Maybe this time we’ll reach Day Three of The Visit before my mother and I have our standard conversation:
HER: ‘I can see you’re not doing anything about your weight problem.’
ME: ‘It’s nothing to do with you, Mum. I’m not that fat and, besides, why don’t you mind your own business?’
HER: ‘I would, but it’s a health issue, darling.’
For her, it’s like trying to ignore the huge elephant in the room, the one named Richard. For me, it’s a matter of contemplating my time in Long Bay should I snap and kill her. So I exercise as I clean—wiping the cupboards, polishing the benchtops and chucking expired medicines from the bathroom cabinet.
Jocasta says: ‘Don’t leave any medicine bottles at all. They are evidence of illness. She’ll think we got sick because we live like pigs in our own filth.’ Jocasta is on her hands and knees in the bathtub, scrubbing while she sings ‘Oh Lord, Will You Let My People Go’ in a yearning alto.
I wash down the back of the house, vacuum some crumbs out of the kitchen drawers and wash down the kitchen windows. As I peer through the soap scum into the kitchen, I see Jocasta collecting up the cleaning products, putting them in boxes and hiding them in cupboards, so that my mother cannot once again kill our stove. After years of preparing for my father’s visits by removing all the alcohol, she now repeats the procedure. Instead of hiding the Scotch, this time she hides all the bottles of Domestos.
Meanwhile, I tackle our bedroom—discovering five apple cores beneath my desk and a beer bottle under the bed. The thought strikes: maybe my mother is right and we do live like pigs in our own filth.
Outside the back door, Jocasta is spraying the dog with air-freshener and singing ‘Death Be My Friend and Take Me to My Lord’, while I consult her list. Three days to go and all I have to do is clean the car, scrub the steps and lose six kilos.
The day before Christmas, my mother arrives. She looks at the house but says nothing. She then gives Jocasta a hug, after which she draws me aside, saying Jocasta is ‘a natural mother’. This, I’m pretty sure, is my mother’s codeword for ‘fat’. At least she hasn’t said anything about me. We go for a walk, me slightly ahead with the dog, while Jocasta walks along with my mother. I take comfort from the fact that (a) I’m not that overweight—not after all that cleaning; and (b) to the extent that I am a little overweight, Jocasta will get all the blame.
I can feel my mother’s eyes on me as I walk. I sense she is battling with herself about whether to say anything. As usual, it is a battle her better self rapidly loses. ‘Ah,’ sighs my mother, confiding in Jocasta. ‘It’s such a shame. He used to be taller.’
For us guys, it’s great to have a new drama show to hook into—one that’s about our lives. This time around it’s the new hit series Desperate Husbands. It’s only been on for one season but already you hear of groups of guys getting together—maybe one brings the beers, another the nachos—and settling down to watch. There’s been so much TV for women recently—Sex and the City and Footballers’ Wives—we guys are hungry for the chance to get together, relax, and reserve a little time for ourselves, and for our friendship. This new show—Desperate Husbands—gives us that chance.
All of us have our favourite characters. For me, it’s Bryn, the super-husband, whose hair is always perfect, whose lawn is always mowed and whose edges are always perfectly trimmed. He’s got the gym-toned body, pulls a good salary, and can turn out a plate of fluffy muffins. Yet his wife doesn’t appreciate him. I guess I perceive something of myself in his situation.
Other guys in our group connect with different characters. They come around Monday night to sit and watch, to laugh and cry.
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