Possum Trail

Approx. 1050 words

By Ann Davie

The boy had moved to the mountain a baby, with no recollection of life anywhere else.  He left the mountain, barely nine, with few of the childhood memories others hold dear, the last few years of carefree youth having been denied him.

Before the boy’s birth, before the union that brought his parents together, his father had been the rake of Fifties’ Hobart, confident and cosmopolitan.  Three assets assured him of female attention in his single days – he had waves of thick, glossy black hair; he never went anywhere without a suit coat and tie; and, perhaps most importantly, he had his own car.

His mother, nineteen at the time, took to the twenty-six year old the way a prospective traveler becomes lost in brochures of soon to be explored lands.  She knew her artistic sensibilities would improve when tempered with maturity, even if obtained by proxy.  She wanted her longing for the unknown beyond her young boundaries sated.  And she would deny it if confronted with the idea, but she wanted to be admired.  How many young women could claim to have been enhanced so dramatically and with only one simple act such as marriage?  Self-discovery was her motivation.  Not looking for it on her own was her mistake.

The boy came shortly after the marriage.  His mother’s “dumpling, sugar pudding, boofly boofly baby.”  No matter what confection of baby names she gave him, as an older child he couldn’t escape her bitter refrain, “don’t be stupid Daniel”.  Despite being healthy and jolly, he became the embodiment of all the obstacles that resulted in her being slapped with the labels “mother and wife” but nothing more.

As Daniel grew, he saw his father age in the span of a few years.  The waves of black gave way to grizzled coarse gray.  Sweaters patched over and over replaced the smart jacket and tie.  And a family sedan, now on its third family, but still primarily owned by the bank, sealed his fate as one past his prime.

None of it mattered even one jot to his father.  He loved Daniel more than he ever thought he could love anything or anyone.  He reveled in his son’s energy and gentle spirit.  He marveled at his blossoming mind, watching in wonder as he saw curiosity give way to thought, which gave way to ideas, which spurred greater curiosity.

  Daniel’s mother should not be painted with an entirely black brush, however.  Her vibrant and capricious manner captivated all, from time to time even bringing hopes of happiness to Daniel and his father.  She filled the home with color and scents from around the world, places she’d yet to visit.  She took her frustrations of an ideal dashed and applied the energy to a growing marvel of flowers, trees and plants.  Her tenacious spirit, at times stubborn, refused to let the constraints of finance and availability dictate her artistic expression.  When oils were to dear, watercolors sufficed.  When saffron proved out of reach, tumeric would take its place.

The destruction of this off-kilter, anti-Eden, like that of the perfect original, was brought about by a woman offering food.  In this case, a lamb casserole.

  “I’ll just be a tic.  Going up to drop this off to Dr. Rob.  Poor bloke probably hasn’t had anything that didn’t come from a tin for ages.”

  Daniel didn’t notice the flush in her cheeks or the lightness in her voice.  It was the obvious, if superficial, differences that jarred him. 

  “Why’d you change, mum?  We’re supposed to go in a few minutes.  Dad’s ready with the backpacks.  You said we’d go on Possum Trail this afternoon.”

  “Oh, Daniel.  I just don’t feel like it.  I’m sore from digging in garden.  Your father said he’d take you.  OK?  And I’ve got to take this up the road.”

  His father slipped the straps of the backpack over his son’s thin shoulders, trying not to look him in the eye.

“Can’t we just drop the casserole off on the way?  I mean why can’t we just take it to him and then go?”  Daniel had never been privy to what actually happened behind the scenes.  Details were murmured; looks were shot across silent tables prior to tempers exploding without warning.  Daniel saw his mother withdraw, only coming close long enough to play a sparring role in family life.

“Just do as I bloody well say, Daniel, and stop arguing about every little thing!”  She slipped her coat on, taking care to neatly tuck in her dress collar.  She opened the door, closing it shut without a glance back.

His mother took the innocent meal to the young man up the road.  The doctor was on his own, setting up a promising career, no family in the area.  Perhaps that made it easier.  Just about anything can be justified when there’s no one to answer to.

Left standing in the cold vestibule, the father decided it was best to keep his promise, despite the desire to stay inside and do nothing.

“Come on, Cobber.  Let’s get going before the wind picks up.  We can be back in time for tea.” 

His father guided him to the door and out the house.  They walked silently up the road.  Pavement gave way to rough gravel where the road split in two – the right leading to Possum Trail, the other to the end of the street, and the doctor’s house, visible past a stand of trees.  Daniel could tell his father was tempted to take the latter route.

“Which way, pa?”

They stopped and looked to the left.  The low glow from a window was quickly doused by curtains being pulled closed.  Daniel felt his father’s hand slip into his, something he’d not done for years and would have caused Daniel to shirk away normally.  His father’s thumb, rough and dry, passed over the smooth skin covering his small hand.

“We’ll go to Possum Trail.  If the clouds lift, we might be able to see to Bruny Island.  I bet you didn’t know that the world’s most-southern pub is there, did you?  It is, I swear.  When you’re eighteen, I’ll take you there.”

His eyes shined down, meeting his son’s bright face, and in that moment, he knew her loss was far greater than his.