Sometimes it doesn’t matter how hard you study something or try to remember the details, in the moment you think you have taken it all in. I’m trying to remember what his ceiling looks like. God knows I stared up at it often enough; when he slipped out of his room to take a quick shower and shave, or to make us cheese toasties and a cup of tea, or while he was sleeping.
The house he lives in (if he’s still there) is a Californian bungalow, a rental he shares with two much younger boys. It has the feel of having been a family home. The carpet is that 1950’s mid-grey with floral bouquets on it. In the kitchen the walls still have the original 1960’s wallpaper covered in vines, but there are patches of apple-green paint showing in places where the paper has begun to curl at the edges. That’s what I’ve been doing for the last 2 years- curling at the edges. What’s been hiding underneath for over 30 years is starting to show.
I feel that if I can remember what the ceiling looks like then all of the stuff that came to light is true, and if not then I must be crazy. At least that is how I am being made to feel. No-one wants to know the truth since it is so preposterous. Even I think that. About the truth they can think what they like. However, no-one has the right to tell me how I’m feeling. My feelings are true.
Before I can tell you about the ceiling I need to describe the rest of his bedroom. His room is at the front of the house and is attached to the verandah. The bedroom looks to the east and has 2 hinged windows that he always leaves open. Just because they are always open doesn’t mean you can see into his room, because you can’t. He can see out well enough though- onto a sparse front lawn, a cyclone fence waist high painted white and beyond that a large paper bark tree on the nature-strip. Even though it is a dead-end street it is a thoroughfare for pedestrians because it opens out onto a neighbourhood park with barbecues and a playground. There are always a few cars parked out the front but given it is in a busy northern suburb it is still a quiet place to live.
Covering the bedroom windows hang curtains left behind by the previous female occupant of that room. I quite liked them and he is definitely fond of his newly acquired patchwork courderouy curtains. Pale blue, tan, cream and washed-out red they are. They sort of match his wooden bedhead with the cane insert. He often said how much he liked his bedhead. I can’t say that I liked it. It was plain and worn. The bed itself was another story- an ensemble and very very comfortable. Again, it was a parting gift to him because it was too cumbersome or costly for the previous owner to take with them. Given his hardship it was a huge bonus to be left the bed.
The feelings he had about the bed and curtains are significant because it is probably the first bedroom he has been able to call his own- possibly ever. When you consider that it wasn’t that long ago that he was living on the streets. It’s shocking and incredible to think that a once happily married man with a beautiful wife, two healthy growing boys, a professional career and several properties to his name could end up living in his car and then eventually, literally, living on the streets and in squats. I hope he comes full circle some day soon.
The walls of his bedroom are a chalky off-white and always appeared dim due to the curtains always being at least partly drawn, and also that the verandah shielded much of the light. This is probably another reason he likes his room so much. It feels private and non-threatening. An entire wall has a built-in robe, with a timber finish, so this adds to the lack of light. I think he prefers it dim. Maybe that’s because a good deal of his childhood troubles may have occurred under the cover of darkness. And now he spends much of his time with his eyes shut when he’s alone, and when he’s in the company of people he is close to and can trust. Maybe it feels safer not to see at all. Now, it’s got me thinking of the evening that we first kissed. After having our lips locked for what seemed like an eternity he pulled back and gently gazed lovingly into my eyes. That’s the sort of memory I can’t forget. Up close he has dark bluey-green eyes with yellow flecks.Somewhere amongst all of his stuff I hope he still has the candle that was given to me for my 50th birthday. I recall that it had a beautiful scent and was in a black glass jar. I took it over to his house for what I thought would contribute to turning a special occasion into a memorable one. Things didn’t go to plan that night. We were at cross purposes due to poor communication regarding a plan for how we were going to spend the evening. Months later when I asked for it back he said he had ‘thrown it in the bin along with all of my other rubbish’. That and my baking tray.
Of the whole entire bedroom the ceiling was in the best condition. It actually looked clean, bright and freshly painted, and it had interesting plaster work. The floor on the other hand was more often that not a complete mess. Beer bottle lids, ashtrays, dirty coffee cups, books, bong and on one occasion a strap used to tornequey his arm. I was too straight. I was the straightest person he knew. I guess that means he doesn’t know his ex-wife any more. I’ve seen her picture. She’s got to be straighter than me. The mind boggles as to what their sex life was all about given what I know.
The ceiling was pretty. He liked it and so did I. But it had one small fault near the centre rose. The ceiling was divided by moulding into nine squares. At the intersections of these moulding were flowers. Positioned over the centre rose was a simple frosted light fitting. Around the rose was moulding in a diamond shape. Between the two there were leaves in relief. Along three sides you could count five leaves but along the fourth there was only four. For some reason one side was short of one. I can’t imagine why this happened. But the problem is that once you are aware of the mistake it keeps your attention, you are drawn to it. Much like I was drawn to him. Exactly as I was drawn to him.
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