The Idea (sequel)

Based on Raymond Carver’s ‘The Idea’ - From the perspective of the woman next door

I closed the door behind me. My hand was reaching for the light switch, breathing heavily. It was that time of the night. I walked to the window and took off my shoes. I looked at my bare toes in the moonlight.

Turning to the window once more, I opened the curtain. The street lights blared into my window, facing the rugged street. I smiled; there was that glowing feeling in the pit of my stomach again. I was biting my down hard on my lip, trying to forget. Yet I went on with my routine.

I slipped off my pantyhose and looked at my bare legs in the moonlight. Soon the cars would slow down when they saw my figure in the window.

My cream coloured blouse sat crooked upon my chest. My hands shook. I started unbuttoning it.

I turned to see the two in the window, opposite me. This time she wasn’t there. The woman, I mean. Replacing her was another man with a roughly cut beard. I scowled at their stupid smug smiles. Giggling away. They thought I couldn’t see them. I could.

I turned my back to them. My eyes narrowed, trying to forget that picture, imprinted in my mind. But it was hard.

I looked at my bare arms in the moonlight. I proceeded with my routine. I took off my undershirt, now I could hear the back door slamming closed. Henry was coming outside. I scowled at his stupid smug smile. He thought I couldn’t see him. I could.

I turned around again. My heart gave a little jolt as I saw the two men, instead of the woman. Maybe I just always expected her to be there. But she wasn’t.

The two in the window were whispering this time. I couldn’t help but think that it was about me.

My head snapped to the side as I heard a loud noise from the street. There was a car. In the car was a man, winking at me.

There it was.

That feeling that made everything worth it. That feeling that somebody cared. I couldn’t help but smile. I snapped back to reality.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see them again. Their stupid faces giggling away, hardly able to contain themselves. Suddenly I got an urge to do something I had never felt before. I wanted to shout at them, hit them. They were ruining everything.

I turned back, and stared at my bare stomach in the moonlight. I felt cold. A breeze blew through a gap in the window pane. I shivered. I hurriedly turned back to the window. This time, they weren’t just whispering. They had a beer. They were enjoying it. Too much. Much too much. I felt angry, the glowing feeling dying away. Instead a fire erupted in my stomach. This time, I didn’t remove my underwear. I put my undershirt back on. The men stood up. I put my skirt back on. The men looked angry. I turned away.

I was angry. I was disappointed. I suddenly looked at my body, standing there, exposed and pale. It looked different, stupid in the moonlight. My hands still shaking, I yanked the curtain closed. I could hear the door slam. Henry was back inside. I couldn’t leave our room. I was embarrassed.

Henry walked in. He saw me in my underwear. He stopped for a moment and looked at me. Then he turned away.

“Sorry,” he said.

I didn’t reply.

“The curtains are open,” he said.

I didn’t reply.

“Were you doing it again?” He asked.

I didn’t reply.

“Why are you crying?” He asked.

I turned and fell into his arms.

“It’s ok,” he said.

This time I replied.

“No, it’s not.”

I looked up into his gaping eyes. Tears were forming, glistening. This time they were different. His eyes, I mean. Not clouded as usual, but clear, glassy in the moonlight.

He turned away. He must’ve been embarrassed.

I’ve never seen him cry before.

The Bush Woman’s Life

This creative piece is written from the perspective of the Drover’s Wife. As a result of the snake attack she reflects on what her life has become. It is written in first person to properly give us an insight on how her husband’s absence, her four children and the disasters that threaten their lives, really affect her. This is unlike in the original ‘Drover’s Wife’, written by Henry Lawson (and many other versions), which are written in third person where a lot of her feelings and emotions are merely assumed by the author. We also get a fraction of information on the aboriginals (gins) who lived there at the time, especially focusing on how they knew the land and how to deal with disasters that happen.

I stood in our tiny bathroom, the damp walls surrounding me as I looked into the dry, cracked mirror and saw my sun-burnt skin under the thick grime that resided all over my body. I tried to scrub the dirt off my arms, the sponge scratched my skin raw as I frantically attempted to rid myself of any trace of this life, but it seemed to have become part of me. You could barely distinguish the difference between skin and grime. It disgusted me like it never had before, I looked away. My eyes narrowed, trying to forget that image but I could not, it was imprinted in my mind, mocking what my life had become.

I gave up on my appearance and went outside. I sat on a bench not too far from my kitchen wall and under one of those rotten apple trees that can be spotted all around our land. Out of my pocket I pulled the Young Ladies’ Journal, the only thing that kept me sane from the endless desert with no horizon and the isolation that surrounded me.

With all the strength I could muster I tried to inhale the last of the sweet perfume that resided on the Young Ladies’ Journal, but it had gone. The dry, burnt scent that only we bush women could identify had suffocated the sweet paper. I felt rage towards the magazine and threw it aside, as though the paper was somehow at fault for not maintaining its scent. It fell to the ground, open. The woman in the photograph stared up at me, almost as though she was mocking what I had become.

My clouded gaze suddenly became excruciatingly sharp as a blood curdling scream cut through my ear drums. My head snapped to the side and I saw a fire crawling up the wall and smoke billowing in the sky.

I quickly forgot my self-pity as a fire raged inside my heart, much like the one in my house, it spread rapidly, reaching into every corner of my body and momentarily paralysing my senses. I forgot all that was sane and darted straight through the fire to rescue my screaming children. Smoke filled my lungs as I began coughing uncontrollably, but it didn’t faze me, my children were in need and I wanted to reach them in time, I needed to. Alligator streaked past me, barking like mad. I ripped a piece of material off the bottom of my shirt and covered my mouth to stop any more smoke from poisoning my lungs. The smoke stung my eyes and they immediately filled with tears, I blinked them away and squinted through the commotion. And in the corner, bundled together in terror sat my four children. I ran towards them and picked up the two youngest. Tommy and Jacky held hands, and followed me out through a hole in the fire. Coughing and spluttering they fell to the ground.

For a second I forgot myself and simply stared into the orange heat that was melting the walls to the ground, the flames licking the air as though to suck every ounce of oxygen that still remained. I stood immobile, fixed to the ground as my eyes were hypnotised by the sight. The fiery light pierced my pupils, engraving the monstrous shape into my eyes. As though it would be etched in forever, mocking what my life had become. I fell to the ground and as I struggled to breathe everything turned black.

Next thing I knew I had a wet towel on my forehead and two gins standing over me, it was Black Mary and King Jimmy. They whispered to each other looking concerned at my crumpled body. I sat up. The children were crying behind me and Alligator whimpered in pain as we stared at the wreckage of rubble and smoke that the fire had left behind. Blisters were beginning to form on my dirty, burnt skin. But I didn’t care. Our lives were built up in this house, all we owned had now vanished, the ashes of our lives being blown through the air, gone forever.

I never asked the gin’s how or why they had put out the fire. But they knew I was eternally grateful and that was all that was exchanged between us.

Some days I’m fed up and feel an urge to just get up and leave, without so much as a goodbye. But then I think of my children and a sickly feeling of guilt and shame fills me. And I stay. This is such a day. I had chosen this life a long time ago and as every bush woman knows, once you have committed to the bush; that smell, that dust and dirt and that lifestyle never leaves your bones, and you know that the commitment can never be broken.

©copyright Elena Kissel 2013

What if I had forwarded all those chain letters and my wishes would all have come true and my life would be perfect now…