Henry Hamlet's Heart

by Rhiannon Wilde

  ‘Martin’s all right,’ Harrison and I say in unison.

  Len laughs, looking at the sky and dangling black shoes over the railing.

  We bicker about exams for a bit, before turning to more serious things. The things that are about to scatter us off in different directions.

  Harrison’s still waiting to see about his marks for Engineering. Vince leaves in a week for his Euro gap year. Ged’s single. The world awaits. Next time we’re all together like this will be who and how knows when.

  A sudden breeze whips up, concrete and river, mud and trees.

  ‘Smell that.’ Harrison Ford inhales.

  ‘What – bird shit?’ says Vince.

  Harrison shoves his arm. ‘Freedom. I’m going to die Christmas-camping on the coast for four whole weeks with my family.’

  ‘I’m your family!’ Ged protests.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Still better than a year staying with my granny,’ Vince grumbles. ‘Dad’s told her to straighten me out. Fuck knows what that’s gonna look like.’

  Len and I are both quiet. Separately. Together. I’m achingly aware that it could be the last time I see him, and am simultaneously not looking directly at him and memorising his every move.

  ‘I still can’t believe it’s actually over,’ I think, and say aloud.

  ‘Right?’ says Ged. ‘We did it. No more Sniffer. It’s gonna be loosey goosey from now on, lads.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ says Len.

  I laugh by accident, and turn it into a cough.

  ‘Anyone for a cheeky vino?’ Vince asks, passing around a bottle of something red and expensive-looking from his backpack.

  I decline when it gets to me. I’m churned up enough inside as it is. Plus, there’s been too many alcohol-related incidents in my life this year – heights and cheeky vinos don’t strike me as a particularly winning combo.

  The five of us sit under the sticky summer sky. There’s a point, a few passes of the bottle later, where conversation tapers off completely.

  I get this falling-feeling déjà vu. Like this moment’s happened before. Already happening again. Already a memory.

  A car drives past, horn blaring.

  ‘GET OFF THE BRIDGE! BLOODY YOUTHS!’

  ‘Should we go?’ Harrison asks after a beat, swinging back down onto the path.

  Vince shifts his trousered legs unwillingly. ‘Probs.’

  Ged sips more wine. ‘Yeah.’

  We spend a long time saying goodbyes, punching shoulders and promising to email, knowing we probably won’t.

  Harrison gets into his car first. Then Vince and Ged get into the BMW, arguing about the aux cord, and they spin away without looking back.

  I stand there for a bit, holding my keys.

  Len does too.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says quietly. ‘For before.’

  ‘Oh!’ I nod. ‘I mean, anytime.’

  I want to say ‘you too’. Or ‘always’. I don’t, though. I just hope he knows.

  ‘It was a very you way to end an argument,’ he continues.

  I smile a bit despite myself. ‘Yeah. Apparently I’m dramatic. Who knew?’

  He smiles too. ‘Crazy.’

  We slip into silence for a minute. His face gets the expression it did yesterday, when the bell rang.

  ‘Hamlet?’ he asks.

  (If you ask me about it. If you ask …)

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I, uh, got the gallery show thing. It’s tomorrow.’

  ‘Awesome,’ I say, digging my hands into my pockets and trying not to look disappointed. ‘Congrats.’

  He stares at me for a stretching second, eyes fixed somewhere between the bottom of my nose and my mouth.

  ‘Will you come?’

  I blink in surprise. ‘To the show?’

  He nods.

  ‘Um – yeah. Okay.’

  They also say there’s gold buried beneath this bridge. If there is, it must be directly under his feet.

  ‘Cool. It starts at four. Vince knows where.’

  ‘Cool,’ I repeat. ‘Coolio. Um. So I’ll see you there, then?’

  (Coolio!?)

  He gives me one last look. ‘See you.’

  When I get home, Mum and Dad are sitting at the table with a laptop in front of them. Dad’s got his head on Mum’s shoulder while she scrolls through pages. I’m not ready to be back yet, so I watch them for a bit, both of their faces bathed in baby-blue light.

  ‘Go back to that one!’ Dad says suddenly. ‘That’s nice, Bills – we could go there.’

  Mum shifts to look at him. ‘Babe.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s a nudist beach.’

  ‘And?’

  She laughs. ‘We’re meant to be looking at serious trip destinations!’

  ‘I am,’ Dad says, deadpan. ‘I’ve always wanted to go no board shorts. They give me a rash, because they make your balls get all sweat—’

  ‘Oh my God.’ I kick the front door shut behind me. ‘Stop there.’

  Dad turns around. ‘Look out, it’s the graduate! How’d you go with the guys?’

  ‘Good.’ I pick up a chip from the bowl in front of them, ignoring Len’s face in my head. ‘Better than I am now.’ I point to the screen.

  Dad laughs. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it, Hen – it’s natural! Look at how free he is. Everywhere.’

  ‘Do not,’ I warn.

  ‘Those could be my balls,’ Dad continues sadly.

  Mum snorts and pushes his head away, clicking the mouse to a new page.

  ‘Ugh. Stop talking about your balls, I beg of you.’

  ‘Why?’ Dad demands. ‘You are the fruit of my loins. My loin-fruit.’

  ‘Okay.’ I back away. ‘Definitely just threw up a bit in my mouth. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Night, love,’ Mum says, reaching her hands up until I come over and kiss her cheek. I squeeze extra hard as thanks for not giving me the Spanish Inquisition.

  ‘Sleep tight, Spew Grant!’ Dad calls after me. ‘Happy end of childhood.’

  I climb the stairs. Ham’s door is open, through which I can see Gran’s heeled shoes dangling off the end of his bed. She’s cuddling him like a stuffed animal while he snores into her hair. Goldie’s asleep in the rocking chair holding eight or nine picture books in her lap.

  It’s pitch black in my room; I pull clothes off and crawl into bed in my underwear with the fan on full blast.

  I’m too full of today to sleep. My chest is a light globe – bulbous and bright. I lie in bed, listening to Mum and Dad downstairs.

  They bicker back and forth in soft voices. After a while, I hear Dad clomp across the floorboards and flick the kettle on to make tea. He scrapes mugs out of the cupboard, bumps the tea-bag jar, puffs the fridge open and then stirs everything too loudly, as usual.

  Every sound’s as familiar to me as my own breath in the dark.

  I wonder, suddenly, if I’ll leave it soon. If next year I’ll be like, ‘That yellow house on the street with the café at the end? The one with the leadlight windows? Yeah. That’s my parents’ place.’ Who I’d say it to. If there’s people I’ll know, just out there existing, while I’m lying here, staring at the ceiling.

  The door flies open.

  I jump, and pull the covers up over my chest.

  ‘It’s not a ghost,’ announces Ham blearily, dragging me back to Earth. ‘Can I come in with you? Gran smells funny.’

  He crawls up on the bed without waiting for an answer, then lies down horizontally and flops onto my legs.

  I prod his red head with my knee. ‘You right there, little man?’

  Ham yawns. ‘Yeah. Was your night good?’

  ‘It was all right.’

  Pause.


  ‘Did you see Len?’

  I sit up a bit, squinting at him. ‘I did. Why?’

  ‘Because he’s your special favourite.’

  ‘Uh. Sure.’ I try not to feel the dark dropping thrill in my stomach when I think about seeing him tomorrow. ‘We’re friends.’

  Ham yawns again, and shakes his head once. ‘No, not like a friend – like a boyfriend. I heard Mum and Dad talking about it, but I don’t understand why it’s a sad-feelings thing.’

  The globe in me flickers and zaps. I squeeze the doona with my armpits.

  ‘Um. Well. I mean, yes – we were that, for a while. But sometimes … Adults can get … And now we’re not, anymore.’

  Ham rolls his face upwards, reading mine. ‘Oh, that is a sad-feelings thing.’

  I stare at him with wide eyes. ‘Mmm.’

  ‘You’re still my special favourite,’ he proclaims sloppily, and then his head gets all heavy, and he’s asleep.

  28

  Vince shows up on my doorstep the next day, wearing a lot of hairspray and his game face.

  ‘Where’s everyone else?’ I’m so keyed up I might pass out.

  ‘They’re coming later.’

  ‘What—’

  ‘Just get in,’ he says, shepherding me towards his car. ‘We’re going, and I don’t care what you say.’

  I protest, even as I’m buckling my seatbelt. ‘Are we really sure I should—’

  ‘Not engaging with this.’

  ‘But did he say …’

  Vince just keeps his eyes fixed on the road as he drives us through the suburbs.

  ‘He probably just did it to be polite,’ I say. ‘It’ll be awkward, because he doesn’t really want me there.’

  ‘Of course he bloody does!’ Vince snaps. ‘Shut up.’

  I lean back with a sigh, trying not to hyperventilate.

  The gallery is in Newstead, down a twisting residential street blanketed by a giant fig tree. It looks as though it used to be a house, in a former life. It’s grey and clapboarded, but also warehouse-y.

  There’s at least ten cars already lining the street. As always, Vince scrapes the curb slightly while parking.

  It’s a soft-cloudy day, humidity weighing down the air. We follow the stream of people headed for the light of the doorway.

  I pause, pulse hammering. The knowledge that he’s here, somewhere, makes it hard to do the walking.

  ‘You right?’ Vince asks, with uncharacteristic care.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  (Potentially about to throw up, but fine.)

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes. Perfectly fine.’

  (Maybe if I say it enough times, it’ll be true.)

  I step inside and see several exhibits, each arranged to look like a giant room. I find Len’s immediately, off to the right, and steer us over.

  The works are arranged in four separate sections, photographs elegantly framed and clustered together.

  ‘Blimey.’ Vince blows out a breath. ‘Where do we start?’

  I squint around, considering. Then I see: it’s a story.

  I walk over to the right of the entryway, to the biggest cluster of images. The first section is mostly made up of self-portraits, different images transposed over one another.

  The pictures vary, moving from rigid focus to dreamy surrealism. I recognise his parents’ faces, chaotically interspersed with his own. They’re fighting, smiling, leaving, all captured with ruthless clarity. An extreme close-up of Sarah’s face makes me flinch.

  In the last picture on this wall, Len’s about fourteen. He’s alone, bony arm hugging his knees to his chest, camera held up to one eye. I reach out towards it instinctually, but Vince shuffles me along.

  Next is a series of cityscapes, mostly as seen from over the top of the Canes’ front gate. His lens gives the structures a human quality, their façades like aged faces. The view is panoramic from frame to frame – looking at them is like being inside a glass box.

  The third section is a row of stand-alone portraits, black and white, equally spaced apart.

  I suck in a breath. Here goes.

  Vince’s is first – face tipped to the left, halfway between a smile and a glare.

  ‘Huh,’ he says from behind me, staring intently. ‘Is that really what my nose looks like? Bit beaky, isn’t it?’

  I leave him to stare at himself.

  Harrison is next. Len’s captured him smiling, with teeth – a rarity, but it means you can feel his warmth.

  I move on to Ged’s portrait. It’s blurred slightly, giving the impression that the subject is constantly moving. His mouth is poised mid-word, which almost makes me smile. It must have been tough going getting him to shut up for more than a two-minute stretch at a time.

  I dally in front of Ged for a long time, until Vince catches up with me and there’s a queue forming behind us.

  He steers me by the elbow to the last frame. I shift my gaze up from my feet reluctantly.

  It’s …

  Not me.

  My first reaction is shock, but what did I expect? Of course I’d be written out of the narrative. I feel stupid for coming here, for thinking it would be any different.

  Once I let out the breath I’ve been holding, I can take time to appreciate it.

  It’s another self-portrait – colour, blown up wide. Len’s older, harder, the square line of his jaw more pronounced. His eyes are melted steel – impenetrable. And sad.

  Vince touches my shoulder. ‘Shit. I’m sorry, mate. I thought …’

  I shake him off. ‘It’s fine. Better this way, actually.’ I turn around to face his concerned grimace. ‘Really,’ I say with false cheer. I even manage a nonchalant shrug, despite the hot feeling clogging my chest. ‘I’m not in his life anymore. It makes sense for me not to be up there.’

  (It’s amazing how if you compartmentalise enough, you can say the words even as they choke you.)

  Vince rubs his eyes, smearing eyeliner across one cheek. ‘I don’t get you two. You’re just pissing it all away without even putting up a fight.’

  ‘There was a fight,’ I say through clenched teeth. ‘That was the problem.’

  Vince sighs heavily. He stares off into the distance, looking at something. ‘If you punch on,’ he says wearily, ‘I’m not getting in the middle. I reserve the right to be an innocent bystander until one of you dies.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Vince gestures behind me.

  I look over my shoulder and see Len standing by the last panel.

  He looks good. Grown-up and sure, with his shirt tucked in and face unshaven. He pauses to rub a hand through his hair, and notices me watching him.

  His expression changes, features softening. Before I have a chance to make a speedy exit, he’s excusing himself from his conversation and walking over.

  ‘I mean it,’ Vince says. ‘Standing back until it’s life or death.’

  ‘Shush!’

  Lennon Cane is in front of us.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asks, no preamble.

  ‘I think it’s smashing, mate,’ Vince pipes up. ‘Really wonderful. I also think I’m gonna get myself a beveragini.’

  I widen my eyes at him in protest, but he’s already moving away.

  ‘So?’ Len asks quietly, looking at me as if mine is still the opinion that matters.

  ‘Er.’ I shift awkwardly under his molten gaze. ‘It’s fantastic. Your best.’

  His shoulders loosen up, like he’s relieved.

  ‘You captured them really well,’ I add.

  His brow furrows slightly.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘You didn’t see,’ he accuses.

  ‘See what, exactly?’

  He doesn’t answer, just gra
bs me by the forearm and pulls me along, to the last wall by the door.

  ‘It’s fine, Len, I’m not …’

  He drops my arm and points.

  I look up. There’s a cluster of smaller images bunched together, taking up the entirety of a jutting far wall I didn’t see when we first came in.

  They’re all me.

  It’s a wall of Henrys.

  My age varies – snapshots from over the years in no real organised order. I’m eleven with a mouth full of braces. Eight with a book under each arm. Twelve wearing Coke-bottle glasses. Seventeen and using a goon sack as a pillow. Fifteen and smiling over my shoulder.

  I’m stoic, joyous, sympathetic, irritated, laughing, hiding, flung wide open.

  The colour varies too – some are digitally edited to ethereal pastel, others dark and moody from his film camera. A couple are old enough to have faded a bit and curled at the corners.

  ‘How …’ I stammer, transfixed. ‘When did you do this?’

  He shrugs. ‘I’ve done it forever.’

  I don’t know what to say to that. The room feels very hot, all of a sudden. There’s no oxygen when he’s this close.

  The last panel, the biggest, is the picture he took in September – my portrait. It’s black and white like the others and I’m sitting with one leg folded, glasses loosely gripped in one hand, the other hanging over my knee. I stare down the lens, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. It’s so obvious, in that look. I’m so obvious.

  I know, on some level, that this is important to him, that I’m reacting badly to something that should be good. It’s selfish, but I can’t sit through it – this final closing chapter.

  ‘I’m proud of you,’ I force out, not looking at him. ‘It’s brilliant, it really is, but I just … I have to go.’

  It’s not far to the back door. I stride over, push it open hard with both hands, and walk out into a concrete stairwell where I collapse against the wall.

  ‘Henry.’

  I spin around.

  Black denim and paisley, he burns bright as the moon.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just – wait.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Can we talk for a second?’

  Is that why he’s here? Honourable Lennon Cane wants to now, after the fact, stage a proper goodbye? Still, I nod.