Being Anti-Social Read online

  That is the tradition; that is the Evans family Christmas.

  But due to the influence of newcomers, Christmas Day routine had changed. Lauren disappeared mid-morning to visit Patrick and his family to leave me alone with mother and dad for part of the hiatus, a first in four decades. I was annoyed at Lauren for such blatant disregard of family convention then frightened by the intimacy of being alone with the parents—what would we say to each other with no buffer until Kimba and Kenneth arrived.

  Dad and I relaxed on the back deck with coffee and an assortment of homemade Christmas treats (shortbread, fudge and professional rum balls) even though digestion of breakfast had stalled. Mother, as usual, was in the kitchen preparing for lunch.

  Dad is not a big talker, which is good and bad. It is good because there is no pressure to entertain him with riveting dialogue. It is bad because the silence can force you to purge your mind of every unedited thought.

  It was a peculiar day that Christmas Day, not just because I was home alone with mother and dad, but also because of the attention—mother was doting on me. She doted on dad too, but that was habitual. Gratitude then went out to Lauren and Patrick as I basked in the glory of the overcast, chilly summer’s day enjoying what it would be like as an only child.

  Mother had the fireplace roaring, and ushered dad and I into the living room. I almost expected her to produce a pair of my old chenille slippers to match dad’s new genuine sheepskin-lined brown scuffs. The sheepskin lining wicked moisture and is hypoallergenic and biodegradable—I know this because of an earlier discussion on the back deck, explained in significant detail by mother, the gift-giver. Dad needs the best slippers because his feet are bloated and red, and they bother me with thoughts of his longevity. Dad cannot die as there is no life without him; human existence as we know it would wither away in his absence leaving the cockroaches to thrive. He is cute, cuddly, lovable, and a beacon of life.

  Mother surprised me further with a generous glass of eggnog complete with a dose of bourbon and not her regular temperate version. And just when I thought the day could not be perfected, Kimba and Kenneth arrived followed shortly thereafter by Amber in a taxi. More eggnog flowed with pre-lunch snacks, and mother did not frown once as I guzzled the eggnog as if it was life-saving water. It is such a shame that I discovered too late in life that I was meant to be an only child.

  By the time we sat down late for lunch, it was just me, mother and dad, which was entirely pleasant. Then Lauren returned with Patrick and an engagement ring. I expected this would bring the arctic weather inside, but mother wept with apparent happiness. I thought to do a recap for her to bring a modicum of good sense to proceedings: a divorced catholic man nearing fifty with two children, and a relationship not yet past infancy at four months. Not to mention that mother was facing an empty nest.

  Patrick brought a case of chilled sparkling wine and several punnets of strawberries, ingratiating himself further. A celebration ensued, and again, mother did not frown during the festivities despite my avid participation in the bubbly. The day continued its ascent because Shannon was late back from her in-laws.

  Clearly Lauren had neglected to educate Patrick on the knitting corner/blue corner dichotomy for he positioned himself in the midst of the knitting corner next to his beloved and showed no sign of distress. In fact, he contributed to the conversation with surprising agility, and I wondered if he was gay or just completely in love.

  Patrick is a talker (the first male version I have ever met) and makes Shannon look decidedly introverted. There was no holding him back, especially on the topic of his two daughters: Amelie (9 years) and Jesse (11 years). And Lauren showed no sign of fear as he talked about her prospective step-daughters who, incidentally, are just a few years from the horrors of teenagehood—Lauren must truly be in love or blinded by its temporary brilliance. Mother also seemed overjoyed with the prospect of two more grandchildren, which would bring her total to eight come March when Gabby surrenders hers to the world.

  After a gluttonous dinner, we ventured outside despite the cold Melbourne twilight (yes it is summer) and mother fired up the outdoor gas heaters. Dad allowed us to invade his secret port supplies, which are not so secret as I sampled from this cupboard when I was fourteen, and I was not the first.

  I love Christmas because it lasts forever and only ends when the sun sets after 10PM. Some years this is a negative, but for that particular Christmas, it was a blessing for a family gathering is a wondrous occasion. Patrick was still talking when I ventured inside to rest for a couple of moments on the sofa.

  I woke the next morning covered in a blanket, which smelled of home. Bacon sizzled in the kitchen and coffee brewed. I thought of Lauren and wondered why she would want to leave. I considered moving back home to take her pampered place then remembered that Shannon was a frequent dropper-innerer and that would ruin everything.

  I snoozed a while longer as mother had just stoked another fire and placed a hot coffee on the side table beside my head, and I do believe she patted my hair lightly as she passed by.

  I dreamt then that I was an egg and despite all the coaxing from family, strangers and an odd-looking king, I would not leave my shell, even though it was time, so the townsfolk decided to boil me in a huge Joan of Arc type fire. I woke with a fright, not from the dream, but because a pesky nephew, one of Shannon’s, was poking me in the face with a plastic Excalibur sword. It was time to return home to the sanctity of my townhouse.

  Chapter Seventeen

  WITHIN the first week of the new year, a call went out to gather for a family barbeque even though no one had a birthday or other event to celebrate. I was alert to the sinister that lurked in the irregularity since I am intuitive, and worried then for the entire week about dad and his heart.

  There was news—mother had breast cancer. She had known for several weeks, but did not want to say anything that might ruin our Christmas.

  I was overwhelmed and shocked like everyone except for David and Gabby who seemed to have prior knowledge. I shuffled down the hallway to the computer and a solitary environment as a torrent of unexpected tears blurred my path; they had a life of their own, not controlled by me.

  I learned what I could about stage three breast cancer, treatment and survival, and what optimism I may have had until that moment, dissipated then for mother is many things including a brilliant actor. I had questions, but left them unasked because ignorance is so much better than truth.

  Mother said everything was going to be okay, no one was to worry, and I wanted to believe her, so I did. She is always right, but I stopped by the cemetery on the way home to visit Ben for a good cry and a warranted dose of my kind of self-pity.

  I shared mother’s news with my friends, who came en masse to the townhouse that Sunday morning in a show of support. Erin brought one of her brats because the child was supposedly unwell, but he still had sufficient strength to undertake renovations to my spare bedroom, converting an orderly space into a disaster zone with a trail of food particles for ants to follow.

  In my living room, we waded into waters not yet chartered, like Ferdinand Magellan sailing forth towards the edge of the world. No one knew what it was to lose a mother. Kimba had intimate knowledge of parental loss, having farewelled the father she worshipped, and we assumed it would be much the same since we could not discern why it would be any different, closeness issues aside.

  Sophie claimed a greater appreciation of what might be lost and rightfully so as her mother is an integral cog at the Cairnhill-Scott household: as full-time carer of Lucinda, housekeeper, grocery supplier, sick-child nurse and all-round crisis-solver. It is usual for Sophie and Adam to return home from a day in the legal pit to a spotlessly clean house, a crock-pot of wholesome food timed for their arrival and a bathed, fed child ready for a bedtime story purchased by the grandmother while at the shopping centre running errands for the parents.

  Kimba, as you would expect, is the best of friends with her mother—a lo
ss there would seriously maim Kimba, and the same can be said of Kimba and mother since she is an honorary member of our family. Mother’s news affected her deeply, and she said nothing when I explained that mother was undergoing chemotherapy to shrink the tumor before surgery. I had thought this was a good sign—mother had said as much—but Kimba’s silence left me wondering since silence is what arises when the truth is not desirable.

  Erin and her mother have estrangement issues as Erin still resents her parents for divorcing when she was fifteen at which time her father left home to establish a new life with his former secretary and subsequent children. The affair had gone unnoticed for five years, and I for one have often wondered how a wife could not know in all of that time. Her mother turned the desertion into a permanent state of asperity, and as Erin says, ruined the remainder of her childhood in favor of harboring bitterness, which Erin now chooses to do also.

  Amber has perfectly good parents, but she rarely speaks with her mother for they are elks with horns locked, but Amber says this in no way suggests she does not care for her. It is much like my relationship with mother.

  “What if the worst happened?” Erin asked. “Would you help her to die if the pain was too much?”

  “Erin!” Sophie yelled. “Are you completely insensitive?”

  “She would never ask,” I said, matter-of-factly. “Mother would endure whatever God asked of her. She is a devout Christian.”

  “What about you, Mace?” Erin persisted.

  “What? Kill myself?”

  “Erin!” Sophie yelled again.

  “If you were terminally ill,” said Erin.

  “Have never thought about it and do not want to,” I replied.

  “Most likely someone will kill you first,” Amber said with a laugh.

  “Thanks for cheering me up, Amber.”

  “Erin started it,” she said.

  “I was just curious,” Erin resumed. “What about you, Kimba? You see a lot of people near death and in agonizing pain from a terminal illness.”

  “I’m not against ending someone’s suffering if that is what they want and death is imminent, but not just because they are old or depressed.”

  “Have you ever given drugs to end someone’s life?” Erin asked. “I know doctors do it.”

  Kimba smiled faintly utilizing the silence strategy, one she is quite proficient at, and it is no wonder Kimba is never in the midst of conflict other than what we create to surround her.

  “What about you, Erin? Would you kill yourself if you had a terminal illness?” Sophie asked.

  “Yes, I would.”

  “What about the Bobmeister, if he was terminally ill and asked you to help him end it?” Amber asked.

  “Of course. I would do anything for him.”

  “So you would kill your own husband, and risk going to prison leaving your kids parentless?” Sophie asked.

  “They don’t charge people with murder for mercy killings,” said Erin.

  “They absolutely do!” yelled Sophie.

  “What kind of people are you?” I asked. “Didn’t you come here to cheer me up? And to convince me that everything was going to be okay?”

  “You’re right, Mace,” said Amber. “Let’s head down to the Esplanade for lunch on the beach. Who’s in?”

  “Not me,” said Erin. “I have to get home with my sick little boy.”

  “I’m on the afternoon shift,” said Kimba. “Sorry, Mace, but I’ll call in and see your mum during the week.”

  “Sophie?” asked Amber.

  “I’m tempted,” she said glancing after the disappearing Erin, “but we’re taking Lucinda to Luna Park this afternoon.”

  “Just the two of us then,” said Amber. “Mind if I invite Jake?”

  “Sure,” I said, miffed at being the extra during my time of need. “Make sure it is just Jake and no one else.”

  It was tragic that I found myself wishing Sophie and even Erin could join us for lunch to make me even. I do not like odd numbers. At the supermarket, I only buy in pairs: two bananas or four apples, never one or three. Ben used to challenge me to buy an odd number. It became his life mission, but I never did; there was no point. I also do not like odd birth years. I skip the odd years and spend two years at the even, so when I turned 37, I said I was 38 and have stayed there.

  As Amber and I drove down to the Esplanade to meet up with Jake, I wondered about my friends, that they would choose to support me in this crisis with talk of euthanasia and death, but as Oscar says, “What is the good of friendship if one cannot say exactly what one means? Anybody can say charming things and try to please and to flatter, but a true friend always says unpleasant things, and does not mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he prefers it, for he knows that then he is doing good.”

  I am not sure what good was in their words except to fill me with fear for mother, that she might endure an excruciating death and before I have had a chance to say “I love you,” and truly mean it. Those three words seem so difficult, but not so when I was with Ben. I told him every day, even when I was cheating.

  Chapter Eighteen

  SOME bright spark from the social club decided it would be fun to document New Year resolutions and paste them up in the lunchroom for tracking, support and sponsorship. There was a notable absence under the ‘give up smoking’ pledge, so I added Thomas and listed Rachel as his sponsor.

  I have a standard list of annual resolutions that receive the appropriate level of disregard, since good resolutions, as Oscar says, “are simply checks that men draw on a bank where they have no account.” However, since Thomas had a goal for the year, I thought to make it a southern corner challenge. I extracted a yellowed sheet from the dark recesses of my office desk and undertook a more genuine review:

  One: Exercise in non-daylight savings months, March-October.

  Two: Reduce merlot consumption to Friday nights only, maybe Saturday.

  Three: Do not get cable TV (win bet with Erin)

  Four: Volunteer with Kimba and Kenneth on whatever mission they plan next.

  Five: Drop in to see mother and dad without reason or notice.

  Six: Appreciate my friends – they mean well.

  Seven: Stay away from men – they are all cads.

  Eight: Avoid sarcasm – it is the lowest form of wit, apparently.

  Nine: Compliment and commend Rachel.

  That is the top nine. Nothing much has changed for several years since the list was penned post-Joshua, other than the addition of the last entry since Rachel became my secretary. I have enjoyed some successes: I still do not have cable, and I did go to Brazil once with Kenneth and Kimba to save the street children, but that ended in disaster.

  I have often considered deleting number eight, not only because it is unattainable, but also because the argument against sarcasm is unconvincing and in fact, no one even knows the origin of the phrase that says sarcasm is evidence of a lower wit. Thomas Carlyle actually said punning is the lowest form of wit, not sarcasm, and they are different beasts. Punning is the humorous use of a phrase or word to emphasize or suggest its different meaning or application, or the use of words that are alike or nearly alike in sound but different in meaning—a mere play on words. Sarcasm is not nearly so cute.

  In fact, research conducted by the genius, Dr Shamay-Tsoory and her team found that the ability to understand sarcasm depends on a carefully orchestrated sequence of complex cognitive skills in specific parts of the brain. People with brain damage or autism cannot comprehend sarcasm. The same areas of the brain that decipher sarcasm and irony also process language, recognize emotions and help us to understand social cues. Sarcasm, therefore, is evidence of a highly functional brain and social perception.

  I crossed a line through resolution number eight and basked in smugness, feeling vindicated for choosing Oscar as my mentor as he is the most successfully sarcastic person ever and a brilliant man too. I crossed a line also through number four, blaming Kimba
and her pregnancy, and number two because merlot has many health benefits. I added ‘write books x 2’ and asked Rachel to type up the new list of annual resolutions. There was no need to specify it as resolutions for a specific year as the list would be used for years to come because I am a middle child.

  When I returned to the lunchroom to retrieve my chicken rice from the refrigerator, I noticed certain unauthorized amendments had defaced the resolution chart. My name appeared under three new headings: win community award for charitable works, run for president of social club, and lead revolt against ‘at the end of the day’.

  Tittering filled the room as I stood before the chart with my Tupperware, which did not bother me, for as Oscar says, “There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.”

  I was a little miffed though that no one recalled that I had gone to Brazil to save the street children so to imply that I lacked a charitable spirit was misguided.

  Although a fully paid member of the social club (solely out of a sense of duty and obligation), I have not attended a social club event for several years, not since the 30 June party with the theme, ‘a scene featuring your favorite fictional character’. It was sufficiently absurd to require a fictional character to appear at an office party, but to require a scene was beyond ridiculous. It was surprising that supposedly intelligent people (the social club committee) could make such foolish suggestions, and I for one was not about to dress up in a rabbit costume and bring my beloved Brer Rabbit into disrepute should I fall drunken into a corner late into the night, although the thought of having a Tar Baby at the party to snare a petite Alice hand was enticing.

  I have always loved Brer Rabbit and one is never too old for his cleverness for he was the original trickster. Brer Fox hated Brer Rabbit because he was always cutting capers (misbehaving) and bossing everyone around, so he laid a trap to teach Brer Rabbit a lesson. Brer Fox made a cute little baby out of tar, added a straw hat then placed the tar baby in the middle of the road in wait for Brer Rabbit.