Trick of the Light

by Laura Elvery

  She shakes her head, feeling her ponytail brush the back of her neck, a sensation charged with a memory from her youth: the pace and leaps of jumping in volleyball. That lightness in the air, sun on the court, bare legs, short skirt. ‘I don’t.’

  He laughs and it surprises her. The dog sits heavily to the ground. It hooks a leg around to scratch, misses its neck and topples to one side. The leash pulls taut. The man swallows a burp, touches his chest. ‘Are you lost?’ he asks. ‘What number you after?’

  ‘Just pulled over for a rest.’

  The man scratches the side of his nose. All his fingernails are too long. The pores on his face are visible in the folds of his skin.

  ‘Yeah, see,’ he continues, as though she hasn’t spoken, ‘it’s a bit odd. The street is sort of divided into two—’

  ‘I’m not lost.’

  ‘—and the river cuts back just there, behind the scrub. Confuses some people.’

  Jen feels a gust of sandy-hot wind around her legs. ‘Maybe the river did confuse me.’

  He grins, like he’s in on the joke. ‘Nah. You look too smart for that.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She points to the service station. ‘They do food?’

  He nods, flicks his fingernail across the tip of his nose. ‘Leave you to it.’

  Once, at a conference, Jen sat during lunch with two colleagues – a pair of frumpy women, best friends Kylie and Sally. Kylie had just started seeing a man who sold gym equipment for a living, and when she was halfway through her burger and chips, Kylie rang to tell him not to worry about dinner. She would be full after all this food. Jen held her fork. She couldn’t stop herself rolling her eyes. Kylie was making a point for her new boyfriend about the sort of person she was: a woman with limits. Sacrificial. A modest appetite. Jen pictured Kylie’s boyfriend working out on one of those cross-trainers in the shopping centre, in that ridiculous soaring way. She pictured him ending Kylie’s phone call and trying to make a sale.

  Jen chooses a sausage roll and eats it standing up beside the drinks fridge while the service station attendant watches. In the bathroom she seeks out the edge of a toilet door and rolls her forehead across it, harder each time. Her groan invades the bathroom. She places one hand on the outside of the door and one on the inside. Hears footsteps. She opens one eye, just for a moment. A girl in a bright polo has entered. Jen presses the edge of the door against her temple, a cool lick of white. Rolls. Sharpness creases down her face, then dullness. Both are beautifully gratifying.

  ‘Are you okay?’ The girl has spoken.

  Two things existing at once. ‘I’m fine. Thanks.’

  The girl must be about sixteen. She wears a long pair of brown plaits, black leggings and roughed-up sneakers.

  ‘You been on school holidays?’ Jen releases her grip on the door. She takes a step towards her.

  ‘No, I work here. My shift starts soon.’ The girl doesn’t move. Perhaps she doesn’t like going to the toilet with someone else in the bathroom. Understanding this, Jen plans to wash, then leave.

  In the mirror above the sink, she sees crumbs from the sausage roll around her mouth and lines down her forehead. She scrubs her hands till they are red.

  It’s dusk by the time she leaves the service station. The sky is a spell. A band of melon orange has appeared and above that are swirls of pink the colour of tongue. Jen locates her car on the vacant block, on the little bend. It is still so hot. Sweat pools in the bones around her neck and shoulderblades, and in her sandals, between her toes. Parked on slightly sloping ground, her car looks abandoned. She wants to see the boy. She wants to go home. She wants to see the man, wants to pat that dog.

  In Dubrovnik, she had visited Paola, the Croatian girl from her bus tour. Paola had fallen ill in Dresden the week before: she thought she might be pregnant but didn’t want to take a test while she was away from home. They’d swapped addresses and mobile numbers on their final night together on the bus. Paola vomited into Jen’s lap and Jen helped her into the shower at their next hostel before bathing herself. The next day Paola caught a flight from Berlin back home.

  Paola’s house was white and two storeys high. An old man was on the roof on all fours, hammering, bent over the tiles. Mountains rose behind the house like folded stone. The hull of a blue boat was chocked up on bricks in the front yard, pricked on all sides by bunches of cactus. Paola’s brother David answered the door. Finding her way to their house had been easier than Jen had imagined, and this was the first thing she told David, a teenager, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, after he’d said something in Croatian and she’d been unable to answer.

  ‘Is Paola here?’ she asked. ‘I’m her friend. Is she okay?’

  David left her standing on the front stones. The clear and close hammering on the roof continued. David returned to ask for her name, this time in English. He seemed very unsure of something.

  ‘She is sleeping.’

  ‘We were on our trip together. I came to see if she’s okay.’

  Jen has not showered today and would love to take a swim in a river far nicer than the one behind the boy’s house. She guesses this river is a place where all kinds of things turn up.

  From the boy’s letterbox she thinks she sees a few shabby buildings set a hundred or so metres back from the road. As she makes her way closer, though, feeling light raindrops on her skin, she realises that the three or four stepped, angled roofs are actually part of the one house. She eases through a corrugated iron gate. Several steps from the gate is a front door and next to it a narrow window, glowing violet – a television is on. Light pulses as the images change. She raises a fist to the door.

  A sound from the river makes her pause. Beyond the boy’s backyard an outboard motor drones through the water, its buzz rising and falling like breathing.

  The boy’s house is not what she’d expected.

  But: there are no simple answers.

  *

  David hadn’t understood why Jen had turned up uninvited, and perhaps Paola hadn’t either, but in the end David ushered Jen in to wait with him in the lounge room. Time passed, Paola slept, and Jen steered her mind towards David on the seat beside her.

  If the boat is still buzzing in five seconds, she dares herself, she will leave.

  Inside, through the thick and frosted window pane, a figure moves like a fish underwater. She could reach out and catch it. It is him, surely – told in his slender height, in his sharp posture. She holds her breath. There’s a rush of laughter, more fish floating behind the glass, but she recognises none of them. A dull, overpowering dread rises in her. The boy is not alone. And what if she knows those others who are with him? Louder types ready to flare up and crash through the front door with their vulgar questions.

  The road is empty. Jen pulls her keys from her pocket, pokes the sharpest one through her second and third fingers, and is relieved to see her car. Across the windscreen white bird shit is smeared like a handprint. Dozens of stars are pinned in the sky above; she is far from the city. A voice cuts through from where the grass dips away on the passenger side. ‘Did you find something to eat?’

  ‘Jesus, fuck.’ Her hands fly to her throat. It’s the man with the dog, not on a leash this time but in his arms. ‘You scared me.’

  Nestled against the man’s chest, the dog looks tinier and scrappier than she remembers. It looks up at its owner, waiting for him to speak. The man says, ‘You didn’t come back so I thought I’d keep an eye out.’

  ‘On my car?’

  ‘You don’t live here. It’s getting dark.’ He’s beside her now, both of them less than a metre from the roadside.

  Jen pulls on the handle. The click of the door. ‘Where do you live?’ she asks him.

  ‘On Isherwood Road. A woman – oh, twenty-five, twenty-six – went missing round there a few years ago near the river. Like I’m saying: it’s dark.’<
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  Jen imagines herself buckled in, radio on high, eighty kilometres an hour out of this place, feeling in control because she will be back with him tomorrow: it will be a new day with the boy, a new year, and the gleaming desire right at her centre will still be there. The dog growls at something Jen can’t see and she dares herself to touch its nose. She nods at the man, taking care to smile, knowing the smile will be seen, even in the dark.

  He reaches forward with his spare hand, towards her waist, and pats the fabric of her dress. ‘What do you do? For work?’

  She freezes and he releases her. ‘I’m a teacher.’

  ‘You’re kidding! None like you when I was around. I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate. Excuse me, but I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Good,’ she says. ‘Good that you were here to help. No harm done. All safe now.’

  She can still hear the sound of the outboard motor as she climbs in and locks all the doors. The outside has been flensed away and her bright new car is a membrane. The man motions for her to wind down the window, but she only switches on the radio, and finally he steps back. She pictures Grandpa with his hands over his eye patches and Gran with hers on the steering wheel, shifting the long heavy car back towards home.

  This Will All Be Recorded

  Layla cries. Chats to herself. I wake the morning too early, back to sleep. Day for uni. Shower. Pack lunch and jumper for Layla. Water. Honey. No fruit in the house. No fruit. What sort of mother. Why can’t I just. Don’t say can’t. Say how can I. That’s what the lady at the clinic said. Don’t say. Kiss for Mummy. Layla turns her head. Points at the lounge room. Mess from the night before. Torn book. Mouldy towel. Coffee table sticky. Carpet prickled with crumbs. I should clean before bed. Mop arcing white through the grime and then a hand on hip and a smile at the camera. Wake up fresh and new. But at night I can’t stay awake. I can’t not worry. Don’t say can’t. How can I not worry. Say how can I. How.

  Out the door and down the steps. One, two, three. Layla wants to walk but walking makes her cry. Up, up. Nappy bag, lunch bag, uni bag, purse. Layla. Kiss her dreamy head. Lips on her hair, near her ear. Forgot to brush her teeth. Forgot to check the fridge is shut. Forgot her hat, my water, the library book with fines ticking over like pages through fingers. Down one, two, three.

  Lecture hall. Laptops and teenagers sleeping in and coming in late and iPhones with turquoise cases and protein bars and five-dollar takeaway flat whites on desks like totems. PowerPoint slides and Times New Roman and This will all be recorded, so no need to take notes. Please ask any questions you may have and In 1925 before the Great Depression and Maxwell Perkins wrote and Zelda died in a fire in a hospital and Any questions? How can I. Did Zelda wake up when she felt the smoke? Was she strapped down, with a leather one for her mouth? Did they have money, lots of money? Enough money. Some money. More than nothing money. How can I. Any questions? A trickle of bodies, books folded up, students treading stairs. A boy holds the door open for me. Do I look. I can’t look that. How can I possibly look that old?

  I’ll do my work at home. I’ll buy fruit on the way. I’ll practise my interview techniques. I’ll practise pretending Layla never gets sick. That there is no Layla. That there never was and I’m free as a bird and yes I’ll take extra shifts and call me as often as you need and I’ll never say no and I can be there in half an hour, carrying only one bag containing zero nappies. But Layla is. The hospital in Newcastle has her name on file and her fingers greased the glass door at Centrelink and her little voice has hummed R-O-B-O-T watching Play School while she bobs in the thinning dusk.

  Analyse two authors. Analyse three authors. How the author uses literary techniques. How the author introduces the subject in such a way as to. How the author makes money. How Fitzgerald how Faulkner how Franzen take half a cup of frozen peas and a stock cube and turn it into a soup. Vegetable stock is a vegetable. But she won’t like it. And I’ll be annoyed. Big sighs. Teeth grinding. Layla mussing hands through hair. Banana. She wants. Anything that I haven’t cooked. A banana. How the author positions the reader to feel sympathy for. Banana isn’t a meal. You can’t just live on banana. Don’t touch that. Please. Mummy’s books. And I’ve prepared. Well, that’s it. That’s your dinner. I’m not going to be one of those mothers who. Taste it. Please. Try it. It’s got vegetables and it’s good for you. Oh, fine. Here. Peel it. Eat it. Eat.

  Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom, and with all thy getting get understanding. Work is the principal thing. Food is the principal thing. Standing at a restaurant counter and ordering a large and an extra and an also and a dripping, heaving, garish thing is the thing. Watching Layla plod, primate-toddle, slippery-slide scrabbling, stranger-meeting. Say hello. Be gentle. One at a time down the slide. A chip for you, love. Is the thing.

  Layla wakes. Cries. It’s too dark in her room. It’s too light. It’s too cold, too hot. She lifts her face. Pink and wet. Her right eyelid is stuck shut. No no no no. Open. Wash it out with salt and water. Someone to hold her still. While I take a shower, brush my hair, wash the dishes, buckle sandals. Someone to take Layla to the park and go spin spin spin on the dragon and someone to laugh with when the kookaburra steals her hot cross bun right out of her tight little grasp. Face washer in the laundry. Layla wants it back. Pink and wet as she plucks it from the basket and stretches it above her head. Hat. Yes, a hat. Time to go. Analyse how the author pretends her shirt is supposed to look that way.

  Doctor hands. Layla waves. Wooden tongue. Ask the question. I have a job interview. I have to. Can I? It’s up to you. How can I make it up to me? How can I make it up to her. The girl at reception doesn’t ask for my card. It’s all fine. That’s all done. It’s free, is what she means.

  I kiss Layla. She likes the girls at the centre with their black fingernail polish and blue fringes, fresh out of high school where those weren’t allowed. Silent beg. Fixed smile. Chat fast and light. Please don’t look too closely at her eye. Analyse the motifs of sight and blindness. What might Fitzgerald’s eye represent? Lower Layla to the ground, her face at the teenager’s knees. Off you go. Find the dollies. Wave bye-bye. One hour, two hours. Let my phone not ring. Let them not send her home.

  At the job interview it’s me and him and her and him. And, now. Hello! The hours are not fixed. We can’t guarantee you hours. We can’t guarantee you times. Don’t say can’t, say how can we make it fair. Here. You’d be working here. Sweep hand around papered office, room dividers, desks topped with telephones. Murmurs over styrofoam and fingers on keys tapping. Fluorescent bright, low ceiling, hardly pressed shirts. Are you prepared to ask the tough questions? Are you prepared to be ignored? Hung up on? We’ll give you a call.

  Sun slides over the pavement. Bus stop where a small boy toys about with shopping bags on his arms. An action doll. A figurine just bought. Plastic feet bump my leg, step step step up my arm. He’s okay, I say. I’ve got a daughter. Boy unfolds the doll’s arms. Plays peek-a-boo. Says to his mother, He’s got eyes like strawberries. Says to me, Look.

  Imagine Layla’s eyes. Face to face with the girls at the centre while they pick the nail polish from their thumbs.

  Afterwards: the park. We’ll go spin spin spin on the dragon.

  My phone rings. Yes. And. You got the job. The job the job the job. Yes. You got the job. You.

  Joiner Bay

  I’m a runner. I don’t get pocket money for jobs or just because. Dad tells everyone how if I run ten ks he’ll give me five bucks. If I get a PB I get five bucks more. We have the rowing machine and the weights and the bench press in the spare room now. I’ve been running more lately, and someone else, like a psychologist, might say it’s because my best friend died. But people can say what they like, and they still won’t know the truth, even if they believe it. Even if they tell other adults while I’m in the room. My best friend’s name was Robbie. You don’t need to know his last name, because nobody cares about that
. But what you will care about is that he killed himself, and you’ll care how he did it: with a cord and a beam to hang from, which means he probably broke his neck, and then he probably stopped breathing. That’s the order of things.

  Last night I set my alarm for four-thirty. When it goes off, I get up and take a piss without turning the light on. I get dressed and have a sip of water, only a sip, so I don’t get a stitch. I used to listen to music with my headphones in but one night I was almost hit by a car – my fault – driven by the school librarian. Our town, Lusk, is pretty small, and Mr Rigby didn’t seem annoyed that he’d almost been in an accident with a student. He didn’t yell. He motioned me over to say that I had three library books overdue and they’d soon start attracting a fine. I liked him a lot after that. I found the books in my room and went to school to hand them to him and he said, ‘What? Put them in the chute.’

  After Robbie died, Mr Rigby never tried talking to me about suicide and I liked him even more after that.

  So, to be able to hear the traffic, I ditched the headphones and now I have to listen to my thoughts.

  I’m going to run ten ks and show Dad my Strava when I get home so he’ll give me five bucks after breakfast. I’ll run my usual route into town, past the murals along Dartmouth Street and out to Joiner Bay, where they want to build a big coal port that might kill everything in the reef. Not much we can do about that, Dad says, and I agree. It’ll be tied up for years, anyway, and there’s a lot to be said for seeing how things pan out, and not getting too worried about stuff we can’t change.

  I pick up speed along our wide, dead-quiet street as I head towards the murals that Lusk is famous for. The first is of a horse and carriage, and next to that is the mural of the train driving towards you, but the perspective is all off so it tugs at your guts and makes you feel sick. The Lusk family who founded our town is painted in the next one against the back wall of the church. Gilbert Lusk and his three sons are sharp and mean in an oval frame like a brooch. The smallest son looks like a total murderer, as though he killed a family up in the hills and then wiped his hands and sat down to dinner with his dad and brothers. Without music to listen to I have the same thoughts each time, and there’s nothing I can do to come up with new ones.