dated, coffee stains on a few pages. He traced his hand over the desk’s old Oregon surface, recalling when he’d bought this desk for her years ago. When they loved rummaging through antique shops together. When she still dreamed of being a writer, not a journalist, and he supported her dream.
The drawers likewise yielded nothing, just conglomerations of paper, staplers, pens, photographs. He couldn’t bear to look at them.
He walked into the kitchen and nearly tripped over a chrome dog bowl, crusted with old food. The dog. Max. What had become of him? His bed was gone from the corner; there were no other signs of him. The dog missing, too.
Anton plugged in the kettle and searched for mugs. Tea and sugar were where he remembered them, in front of him on the counter, and rusks, brick-hard, in the earthenware jar from Mozambique, a wedding present. In the salt-flecked window he saw himself, a faint reflection but with a definite shape, or shapelessness. All the more rounded by his navy Pringle jersey and brown cords. Heavy, thick, needing a shave, looking grim. He’d lost the colour of Africa.
On the fridge, no recent to-do lists. Only, still, Eli’s first-grade drawing: a baby bird sticking its head jauntily out of the nest, waiting for mom to return and deliver food. Mom
would
return, no doubt in the baby bird’s mind. Anton opened the fridge door, desperate to find fresh milk or lettuce or something indicating recent human habitation. Cleaned out.
As he walked back through the lounge the silence disturbed him. Usually he treasured silence, found refuge in it. Power.
Silence is a weapon with you
, Margo was fond of saying. Now he found it antagonistic, mocking. He rifled through a pile of CDs near the player, mostly rock and blues and long-haired freaks he didn’t recognise, with ominous names like The Darkness, Skid Row and Black Sabbath. Well, he knew that one. Everyone knew Ozzy. What was she doing letting him listen to music like that? He found an old Enya CD and put that on; they used to listen to it years ago, pre-Eli, before a lot of things. The music soothed him as he went upstairs.
When he reached Eli’s room, he settled on his bed, neatly made, staring at the posters of Hendrix, Slash and Stevie Ray Vaughan on the walls, all ‘autographed’. The room smelled like a crypt, airless, damp settling in the walls. Eli’s guitars leaned in a corner in their black cases, mummified. Several framed photos, of him and his surfing pals at eBay,hung skew. A Louisville Slugger bat tilted against the bookshelf (very few books, Anton noted). The boy had left out his cleats; they were huge, nearly as big as his own shoes. He picked one up and was immediately assaulted by the stink, dulled by disuse but still rancid with teenhood. The last time he’d seen his son he still had some sweetness to him.
On the desk by the window, cleared off but dusty, sat the miniature wooden boat he had carved for Eli when he was three or four. It fit in the palm of Anton’s hand; the olive wood was worn smooth, unpainted. It had never floated; Eli had grabbed it with his little-boy hands and guided it around the bath, vroom-vroom. He had washed his son’s soft, perfect back every night and told him which parts boys had to wash extra.
The room was like a museum. He felt an intolerable grief descending and left, closing the door behind him.
Down the hall Margo had made their bedroom hers. Hers only. He’d always left the decorating to her: her stamp on a place suited him. Classical elegance (a few antiques) mixed with exoticism, artefacts from around the world – masks, sculpture, textiles, ceramics – testifying to her wanderlust. He’d brought to their collection an old biltong kist from a family farm near Philippolis. They’d used it to store spices, jams, and so on, as a sort of pantry – now here it was in the bedroom. Full of
her
things, presumably. He went to investigate; it was locked. Through the wire netting he saw
The drawers likewise yielded nothing, just conglomerations of paper, staplers, pens, photographs. He couldn’t bear to look at them.
He walked into the kitchen and nearly tripped over a chrome dog bowl, crusted with old food. The dog. Max. What had become of him? His bed was gone from the corner; there were no other signs of him. The dog missing, too.
Anton plugged in the kettle and searched for mugs. Tea and sugar were where he remembered them, in front of him on the counter, and rusks, brick-hard, in the earthenware jar from Mozambique, a wedding present. In the salt-flecked window he saw himself, a faint reflection but with a definite shape, or shapelessness. All the more rounded by his navy Pringle jersey and brown cords. Heavy, thick, needing a shave, looking grim. He’d lost the colour of Africa.
On the fridge, no recent to-do lists. Only, still, Eli’s first-grade drawing: a baby bird sticking its head jauntily out of the nest, waiting for mom to return and deliver food. Mom
would
return, no doubt in the baby bird’s mind. Anton opened the fridge door, desperate to find fresh milk or lettuce or something indicating recent human habitation. Cleaned out.
As he walked back through the lounge the silence disturbed him. Usually he treasured silence, found refuge in it. Power.
Silence is a weapon with you
, Margo was fond of saying. Now he found it antagonistic, mocking. He rifled through a pile of CDs near the player, mostly rock and blues and long-haired freaks he didn’t recognise, with ominous names like The Darkness, Skid Row and Black Sabbath. Well, he knew that one. Everyone knew Ozzy. What was she doing letting him listen to music like that? He found an old Enya CD and put that on; they used to listen to it years ago, pre-Eli, before a lot of things. The music soothed him as he went upstairs.
When he reached Eli’s room, he settled on his bed, neatly made, staring at the posters of Hendrix, Slash and Stevie Ray Vaughan on the walls, all ‘autographed’. The room smelled like a crypt, airless, damp settling in the walls. Eli’s guitars leaned in a corner in their black cases, mummified. Several framed photos, of him and his surfing pals at eBay,hung skew. A Louisville Slugger bat tilted against the bookshelf (very few books, Anton noted). The boy had left out his cleats; they were huge, nearly as big as his own shoes. He picked one up and was immediately assaulted by the stink, dulled by disuse but still rancid with teenhood. The last time he’d seen his son he still had some sweetness to him.
On the desk by the window, cleared off but dusty, sat the miniature wooden boat he had carved for Eli when he was three or four. It fit in the palm of Anton’s hand; the olive wood was worn smooth, unpainted. It had never floated; Eli had grabbed it with his little-boy hands and guided it around the bath, vroom-vroom. He had washed his son’s soft, perfect back every night and told him which parts boys had to wash extra.
The room was like a museum. He felt an intolerable grief descending and left, closing the door behind him.
Down the hall Margo had made their bedroom hers. Hers only. He’d always left the decorating to her: her stamp on a place suited him. Classical elegance (a few antiques) mixed with exoticism, artefacts from around the world – masks, sculpture, textiles, ceramics – testifying to her wanderlust. He’d brought to their collection an old biltong kist from a family farm near Philippolis. They’d used it to store spices, jams, and so on, as a sort of pantry – now here it was in the bedroom. Full of
her
things, presumably. He went to investigate; it was locked. Through the wire netting he saw
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