Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 13, Issue 3 by John Clanchy

Author:John Clanchy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Review of Australian Fiction

The Howard Johnson two blocks from the motel is nearly empty when she arrives. She’s twenty minutes early. She wants to be here, to see him, have the advantage, when he comes in. She still hasn’t unpacked. She orders a coffee, donut, sits, plays with them. Dazed by all this brightness, late morning glare, glass, chrome. A man three tables away—one of only two other customers—wipes sauce from his chin. Fat, pasty, eats. Stares, unblinking. Consumes while he watches. Her legs, breasts. As he did when she came in. She turns her head, ignores him. She waits for her father.

Ten minutes, and she knows he won’t come. Two workers from the caryard next door come, grab takeaways, coffee, flirt with the girl behind the counter, leave, discussing a ball game. The man gets up, goes for chips, on his way to the counter and back makes a detour close to her table, insinuates his fat thighs between her table and the next when there’s a corridor free beside his own. He holds the bucket of chips low as he passes, his eyes moving over her all the while, as though he’s offering. He says nothing, as though he—and she—can take it or leave it. Goes and sits, looks at his watch. And eats, as he looks.

Why should he come, her father? A crazy woman. All this way, unannounced, in trouble, making claims. A voice. A few scrappy details. A smudged photo. That could have been snatched from anyone’s album. If it weren’t for the Bo—

‘You wanna try for another coffee?’

He has his own cup in one hand, the fingers, palm, of the other, gross, swollen, extended familiarly (to show there’s no weapon?) towards her. She doesn’t look at his face. Just shakes her head. Sees the legs, heavy rolling buttocks move carelessly away. Those Americans, she hears her mother say. She could at least be civil. The place is open, staffed, she’s in no danger from this man.

From anyone. The deadline comes, goes. The second customer’s gone, a young woman, some quiet grief, she’s made no mark, and there’s only the girl at the counter now, the Gross Man (she’s named him), and herself. Her father won’t come, she knows that, she’s always known that—why should he? He’s got responsibilities enough. Of his own. Here, in America. A new wife. At the end of her first…

She’s weeping before she knows it. There’s water on her face, her fingers discover it. She sees herself in the glass of the window beside her, sees how ugly she’s grown. Opposite her, Gross Man sees too. Watches, waits. While her skin dries. And she promises herself this: if he asks me, I will go with him. I will do whatever he wants. Somehow—gross, ugly, in tune with her despair—he knows this.

He looks at his watch one last time. Fingers spreading on the round formica table before him, he pushes himself to his feet. Wipes his chin—it’s pink, clean, shining—drops the crumpled serviette on the table, comes across.

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