Through the Window

Midnight. I woke up thirsty and went to get a class of water and then literally did a double take when I looked through the bedroom window. There, standing in the yard, under a bright half-moon, was a kangaroo wearing a red sweater. Just standing there, wearing a sweater! Or rather a “jumper,” which is what the Australians call a sweater. 

Yes, I was in the outback. Yes, I had seen many kangaroos on the way out here—but they were wild, running away anytime we stopped, while I unsuccessfully tried to take a picture. They jump in crazy, random directions, which is why there are kangaroo guards on the cars in the outback. Only in the zoos were they tamed enough to allow someone to approach. 

And at a zoo in Sydney, yes, I had coaxed one to let me pat him; the creatures were quite tame there. I had even stroked and kissed the nose of a koala as he (or she) lay languidly in a eucalyptus tree, eyes glazed and limbs limp (being nocturnal, they are sleepy in the daytime, acting almost like they are drugged). 

But this was the outback! I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Still there, the mid-sized kangaroo in the red sweater—er, jumper. It came to me later that the choice of wardrobe was a visual pun—as the kangaroo, a jumper, is reddish in tone. 

The next morning, I went out to the kitchen, still in my pjs and without any make up on, with my hair disheveled, and exclaimed, “Guess what I saw last night! Or think I saw!” Instinctively, I curled my hands and held them up to my chest to imitate a kangaroo. 

“Oh, that’s just Roo-Chi, our pet,” said my hostess. “She hangs around the yard much of the time.” 

I didn’t ask how often they might change her outfit or if she ever wore anything besides that particular sweater—that is, jumper. Instead, I went to get dressed and grab my cell phone to search for her. This ‘roo might even pose for me!

Meanwhile, Andrew, the handsome man for whom I had traveled all the way around the world to explore romantic connections, hadn’t looked up. He sat at the kitchen table with coffee and a half-finished slice of Lamington roll cake, checking his texts—probably reading some notification from one of his ballroom dance heartthrobs. 

The romance, anticipated on both our parts since we had met at a ballroom event in Milwaukee about six months before and nurtured along through a chain of exploratory emails, had royally fizzled. I tried to remember the exact moment the fizzling had formally fizzled. 

Was it when Andrew, at the Australian National Gallery, had pointed to a painting by Mark Rothko, one of my favorite artists, and said that a five-year-old could have done it? 

Or was it when he was eating kangaroo steak (note to Roo-Chi: I had ordered something else!) during a lovely restaurant lunch and I asked why I heard so often the phrase “men and girls” in Australia, especially at the ballroom dance classes, and essentially, he told me it didn’t sound right to say “men and women” in Australia, only “men and girls.” Hm. Was it the lack of grammatical parallelism or the implication of inequality that bothered me so much? 

Maybe it was the night on his uncle’s ranch when the full moon shone resplendent over fruit trees burgeoning with fragrant fruits and I wore a lovely white off-the-shoulder dress and he didn’t even try to kiss me. Or how distant he had seemed at the airport, when he came to pick me up and waited nonchalantly (checking his texts again) while I changed out of my boots, fur coat, hat, and winter clothes into shorts and sandals, having flown for 21 hours from the bitter Chicago winter into the January summer in Sydney—to be with him. 

Oh, wait. I remember now. That night of the first ballroom event. We had arrived, and he explained how the “men and girls” would be separated into long lines and we’d all dance with any number of partners. I—a veteran and lover of ballroom dance—had assumed I would know the steps to anything we would dance. But I was wrong—there they learned whole patterns of steps, and I was pushed and prodded to move along down the line without knowing what I was doing. I had to keep apologizing to my various partners, as if I were a rank beginner. 

Meanwhile, Andrew was in his element! He spun, he shone, he sparkled on that dance floor. And then, at the break, came the kicker. He introduced me to a red-haired dancer named Anne, who snuggled up to him flirtatiously. He had an obvious personal affection for her, a relationship. A red-haired dancer named Anne! (Did I mention my red hair?) 

The shock of having come all this way (at my own expense) to meet a man (or should I call him a boy?) after he had lied to me about his intentions mixed with the utter humiliation of not being able to stand up to the Australian sport of ballroom dancing (it is quite a serious sport there) undid me. 

But here I was, ready to meet my first red jumper-wearing kangaroo in the outback. So what if the trip didn’t lead to marital bliss or anything like it? 

I didn’t bother to dress—just put on my sandals and grabbed my phone—and slipped out the back door. Roo-Chi was in the yard, and she eyed me calmly, not alarmed by my appearance in the least. Her sweater, that is jumper, was a little frayed; she may have been relieved I wasn’t all dolled up. I sweet talked her into coming toward me, and when she let me pat her, I was in ecstasy. Maybe this was what I had come so far to experience! Slipping my arm around her, I nuzzled the top of her head. She leaned into me, and I kissed her sweet face. We looked into each other’s eyes, and there was a fleeting but transcendent recognition that life in that moment was perfect. 

The picture I got from it was imprinted in my mind and heart, and now in this story. For how can a photograph by a jilted adventuring tourist depict the sublimity of perfect love? 

When I got home, I made a short film, “Anne’s Awesome Aussie Adventures.” That’s when I realized that my trip had been absolutely perfect, thanks to a certain mid-sized marsupial wearing a frayed red jumper.