Free Acid Song by Bernard Beckett Page B

…’
    ‘I can’t deny what I know.’
    ‘Galileo did. What difference did that make, in the end?’
    ‘He died miserable.’
    ‘Dying’s a miserable business. Anyway, he was miserable when he was alive.’
    ‘Have you even looked at the numbers?’
    ‘Briefly.’
    ‘And …’
    ‘And I’d rather I hadn’t,’ Richard admitted.
    ‘You ever scared you’ve grown too comfortable?’
    ‘That’s a stupid thing to be afraid of.’
    But Richard was lying. And every time he repeated it, the less convincing it felt.
     
     
    THE RESTAURANT WAS too warm, and throughout the room carefully dressed couples regretted their choice of costume. It was that sort of place: quiet and expensive, with an imperfect temperature. A room where the commonplace of the wealthy and the special occasion of the middle class could mingle uncomfortably.
    Luke studied Robyn, who studied her menu. Behind her, two of the dining dead sat in silence, sealed over by the already said. Lukelooked again at Robyn, and for a way back into their conversation. A conversation that parenting and careers, lost sleep and ‘worries for the future,’ had cut short. Almost mid-sentence, it felt. If only he could remember that sentence. Finish it. Unlock their lives.
    ‘You weren’t thinking of staying for dessert as well were you?’ Robyn asked. Not a question but a reminder; of a dozen conversations like it.
Fifteen dollars for ice-cream. We can buy ice-cream, perfectly good ice-cream, for a tenth of the price. We’ll eat it on the couch, in front of the heater, once Alicia is in bed
. Hokey pokey from a plastic tub, with the television on, and the thousand needles of jobs undone for company.
    ‘Dunno. See how I feel once I’ve eaten. You ever tried pheasant?’
    ‘Twenty-eight dollars. I think they’re quite small.’
    ‘Good, it’ll leave room for dessert. White or red? I’ll order a bottle.’
    ‘Just get yourself a glass. I’m fine.’
    ‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’
    Luke hadn’t intended it to be this way. He had made an effort to leave the buttons unpressed, but they just went right on ahead and pressed themselves. He knew he should apologise, before her special look, a duo of bewilderment and accusation, set for the evening.
    ‘Can’t you just for once relax and enjoy yourself?’ Luke heard his voice rising to a fight and marvelled at its will. This was the truth. He simply could not help himself. ‘Happiness isn’t like saving for your retirement you know. You can’t set it aside, to be enjoyed at some later date. It doesn’t pay interest.’
    Robyn accused him of having a temper, of speaking without thinking, and she was right. But so was he, that was the problem. So was he.
    ‘Keep your voice down,’ she told him.
    ‘Okay, I’m sorry. I’m just saying a glass of wine won’t kill you, that’s all. I wanted tonight to be special. Okay? Sorry.’
    Luke smiled. She smiled back. He mistook forgiveness for a willingness to compromise.
    ‘So, red or white?’
    ‘Luke, I’m pregnant.’
    The world stopped; every possible feeling rendered useless, clumsy, inappropriate. Luke recognised this state. Back then, the first time, he’d put it down to ignorance. Yet here he was again, with three and a half years of fatherhood to draw upon, still blank. All he felt was the lack of feeling. He smiled, as one must, and waited, and when that didn’t work, he tried to think the emotion to the surface.
    Another child. You are going to be a father again. You love your child. Your child has changed your life. You are happy. You are truly, strangely happy.
    ‘Say something then.’ Robyn looked at him, anticipation crinkling to concern. ‘You are happy aren’t you?’
    ‘Of course I’m happy.’
    ‘We discussed this. We said how it would be nice for Alicia to have a little friend to grow up with.’
    Luke couldn’t remember this. He certainly hadn’t used the phrase ‘little friend’.
    Luke looked across the table. Tears were forming.