Hogan

If I had died with her I would have been remembered fondly. But I didn’t and so I won’t be. If I had died with her, I would have been remembered as a caring father, a dutiful husband and a treasured friend to many. But I didn’t and so I won’t be.

The car incident that claimed her life was not my fault. But the car incident that didn’t claim my life is my fault. People hear my story and they feel pity for me. Pity is in their perception of me and of those in my predicament. I have lost my wife of 25 years they tell me, where do I start again at my age? They hear of my story, of the minutes of my life when my wife passed before me. They do not see the confession of my life when my wife died in front of me.

If people were to read my story they may perceive my predicament differently. The story I tell and the story I write are for two differing purposes. One is my story, the other is the truth. I pronounce and I purge.

There were no poignant good-byes. There were no tearful send-offs. There was no time. These, our lives, are not Hollywood; this was the front seat of my Holden. It had three on the tree and a speedometer that read m.p.h. It had an interior that smelled of leather protectant and a man’s pride in his vehicle. It had one dead body in the front seat.

We had been driving from Melbourne to Sydney in my Holden. I had been hoping to have a holiday now that I have more spare time and more spare money. She was hoping to convince me that we needed a spare child. I was concentrating on not listening to her, my wife Glenise. And in those moments that I was not listening to her, I heard what she was saying and I made my decision.

‘I need meaning. A woman needs meaning’ she said.
‘But we’ve raised our own children to mature young adults and I think we did it well? Don’t you agree? Why start again with someone else’s children?’
‘We did, but that doesn’t mean we can’t continue to do it well.’
I argued ‘We should be living our lives free to do as we please with our free time. We’re not as young as we used to be you know?’
‘No, we’re more experienced.’
‘I get tired more easily these days.’
‘And you’re more patient.’ she said.

We continued driving.

‘Gundagai has a good place for breakfast?’ I asked.
‘You said you would and anyway I’m not hungry.’ She said impatiently.
‘I said I would support you, and anyway you can’t survive on Fisherman’s Friends alone, you need something of substance, you need a good feed.’

She searched for answers in a small paper bag. She fossicked and found it, along with a strong mint.
‘It makes you feel like a man? A good feed, that is?’
‘It satisfies the inner man.’
‘And I need to satisfy the inner woman. You said you would.’

I, Jack Hogan, contented Father of two older, well balanced children, ate that breakfast as though I was a man condemned. I was happy. My beloved wife Glenise sipped at coffee she didn’t care for and peered over the top of a newspaper she wasn’t reading. She was happy.

There was no holding of hands as she died. There were no content smiles. There was no time. These, our lives, are not Hollywood; this was the front seat of my Holden. It had ash trays that had never been used. It had a Gregory’s repair manual and log book of miles until the next service in the glove-box. It had one dead body in the front seat.

She had reached out to me in those dying moments. Her hand had hung there lifeless, although she was not dead yet. Not yet. I saw the whites of her eyes. The white light people speak of when they are dying, shone out from behind her eyes and washed over me.

Since then I have prayed to God she didn’t see my eyes. Otherwise He might have something to say to me. I tried to hold her hand once more before she died. But I didn’t. I had two hands firmly on the wheel as I tried to avoid a large and cumbersome cow ruminating on the road side grass next to a broken fence.

The cow was spooked by my oncoming Holden. As the cow lurched onto the road its eyes rolled one way, its udders the other and I, Jack Hogan drove straight into a telephone pole.

‘Fark?’ Quizzed a murder of crows loitering on top of the phone line.
‘Fuck you!’ I yelled.

There was no response as they flew off under their heavy wings. As the sound of the crows died so did Glenise. She died not in the commotion and mayhem of sirens and emergency vehicles. This was not Hollywood; this was the silence of no one on the Hume Highway.

We hit the telephone poll, hit it hard. I would like to think that in that instant the lines were conveying many conversations. Good news and bad news. I would like to think that maybe at the end of one of those lines there was somebody to listen to me?
‘I don’t want anymore children!’
‘I understand.’

I could have used those telephone lines and told my boss to stick it.
‘The job as well you fat bastard.’

I could have used those telephone lines to tell the kids I love them. Love is not a term I often use with the kids. Men from where I come from, men from Donnybrook, don’t love their children. Not publicly anyway. They could only love their football team, a well-earned beer or dogs that win.

I could have used those telephone lines to confess my guilt.

I could have used those telephone lines to call an ambulance, but I didn’t.

And besides, the lines were down. I had hit them hard, hit them with my Holden.

People view the middle aged differently. The young are socially acceptable when drunk and amorous and inclined to love. The over 28’s scene is viewed differently. The old are not socially acceptable when drunk and looking to fuck. We should know better perhaps? I love the clubs, the drugs, the one-night stands, the romances, the freedom, the life I now lead. The life that some find so disgusting given my age.

‘Grow up.’ They say with distaste in their derision.
‘What happened to the man you once were?’

I am unleashed. I feel like a teenager once again, masturbating for the first time, ejaculating for the first time. Is it broken, am I broken? I plead to God to make it all better, ten minutes later and I do it again. I plead in vain, I plead with a gluttonous glee. From hoe-down to the hookers, like some 2 dollar-whore, this justification has been had before. And fuck its fun.

Family, friends, children, neighbours, colleagues, the police all offer condolences and support and questions.
‘…we are there for you.’
‘…if there is anything you need?’
‘…it’s alright Dad, Mum’s in heaven, isn’t she?’
‘…I will pray for her.’
‘…why were there no skid-marks at the scene of the accident Mr. Hogan?’

Why has my life veered and taken such a path? Why has my life crashed so abruptly, like the accident? There never are skid marks – not when you accelerate. Not when you intend to start again. Not when you commit homicide.

More kids at my age?

Fuck that.

I have been there and done that.

This is not heaven or hell. This is life. This is every Holden, Hollywood happy-ending, highway, heartbeat, homicide, hoe-down and whore house in between and it will not end like a fairy tale.

If I had died with her I would have been remembered fondly. But I didn’t and so I won’t be.