A Month of Sundays

Chapter 1

The darkness was never as complete as he needed. He needed immeasurable blackness beyond shape or shadow but it wasn’t available; was not part of this city life. The sliding, refracted stripes from the outside traffic; the humming streetlights and the illumination of the city’s buildings that stood proudly guzzling electricity throughout the night all conspired to send light creeping past the blinds, slinking around the curtains. And so, for yet another uncountable night, he stared at the incomplete darkness and contemplated.

The contemplation did nothing to relieve his anxiety, opened no paths to relief; offered no answers to the solemn questions he was asking. Each and every night the same questions, the answers hiding in the corners, seemingly afraid to expose themselves or perhaps, so he hoped. The notion that the truth stands tall and proud; obvious and brave, was not one that appeared to hold true in these circumstances. That’s why he needed total darkness; a darkness where form disintegrated and he could toss his questions into the wide nothing and the cowering, hidden truths might have the courage to at least whisper to him. But he could find no such darkness and so heard no truth, found no understanding; collected nothing more than the echoes of tortured questions and another layer of frustration to add to his ensemble.

He would listen to her sleeping beside him; her breathing heavy and rhythmic, interrupted only by snorts and pronounced snoring; the darkness required for those tasks a mere step into the shade. He made every effort not to toss, turn or perform acrobatics on his side of the bed but the days of her being attuned to his every movement had long since passed. These days, he thought he could likely have struggled for his life with an axe murderer on his side of the bed without notice. Whether it was respect or habit that stilled him he couldn’t have said. Did it matter? Either way, he did what he felt he should and tried not to disturb her sleep while he stared and ruminated.

Initially, he’d been content to consign the insomnia to a little restlessness and the onset of middle age. Nobody is immune to asking what it’s all about, the why of it. At some point, we will all pose the question of what we have done with our lives. Where am I at and is it where I wanted to be or just as likely, how the hell did I get to here? It is the defining question of modern, privileged life where the marketed expectation of the pre-formatted planned path, full of inspiration and magnificence of journey positions so many for the disappointment of the unspectacular daily reality. The basic ingredients for the mid-life crisis are accumulated and stored; only a birthday, sporting injury, work failure or purchase of the wrong piece of clothing from being complete. After the first six or seven nights of asking it was becoming increasingly difficult to shake the notion of mid-life crisis having arrived. He’d considered it a good thing that he was cognisant of the possibility. After another sleepless week and then further expanding the list of questions, including should humans be married, where is the universe, what is life exactly and the nervously murmured query of does God exist; it was clearly becoming something more than some minor sort of middle-aged self-delusion building and/or breaking.

There had been one night when he had wondered if he was even still alive, a moment that terrified him. He had suddenly thought ‘What if I’m dead? They say your life flashes before your eyes as you die. What if that’s what this is, my life, not flashing but stop-framing, slowly shuttering away right before my eyes? I have so little control over anything it feels like I’m watching a show and although I’m in it and it’s about me; that’s all it is, about me. I’m not feeling it, I’m not driving it; I’m a passenger riding along to a destination I don’t want to go to and didn’t set out for’ That night he had spent much of the remainder of the dark hours wandering the lower level of the building, touching things, smelling things, working his senses as if that may somehow have been the key to confirming or rejecting the notion. The reality was it was all about damping down the fear.

The days had become harder, dragging around sleep poor and restless beyond itch. The work slid across and around him and it was done in a lethargic, second nature fashion; uninspired, bored and disinterested were his three defining working characteristics. The facade of civility was maintained but the few people he held close noticed the change; the distant look in his eye, the inattention and delayed responses; the dimness of spark in what had been a livewire. None had said anything directly but he knew it was probably coming and he was unsure of just what his response would be. He knew if he removed his mask; allowed the charade to end and laid his thoughts out openly and honestly he could irreparably damage the world around him; perhaps blow the whole thing to pieces but he knew, just as surely as he had ever known anything, that if he didn’t address his life and his place in the world, then it was all going to fall to pieces around him anyway. The single certainty he had settled upon after all of the staring hours was that it was best if he pulled the trigger; got himself into the fight rather than be a spectator to the dismantling of his universe as he drifted away into nothingness.

That was so much easier said than done. Attempts to shake it off with humour, exercise, alcohol and prescription medication had failed and now, the best part of five weeks on, nothing had changed and unless something did change, Tom Moses was going to have to admit, out loud, to someone; that he may be losing his mind.

Chapter 2- Sunday September 2

The razor cut a path through the foam, a bulldozer graze that left nothing in its wake but shiny, irritated skin. As Tom Moses looked at his mirrored self he avoided his direct gaze; kept his eyes firmly on the head of the razor and the foam as it disappeared from his face. When he scraped away the last of the foam he ran the wet razor up the rear of his neck to the neat barber-shop hairline, performing a half-arsed, haphazard job of addressing the hair that grew thick and strong back there; about twenty centimetres away from where he could have used it on the barren forward half of his head.

He rinsed the razor under the running water of the unnecessarily tall, expensive, gleaming pipe and watched the tiny shavings of hair swirl in the basin like the dregs of tea leaves but they told no tales of fortune before they slid away and rode the water off to dark, unknown places. Tom shook the razor and placed it carefully on its polished steel holder on the expensive, gleaming glass shelf that hugged the base of the mirror. Now he looked at himself. Without the whiskers he looked slightly younger but the thick cheeks, bullfrog-like spare chin, or on closer inspection, chins; and saggy pouches beneath his brown eyes did nothing to understate the forty-two years he’d put behind him. He’d long ago surrendered to the baldness, not that he had much choice; it had thrust itself upon him at some point around his thirtieth birthday and had laughed at his pathetic procession of attempts to cover, ignore, chemically challenge and hide its progression. He had a concession to acceptance sometime during his thirty-seventh year, which was a full two or three years after the fight had been well decided. It wasn’t even a sporting contest, he’d never had a hope and there was nobody in his corner who could see something that Tom couldn’t. Every morning he looked; every morning he felt that pang, the angst of loss; perhaps it was almost grief but like grief, over time one adapted, adjusted and eventually moved on as best as could be done. The loss would be noticed but the world would not stop.

Tom finally found the eyes and gave the reflected image a stern look; he had no time for drama queens who blew things out of proportion; not that it stopped him from filling that role on a regular basis but not this morning. No, today would not be one of those days. Today, he felt strong, resolute; in control. That thought was tested almost immediately when he heard commotion downstairs; voices whiny and curt, footsteps scraping and stomping and the tap-dancing of animal nails on tile. He knew he would soon hear his own name snarled or shrilled. He wiped his face with a towel and returned it to the expensive, gleaming heated towel rack. He turned side-on to the mirror and studied the line of his body; the gut that grew larger every week, the sag in his chest and the flabby arms and arse. He was growing an old man’s body and it was very nearly in full bloom. He slapped the belly with both hands and gripped it for a moment, feeling hair and heft that had never been there once but he knew that nothing stays the same forever; not that it made his rotund bodyline any better or in this moment, more palatable. His mindset about the weight was much the same as it had been with his hair but the sad truth of this situation was unlike the hair; for he had the ability to control this; he just didn’t have the will. He had applied similar methodology, covering and hiding with baggy clothing, ignoring it and just hoping it would sort itself out and challenging it with tri-annual chemical attempts via the latest diet shakes, bars or programs that were as unlikely to provide a long-term solution as he was to get any value out of the money spent on these well-marketed short-term fixes for laziness.

As usual, Tom nodded firmly and told himself that tomorrow he would eat properly and do some exercise and it may well happen tomorrow, it was tomorrow’s tomorrow where his lack of determination would again manifest itself. Tom pulled a red tee-shirt over his head and plucked at the body section a couple of times to loosen any clingy spots. He bent and struggled to balance as he worked each foot into his grey briefs. He stood upright and adjusted them for comfort then pulled on his faded Levi’s. He hadn’t worn them into faded comfort, he’d bought them faded and somehow paid more for them to look second-hand when they were new. They needed to soften more but they still reminded him of his youth. Levi’s jeans were now very much the domain of the middle-aged and older but for any of us, it is difficult to step away from the comfort of familiarity and at this point in his life; Tom Moses needed any comfort he could secure.

Tom!

His eyes closed as he heard the call he knew was coming. He sat on the expensive, gleaming, stainless steel and Swedish timber stool that was adjacent to the heated towel racks and after pulling on some blue socks with an unintelligible scrawl woven all over the sole section where only he and the washing machine would ever see it, slipped his feet into what some designer had tried to convince everyone were not simply brown elastic-sided work boots. He stood, plucked at the shirt again; as he would after every occasion when he sat today, then moved to the door and reached for the expensive, gleaming, oversized door handle.

Tom!

Tom eased the door open in time to hear the footfall of heels along the polished floorboards on this upper level of his home. When his wife, Monica, loomed into view he offered a smile that couldn’t quite cut it as sheepish but was a long way from strong and resolute. Monica stopped in her tracks, mouth slightly agape as she looked at her husband. He watched as her eyes ran up and down then repeated the process theatrically What on earth are you wearing?

Tom looked down at his ensemble then up to his wife and shrugged. He saw the distaste, to which she added frustration You’re not going to church like that, are you?

Tom screwed his mouth off to the left and squinted which, combined with his baldness and round features, gave him a youngish Mister Magoo look Um, no, actually. I’m not wearing this to church

Monica’s expression didn’t change too much other than to slightly increase the frustration with perhaps a dash of exasperation Well?

Tom stared blankly although he knew exactly what she meant Well what?

Exasperation had gained the ascendancy Well, go and get dressed for mass Monica took an exaggerated glance at her expensive, gleaming wristwatch We’ll be late

Tom shook his head slowly No, you won’t be late. I’m ready to go

Now, it was confusion spreading across her face but it struggled to hold its position because anger was elbowing its way into the picture What on earth are you doing? We need to go, you need to change. Now!

Tom scratched at his chest Sorry. I probably didn’t make myself clear. I’m not going to church. I’m ready to drive you but I’m not going to church today

What?

I’m not going to church said Tom flatly.

You didn’t tell me you had something else on

I don’t

About now it became extraordinarily difficult to assess accurately which emotion was being portrayed most prominently as Monica’s face turned into a crumpled-paper scowl  although the words which followed probably indicated anger remained dominant What the fuck are you talking about?

Tom remained outwardly calm but his heart thumped in his ears I’m not going to church

Why not? spat Monica through her contorted mouth.

Well, I’m having a few doubts about the whole thing offered Tom meekly.

You’re what? she screeched.

I’m having some doubts, you know, about the whole religion thing

Monica’s head rattled back and forth, threatening to launch into a spin Have you gone mad?

I don’t think so but we probably can’t rule it out entirely. Anyway, we better get going. You don’t want to be late

Monica stood before her husband, shifting her weight from one expensive, red-soled shoe to the other and wringing her hands together. Eventually, she let go an exasperated huff, spun around and moved back along the polished timber to the stairs with the expensive, gleaming, chrome and glass balustrade. She stormed down the hand-crafted timber treads, ignoring the family portraits, computer-enhanced landscape photographs of places she’d never been and uninspired modern art which held the prime attribute of being rendered in just the right palette to complement the home decor. Tom muddled along behind her, pleased that he’d stated his piece but dreading the volcano that gurgled and rumbled along ahead of him.

At the foot of the stairs was Astrid, Tom and Monica’s fourteen year-old daughter. She was a pretty girl, tall for her age with a long, straight mane of deep brown hair, big round eyes and a pout that left Tom questioning the validity of his daughter’s cosmetic habits. He wondered whether the endless pout was entirely a consequence of her teenage state of all-encompassing disapproval or had been cosmetically enhanced. She stood at an awkward angle, leaning against the bottom post of the expensive, gleaming chrome and glass balustrade while she toyed with her mobile phone.

Astrid glanced up at her mother and then to her father behind. She straightened up as she realised trouble was afoot What’s going on? Why aren’t you dressed for church, Dad?

Tom was forming an answer but needn’t have; Monica saved him the trouble He’s not going to church

Why not?

Monica had completed her descent and her heel clicks shifted an octave, losing the deeper resonance as she left the timber of the stairs for the expensive, gleaming Italian tiles of the lower level. She reached an arm out and herded her daughter towards the front door; an outrageously over-scaled chunk of timber tall enough for small giraffe and wide enough for, if not elephants then certainly slightly obese rhinoceros I don’t know why, Darling. We can discuss it in the car. Jack!

Jack Moses strode through the living area with practiced nonchalance; dancing around Max, the family’s dark chocolate Labrador, who was splayed on the tiled floor like some sort of trophy rug. Jack was sixteen and carried himself with the air of someone older. That confidence told his mother he was a product of her good parenting. It told his father that Jack had had sex. The confidence delivered by solving that mystery is a noticeable echelon different to mere good self-esteem. Jack stood 178 centimetres tall, about five feet-ten on the old-fashioned or American scale, the same as his father; and was all lean muscle and sharp angles. He’d been an early developer and although he would fill out a little more, most of his upward growing was done. He had much squarer features than his sister but carried the same big, dark eyes. His dark hair was cut short with the exception of a sweeping fringe that angled across from the left of his head to the right and was held in place by an environmentally unsound amount of hair product.

Jack propped when he saw his father. He looked down at his own outfit of neatly pressed blue chinos and long-sleeved blue and white checked shirt. He looked back at his father’s surf company tee-shirt and jeans and in a cheeky tone asked Is it mufti day? Why didn’t someone tell me?

Monica sighed as she swung the huge door open Come on, we need to get going

Tom smiled at Jack and quietly said Wrong religion, mate. Muftis are that other mob

Jack smirked Ahh, that mob with the bombers and virgins deal?

Why isn’t Dad going to church? asked Astrid again.

Come on, let’s go, we’ll be late. We’ll discuss it in the car, Darling

Jack moved past his father and Tom couldn’t help but grin, at least until Monica barked his name Tom, please!

Tom grabbed a baseball cap from the row of expensive, gleaming hooks beside the door, worked his head into it as he skipped outside and Monica carefully pulled the door closed without the thud that most would expect of a door sizeable enough to be useful in an aircraft hangar. It merely clicked quietly into place which was impressive in terms of engineering and building efficiency but quite disconcerting to visitors who expected the sort of thump associated with castle drawbridges. Tom looked at a passenger jet way up high as it glided silently away for destinations unknown, leaving behind a white skid-mark on the sharp blue sky. The image was like looking up at a boat from beneath the water. Tom took a deep breath and moved along the short paved path to the expensive, gleaming black SUV that would suffice for transport this morning. That they had one car was their single concession to common-sense living. They had no parking for a second car and no genuine need for one. Work, school and most of their social lives were within close proximity to their home in Pyrmont.

Pyrmont is on the south-west edge of the Sydney CBD. It was once home to wharf workers, corrupt union organizers and rough elements of central Sydney but slowly, the tiny terrace houses were giving way to two and three storey developments inhabited by aspirational families of inner-city professionals. Tom and Monica had acquired their property from Monica’s parents, Brian and Janice Walker. Brian Walker was a property developer and had, at one time, owned eleven properties here in Bulwara Road. In twos and threes, the land was redeveloped and the quaint, shapely terrace homes were replaced by modernist, boxy apartments. Brian had kept one double block for his daughter and built the two storey modernist, boxy home to her specifications. It had not come without cost to Tom and Monica. The land remained in the trust her parents had established for Monica and whilst the building had been built at a discounted rate because the job was done for Brian, the extravagance of expensive, gleaming objects had still seen a hefty mortgage garland Tom’s neck. Well into the building process he’d realised the cost of most items was in direct proportion to the level of shine. Tom realised too late that we really weren’t too far advanced from naive savages who thought shiny beads and trinkets placed you above the ordinary.

Tom slid into the car and reversed out onto the street that was Sunday morning quiet. He headed into the heart of the city. St. Mary’s Cathedral sits proudly on the edge of Hyde Park in central Sydney and Monica had been attending mass at this prestigious Catholic shrine all her life. As Tom drove slowly Astrid spoke So, we’re in the car. Why isn’t Dad going to church?

I don’t know, Darling. Perhaps he can explain that for you replied Monica.

Dad?

Tom glanced at Monica, who had fixed him with an intense stare. He looked in the mirror and saw his daughter waiting intently for an answer I’m, um, having a day off church; I need to do some quiet thinking

Isn’t that what church is for asked Astrid.

Good point, Darling added Monica.

Tom slowed for a red light and once he’d halted the car he turned his head in the direction of his daughter It is but I just want some quiet time to go for a walk and just be on my own, so I’m going to do that this morning while you guys are in church

That’s weird Astrid opined but she had already lost interest and her attention was returning to the mobile phone in her hands before she had finished speaking.

Yeah, that’s weird prodded Jack, for no reason other than to see his father squirm. Tom found his son’s eyes in the mirror and could see the laughter in them. Tom ignored him but struggled to contain his smile.

Tom piloted the car around the edges of the city centre, along Elizabeth Street and Wentworth Avenue and then College Street where they drove alongside Hyde Park and past the Australian Museum, which was advertising an Egyptian display and ahead, towards the end of the block, stood St Mary’s. When a car departed from a parking space close enough to the cathedral to be considered a good spot Tom accelerated slightly, not that it was necessary with no traffic close by to vie with but it is an ingrained process for a city driver. He then lined the car up and prepared to reverse into the space. As he twisted and craned to see behind, Monica admonished him Why don’t you use the assisted parking?

You know why; because I’m still capable of reverse-parking a car. I don’t need a program or machine to do it for me

Monica shook her head as Tom edged the vehicle back and whilst the extra height of the seating position in these blocks on wheels should be useful, the style over function mentality means the line of sight for the driver to the rear borders on non-existent but it had now become a test of will and Tom would not use the rear camera or the assisted parking. When he swung the wheel back and the car slid neatly into the space he shared a wink and grin with Jack and then felt stupid for allowing something so trivial to become important. The Moses clan stepped from the car and Tom used the remote to lock it. They walked slowly along the footpath in the sunshine. It was September and the park was lush green grass and fragrant, colourful flower beds that glistened moist in the morning light. Across the street, bells pealed and people made their way into the cathedral in clusters of two and three. The Moses’ waited at the traffic lights and when eventually the signal told them to walk, Monica, Jack and Astrid stepped out onto the road. Tom stayed where he was. When his family looked back to him he just gave a gentle wave and a tight smile I’ll meet you here after

Monica did not return his smile, Astrid shook her head and Jack smirked before they scurried to complete their crossing. Tom watched as the trio of people closest to him walked beside the towering sandstone cathedral. It made them look small and he didn’t like that. They stepped up into the mouth of the building and only Jack turned and looked to his father before they disappeared inside.

Tom moved up the cracked asphalt path into Hyde Park and past the Archibald Fountain, a bequeathed gift to Sydney imagined as a tribute to Australia’s First World War efforts in France but few of the modern era would be able to appreciate how a bronze Apollo surrounded by fellow mythical creatures addressed that criteria. It is, nevertheless, quite spectacular. Tom listened to the water spray and arc as he passed and he scattered a few pigeons and the mandatory one-legged seagull that every park has in residence. He walked down to the Elizabeth Street edge of the park and stopped at the cafe at the entrance to St. James station, one of five stops on the limited city circle underground rail network. He ordered a mid-sized cafe latte; receiving a cup of coffee that would hold two standard mugs. He walked back up the gentle incline, past the tables where old men sat playing chess in the dappled shade of old trees.

Up towards the fountain again, Tom cut across onto the grass and took a seat on a bench seat and simply sat, staring at the city’s skyline while he sipped his coffee. A pair of optimistic pigeons came strutting over and circled before him with alert eyes anticipating a morsel. Tom closed his eyes for a moment and let the sun play through his eyelids, turning his vision to red and yellow. He opened his eyes and the flares of colour were still there for a few moments. When his vision returned fully he saw that a man was seated at the other end of the bench. Tom couldn’t recall seeing the man approaching or hearing him arrive but when you are out of tune with the world, it’s amazing how many surprises sneak up on you. Tom felt he’d been missing so much in the world for so long and here, today, now; must be the first step in his reconnection to the world in which he lived.

He looked briefly in the direction of the man who shared his seat. He was an older man but in no way crotchety or feeble. There was strength in his solid build and his olive skin was carved with wrinkles around his eyes and forehead but carried a healthy glow. Tom looked away and took in the city skyline again but his eyes soon drifted back to the man. Tom studied him further, noting the longish brown and grey hair, the neat beard where grey outweighed brown; the comfortable white cotton shirt and blue jeans and what appeared