Does she really need to know the truth?

05 November 2014

She told the police, the children, their friends. He was doing some chores in town. Taking the main highway. She couldn’t tell them any more. It was all Rob had said. No details, no anomalies. He’d kissed her. She could still feel the tingle from his lips on her jawline, just beneath the ear. How lovely to be touched there.

They’d all been very kind but it was her little grandson Eddie who’d understood it better than the adults. 'Bang crash. Grandpa. Bang crash.' Rob’s boots were found fifty metres from the accident site; the impact of the semi-trailer had sent the vehicle’s contents soaring high, before hitting the ground like a spilt mesh-bag of oranges. His sunglasses, a torn and muddy folded map, his beige jumper, pocket torch and Souths Rugby cap were gathered from the vicinity by police, to give to ‘grieving relatives’.

She was 19 and Rob 20, back when they first met. She’d worn green silk with layered petticoats and Rob a dark suit. They’d snuck out the back of the dance hall, after a brief chat (and an awkward twirl to an uncomfortable jive). Instead of dancing, they’d walked for miles along the streets, down to the river. She carried high heels in one hand, he a suit jacket thrown over his shoulder, tie crumpled up and thrust into right-hand trouser pocket. Sideways grins, sliding glances. She could still remember the touch of Rob’s hand once she’d slipped hers into his, fingers interlaced: a companionable gesture, more childlike than erotic, to start with. Their touch had given her a combination of needy ache and pleasant sedation, a sensation that lingered through the years.

Bang crash. Like the other contents of the truck, he’d hit the ground; thrown several steps from the vehicle. The police woman, with the scraped blond bun and scars from harelip corrective surgery, told her the semi-trailer driver was beside himself. 'Real cut up,' she’d said. 'Saw the look in your husband’s eyes before impact, evidently,' she’d said. Not helpful to hear that. Not helpful at all. Didn’t want to think about his last moments, truth be told.

The kids arrived later that day. Young Jim peppered questions at her, pacing back and forth, closing cupboards that weren’t open. Then he barked orders and made phone calls. Adrenalin, they say. Soon he opened the closet, snatched the broom and swept up imaginary dust. She had never

ARTS AND CULTURE

Does she really need to know the truth?

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