Cross Words

Cross Words

Pages two and three of the newspaper lay open on the table alongside a mean little Black Mamba espresso. A hurricane and floods were devastating Texas on page two, and a story concerning an indecent act performed on the Minister of Transport's desk dominated page three.

I took a hair-raising sip of Java and browsed the internet on my mobile phone to fill in the blanks the newspaper left. My knowledge of Texas is feeble—lots of cattle, oil and conservatives, I'd been led to believe by the very organ of record in front of me, but I'm always willing to be proven misinformed. I did read somewhere that they are allowed to carry rifles while walking their kids to school, so I suspected that might be significant.

Regarding our Minister of Transport, no internet is needed; simply another day in Parliament House.

‘Did you know Texas Hill Country, Austin and San Antonio are under water?’ I asked.

‘Hmmm,’ Sandra answered. We sat on our veranda, the sun high and hot, my mood dozy. Sandra wore a sunhat, even though the veranda roof placed us in shadow.

‘You did?’

'What? Sorry…what did you say?'

‘Texas. Hurricanes. It's alright, doesn't matter.’

‘Okay. Good.’

‘Well, it's not that good,’ I said. ‘It's actually quite bad. With the hurricane. And the floods. The authorities are alarmed, the power's out, people are dead. Additionally, our Minister of Transport is in trouble…again.’

‘Yes.’

Yes, what? Sandra had snaffled, once again, the arts and culture supplement before I could properly investigate it. Every week, the cryptic crossword on the second-last page of the supplement held her undivided attention.

I read the supplement because of all the arty information, a fundamentally useless activity since I don't attend plays or the cinema. Poetry readings are events one might go to out of family obligation. I'm spared; my ilk boasts no poets. I don't listen to music, so that page always strikes me as mysterious. I read books but habitually fall asleep and forget what they're about, prompting a skim through the previous six chapters to reacquaint myself with the plot. I admit it's a failing on my part that I think the resulting knowledge might qualify me to make winning remarks at cocktail parties. I still believe there's a slim chance I might be invited to one.

Still, I enjoy reading about the goings-on in the arts, some of which are astonishing. Last week, for instance, a story appeared about a cooperative of craftspersons in Germany who had constructed two semi-attached houses in a way that resembled doggy-style sex. In the cubic tradition, of course. Oddly enough, the creators were not asked the first question that sprang to my mind – why? The world is a strange place, but it's the only one we have.

I begin with the news section, then proceed to the in-depth review of alleged news, where people who have been closeted in things called think tanks emerge to educate us on their findings. From there, onto the glossy but insipid magazine lift-out containing information about celebrities who apparently lead fabulous lives, but are mostly appalling. Once I’m done with their shenanigans, I reach for the arts and culture supplement, thereby satisfactorily rounding off my Saturday morning reading campaign.

Sadly, Saturday satisfactions have not often come my way. Sandra instantly launches into the cryptic crossword without reading the supplement, and things go downhill from there. She mistreated the supplement's pages with alarming disregard, resulting in a creased and ragged shambles by the time it was my turn. This violent man-handling, or, to be precise, woman-handling, also led to an oily and toxic newsprint residue being released by the time the bloody thing came to me. Marriages have failed for less. I'm a patient person, yet I have it on good authority that not all are.

Sandra pushed up her hat to a rather jaunty angle to scratch her forehead. ‘Why are you, a person living in suburban NSW, so obsessed with Texas?’

‘Everybody's crazy about all things American. I mean, they’re burning books now.’

‘Ron, they are not burning them. They’re just hiding them. Anyway, I'm not crazy about Americans. I can take them or leave them.’

‘If Houston is the fourth biggest city in America and New York is the twelfth biggest globally, doesn't this mean Houston has got to be in that vicinity?'

‘Ah-ha,’ Sandra said and then drew her attention away from the crossword. Traces of irritation were present. ‘Actually, that's not—’

‘No, indeed it's not. Houston is near the bottom of a list of eighty-five. It says so here in Wikipedia.’

‘Ron, there’s something wrong with your logic. Think about it.’

‘Logic, logic—it’s always logic with you.

‘How many people died?’ Sandra asked.

‘What?’

‘The hurricane.’

‘Fifteen and counting. Many unaccounted for.’

‘How many?’

‘What?’ Contrary to my initial wishes, I now wanted Sandra to return to the crossword.

‘How many are missing?’

‘Doesn't say. I guess if they knew, they'd say,’ I said. ‘Though I wonder how they would know?’

‘What?’

‘I’m attempting logic, since it’s all the rage around here,’ I said. ‘How would they know people are missing? And who is the unspecified entity referred to ambiguously as the authorities?’

‘Precisely.' She glanced up and produced a brittle smile before retreating to the puzzle.

She held the supplement, scrunched up and stiff, to complete the crossword without the benefit of a hard surface to write on. Her expression struck me as adorable, with her perfect teeth bared, and too many of her newsprint-soiled fingers around the biro in a way one might characterise as malevolent.

I graduated to the news review section to find an economics reporter had used the words woke and synergy in the same sentence. My mind formed its own sentence containing the phrases missed opportunity and strangled at birth.

‘I think journalists write things to make up the column inches,' I said. 'Facts and research get in the way.’

‘Old man dressing badly shows fleshy bulge, seven letters. What the hell's that!?’

‘You're asking me? You know I hate crosswords. Though I'd hazard a penis is involved.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Package? Sausage? Gherkin? Dingaling?’ I offered.

‘Dingaling has eight letters. Jesus, they make them so hard.’

‘Yes, being hard is one of their characteristics. Trouser Snake? Pocket Rocket? Vagina Miner?’

‘They are two words and far too many letters,’ Sandra said.

‘Anaconda? The Colonel? Dip St—’

‘Alright, you can stop now!’

‘Unfortunately, testicle also has eight letters,’ I lamented. ‘You sure it isn't eight they're after? Both Adolph Hitler and Jimmy Carter only had one.’

‘One what?’

‘Testicle. Carter was a peanut farmer from Georgia, though.’

‘What has that got to do with it?’

‘In case you thought he might be a Texan,’ I answered. ‘He sounds like one to my ear.’

‘Peanuts aside, what makes you an expert in American dialects?’

‘I’m a student of linguistics.’

‘You're a linguist's arse, Ron.’

‘I didn't say I'm a professor.’

‘Is Jimmy Carter even still alive? Anyway, you're not helping.’

‘Don't know why you even bother. You look like you're about to experience an embolism.’ I was hoping she might shortly release the supplement from its torture for my gentler pursuits.

To my relief, Sandra threw the mangled supplement and her pen on the table and stared into the garden. ‘Damn this crossword!’

‘Too right. I think the creators of them are psychopaths,’ I said.

I followed her gaze. Nothing was happening out there. A lizard might have been doing something, but not in my line of sight.

‘Jesus, I wish I still smoked.’

‘I'm very pleased you don't. You might be at a cemetery right now instead of discussing the American presidents.’

She was deep in thought, her eyes narrowing.

‘Say there's a lone couple, for instance. One drowns, and the other goes missing.’

‘So, we're back to the hurricane in Texas – just to make sure?’

She removed her glasses, accidentally skewing her sunhat again. The clownish effect was endearing. I'm glad I met this extraordinary person all those years ago.

Occasionally, I think I'm falling in love with Sandra all over again, even now, when getting my hands on the supplement, now in pretty poor shape, remains problematic. Many of the pages are not in the correct order. I'd have to reassemble it and flatten it out to read it as the editor initially envisioned.

‘You see what I mean?’ Sandra fiddled irritably with the edge of the crossword page.

‘You've lost me,’ I was worried she might begin to absently tear strips off the puzzle page and roll them up into tight little balls—not an unprecedented event.

‘Well, let's see,’ Sandra said. ‘Hypothetically speaking, it is possible no one saw either the death of one or the other going missing. In fact, even if they had, how could they assume the missing one was missing? Perhaps she/he went on holiday interstate. Houston, for instance.’

‘I'm not sure I’m—’

‘The deceased person wouldn't be able to confirm either way, and the presumptive missing one would require corroborative evidence of his/her departure or missingness, which, given the randomness of people's behaviour these days, may not be available. This still leaves the most obvious question unanswered, though.’

‘Nevertheless, I have a feeling I might shortly be in receipt of an answer.’ I'd given the supplement a swift peek before Sandra got her hands on it.

On the other side of the crossword lived a book review I wished to read in full. It concerned a multigenerational saga about goat herders in Sicily. Lawrencian in scope, the review opined. I had considered ordering it, but I was having second thoughts, as I'd recently read approximately one-third of Kangaroo before realising it had little to do with marsupials.

Nevertheless, I needed to be sure.

Sandra continued. ‘The reporter has misled his readership. He said people are missing, but that can't be proved. For a person to be considered missing, they must be found, which hasn't yet occurred and may never be confirmed. With the deceased, a corpse invariably appears, but not always. He's turning a hypothetical into a notional fact—not even an opinion or one of these new-fangled alternative facts.’

‘She. She's a she, and she actually said “unaccounted for,” I clarified.

‘Even less logical—simply assuming a nebulous entity, the authorities, as you say, are unable to account for an already unknown person's whereabouts. So what? I can't account for your whereabouts on occasion, and I'm thoroughly acquainted with you.’

‘Thank you, my love. I'm very pleased to know you, too.’

‘I don't go around irresponsibly saying you are missing, though.’

‘Not as yet, no.’ I returned my attention to my phone. I often take a nap after reading the supplement, which I would have started by now.

I sensed Sandra's eyes on me. She'd continue to do this until I met her gaze. I once feigned interest in the content on my phone for a full five minutes to see if she became distracted. She didn't – her observation of me and anticipation of a response remained intense throughout.

‘I have it,’ I said. ‘Papilla. A small nipple-shaped protuberance concerned with taste, touch, or smell.’

‘What?’

‘Fleshy bulge, seven letters.’

‘Fuck it.' Sandra got up and went inside.

After sorting out the supplement to my satisfaction, I found, as anticipated, Goats and Lovers would not be taking up valuable space on my bedside table.