Apples Never Fall

“Careful with that mug,” he said. “It’s my mother’s favorite.”

Savannah picked up the mug with exaggerated care, stood up, and placed it on the center of the table where Logan’s father sat to do the crossword on Saturday mornings.

“Sorry,” she said. “I just grabbed it from the dishwasher.” She picked it up again and studied it. “No place like Grandma’s. Except your mother isn’t a grandma, is she?”

“It belonged to my grandmother,” said Logan. Troy had bought it for their mother’s mother as a Christmas gift, and she’d loved it. Of course she had. Troy was famous for buying the best gifts. Her love of the mug had been inexplicable because their mother’s mother had never been especially grandmotherly. Whenever they visited she was always keen for a departure time to be specified upfront.

The girl stepped off the veranda onto the grass and walked over to him. She stood a little too close, and Logan took a step back. Amy called people who did that “Space Invaders.” The Delaneys were not touchy-feely people. Except for their mother. She was a hugger, an arm-patter, a back-rubber, but Joy had always been the exception to the Delaney rule.

Savannah looked up at him with too much interest. Her eyelashes were long and white, like a small native animal’s. She had a pointed, freckled nose, thin, chapped lips, and a flesh-colored Band-Aid above one eyebrow. Logan was taller and bigger than most people, but this girl was so small and fragile-looking she made him feel enormous and foolish, as though he were dressed up as a football mascot.

“Do you want to have children?” She looked at him intensely. Was there something a little wrong with her?

“Maybe one day,” he said. He took another step back. “What happened there?” He indicated the Band-Aid.

“My boyfriend hit me,” she said, without inflection.

He thought her answer was going to be something mundane—in fact, he had no interest in the answer, he was just deflecting attention—and consequently, in his shock, he responded without thinking.

“Why?” The word was out of his mouth before he could drag it back. Why? It was like asking, What did you do to deserve that? His sisters would tear strips off him. Victim-blaming! “Sorry. That’s a stupid thing to ask.”

“It’s okay. So, he came home from work, when was it? Last Tuesday night.” She stuck her hands in the pockets of Amy’s jeans and circled the toe of her boot in the grass. “He was actually in a pretty good mood that day.”

“You don’t need to tell me,” said Logan. He held up a hand to try to stop her. He didn’t want details, for Christ’

s sake.

“It’s okay, I’m quite happy to tell you,” she said, and he’d asked the stupid question, so his punishment was to endure the painful answer.

“We were watching TV, just chilling out, and then this news story came on about domestic violence, right? I thought, Oh great, here we go. Those stories…” She shook her head. “I don’t know why they have to keep putting those stories on TV. It doesn’t help. It makes it worse!” Her voice skidded up.

Logan squinted, trying to make sense of what she was saying. Was she saying a story about violence against women inspired it?

“Those stories always put him in the filthiest of moods. Maybe they made him feel guilty, I don’t know. He’d say, ‘Oh, it’s always the man’s fault, isn’t it? Never the chick’s fault! Always his fault.’” She put on a deep, jocklike voice to imitate the boyfriend. Logan could almost see the guy. He knew the type.

“So anyway, I changed the channel as fast as I could, I was like, ‘Oh, I want to watch Survivor!’ and he didn’t say anything, and then I could feel it, he was just waiting for me to do something wrong, and the minutes went by, and I started to relax, and I thought, Oh it’s fine, and then, like an idiot, like a fool, I asked if he’d paid the car registration.” She shook her head at her own stupidity. “I wasn’t trying to make a point. I honestly wasn’t.” She looked up at Logan through her sandy eyelashes as if she were trying to convince him of her innocence. “I just said, ‘Did you remember to pay it?’”

“Sounds like a valid question to me,” said Logan. He’d never experienced physical violence in a relationship, but he knew how a question could be misinterpreted, how a simple request for information could be flung back in your face.

“Well, it infuriated him,” said Savannah. “Apparently I was being passive aggressive.” She shrugged and put her fingertips to the Band-Aid over her eye. “So it all sort of spiraled from there, the way it always did, and next thing you know, he’s yelling, I’m crying … just pathetic, really. Embarrassing.” She looked off to the side, her hands on her hips. She smelled of cheap perfume, hairspray, and cigarettes, like the girls he used to kiss on summer holidays, behind the amenities block at the Central Coast caravan park. The smell triggered a surge of feeling that Logan hoped was nostalgia for that time, not desire for this girl. It was inappropriate to think about kissing this small, fragile, abused girl. It made him feel complicit with the arsehole boyfriend.

“Anyway … whatever … so that’s what happened.” Savannah hitched up Amy’s jeans around her waist. “He’s history. I left, hailed a cab, and I’m never going back.”

“Good,” said Logan, and then a series of thoughts clicked into place.

He said, “Does your boyfriend know you’re here?” He imagined his mother flinging open the front door, in that way she did, always so pleased for company, a smile on her face, to be greeted by some yobbo with a vendetta. He didn’t wait for an answer. “How do you know my parents anyway?”

“I don’t,” said Savannah. “I knocked on their door at random.”

“You what?”

“Logan!” His mother slid back the glass door leading onto the back veranda and put her hands to her cheeks, as if she couldn’t believe it was him, as if she hadn’t seen his car in the driveway and would therefore already have had plenty of warning that he was here. Her voice had that marginally posher accent she reserved for non-family members. Actually, it was worse than usual. She sounded almost drunk with excitement. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m doing the gutters, Mum,” said Logan. “Like I said.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” said his mother. “Your father has it under control.” She came over to them and put her hand on Savannah’s back as she spoke. “I see you’ve met Savannah.” She looked at Savannah and then back at Logan. Her eyes sparkled. “She’s staying with us for a while. She’s staying with us for as long as she wants.” She patted Savannah gently on the back in rhythm with her words.

She stopped patting and said, “How’s Indira?” with a penetrating look, as if she suspected something about the breakup, but how could she possibly know?