by Nina Levine
“It’s not your time,” she replies quickly.
We turn a corner, and there on a clearing is an old tractor. Even the new brown paint doesn’t disguise the fact it was my Dad’s tractor.
The one that killed him.
The source of my demons.
I still, frozen to the spot, not wanting to take another step.
My eyes fixate on the large tyres, wishing it all to be an illusion.
“Why is it out of the shed?” I say flatly.
“It was your father’s pride and joy.”
I remember…
… remember how he used to teach me how to ride it...
… remember how he taught me to fix little things.
“It took his life.”
“It was an accident. And yet looking back, I know now it was his time to go. I believe that,” she says looking at me earnestly. “We all have a certain time, and when it’s up—”
“It wasn’t an accident,” I snap. “Why do you believe that crap?”
“Because I’ll never accept a little boy killed him.” Our eyes meet, and hers are seeking understanding. “Stop blaming yourself.”
“Why do you think I do?”
“Because you cried yourself to sleep most nights. I’d come in and lay beside you, hold you when the nightmares hit. You talked in your sleep. I tried to get you to open up, only the more I tried, the more you shut down. And then you found other ways to help with the pain.”
“I killed him. There’s no getting away from the truth.” I drop to one knee and stare at the monster that took my father. “I hate this thing, and I don’t want it out here like a fucking statue for us to worship.”
“You didn’t run him over, Dusty.”
“No, but I fiddled with the brakes because he taught me how to fix things. And the day before, I pretended I was a man with my own farm. My own tractor.”
“He knew. He would go out and check what you did. It wasn’t your fault. It was a freak accident. You need to let this go.” She leans over and cradles me with her soft arms.
“Yet he didn’t fix the brakes… I should’ve told him what I fiddled with. I wanted to be a man, like him, pulling things apart and putting them back together.” I take a step closer to the monster concealed in its new shiny brown coating. Cautiously, I place my foot on the ground as though not to wake the beast. Still, my mind is filling with memories from my childhood—some good, others bad. The images roll in. My shoulders tense and I hunch over to protect myself from the nightmare that undoes me every time I relive my father being crushed under—I’m staring at the wheel that took his life.
“I killed him.” I bow my head. One sob escapes me, and I swallow the lump in my throat and blink back the tears, willing myself not to lose control. I need something to take my mind off the pain. Fuck, I need a stiff drink. The whiskey my dad used to drink—a triple on the rocks. My gut is in knots. I tilt my head back as a sharp pain shoots across my forehead, the tension in my neck and shoulders increasing. I roll my head from side to side.
I need more than a stiff drink.
I need a hit.
An image of Dad’s lifeless body by the tractor is all I visualise.
I can’t breathe.
Eyes shut, I focus on breathing slow and deep.
I force my thoughts to shift to… Star.
“Fuck. Where are you?” I whisper, willing her to appear.
A soft hand lands on my shoulder. “Let it go, Dusty. It wasn’t your fault.”
My hands cover my face. “You don’t get it. I killed him!” Two sobs escape and even to my ears, I sound pathetic. “You should hate me, Mum. Everyone should hate me.” The tears come, and I want to hide. There’s no stopping the emotion that has bubbled to the top, and like a volcano, the tears pour out of me like lava.
“That’s it, love. Let it all go. Get it out.”
I swipe my hands over my face and gaze up at my mother standing beside me with concern in her eyes.
“Why don’t you hate me? I ruined your life.”
“How could I hate you? Your father and I live within you. I see him every day in you, and you have the same determination, the same passion as him. You cope in your own way whenever something goes wrong. My boy, you didn’t kill him. You’re not to blame. No one will know what happened that day. The truth is buried along with him. He went into the shed after you and fixed whatever you did. He told me so. It was a freak accident, Dusty,” she repeats. “You can’t blame yourself.” She takes my hand and gives a little tug for me to stand with her. I push up from the ground and let my mother wrap her arms around me. Hug me like there’s no tomorrow. “Come…”
She leads me closer to the tractor, gleaming under the bright afternoon sun. My hand remains enveloped by her tiny hand. I don’t want to be this close. My mother walks me to stand beside the beast and gives me a look of understanding before placing my hand on the wheel guard.
“He loved this tractor,” she states. “No matter what happened, we have to think the same way as him. He rode it hundreds of times. It belongs with us on the farm. It was a big part of our lives, and I couldn’t bring myself to sell or get rid of it. Instead, I embraced it as he would.”
I pull my hand away. “I’m not ready.”
She wraps her hand around my waist and rests her head on my chest. “You did good. Little steps, my boy.”
I nod even though she can’t see my acknowledgement.
Big fucking steps, really.
It was a giant step coming here.
And coming face to face with the very thing I swore I’d never look at again has exhausted me. The guilt rolls over in my gut of being the cause, even if my mother doesn’t believe it. She is right about one thing, though, I need to let it go. Nothing will bring him back. And we can respect what he loved, and he did love this damn tractor. I understand her reasons, but I’m not at the level of acceptance right now she wants me to be.
Mum and I clamber into the back seat of Rhett’s truck while he and Tori take the front seats.
“Only a couple of drinks,” Mum says to him. “I don’t want you hungover for Christmas.”
I chuckle and meet his glare in the rear view mirror.
“I’ll drive home,” Tori says and pats his leg.
I shake my head. He’s fucking whipped.
“I don’t want a late one,” I add. “I need to get up and go for a run in the morning.”
“On Christmas morning?” Rhett raises his eyebrows and meets my gaze in the mirror.
“Yeah. Then I’ll come back and help Mum.”
“I don’t need your help, love. You do what you have to do. I’m sure Rhett remembers the programs you footballers follow.”
We pull up out front of the local pub, and it looks to be at full capacity. Music is blaring through the open windows. These old stone walls hold a lot of history, especially with my family. We head inside and heads turn. People raise their beers and shout out to me.
“Welcome home, Dusty.”
“Thanks,” I say back to the direction from where the voice came.
“Hey, the entire family is here.” I nod and smile.
A tall guy catches my eye. He has the same blue eyes as me—the same eyes as Mum and Rhett.
“What the…” He removes his cowboy hat. “When did you get back?”
Jase pats my back before giving a quick hug. “Tonight. I went home and showered first.” He leans in and hugs Mum, then kisses Tori on the cheek before shaking hands with Rhett.
“Right.” I assumed he sold the house when he moved to Adelaide, but he obviously still uses it. Understandable since the farmhouse is a little crowded and not ideal for him to be bringing women home.
“Mum set it up for me to surprise you all here,” he says and ruffles her hair. I laugh because Mum hates it, and it’s something he’s always done since we were teenagers when we were taller than her by the age of thirteen.
Mum does her best to fix her hair without looking exasp
erated. “Do you mind getting me a beer?”
“On it,” I say. “Tori?”
“A glass of sparkling water, thanks.”
Rhett speaks gently to her, and she nods. He wanders over to a group of guys, and I vaguely recall some faces from when they would hang out at our house when I was a boy. The ten-year age gap between Rhett and me means these guys have changed a lot from when I last saw them.
“Dickhead.”
I turn before I reach the bar. The one voice I remember. An old friend who called me dickhead in an affectionate way. An old friend who almost got me killed several times and one I’m surprised is not locked away by now. We never kept in touch. Our lives were on different paths. I’m amazed he’s still in town because even as fifteen-year-olds, he despised living here.
Since I left, my body’s grown and not only in height. My shoulders are double the size of his. I get a glimpse of his waif-like body and frown. “Hey, Stoner.” I shake his hand. “It’s been a few years.”
“What is it, eight years?” He smiles, revealing several missing teeth, and those remaining are decayed. I pray he got off the drugs he wanted to introduce to me.
“So, you’re still here?”
He nods. “We weren’t all gifted with the talent of the Williams family.”
I nod slowly. “It wasn’t all fun and games.”
His forehead crinkles. “You look to be doing okay?”
“I am,” I say warily. “How’s your family?”
“Parents kicked the bucket. My sister is married with a family.”
Shit. I didn’t know his parents passed. I’m a shitty friend because he was the one person who got me through some hard days as a kid, even if his ways were debatable. Behind the drugs, he had a good heart.
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs likes it’s nothing. His phone rings, and he answers it. I turn and lean on the bar, signalling to the barman. Stoner raises his voice over the excited hums and music in the pub.
“Yeah. I’ll be out in a minute... not tonight… all right, I’m coming now. Sorry,” he says to me. “I have to go. A job just came up.”
I hold his gaze, understanding what type of job he is talking about. “Look after yourself,” I tell him with sincerity. “If you need anything, please call Rhett, and he’ll get onto me.”
He nods. “Well, I might see ya ‘round.”
“Sure.” He weaves around the patrons and rushes out the front. I let out a sigh, knowing this could have been my path if my brother didn’t step in. My drinks arrive, and while waiting, I glance up to the television in the corner to a newsflash in Brisbane. The volume is lowered. On the screen is a gang-related crime, and I swear the face that flashed on was Phoenix, Star’s father. I endeavour to block out the noise, except it’s useless. I pull out my phone from my pocket and check the screen.
No missed calls or text messages.
I pop it into my pocket when the barman delivers our drinks.
“It’s on the house, Dustin,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”
“Thank you. And Merry Christmas to you.”
“I’ll buy you a drink,” says a stranger who I should probably know.
It’s going to be a long night.
9
My phone alarm beeps at six in the morning.
I turn it off without completely opening my eyes.
Clambering out of bed, I stretch and pull on shorts and runners and head out to the kitchen.
“Merry Christmas,” Mum sings. The kitchen already smells like roast turkey. She’s chopping vegetables while humming a festive tune.
“Merry Christmas.” Weaving around the table I come from behind and kiss her on the cheek. “I won’t be long. A quick run is all I need to open my lungs.”
She wipes her hands on a towel and shoos me along. “If you run along the main road with your shirt off, you’re going to cause an accident with the young female drivers.”
I smile at Mum. “You’re biased. You believe all your sons are the ultimate catch.”
She tilts her head at me. “You boys are perfect. Younger versions of your father so, of course, I’m biased.”
“I love your enthusiasm,” I say as I head toward the door, then stop and turn around. “I’m not easily whipped like my brother so…” I pause for effect, “… no matchmaking while I’m here,” I say firmly because last night she tried to sit me next to our neighbour’s daughter who’s five years younger than me and as innocent as girls come. Mum has no idea of my type, especially in the bedroom.
“You can’t blame me for trying,” she says, and I let the door clang closed behind me.
I’m not even going to debate with her on this topic.
I jog down the stairs and take the path to the back of the farm leading to a trail toward the river. I follow the trail and keep running, ignoring the magpies swooping my head. The serenity by the river is something I’ve always loved—the songs of various birds, the clicking of insects, and the croaking frogs. Being surrounded by nature grounded me leading up to the months before I took a giant leap and moved to Adelaide to begin my football career. It’s been seven long years since then with the memories being mostly good. Now, I’m starting again in another city, even further away from Mum.
Before yesterday, I wanted Mum to visit me rather than come back here and be haunted by not only the memories of my father, but the reality of how fucked-up I was as a teenager. My life could have been a vast difference to what it is today, and the possibility I could be in a grave alongside my father by the way I used to hoon along the highway drag racing my mates. We not only drove recklessly, but we were also high as fucking kites most of the time. Even worse, we could have killed other travellers. I shake my head to dispel the memory and pick up speed. My lungs are tight, so to alleviate it, I force my heavy legs to move faster. If I want to prove myself in Brisbane, I must work harder.
I have no idea how much time has passed as I keep running while sucking in air.
Then, as if on repeat, I recall what I saw on the television at the pub last night.
Was that Star’s father?
I didn’t check my phone when I woke, and it was on silent all night.
Shit! What if she messaged me?
The thought makes me pull up and turn around. The notion of her needing me has me striding out my steps as I head toward home. By the time I reach the farm, I’m gasping for air and walk the last few hundred metres with my hands clasped behind my neck.
I leap up the steps to the back verandah and rush through the kitchen. “Merry Christmas,” I say to Rhett and Tori, and keep making my way to the bedroom where I left my phone.
My screen is bright with notifications. I swipe and read only the ones from Star, my heart still thumping in my chest even though my breath has evened out. The first message was around two in the morning.
Star: Call me when you can. I need a favour. Can I hide out at yours for a couple of days?
The next message was two hours later. Christ, did she get any sleep?
Star: I’m so sorry I shouldn’t have asked because it’s the first place they’ll look. Everything is fucked. I wish you were here.
Who will look?
Why does she need to hide?
The last message was only thirty minutes ago.
Star: Dad’s dead. I’m scared.
“Fuck!” I pick up my phone and call Star. She doesn’t answer. I call again and leave a voice message. “Hey. I’m interstate. What’s going on? Why are you scared? I need you to talk to me, Star. Are you in danger? Call me back.”
I pace the bedroom while I tap out a message.
Me: Call me when you can. Are you in danger? What’s going on?
I hit send and tilt my head back and look at the ceiling. What the hell is happening? She is royalty. But if her father is out of the picture, and her ex—the bastard—is back…
I tap out another message.
Me: What do you need me to do? I’m here for you. Just say th
e word.
I head to the shower, keeping my phone close by. Even after I dress, I maintain proximity to view the screen and hear a message, if one comes through, since it’s no longer on silent.
Putting on my cheerful Christmas expression, even though something is eating away at my gut, I head out to the kitchen.
Mum has cooked bacon and eggs. I force it down while everyone is chatting about the plans for the day.
“What time is Jase coming over?” I ask Mum.
“Depends on what time he got home last night,” Rhett answers. “He was looking friendly with Sophia.”
“The same Sophia you tried to hook me up with?” I ask Mum.
“Well, I…”
I chuckle. “Trust me, she’s more Jace’s type.”
“Why do you say that?”
I consider Star and the ink that distinguishes her.
“Let’s say I like my girls a little more colourful.”
Mum frowns and shakes her head.
I check the screen of my phone.
Still nothing.
“Do you mind if I switch on the television?”
“Real bloody social at Christmas,” Rhett snaps.
“It’s just for the news. Then we can swap presents.”
I block out the chatter of my family while listening to the news. My fingers tap out a rhythm during the weather forecast, and then the good deeds by those who are less fortunate at Christmas. Maybe it was nothing, and my concern is unnecessary. Grabbing the remote, I’m ready to switch off the television, then freeze the moment Phoenix’s face flashes up.
The headline reads…
Motorcycle Gang Leader Shot Dead
I press the volume on the remote.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“Dusty,” Mum rouses. “Not at the table and not on Christmas Day.”
I pick up my phone and send another text to Star.
Me: I saw the news. Where are you?
More hours pass with no word from Star.
