Andrew McDonald 02077892 1

THE ARDENT TEAR IS CRYED ALONE

Steve knew he could not marry Margo the day she bought the
dog. They were walking home from, what was in Steves mind, a
morning of purposeless shuffling through the overpriced antique
shops of Sydenham. An old man in worn brown tweed was selling
mottled black puppies on the side of the street. Eight of them were
crying in the boot of his Morris minor. Margo was having babies even
before she saw them. Against the side of the car a hand painted sign
read,

LABRADOR X PUPS
$20.00 each

So what are they crossed with? asked Steve.

Margo frowned at him for entertaining such trivial matters. Not
that Steve expected a truthful response. People getting rid of mongrel
dogs never told the truth; they invented implausible sperm donors,
tailored to the buyers taste. Pit bulls for gang members. Border collies
for long haired dole bums. Spaniels for lonely grandmothers. He
glanced at Margo. Her head was in the boot, emitting an unbelievably
maternal crescendo over the choir of yelping. Something little and cute
for Margo.
The old mans eyes dodged between them like dark little
marbles.
Fox terrier, he mumbled through Popeye lips and a trembling
cigarette.
Steve chaffed at the unimaginative predictability of choice. He
couldnt help imagining the unlikely canine couple panting away in
the old mans back yard, their late summer passion caught short by
an angry boot hurled through the air. Margo was already cuddling the
runt of the litter. Her auburn hair swayed above the delicate
shoulders of her red leather overcoat as she offered her cheek to its
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desperate little tongue. Almost surprised by his heartlessness, Steve

resolved to say nothing.
Gullibility bordering on charity.
The dog seller sidled up to Margo and gently prised the little dog
from her embrace. It hung docile in his hands while he held it up and
made an exhibition of his appraisal.
Ill let you take this little fellow away for ten dollars.

Steves body blended with the cold, lifeless pavement on the

walk home. As they neared the avenue Margo announced she needed
to buy the dog some food.
Sure, Steve repressed an urge to protest. It was too late for
that now, and dog biscuits were cheap.
A sudden urge to buy cigarettes materialised in his mind. Margo
had encouraged him to give up smoking sometime after they first got
together. Maintaining good health was a constant cancer to her. The
dog was smuggled inside her jacket and they passed through the
jumbled maze of car parks and abandoned shopping trolleys. Once
inside the supermarket it was clear she did not have dog biscuits on
her shopping list.
Weve just passed the pet food section, Steve ventured.
She continued on, passing the deli and veered right into the
meat department.
Steve, she authoritatively surveyed the fresh meat display,
this puppy needs real food. Good food, not reconstituted fishmeal
biscuits.
Youre not going to feed it chicken pieces!
It occurred to him that they never ate chicken. Free range
ethics excluded chicken from the menu. Margo hesitated.
I am.
Two trays of chicken pieces were thrown in the basket.
Steve turned his back and resolved to buy cigarettes.
Its your dog and its your life, he flung over his shoulder.
 Andrew McDonald 02077892 3

If you didnt want me to buy him, you shouldve said something

at the time.

Steve rolled his first cigarette in almost three years. The park
across the street from their home provided adequate cover. He leaned
against the back of an old elm tree. Margo was inside cooking chicken.
On arrival home they had argued over the dogs sleeping
arrangements. Steve disputed the wisdom of allowing it to sleep in the
lounge room. Margos case for compassion dominated, until it
urinated on the carpet. This vindicated Steves claims and the dog was
ostracised to the laundry. He realised Margo had yielded only to
placate him and wasnt proud of the way he had manipulated her
emotions. Her tensed body had seemed to say, I cant believe youre
taking this so badly...its a little puppy for goodness sake.
As he nursed the sputtering match against the winter wind, it
occurred to Steve that he felt threatened. The acknowledgement of this
fact terrified him. It wasnt simply that he did not like dogs. That
would have made his realisation easier. He was being suffocated by
the unfolding details of Margos life. The dcor of the bedroom,
whether or not to have flatmates, appropriate diet and when the
wedding would be. He smoked his cigarette. Every breath was an act
of defiance against domestication. The wedding. He was certain that
idea had come from Margos mother, Helen.

Most Sundays Margo would go to her parents for lunch. Since

their engagement one year earlier, Steve had become a regular, but
reluctant, guest in the Rowland household. Margos parents lived in
Fendalton, the better part of town. The house had been in the
Rowland family for three generations. The garden outside, now
maintained by a hired gardener, was a well conserved memorial to the
gardening prowess of Margos great grandfather. Steve considered
their concern for the gardens appearance a symbol of the deeper level
of superficiality that pervaded their life. Superficiality surfaced in
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various forms. Helens mind contained an elaborate web of relational

pedigrees tracing back to the families of the first settler ships to
Canterbury. Somehow this network made sense of her world. When
she met younger people it was a matter of habit to enquire as to the
names of their parents. When someone didnt fit it was clearly a
wretched inconvenience for her, as the conversation would hang.
Steve hung therefore in a perennial state of limbo within the complex
social sensitivities of Margos mother. Her fathers refusal to engage
him beyond a bare acknowledgment left an impression that Steve was
an imposition on his space. Bills silence was tolerated because, for
some time, Steve had nothing to say to him anyway. Steves
relationship to them had invariably stained most of his intuition
surrounding Margos motivations.

Margo was clearing up the dishes in the kitchen when Steve

finally ventured back inside. Her new dog was curled up asleep in a
cardboard box lined with a soft flannel towel, its velvet belly swelled
with chicken pieces. Margo stared at Steve expectantly. He threw up
his hands.
Im sorry. I dont know what my problem was.

The wedding was the main theme of conversation between

Margo and her mother the following day. Helen squawked through the
Bride and Groom magazines that lay across the table. When Bill
realised lunch was delayed he stalked off to his study. Bills passive
hostility confirmed Steve suspicions of unvoiced disapproval. If Helen
disapproved of their relationship she gave little away. Her daughter
may be marrying an unbefitting partner, but by heavens she would at
least do it in style. The wedding, like all good weddings according to
Helen, was scheduled for summer. The date was aimed to coincide
with their movement from graduation into employment, leaving space
enough for a month long honeymoon tour of Spain. These were
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Margos ideas. Steve considered himself a passive object mistakenly

caught in the flow of her childhood gypsy dreams.

Steves depression deepened during lunch when Bill finally did

engage him in conversation. Bill only operated in two modes of
conversation with Steve. The first was at social occasions where he
would awkwardly allow Steve to be party to his assessment the days
most pressing news issue. This form of discussion always involved the
participation of a third party. Steve usually had little to add to Bills
mildly reserved diatribes against liberal politicians or religious
fundamentalists. Bill wasnt a fundamentalist of any description. He
distinguished himself as a moderate. Bill was, as far as Steve could
gather, a non practicing Presbyterian who occasionally attended
services at the Anglican Cathedral when prodded by his wife. These
occasions usually occurred no more than a few times each year
because they threw Bill into such an irritable state of mind. Following
these events Steve and Margo usually arrived for lunch while Bill was
berating his wifes overly positive response to the Deans sermon. Such
sermons were, when it came down to it, religiously disguised
advertisements for political correctness and Labour social policy. This
Sunday however Bill was not the victim of religious indigestion or
political indignation. Instead he was operating in his second
conversational mode.

The Community Law Centre? Bills eyebrows impended across

the table. Christ! Youre not going to go far like that Steve. You may
as well join the unemployment union and work for charity. He
pushed his empty plate away. It lay like a gauntlet amidst the salads
and cheese.
Steves rationale for studying was a constant assault on Bills
business senses.
I dont think you understand Steves reason for practicing law
dad. Not everyone is motivated by money.
 Andrew McDonald 02077892 6

Money! Is that what you think motivates me? Margo, she was
his twelve year old daughter again, I am motivated by your well being!
Dont accuse me of being some blind old money raker.
I dont think your fathers saying you should be motivated by
money. Are you dear? We both just want you to get the best out of
life.

In his mind Steve recoiled back from the table to view his future
family at a safe distance. Margo had grown animated in his defence.
She cut through their dull perception with decisive gestures. Steve
admired her. In a way he still loved her. When they met he had
recognised an intelligent urgency in her. And he wanted it. He had
transferred his studies from Victoria to Canterbury in order to claim
independence from his family. The move wasnt driven by animosity.
Steves father, who had apparently toured the South Island in a
psychedelic folk show before meeting his mother, encouraged it.
You need to get away and discover things for yourself, he had
said one evening while the sun went down over the Wellington hills.
Steve discovered Margo in the second week of law lectures.
When she showed up in two of his tutorials, he knew it was meant to
be. On several occasions, once he had secured a safe level of
friendship, he had written poems for her. Clichd poems, but they had
made an impression. Clearly no one else sent her poetry. Within a few
months they had got together. It was a long time before Steve met her
parents. Initially Margo, suspecting the inevitable intrusion, had
stalled off their insistence on meeting Steve. As a result Steve and
Margo lived in a world formed by their own shifting ideological
references for over a year.
We should go to Brazil and volunteer for Amnesty or
something, Steve suggested one evening after a lecture on
International Human Rights. Margos initial enthusiasm for the
proposal was obvious. That evening melted away into a mutual
outpouring of aspiration. They wandered with their hands in each
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others pockets, sharing pizza and boutique beer in the courtyard of

the Dux de Lux. He recalled the deep hint of autumn that suffused the
air and how Margo seemed to carry it all in her gaze. The world
opened before him in a way he never dared imagine it should.

That was all before he actually met the Rowlands. The

Rowlands he first met were different from the people who now sat
deconstructing his world over Sunday lunch. Bill and Helen had
initially treated him warmly. He was Margos choice. She had not had
a string of boyfriends at high school and therefore they felt obliged to
take her choice seriously. Any disagreements rising between Steve and
Bill had been politely disregarded. Steve now understood that this had
been out of regard for their daughter. The turning point came when
Margo and Steve found the flat on Cranmer Square and announced
their decision to move into together.
Why? asked Helen. I mean why dont you wait until you get
married?
She perceived the disbelief that passed between them.
Oh I know your sleeping together. I didnt come down in the
last shower of rain and Im not old fashioned. I just thought youd
wait until...well...until.
Until when mum? What are you talking about?
Well you dont want to just drift into things. You should start
things the way you intend to continue them.
I dont think Margo and I need an expensive wedding to prove
how much we love each other.
Helen began to show the strain of exasperation. Steve later
came to recognise a mild tick that would affect her right eye during
disagreements. The twitch caused her great embarrassment and she
would cover it with a hand to her brow.
Despite further protests from her father later that evening,
Margo decided it was time to illustrate her level of commitment to
Steve. They moved into the cottage the following week. The strain
 Andrew McDonald 02077892 8

between Steve and the Rowlands began to openly manifest. That was
two years before.

Steve was unaware for a few moments that the lunch time
conversation had stopped. All three faces were turned on him. Bills
face was stretched tight over his irritation. Helen glared at him
through a spasmodic eye. Margos face pleaded. Silence... Bill had
been saying something. Steve tried to remember by searching each of
their faces again. The sound of the clock pulsed in his ears.
Im going home now, he said sliding out of his chair. Before
anyone could respond he was gone. As he reached the car he could
hear Margo turning on her parents.
I know what you guys are trying to do!
He pretended not to see her following him out the door. As he
drove away a miserable satisfaction spread through his body.

It was past nine oclock when Steve returned to the flat. Margo
must have arrived home several hours before. She was hunched on
the couch with her sleeping dog.
I went for a drive up the hills.
The colour had drained from her face and the rims of her eyes
were raw from tears. He was almost sorry for her. When he cast
himself down on the couch, there was more space between them than
usual. Margo noticed.
Steve Dad didnt mean what he
Oh look, I couldnt care less what your father thinks. Hes not
going to be controlling the rest of my life.
His brusque and involuntary hostility compelled Margo to sit up
and face him. The little dog woke up and stretched.
What are you going to do?
Ive decided to go to South America.
Margo hadnt anticipated his reply. It slapped across her face.
SouthAmerica?
 Andrew McDonald 02077892 9

Yeah. Some place like that. Its time to start getting honest
about what we really want out of life. We cant just pretend that
everythings going to work the way we want it.
Margo sat motionless, carefully deliberating on what had been
said. She waited until she had his attention.
And where do you see us fitting into that picture Steve?
Thats up to you. Or perhaps its up to your parents?
He hoped she would react, Oh fuck you and your attitude!
But she wouldnt. Margos decency of character always showed
him up. He regretted having mentioned her parents.
Maybe you need to say what you mean, Margo suggested.
The muscles around Steves stomach seemed to constrict. She
was bleeding inside and only honesty could cauterise the wound. He
stared at the floor and attempted to draw strength. The pattern on the
carpet revealed itself to him for the first time; flowers blooming on
interwoven thorn stems. Love is a rose but youd better not pick it, it
only grows when its on the vine. Wasnt that a song his father used to
play? Flowers and thorns? Rubies and rust? A sudden calm possessed
him. This isnt me. I am not what Ive become.

When Steve finally spoke it felt as though he was speaking from

ten miles inside himself. As if when Margo heard his words he would
be safe within an emotional fallout shelter.
I dont think we should get married Its not us I mean, it
wasnt our idea was it? Not to begin with. And we havent been honest
about that, and I feel like the real me is just not allowed to be here
anymore.

The flight was leaving.

I love you too. Steve felt diminished by insincerity. Did Margo
feel the same? Was Margo ever insincere? No. There were tears in her
eyes such as his could never summon. The farewell tone of the
departure lounge scrawled fraud across his sight. Other couples
 Andrew McDonald 02077892 10

echoed goodbyes to each other. The final departure call resounded

through the terminal.
Flight 438 to Auckland boarding now at gate seven.
Youd better go, Margos hands gripped his, then let go.
Ill see you in couple of years, Steve affirmed.
And he might. Anything could happen over two years. She had
released him to be by himself. Looking back from the boarding gate he
thought he saw her, standing alone in the crowd. The gate closed
behind him. South America lay somewhere out there, across the
Pacific.
Perhaps there, he thought, alone, Ill learn to cry.