DARLINGS, I’M HOME.
NED MCCANN.Wolf sniffed Old Spice as he nuzzled Christopher’s ear. "Give a Helluva presentation", he said.
Christopher set his mouth, steeled his gaze. "I will," he said and gunned the Lagonda’s accelerator.
"With spurs on," Wolf dragged his nails down Christopher’s cavalry-twilled thigh and growled deep in his throat as he chuckled them under his crotch. He punched him on the shoulder. "Don’t take any shit from that bitch, Ariadne Montez either, and bring back gold."
Christopher punched air "You’ve got it," he said and screamed the Lagonda down the drive in a shower of gravel as Wolf waved goodbye with his feather duster.
Wolf sighed as he flicked his duster across the row of beer bellied urns lined with military precision along the mantelpiece. Christopher, he knew, was a caring lawyer. But why couldn’t he place his late clients to rest in a memorial rose garden instead of cluttering the place with cremation urns? It was morbid. Why couldn’t their mantelpiece be like everyone else’s? Pictures of family and friends in tarnish free frames, or statuettes of dying gladiators and a boy David with petulant lips, flat belly, counterpoint rounding of pert buns and albino dickie nestling in hanks of marble curls.
Musing on what a good Jewish boy like David was doing with such a chunk of foreskin hanging almost to his knee, Wolf re aligned the urns and gave a polish to each of their nameplates. He deplored Christopher’s habit of sifting through the ashes and little bits of bone in the evening. And he’d heard him speak to them, maudlin over his second bottle of red; sobbing and assuring them a cure would be found soon. That was carrying things too far, Wolf decided.
Maybe I could slip a little David between them; lighten things up a bit. Death from H.I.V. was a dreary bummer and cremation urns on the mantle piece didn’t help.
The front door chimed the opening bars of Abide With Me and he determined yet again to change it as he went down the hallway flicking dust from the gilt framed prints of Gould’s Birds of Australia.
Wolf peered at the shimmering silhouette behind the front door. At this time of the morning it could either be an Avon lady or Jehovah’s Witness.
He opened the door and gulped. It was the boy himself. A tantalising clutch of leonine hair curled from the neck of his denim shirt. Instead of a sling, he carried a workbag across his shoulders.
"David’" Wolf whispered.
The apparition glanced behind him. "No, Mark," he said Taking a work card from his pocket he held it out. "Reliable Repairs?"
Wolf’s knuckles whitened on his duster. Although it was winter, there came wafting to him the smell of summer blossom mingled with lubricating oil and thick, golden grease.
The apparition spoke again. "You have a machine needing attention?"
"Ah," - it dawned- "The washing machine. Yes, yes, yes."
And Wolf was still yessing as he ushered him down the hall to the laundry, admiring hips swaying deliciously out of alignment due to the weight of the youth’s tool bag, as he did.
The embodiment of all those stories Wolf had read all those accompanying pictures he had drooled over, all those scenarios of Pizza deliverers in improbable situations was now spreading its arse over his Hoover Dialamatic. "It won’t rinse," he heard himself say.
Mark turned and looked up at him. "How about coloureds and delicates?"
Wolf remembered a frail tuk tuk driver he had dallied with in Sri Lanka while Christopher had been napping. Mark had the same glint of jolly good times in his eyes.
It was just after nine and Wolf never, ever, ever had a drink before eleven. "Would you care for a beer?" The words croaked in his throat.
"Does the Pope shit in the woods?"
Shaking, Wolf pulled beers from the fridge and poured. Foam cascaded over the steins and pooled on the sink top. "Easy, rider," Wolf admonished himself as he mopped it up. "You’re getting too excited."
On his return, Mark had disembowelled the washing machine. He stood before it sucking his teeth and shaking his head as he gazed at the entrails. "Did you get this second hand?" He took the still foaming stein.
"It was a bargain." Wolf clunked his stein against Mark’s.
"Well your bargain’s fucked," Mark said. "Cheers."
Wolf watched fascinated as Mark’s throat pulsed and throbbed till the stein was empty. He counted the five buttons to the youth’s plank flat belly, allowed his eyes to flicker from the snake buckle of his belt to the bulging fly curving over to show a tantalising glimpse of silver zip. "I think we should we discuss it over a joint," he said.
Leading up the stairs, the afternoon sun glowed gold on a scattering of chunky work boots, thick, woollen socks, tangled Jeans, wisps of torn jocketts, and outside the door to the master bedroom, a discarded feather duster.
Mark twitched as Wolf flickered his tongue across his shoulder and savoured the taste of salt. Wolf was satisfied; rammed, jammed and thank you ma’amed. Blissed, he had given as good as he had gotten and felt as full as a billposter’s bucket. He was at peace with the world, until the phone burbled him away from it all.
"Christopher!" Wolf scratched his chest and leaned over Mark to the enamelled cigarette box. "How was the meeting?"
Mark grunted and his nose twitched in post coital anticipation as smoke from a Kool wisped to the ceiling.
"I gave ‘em hell, as I told you I would.’ Christopher was triumphant. "I didn’t take any bullshit-even from that Miz Ariadne Montez." His voice exulted over the line. "The contracts have been signed, sealed and will be delivered to the trustees forthwith. Did you have a good day?"
"Emmm," Wolf felt Mark wriggle beside him.
"I’ll be home soon. Put on the kettle, I fancy a hot toddy." Christopher’s voice had that ring of authority and Wolf knew he would be impossible for days.
"Could you pick up some things from the market on the way?" Wolf was playing for time, but the phone was dead.
"Dolink," he rippled in Mark’s ear. "Did the earth move for you?"
Mark nuzzled his hand between Wolf’s legs " ’K’n oath," he said.
"Well its gonna move for both of us if we don’t get this place cleaned up before he gets home." Wolf jumped out of bed, ripped away the sheets and closed his eyes against the tempting vision curled there. "You get downstairs, pick up the clothes, wash the glasses and empty the ashtrays. I’ll change the sheets, make up the bed, and let’s hope there’s a Gridlock on the freeway."
When he had finished, Wolf surveyed the bedroom. It was good. He placed a cone of Bharghatti incense beside the open window, watched the fragrant coils arabesque in the draught and listened to the hum of traffic from the freeway. To make sure, he hissed a can of air freshener around the bed. Yes. It was good.
"Mark!" he yelled as he padded down the stairs. "How’s it coming along?"
Mark turned from the jolly glow of the fire he had lit and grinned proudly at a job well done. He swept the hearth and shovelled the cinders into the flames. They flared up brightly. Everything looked cheery and tidy, as Christopher liked.
"It’s going well," Mark said. He glanced at his watch."Nine minutes flat. I’ve washed the glasses, tidied up and emptied the ashtrays." He spread his legs before the fire while Wolf checked for any forgotten tattletale.
"Did you guys have a party last night?"
"Party?" Wolf arranged a cushion just so.
"Yeah. All those ashtrays, overflowing. I’ve never seen ashtrays with individual monograms before. Very classy." Mark pointed to the urns.
Wolf shrieked. Running over, he scrabbled frantically among them. All, all, all of the urns. Every bloody one of them scoured clean and empty as eye sockets in a skull.
Long after Mark had gone, Wolf still stood frozen in the firelight. As if from a great distance, he heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel, the opening bars of God Save the Queen from the Lagonda’s klaxon, and the rattle of Christopher’s key in the lock.
"Darlings, I’m home." The hero’s voice rang from the hallway. Wolf wondered how many hot toddies it would take before Christopher would be telling the urns of his boardroom victory.
From the kitchen, the whistling shriek of the boiling kettle complemented his nerves. Wolf closed his eyes and sighed. "Oh well," he murmured. "Their names liveth for evermore on the Aids quilt."
ENDS.
©Ned McCann. 15 Church St. BALMAIN.N.S.W. Australia.