Free Dissonance by Stephen Orr

girlfriend was pretty or plain, smart or dumb. Certainly less manic than his own mother. And if they didn’t want to know him, so what?
    â€˜Go on Thursday,’ the girl had told him. ‘It’s his day off.’
    Erwin stopped in front of the house and stared down the overgrown garden path. He could hear his mother’s voice. Some things can’t be forgiven. Why did you go? Why? I ask so little …
    Again, he started walking. He stood on the front porch and lifted his head to knock on the flyscreen door.
    No more lessons, Erwin. Go and get yourself a job.
    He knocked. There was shuffling from the kitchen at the far end of the house, but no reply. Then he heard a male voice talking in a slow, mechanical drone. ‘My name is Basedow and I am from the German region of South Australia. I am writing to you to protest the arrest of Pastor Niemöller last week. The Pastor is a guiding light to Protestants in Australia.’
    â€˜He’s not going to read your letter,’ a woman’s voice piped up.
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜He has people to do that.’
    â€˜When they see it’s from Australia, don’t you think they’ll pass it on?’
    â€˜No.’
    Erwin put his face to the flywire and called down the hallway. ‘Hello.’
    â€˜He probably values outside opinion,’ the man continued.
    â€˜Coming,’ the woman called, as a chair shifted and she quietened to reply to the man. ‘Hitler hasn’t heard of the Barossa Valley.’
    â€˜Rubbish.’
    â€˜Fred,’ she scolded, appearing in the hallway, looking towards the front door. ‘Who is it?’ she asked, squinting.
    â€˜Erwin,’ he replied, starting to make her out.
    â€˜Erwin who?’
    â€˜Hergert.’
    â€˜No …’
    â€˜The boy?’ the man asked.
    â€˜Yes,’ she replied, walking slowly down the hallway. She unlatched the door and opened it. ‘I never thought I’d see the day,’ she said.
    Erwin was unsure what to do, or say. ‘I’m Jo’s son,’ he managed.
    â€˜I know who you are,’ she replied. ‘It’s just I assumed you’d been … warned off.’
    â€˜I was.’
    â€˜Yeah, that’s what Jo reckoned. Gee, you look like him. Come in.’
    She took him to the kitchen and introduced him to Fred, the letter-writer. ‘My husband,’ she explained.
    Fred stood up and Erwin shook his hand. ‘I didn’t know,’ Erwin said, lifting his hands in the air, confused. ‘I suppose that’s why I’m here.’
    â€˜And I’m glad you are,’ the woman said, taking him around the shoulder and squeezing tightly. ‘It’s a very brave thing to do, considering.’
    â€˜My mum?’
    â€˜Jo told me everything.’
    â€˜The shed?’
    â€˜The lot.’ She pulled out a chair and offered it to him. ‘My name’s Shirley. Declan will be home soon.’
    Erwin smiled. ‘Good … I gotta get back to school.’
    â€˜Bugger school,’ she said. ‘Don’t you want to meet your brother?’
    Shirley made coffee and they talked – about school and God’s Hill Road, Dodge trucks and piano lessons. She sat in front of him, holding his hands in hers, as Fred continued writing his letter to the accompaniment of a grandfather clock. He searched her face for clues, for something his father had seen – brown, receptive eyes, soft skin, a figure that hadn’t buckled under the weight of gravity, a soothing voice and the ability to stop and listen, and hear, and say things like, ‘Why would she say a thing like that?’
    Here was the mother he hadn’t had, but might’ve, if his father had chosen differently. Here was a mother that wouldn’t make him a great pianist but might have made him happy, or happier. Here was the proof that life was random and unpredictable, the result