ten years ago now. She’d rarely spoken to him since. She was sure he was George. He finished retying the last bag and surveyed his work.

‘Thirty sacks,’ he announced.

‘Thirty? That’s really impressive,’ said the woman. ‘We could do with a clear-out like that but my husband’s a hoarder. Throws out nothing.’

‘Well, you know my wife left me?’ George said then, staring at his polished shoes for a moment. The dog looked up at the woman, then sat down, panting heavily.

‘No, I’m sorry to hear that. I had no idea,’ said the woman, as she searched her memory banks for the face of his former wife. Ah, now she could picture her—younger than him, girlish-looking, ponytail hair. She was a quiet woman. They had nodded to each other when they happened to pass on the street.

‘Sarah? Isn’t it? What a shame. I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘When did this happen?’

‘Sa-ra.’ He emphasised the ‘ah’ of the first syllable. ‘A year ago today,’ he said. ‘I could apply for a divorce today, you know, but she’s being impossible about the settlement.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘She was having an affair, you know. For five years. Five years! Her work colleague—some history professor at her school.’ The woman remembered now that George had once mentioned that Sara lectured part-time at the university; that she’d published a book before they had kids.

‘And now she’s trying to clear me out,’ said George. ‘Can you believe that? She was the unfaithful one. I have to take her to court now. She’s forcing me to spend tens of thousands of dollars in useless legal fees.’ He was getting into his stride.

‘He’s sixty, for God’s sake,’ he said, spitting the words out. ‘She’s only forty-four.’ The woman stared at him now, taking in every word. This was possible.

‘And he’s fat! Just sits around drinking beer all the time,’ he went on. ‘A total slob! The kids hate him. Rich doesn’t talk to her anymore. He’s over eighteen now. He can choose where he wants to live, and guess what? He lives right here with me. The other two still go to school here. And, the stupid thing is, when they’re with her they have to travel all the way across the city. It’s ridiculous!’

‘Poor things . . .’ the woman began, but he wasn’t finished.

‘I mean, they’re only kids—they need their sleep. I’m up at five-thirty every day anyway. To go the gym.’ He threw his shoulders back slightly and sucked in his belly, his striped shirt peeling away from his chinos.

The dog stood and stretched. He cocked his leg against one of the black sacks. The corners of George’s mouth curled in disgust. The woman pulled the dog back and instructed him to sit again. She could see George’s daughter, Annabel, loitering near the gate, just within earshot. She was about thirteen years old. She looked like her mother. Same face. Same ponytail. Same coltish limbs. A brunette in skinny jeans and a cream sweater came out of the house with a laundry basket in her arms, glossed lips parting over perfect teeth as she approached.

‘This is my girlfriend, Monique,’ said George. ‘Sweetheart,’ he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, ‘this is . . .’ he frowned uncomfortably, then added, ‘our neighbour.’ Monique leaned her head sideways towards him like a cat looking to be stroked. She had long silky hair, the colour of mahogany, tied in a loose knot at the back of her head. Her face looked as if it had been carved out of timber, if timber could glow like that. She nodded and placed the basket of old crockery on the nature strip next to the black sacks, then wandered back towards the house. She touched Annabel lightly, affectionately, on the head as she passed her but the girl just flinched and stayed where she was.

‘She’s moving in,’ said George. He had his hands in his pockets and his small eyes followed Monique into the house. The woman looked at him again, more closely, scanning his stippled face, his crowded teeth, the smudge of hair in the cleft of his chin.

‘She’s great,’ she said, and after a pause, ‘How did you guys get together?’

‘Yeah, she’s fantastic,’ he said. ‘Internet dating. Can you believe that? We’ve been together six months now. The kids love her. It’s been good.’ He rocked back and forth on his heels, a smile plastered across his face.

The woman touched a loose strand of blonde hair on her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. She glanced up the street towards her house. He would be wondering where she was, would probably call her to check. ‘So, do you still see Sara?’ she said, quietly now, acutely aware of the listening child. ‘Do you meet for lunch or a coffee now and then?’

‘Oh no,’ said George, the smile sliding off his face. ‘Monique is very much against that. My wife did an unforgivable thing. Think about it. I’m out running around, looking after the kids, working, and she’s off every weekend, seeing this guy. Doing the business.’ He stopped rocking and sighed. ‘Same thing happened to poor Monique. She gets it.’

‘That’s just so sad,’ said the woman. Her phone vibrated in her vest pocket, close to her heart. ‘How long were you together?’

‘I’ve known her thirty years,’ said George, surveying the line of sacks along the grassy strip. Thirty years.

‘She came around last week to collect her wedding dress,’ he said. ‘I told her I was getting rid of the whole lot and she’d better come and get what she wanted. But that was all she took.’ He stared at the sacks again. The woman was silent.

‘Know what she said to me?’ said George. ‘I made her feel bad. I made her feel bad! I mean, I did everything. I looked after everyone. I worked my ass off, looked after the kids, coached soccer, cooked the meals, kept the house in order so she could work. And it made her feel bad!’ His voice was rising now. Annabel could surely hear him. ‘Now she does all these things for her lover—cooks, cleans, shops—and she says she feels like a real woman. He makes her feel good about herself! I mean, seriously, is she mad?’ He was laughing now, his lips twisted in an ugly sneer. He shook his head.

‘All the same, this must be cathartic—clearing out all this stuff,’ said the woman, switching off the phone in her pocket.

‘Cathartic!’ He almost shouted, raising his hands in a magician’s flourish. ‘That’s the word to describe it. That’s exactly what it is.’

The woman studied Annabel in the failing light. She was only about five years older than her own daughter. She couldn’t imagine how her daughter would cope without her mother at that age. Or her father. ‘Well George, I am sorry to hear that story. I hope it all works out for you,’ she said and she crossed the street with the dog straining at the lead.

The woman walked past the picket fences, backed with lilly pillies and magnolias. When she reached her own gate, she dawdled for as long as she could, emptying the mailbox, pondering each piece of junk mail before disposing of it, unread, into the garbage bin. She spotted a weed in her garden bed and spent some time pulling it carefully, trying to get the whole root system out. There were a few more weeds that beckoned. She could stay outside here for longer; gather her thoughts. From inside the house she could hear the wails that dominated this part of each day before the silence took over.

She turned the key in the front door and walked down the hall. She passed her bedroom door and glanced inside. Up on top of the wardrobe she could spy the edge of the white box that contained her wedding dress. Best to get that out soon, and a few other things that were hers, while the going was good. There was no guarantee that he would ever let her back in to get it.