‘We’ve got him down,’ I hear the toaster mumble. ‘Even we minor appliances now have the ability to tip him over the edge.’ I note a power-crazed juice extractor nodding in furious agreement.
I throw a couple of slices of bread into the toaster and slam the lever down hard, then approach the juice extractor with a couple of rock-hard pears. For a moment at least, I have them on the run.
Living with a suggestible woman is a lottery. Especially if she’s a big reader. For years, Jocasta’s mood has been influenced by what she’s been reading. These days, it tends to go a step further and she becomes whatever she’s reading. Some nights I stumble home and find I’m living with Nigella Lawson. Other nights and it’s Andrea Dworkin.
Monday and I spot Jocasta lying on the couch, looking combative yet kind of sexy. ‘You, baby,’ she says, ‘are as sly as ten flies. Where have you been?’
I challenge her immediately. ‘You’ve been getting into the Tennessee Williams again, haven’t you?’ I say, looking down at her. ‘I thought we had a deal about that?’
‘Well, honey, I just had myself the tiniest read. You know how fragile I’ve been feeling. And I can no more control those children than rule the storms of the sea.’ And with that Jocasta swoons back on the couch, quietly sobbing.
I console myself with the thought: the Tennessee Williams phase might only last a couple of days. Jocasta is a fast reader. By midweek, she’ll be onto something else. It could be an Elmore Leonard thriller. An Emily Brontë romance. More hopefully, a cookbook.
I quickly collect the plays, which she has left scattered on the coffee table next to an empty pitcher of mint julep. I search the shelves for something more robust. Maybe some Thea Astley or Fay Weldon. Some short stories perhaps, distilled and potent, so I can get the stuff into her real fast.
Wednesday we meet up after work and she’s already found herself something new. It’s a biography of the Dalai Lama: complete with tips on living a virtuous life. She reads out a few bits about restraint and tolerance and love. It’s a wonderful book, she says. We head to a friend’s place for dinner, me driving, and Jocasta giving directions. She notices a car with a flashing blinker. ‘That fellow wants to turn into our lane. Why don’t you let him?’
‘Fellow’? Jocasta has never used a word like ‘fellow’ in her life. Jocasta’s normal patois is located somewhere between a Sydney wharfie and a Chicago mobster.
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