Possum in the attic
by philippa yelland
MORTON
Picton near Sydney
TRAPPED IN BLOODIED CAGE, the possum hiss-growls at me cooing Ohyoupoorthing as I pull her out, she biting my thumb, tipping joey from her pouch, me catching, wire-noosing her because she dares to escape, throttling her because no reason, because I can. Gibbeting writhing body from the Judas redbud tree’s branch, I smile at full-moon-silhouetted trap, a present that morning from my parents for my 14th birthday because I want to re-locate possum living in attic, pissing down my bedroom wall. In moon-rays, dark-almost-black blood stains on cage annoy me, reaching for clean handkerchief.
No. Why soil whiteness? I hose blood fur off wire as possum gyrates between redbud’s flowers and last year’s shuttle-shaped seedpods hanging from branch. Did Judas dance like this when he hung himself from tree was later named for him? Brushing this cobweb away, I know I should be more concerned for my mother’s anxiety about my father’s anger when told his beloved Judas tree’s magenta blooms and long, flat seedcases are broken. Possum should have chosen to disturb coral and blue gums encircling and paying court to prized specimen redbud of my father, Mr Steele.
Deep in veranda, my mother stands obscured in shadows, trying to peer through coral blossoms writhing in wind. Too late to see possum caught, Mother Mrs Gladys Steele thinks she sees me hang body, then twist something small in my hands before throwing it into bush. Too dark for Mrs Steele to be certain. To see or hear, woman creeps forward, wanting to have a good report for her husband – he is closeted in his office, dispensing advice to a woman worried about her delinquent son caught disemboweling brush turkey that darted in front of his bike – he then dug hen’s eggs out of nest mound and made an omelette for neighbour who reported him to police.
Tossing cage under the Judas tree, I breathe in moon-air pale around me, still hearing possum’s hiss-growl for mercy while watching gibbeted body sway before I begin to undo wire.
Leaving veranda safety, Mrs Steele steps out across kangaroo grass to where I am obscured behind coral and blue gums.
She bleats. ‘Morton, are you alright, my dear?’
Startled, discovered, I swing around, almost dropping body.
Mrs Steele steadies herself against coral gum bark, its roughness jolting her to speak. ‘Morton, what have you done?’
Cradling body, I smile. ‘I rescued her from cage but she strangled herself in wire. Possum bled over my birthday present but I’ve washed it off.’ I begin to cry. ‘I was moving her to new home.’
‘Ohyoupoorthing,’ woman soothes as she hugs me. ‘Don’t worry. You/re doing a good thing … it was an accident. Your father will understand.’
MORTON
Bondi, Sydney
‘WHAT do I have to do to get your phone number,’ I ask her after church one night.
‘Show me your CV and your bank balance,’ she shoots back. ‘What do you do?’
‘Such a superficial question. Tell me what you’ve been thinking.’
‘The crucifixion.’
‘What have you concluded?’
That first conversation set the tone for our … I think people call it ‘relationship’. Cerebral, physical, spiritual, adversarial, inquisitorial, empathetic, questing, pugilistic.
VALERIE
Blue Mountains, New South Wales
I TELL ALMOST NO-ONE we’re leaving – only my sister. I phone her. ‘It’s me. I can’t talk. I’m taking Jay. Leaving Morton. My doctor says he’ll kill me if I stay.’
‘Come and stay with us. I’m amazed it’s lasted so long.’
‘He’ll phone you. Please don’t tell him I’ve phoned you.’
‘If he phones, I’ll hang up.’
I scribble Morton a note. ‘I’m leaving. I can’t stand the abuse, mental and physical. My solicitor will contact you.’
That is all. Twelve years, a son, more house-moves than I can remember, more tears than any person should shed. With absolute certainty, I know it is the end. He had been the great love of my life. The great passion. The man for whom I had given up suits and stilettos and moved to Africa, taking just a backpack and walking boots. His voice could melt me.
In later years, it was his boiling and cancerous negativity that destroyed what we had. He crashed through everything. Clumsy energy consumed those around. He did not relate. He imposed, dominated the atmosphere, sucked in energy. A malevolent black hole. He soared to the sun, melting wings, crashing to deep caves of despair, clawing those who could pull him out.
VALERIE
Brisbane, Queensland
THAT BROILING MONDAY AFTERNOON, I drive to the primary school gates to collect my son after his father’s access weekend. Jay is not there. I run to the school office.
‘Has Jay been in class today?’
His teacher appears. ‘No, Mrs Steele.’
I phone my solicitor. ‘Kay, he hasn’t returned my son to school.’
‘Go to the nearest police station immediately.’
Shaking, I drive to the station and jabber out a statement. Early the next morning, Kay and I prepare for the 10am emergency hearing with the judicial registrar. I shake my head as Kay has to prove my son is missing and/or abducted.
While lawyers debate, I am laid on the dissection slab. They cut me open to pull out intestines, relevant and irrelevant. From the ceiling, I look down, observing an operation gone nightmarishly wrong. Voices are a great distance away, yet solicitors are beside me.
Hours later, I emerge with retrieval orders ex parte made in the absence of the other party. Then, to the Federal Police with photos and descriptions, and to imagine where he can have taken Jay.
More hours later, leaving police headquarters, I head for the freeway south to the Pacific Highway. Maybe he is in a caravan park near a beach. I scream, ‘This is madness. How can I possibly find two people in Australia?’ I turn the car around.
EARLY in those lost months, I drive to Centrelink. The doors inch open arthritically, I stand in a queue, wrong one. Sent to another, clutching the court’s retrieval orders.
The customer service officer crosses ample arms across her chest, glares at me through dull eyes and grunts.
I explain. ‘My ex-husband has stolen my son,’ and hand her the retrieval orders.
‘What do you want us to do?’
‘I’m notifying Centrelink of a change of circumstances.’
She bangs the computer’s keyboard. ‘No, your son is with you.’
‘No,’ I bleat. ‘The father has stolen him.’
The counter clerk barks. ‘Do you wanna see a social worker?’
‘No, the manager.’
‘You need an appointment.’
‘This is an emergency. I want to see the manager. Now.’
‘Come back in an hour.’
‘No. I’m staying here ’til you get the manager.’
An immaculately coiffed and power-shouldered woman strides from a frosted-glass office. ‘What’ she booms, ‘is the problem.’
‘Change of circumstances. My ex has stolen my son. These are court orders for retrieval.’
‘Why are you telling us?’
‘Because it’s a change of circumstance.’
I am dismissed with a ‘That’ll be alright.’
The next day, a Centrelink letter thuds into my letterbox, announcing family benefits are stopped because Jay is not with ‘the mother’.
Crushing the letter, I drive back to Centrelink. ‘My son has not gone to live with his father permanently. He’s stolen him. Not returned him from an access visit. The Federal Police are searching.’
The clerk gazes dull-eyed at me. ‘Payment goes to the parent he’s living with.’
‘How do I pay the rent? How do I pay for finding the child?’
A social worker is offered – in a week’s time. I despair, stumble out to my car.
AS THE WEEKS age into months, I realise the Federal Police, with the best will in the world, have no hope of finding the boy. I return to court to ask the publication ban be lifted. The judge knows the case, and the publication ban is lifted immediately.
From the court, I drive to the Federal Police. Photos, descriptions of what Jay had looked like and worn months ago. Media statements are prepared, sent.
The storm breaks at dawn the next day. The doorbell rings. A TV reporter asks if he can interview me – the first of innumerable TV, radio and newspaper interviews that last all day. I cannot keep up with voicemails and text messages.
MORTON
Picton near Sydney
A THOUSAND KILOMETRES SOUTH of her, I sit in shadows of rotting veranda, my son twisting on my lap. ‘Boy, sit still,’ I snap. Lights flash as sirens wail in night. Coral and blue gum blossoms writhe in darkening wind as they pay homage to the Judas tree now bending with age. The boy struggles again. ‘Sit still, I told you,’ I hiss.
Lights close in as sirens go quiet. In shadows, I see the woman trying to peer through blossoms jerking in wind. Too hard to see what I am holding in the dark. I hold it up, twisting something in my hands before tossing it in the bush.