By Kimberley Pearson
If you look closely there is a tempest hidden beneath his eyes. I can read temperature from a distance. I can hear it in his tone or see it in his countenance. A cold front doesn’t always appear in the forecast. A hurricane can suddenly materialise on a whim.
*
From outside, everything looks normal.
A gilded cage on close-cut grass. Landmark, elite, secure. Street appeal, high fences, no hawkers allowed.
As I arrive a real estate agent hands me a brochure, it reads: “Where heaven and earth meet”.
Buttons in vivid red are placed strategically throughout my home, sterile, stark, and modern against tranquil tones of bamboo, cream, and beige.
Since moving here he has changed the costume he wears. A Greg Norman uniform. He wears a collared microfiber golf shirt, bright blue plaid shorts, loafers, and a disingenuous grin. His clothes look identical to almost every other man in the estate. Yet he does not play golf, he does not own golf clubs.
He can’t watch the movie Catch Me If You Can. He says it reminds him of someone but he won’t say who.
He straightens his shoulders, and grins a smarmy, toothy smile as he waves at a neighbor as he speeds past in his golf cart, golf clubs in tow. He removes his mask and regains his usual expression after the cart passes by.
At the golf club, the maitre d’ can detect his inauthenticity; like a springer spaniel digging for truffles, his 20-year tenure can detect a phony. I hide my secret delight.
He is constantly in my thoughts. What does he think, not what do I think. His choice, not my choice. Will he like this or will he prefer that? I’m too fragile to have a confrontation. Any confrontation with anyone.
*
There is a red button on the wall. I moved cities to be close to this red button and I threaten to press it every time it starts. A panic button for emergencies.
I have high gates, security guards, and flashing lights. But …. “Will security get here in time?”
*
Before the gates and the guards and the red button, there was another house. And I wondered, even then, would this be the house? Like a haunted house on a hill. A turret, thick hedges, steep driveway. Gingerbread.
I imagine my neighbor being interviewed on the steep driveway outside my home. Aromatic gardenias and jasmine flowers scent the air.
Would they say:
“But they were so quiet. We had no idea.”
This would be a lie. I am certain they can hear. His abuse is worn on my countenance. You can see it wherever I go. Hunched shoulders, eyes downcast, outfit of whatever-is-clean. Survive. Keep going. It will get better.
Once I had a dream. I saw faint streams of light from high windows, but they are just too high to reach.
*
I have taken a vow of self-imposed silence. We are at his friend’s coffee shop. I want to speak. But as I start I see him shift in his seat. He gathers me in his gaze. He grins. It looks like love, or at least companionship. The glance is meaningless to anyone who is watching us.
Laughing melodically, she tips my glass, pouring cooled French champagne. I despise champagne. I take a generous sip. Painted beige nails clutch at the glass. I can see a little bit of light.
At first, she’ll have a tiny voice. She will be but an echo.
*
Leaving is a verb without meaning.
Pregnant with rain, the water in the atmosphere has long since evaporated. The denouement is long overdue. Is there safety in its delay? Or the opposite of safety.
There is a small red button in my bedroom. Cedar, rattan, bamboo. The double doors to my bedroom are locked. My dogs are sleeping on the cool timber floor.
I can feel the barometric pressure rising.
It is 3am. Adrenalin wakes me.
Furious fists fracturing locked double doors. Screaming expletives, a storm cloud of anger as he thunders towards me. I do not know why I am on my feet. I press the red button.
Let it rain.