Remembering Kevin

Remembering Kevin

While I was reheating some spaghetti for lunch today, I began thinking about Kevin, a friend of my husband. The two of them used to teach together. Kevin was single and lived in a share house in Oakleigh. He came for dinner a few times when the kids were little. What I remember most from those nights was the way he played with them –he always went a bit crazy in the sense that some people who don’t know how to behave go overboard and excite an energy in kids that makes them loud and wild.

On the first evening he was here, after the boys had finally calmed down and gone off to bed Kevin spoke about his childhood. Like me he’d grown up in a large Catholic family with a number of siblings in each bedroom and where religion played a big part in daily life. Unlike me though, his memories of those days were mostly miserable. With 14 kids in his family- 5 more than in mine - Kevin said he never felt there was enough of anything to go round. That included love. I got the sense from listening to him that although he lived in a crowded house his childhood wasn’t much different to an orphan’s.

One Sunday sometime after we’d gotten to know him, we went to his place for lunch. The kids played out in the backyard while we sat in the kitchen and had a drink before eating. We’d brought a bottle of wine and Kevin produced 3 vegemite glasses which was fine. What I couldn’t get my head around however, was the table cloth. It was one of his sheets. The stripy flannelette kind that thins out after a few washes. The kind that carries little pills of fluff where it’s been worn away. As we sat there with him, all I could wonder was when he’d last used it. When he served up the meal- the empty bottle of Paul Newman Bolognese Sauce was on the sink beside the stove- I found I had no appetite. I had to force myself to take a few mouthfuls and drink the wine as slowly as I could.

When my husband turned 40 we had a party at home. Friends and family came and the house was alive with music and talk. Kevin arrived early in the evening but didn’t stay long. In fact he walked in the back door and passed through to the front before either of us had time to realize it. The gathering had simply overwhelmed him.

Beyond what I’ve written here, there’s not much more to say. I know before we’d met he’d been a Brother in an order in Western Australia and I also remember what my husband said -that he had no real idea about how to teach.

When he left the school at the end of the year and moved away from Melbourne it turned out to be the last we saw or heard from him. He gave no forwarding address and made no return visits. We lost touch.

In hindsight I feel ashamed I didn’t help him more but the truth is, I got tired of his company. Whenever he came round the past always came with him. It was like a bag of old stones he tipped open on the table. I wished for the day when he didn’t have his heaviness but that time never came. All I hope now in remembering him is that somewhere along the road he met someone who helped him carry the weight.