JJ D'Emanuele

_FORE_ward

I often think about purpose. And yet, I arrive to the same conclusion as you. Purpose; who has time for purpose? I’m busy placing food on the table – like you. That’s the time I live in – the moment in existence when reflection has been replaced by reaction. There was a time before when there was little to distract, and thought within thought within more quiet, silent meaningful contemplation was respected.

As a youthful assistant to my brother and father, when the radio became louder than our thought, my father, brother and I tended to the yard chores, loathing the slow seconds, equally.

Through the speakers of Dad’s truck, a physicist chirped enthusiastically of a geometry of spacetime. He said that every moment a person has ever lived sits at the center of a cone. Above it within the expansion, is the future — every event one’s actions could still reach. Below it, the past — every event whose light has already arrived. It stuck with me — or at least, a certain question did. Where would I rather be? In the future or the past?

Innocence — before all the knowing, some truth, some lies, and the secret code amongst the adults with gaze, sound and gut feelings. Still at the tender exist before responsibility for me was just a noun and not a verb. So, it was ironic, the sound from the radio spoke to me in truths. That beyond the unlit hemisphere is called the elsewhere, a region of the universe that exists at this very instant and yet cannot be reached. No signal travels there. No causation arrives. No warning, no rescue, no apology. It is real. It is now. It is unreachable; because you are also aware that moments like this cannot— and do not, last.

Really, it is the closest mathematics has come to describing pure, uninterrupted solitude. Men lie; women lie; numbers don’t. I knew I never wanted to be in the uninterrupted solitude, that was certain. Way too much time to think — alone with my thoughts only; scary really. At that age, the big bad world was only the size of this farm. And that felt gigantic.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I returned to this theory. It was a moment of rest set or maybe return — the letting go of regret—transformation, or maybe just a reminder to be young-at-heart. If one can be, without all the distractions.

Maybe that is why the theory stuck with me — elsewhere — is where the ordinary rules of before and after dissolve — where two observers, moving differently through the same instant, will disagree about which elsewhere events came first, and both will be correct. This thought alone can break a brain into a nap. Time, in that country, has no order. It is the place where the end of time begins, because time itself has surrendered.

It is within this space that I observe my most recent human existence – and within this observation, I allow further, the heart to say – I tried. We tried.

After the heart has thumped it’s last, and the oxy-life bellows through me in one final course, eventually — not instantly — does the soul reach Elsewhere. And it is this place to which I reside that I allow the lessons taught to be reobserved; flipped on their backs and bare their soft undersides. It is here I find, with a quiet horror, that there is no longer anyone left to point a finger at. It is here I discover the answer to the question, ‘what is better; a life lived in the future or the past?’

This is the experience to that answer – shared through the ether of consciousness via a connected spirit to whom still resides.

Is the water the same? Does it feel the same — does it still know about what it carries, what it remembers, what it will not let go of. The environment I have stepped into; does the landscape remember me? And the weight of the world – I can still feel it - placed upon us by some larger hand. But instead of despair, it is, in fact, the only thing that is ever truly ours. Our experiences. I know now; to carry it is not a punishment. Weight is the purpose of existence, the reminder of life, and the experience of weight is life.

If you have come to the end of all your light cones — if the future feels unreachable and the past unreturnable, and only Elsewhere remains — then perhaps you have been waiting for this story – both knowing and unknowing.

Chapter One: The Whistling From The Tall Trees

‘Uniformity felt momentarily, quickly — as fast as light, as quick as thought — here and gone; yet, waiting and watching. We are always in unity — watched, observed and steered within our own selves. It’s all our choice.’

Babies enter this world pure and loud.

Fear is incomprehensible to the newborn. With no name, no association, no shape — only the brightness of arrival and the weight of becoming. From where I am now, I can see myself in that hospital room — the bright, sharp light, the tapping and thumping, the room too loud with gigantic beings and their sudden bellows and stares. The orchestra of bows and sighs that everyone who walked in delivered like a tribute. And the small body that was me — repelled by all of it, wanting only the dark again.

A mother is like water in a cup. Without the cup — the mother — the liquid would spread and eventually soak back into the earth. Yet for all they do to bring to the world every single person who ever was, it is still the baby who garners all the love and attention.

My mother was a woman driven by loss. Most people would do their utmost to bury the dark side of their soul, yet it was that very thing that opened a path for my father to exist, and through him, for me. No matter how hard Lola tried, the quest to replace the hole in her heart spurred her, unknowingly.

Lola’s skin was crisp-dry, in desperate need of moisture, constantly, through all one hundred and twelve photos. Her smile was remarkable with gigantic teeth. She looked like she would have been careful with those who needed care.

Lola was the first to feel my father’s unbreakable heart — the first to calm him, the first to fall asleep with him, and the first to love him.

*

If you wanted to catch my father in a good mood, just hold out until you heard a whistling tune. He’d be whistling the same neurotic melody over and over again as if the sound would be tempering him into a subtle glee of exuberance and focus, but really he was just content in that short moment because things were going his way.

Leaving the motor parts shop, his whistling soon snapped to a gush and moan when he lifted the boot to see Lola’s orange maternity bag. She had a habit of leaving things where they lay — forgetful and distracted.

‘For fuck’s sakes, Lola!’

He opened the bag — to be sure — and inside there were female clothes, bathroom items, shampoo, and a razor. ‘Ducky,’ as my father’s licence plate would confirm, lifted up to the sun a newborn onesie. It said: ‘Papa’s Uno Bambino,’ which he took major offence to.

My father hated any term that disconnected his individualism, as if being in a relationship would eliminate his existence. It was a personality trait of his — one he would never let go of.

To Ducky those words felt like an attempt to erase all that he loved before.

Lola’s name was Delores, but everyone referred to her as Lola. She arrived at the Tall Trees from Europe — my father would say — yet specifically, she was from Greece. She had a Spanish father and a Greek mother.

Lola was romantic. She did not care about money. She did not care about how people treated her; the only thing she cared about was love. It was love that tricked her into forgiving and forgetting the tempered moments.

She was a magnificent pretender. A true believer in a fairytale from the pure misogynist imagination, gesturing the heart towards a beautiful ever after.

Juxtaposed; my father was a hothead. Many knew it, and many retreated in his presence. Yet Ducky did his best to fit in, and hid his anger the best he could.

I can close my eyes — and I am there.

*

In the car lot, Ducky balled my first ever attire and thrust it into the bag — much like he would thrust his way into my creation without care or connection. He zipped up the orange leather bag (much like the fly on his greasy denim — rough and quick), the leather warmed in his grip.

He slammed the boot so hard that the overdue suspension replacement reminded him of another task to add to his never-ending list. The air in the car was thick with sunlight and silent rage. With clenched urgency he tore down the back streets, at double the speed, begrudgingly obligated to the hospital.

When he arrived, he parked illegally — with one wheel up on the gutter, the other only a few inches from its neighbouring car. He scooted to the passenger side and swung out to an abrupt call from a nurse having a cigarette in the no-smoking block:

‘You can’t park like that.’

Ducky skillfully tempered his demeanour, smiled, and said:

‘My wife. She left her maternity bag. I just have to drop it off. Only gonna be a minute.’

The nurse had worked a double shift. She was underpaid and underappreciated. This was her first cigarette in six hours.

‘What if in that one minute, the owner of that car needs to get in? You’re blocking their door.’

The nurse was right — it was why Ducky had scooted to the passenger seat to exit.

He looked at what she was pointing to. She was right. The neighbouring car had barely an inch of space.

‘Well,’ he said, stepping forward and increasing the charm tenfold. ‘Hey,’ — he noted her name badge — ‘Lotte? Lotte, is it?’

‘Short for Charlotte,’ she corrected.

‘Charlotte —’

‘Lotte,’ she corrected him again, and then swallowed her nicotine ever so proudly.

‘Lotte, you look trustworthy — and you’re puffing the dragon anyway. I’ll leave you the keys. If they come back, just back the car out so they can hop in, then take their spot. Keys are under the seat — unlocked. By the time you finish that smoke, I’ll be back and on my way.’

Ducky knew his black teeth were an unpleasant sight, so his smile was more high cheeks and squinty eyes, which came across as both desperate and deliberate.

‘You’re not staying with your wife?’

‘There’s nothing I can do. I’ve got things that take priority.’

‘Priority over the birth of your kid?’

‘Come on, Charlotte, make yourself useful.’

‘It’s Lotte,’ the nurse replied, clenching her gaze into the back of his dark pupils.

Her instinct flared — she could smell oil, cigarettes and beer on him. A scent that reminded her of her first husband’s worst days.

Lotte felt intimidated, yes. Yet — too tired, nicotine-deprived, and pissed off to prioritise fear. And she knew the security cameras were pointed straight at them. The real reason she had discarded the no-smoking rule.

‘Oh, here we go. Parking officer behind you. Gotta move now, Ducky.’

She smirked as she read his license plate.

‘Trevor! Trevor, check out this galoot’s disregard for humanity!’

The inspector crossed the road, nearly getting clipped by a beeping car.

‘Sir, you need to move your vehicle immediately,’ he said firmly.

As Ducky turned, Trevor recognised him.

‘Mr. Steele.’

‘Trevor Holy-Moly!’

Holy-Moly — that was the nickname he’d given Trevor’s entire family years ago.

‘You can’t park like this, Ducky.’

‘Mr. Steele to you, Holy.’

‘Mr. Steele, you need to move your car,’ Trevor muttered, his posture melting in the heat.

Ducky grinned, memories dancing proudly within his gaze.

‘How’s your mum and dad? Send them my love — especially your mum. I thought you wanted to be a copper or something. You look super in those shirts and slacks. You’ll make a good cop as soon as your dad lets you. Don’t know why you’re not one already. Definitely-got your dad’s demeanour. Definitely.’

‘Mr. Steele, you at least need to move the car over to give this vehicle space to open their door — they can’t get in.’

Trevor’s voice wobbled but held. The nurse watched with fascination.

‘Oh yeah, just moving it over onto the grass. Only gonna be a minute. And no ticket.’

‘No, Mr Steele. Just please move it. Please.’

Ducky’s ability to bring both fear and relief in a single breath was … uncanny.

‘Easy-done, Holy — I mean, Trevor.’

He shuffled to the wheel, spun mud across the footpath, and left the maroon wagon on the nature strip.

Lotte, unimpressed: ‘Trevor, what’s the deal?’

‘In a sec. I’ll tell you in a sec.’

Ducky stepped out again, all grins.

‘No ticket, Trevor. Okay?’

‘No, Duck — Mr Steele.’

‘Thanks for your concern, Charlotte.’

Orange bag swinging, he whistled through the revolving doors. Trevor sighed.

‘Trevor, who was that bloke? He can’t push you around like that.’

‘That’s Ducky Steele.’

‘Who the fuck is Ducky Steele?’

‘Remember when my dad and his officers came in here? Busted jaws. Teeth gone.’

‘How could I forget? First and last time I saw your dad in hospital.’

‘Yeah, well …’

Trevor hesitated. His father had sworn him to secrecy.

Lotte frowned. ‘Your dad said it was some teenagers — a Nigerian gang. Bats and crowbars. I remember. I’ve never seen anything like it. All those coppers looked like they got taken on by a whole gang.’

‘No bats. No crowbars. No gang. Just him.’

‘Just him? You’re kidding.’

‘Dad and his mates were too embarrassed to admit one man did all that.’

‘But your dad’s the chief of police.’

Trevor gestured for a drag.

‘Lotte … This is the Tall Trees. Respect takes precedent over the truth.’

*

Before Ducky arrived in the room where Lola was resting after giving birth, he’d attempted to pawn the orange belongings to the reception desk, yet Ducky could not remember how to spell or pronounce Lola’s maiden name, or the room number that he had left her in.

Ducky wasn’t one who cared about words, names, spelling, pronunciation, grammar, and frankly, disregarded safe communication altogether. So when it came to names — as you just discovered with Trevor Holy-Moly — Ducky had a knack of insulting, ignoring and irritating those with his nicknames. Unaware though, that he was also dyslexic, and would mix up letters and numbers all the time. Yet when it came to disrespectful nicknames, he would always remember.

Attempting to recall the spelling of Lola’s surname would jumble his thoughts, and he could feel the rise of anger to the surface, so before he lost his cool, he interrupted the nurse, not through words, but in merely walking off towards the maternity ward.

He knew it would be quicker to use his legs rather than his head. With long, purposeful strides he galloped down the hallway, doing his best to look somewhat inconspicuous — but that was difficult with the thudding of his muddy boots.

Barging through room three hundred and forty-one, Ducky announced his presence the only way he could.

‘My god, you look like shit. Lola, you’d forget your head.’ He presented the bag as if presenting a gift to a queen from a knight. ‘Gotta go. Double parked!’

When Ducky turned, a nurse was standing with me in her soft wrinkly cradle. Ducky took in his new sleepy baby for the first time.

‘Is that my —’ mumbled Ducky.

Before he could finish the sentence, Adam — his first born, sitting in the corner flicking through his comic book — said, ‘He’s got your eyes, Pa.’

Ducky hadn’t noticed Adam silently observing in the corner. It was then the baby opened his eyes.

‘Holy macro!’ confessed Ducky. ‘He has my —’

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. From where I am now, I can see his eyes locked into my own — and what he wouldn’t dare say out loud, because saying it in that room would have cost him something he was not yet ready to lose. It was only until the sunlight soothed into black that Ducky, Lola and Adam and I left to return to our home on the farm.