Slice

by Steven Herrick

  Noah looks quickly behind. ‘Yeah, of Tim’s face.’

  He moves pawn to e4.

  Me and Dad have a serious talk

  Saturday night in the bathroom. On the mirror, I draw a steamy love heart, my face framed within.

  Dad knocks on the door outside.

  ‘Are you okay, Darcy?’

  ‘Fine, Dad. I’m shaving.’

  Actually I’m trying to see myself as Audrey will in exactly twenty-five minutes.

  Is that a fresh blackhead sprouting aggressively from the tip of my nose or a smudge on the mirror?

  I wipe the mirror, breaking the heart.

  My fingers leave a trace of oil; the blackhead remains.

  I open the cabinet and look through Mum’s cosmetics, trying to decide between...

  Revlon Age Defying Makeup?

  Blackhead?

  Beyond Natural Smoothing Primer?

  Blackhead?

  Translucent Finishing Powder with Botafirm?

  Blackhead?

  The Age Defying Makeup is $37. 95 for 37mls. At that price, I should look sixteen until I’m a grandfather.

  Let’s go with a naked blackhead, shall we?

  Cupping my hands under the tap, I rinse my face, applying a strong layer of almond scrub, $4. 95 from KMart. It contains one almond, a greasy paste that could be flour and water and five hundred grams of tiny grains – from a grain farm?

  I follow the instructions to rub vigorously while counting to fifty, then rinse.

  A slightly red fresh face stares back at me, with a blackhead on its nose.

  Dad knocks again.

  ‘Have you cut yourself, Darcy?’

  ‘Yeah, both wrists, Dad.’

  Silence.

  ‘Darcy?’ Dad’s voice is strained. He’s going to have to break the door down to rescue me. Right now he’s bracing his shoulder hoping he has enough strength to force the lock. Or he’s walking out to the shed for the axe. He’s praying it doesn’t come to that. Too much noise, too much damage.

  ‘You are okay, aren’t you, son?’

  I open the door and Dad stumbles inside. He’d had his ear to the keyhole, listening for mumbled groans and cries for help.

  ‘It’s a blackhead, Dad. Not enough to kill myself over.’

  He grins and tousles my hair.

  ‘Please don’t rub your dirty hands in my hair, Dad.’

  He follows me to the kitchen, watches as I pour myself a tall glass of milk, smiles when I add two heaped teaspoons of Milo.

  ‘You’ve been doing that since you were five years old, Darcy.’

  He sits at the kitchen table and offers me a chair.

  He wants to talk.

  Mum is at her book club. Every second Saturday a few women from her office meet to discuss the latest in world literature.

  Mum had gathered her car keys and handbag and this fortnight’s novel – it had a shiny red cover with a dagger plunging into a tree.

  Crime.

  Doesn’t she get enough of that at work?

  Mum kissed me and nodded seriously at Dad, whispering, ‘Don’t forget.’

  Dad clears his throat.

  ‘Darcy.’

  I sit opposite, trying to remove the dregs of crunchy Milo from the bottom of the glass.

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You know? How? Did your Mum tell you?’

  We look at each other for a minute, trying to work out who knows what.

  That’s easy.

  We both know nothing.

  ‘I know you want to talk to me, but I don’t know what about.’ Trying to make light of the situation, I add, ‘Sex, probably.’

  Dad looks quickly toward the door as if Mum may have heard, even though she left twenty minutes ago.

  ‘You do know?’

  Now I’m totally confused.

  ‘What the hell are you on about, Dad?’

  He flinches at my tone. I didn’t mean to yell, but I have a date in – I glance at my watch – fifteen minutes.

  ‘Sex.’

  I look up quickly.

  ‘Pardon.’

  ‘Sex, son. I need to talk to you about sex.’

  ‘Why?’

  Dad breathes deeply and sighs.

  ‘Because your mother told me to.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m your father and she thinks it’s time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Darcy, can you stop saying “why”?’

  Dad rubs his face with both hands, trying to wake himself out of this nightmare.

  This is my sex talk. I must be very preoccupied to take so long to understand.

  ‘It’s okay, Dad. I know about sex.’

  ‘How?’

  Is he asking for proof?

  ‘I just do, that’s all.’

  ‘You mean from books and – the internet.’

  Now is not the time to talk with Dad about science books; biology classes; porn sites and fumblings at Stacey’s.

  ‘Trust me, Dad. I know stuff.’

  Shakespeare rolls restlessly in his grave.

  Dad leans back in his chair and looks around the kitchen. His eyes settle on the photos of me on the opposite wall.

  My first day of school wearing a bright yellow hat.

  Me at the beach sitting under an umbrella.

  Me on a pony at the fair, Dad leading it around the oval.

  He sighs again, ‘Your mum says I’ve got to tell you stuff, even if you claim to know it.’

  That sounds like Mum, no stone unturned.

  Ten minutes to go. Do blackheads itch? I dare not touch my nose and make it worse.

  ‘You win, Dad. Tell me about sex.’

  Dad flinches again at the mention of the word.

  He looks at his hands fiddling with the tablecloth.

  ‘Okay.’

  He takes a deep breath and repeats, ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’ll use a condom, Dad. If I have sex any time in the next fifty years, I’ll use a condom. How’s that?’

  ‘Perfect! A condom is good.’

  He looks around the kitchen, searching for inspiration.

  ‘And I’ll be respectful and courteous and I won’t force myself on anybody.’

  ‘That’s good too.’

  He looks again towards the door, expecting Mum to walk in and remind him of something he’s forgotten. He smiles awkwardly.

  ‘Is that it, Dad? I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Your Mum said I should mention ... um ... satisfaction.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘She said young men should know things, should be told things so that the girl won’t be...’ his eyes plead for understanding, ‘...disappointed.’

  I’d be ecstatic to hold Audrey’s hand tonight! Mum and Dad have us both...

  It’s hard not to giggle.

  ‘No worries, Dad. My biology teacher said I was a natural.’

  Dad looks confused.

  ‘I’m kidding, Dad.’

  He gets up from the chair and walks to the fridge, takes out a bottle of wine and fills a pint beer tumbler.

  He takes a hearty sip.

  ‘Okay. That’s over. Fair enough?’

  ‘Sure, Dad.’ I stand and give him a quick hug. Poor bloke, having to do the dirty work while Mum’s off with her gang.

  ‘Dad? What did Grandpa tell you about sex?’

  ‘He said if I got a girl pregnant, he’d kill me.’

  A quick detour

  Back in the bathroom, I study the smeared heart. Me and the blackhead are still partners. A branch of the wattle tree scrapes on the windowpane, tiny fingers pawing the glass. A willy-wagtail lands on the branch and whistles at the insect on my nose.

  ‘It’s a minor blemish, okay!’

  He flies off in search of smaller prey.

  Audrey is changing into her meditation clothes, standing thoughtfully in front of her bedroom mirror, not freaked out
by blemishes and bad skin. Her parents are not conducting long lectures on the pleasures and dangers of sex.

  Bugger Mum and Dad. They’ve got me thinking about it. Parents are not supposed to encourage their sons that way!

  I’ll need all the meditation I can get.

  Now one word keeps thrashing about in my head.

  One awful teenage-boy word.

  Condom.

  Visions of Tim and Braith tossing packets of them in the air at Stacey’s parties. Everyone scattering from the dance floor as ‘Sexual Healing’ blares from the speakers. Braith making obscene gestures with his hips. Tim opening a condom and blowing it up, balloon-size, tying it in a knot and bouncing it on Marcus’s head. And when it bursts, Tim yells ‘pinhead’ over and over at Marcus until he seeks sanctuary beside me in the kitchen. I offer him a glass and tell him it’s pink lemonade. Marcus drinks it down in one gulp and asks for another.

  Reaching for my mobile, I text Audrey that I’ll be thirty minutes late.

  She texts straight back that she’ll ‘start without me.’

  The chemist first. Better safe than sorry.

  Grabbing my wallet and keys, I leave through the backdoor, calling out ‘bye’ to Dad. He yells, ‘Have fun.’

  On the street, the power lines over my head hum with tension. A light breeze tickles my scalp.

  Why am I sweating?

  The dry leaves are bunched along the footpath. They crunch and snap and pop like breakfast cereal. At Southey Street, I wait for the traffic lights to change, remembering holding Dad’s hand on the way home from kindergarten, calling out for the green man, eager to reach the shops where we’d buy ice creams and sit in the park opposite, giggling and licking as they melted.

  Dad always ordered vanilla. My favourite was caramel and chocolate, double scoop.

  I’d rather buy an ice cream now as the middle-aged woman in a white uniform and chemist’s badge approaches me.

  ‘Can I help you, young man?’

  Did she just place extra emphasis on the word ‘young’?

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. Just looking.’

  Yes, I’m searching for a jar of Brylcreem for Clegg. Or shopping for Christmas on a Saturday night in September.

  The lady smiles briefly. ‘Well, call me for assistance.’

  A voice in my head pleads, ‘He needs all the help he can get.’

  Dad’s voice reassures, ‘Leave him alone, he’s fine.’

  I wander nervously among the endless jars of vitamins; rows of herbal tonics; cartons of flu tablets; and the limitless choice of shampoo and conditioners.

  Until I reach aisle five, midway down,

  Ecstasy

  Bliss

  Paradise

  Pleasure

  and

  Sensation.

  Who comes up with these names? And which pack has the least condom-like appearance? Blue and white stripes and the word Sensation written in big letters. Much better than the hot red packs with pictures of moaning women, promising the rubbers inside have special powers. I walk slowly to the counter, hoping for a male assistant on duty. The same woman smiles from behind the register and reaches for my packet to scan. In a loud voice, she says, ‘That’s five dollars sixty for a pack of three. Will there be anything else?’

  Lubricant?

  Sex aids?

  Viagra?

  Blushing to the tip of my blackhead, I give her the exact money. She pops the packet into a brown paper bag and hands it across the counter. My hand is shaking. She doesn’t notice. The lady is the same age as Mum. Does she demand her husband have sex chats with their children?

  Probably not a good time to ask her.

  She says ‘thank you’ and moves to the next customer, an old man buying bulk vitamins. He fumbles in his wallet for the money and coins drop onto the shiny tiled floor. I reach down to pick them up. He squints at me as I hand them over. ‘Thank you, young lady.’

  Is my hair that long?

  I walk out of the shop as casually as a teenager carrying a full packet of condoms. My knees are shaking and a vein throbs in my neck. I make the doorway without running, looking left and turning right and...

  whack

  walk straight into a brick wall.

  Well, somebody built like a brick wall.

  The paper bag drops at his feet as I try to stay upright. He grunts and holds his head. Reaching forward, I touch his arm, saying sorry, over and over.

  Tim Harris rubs his head and looks straight at me, taking a few seconds to work out what’s happened.

  It was a brick wall!

  Tim shakes his head. ‘What the hell!’

  ‘It’s me, Tim. Darcy.’

  Surely he can’t be that hurt. It was only my elbow and his head.

  ‘Why did you hit me, Walker?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ I hold up my elbow to show him.

  ‘It was an accident. I wasn’t watching where I was going. Sorry.’

  How many times should I say sorry? Once more, and than a quick getaway?

  He looks at the paper bag in my hand.

  ‘What are they? Condoms?’

  ‘Very funny, Tim.’

  I offer him the paper bag, nonchalantly. ‘You want to share?’

  He looks quickly up and down the street.

  ‘I’m not gay, you know. I can buy my own. Not that I’m buying condoms. I’m just...’ He looks up the street, ‘I’m on my way to the kebab shop’.

  I blame the shock of running into Tim for what I said next.

  ‘I’ll walk with you. It’s on my way home.’

  Tim grimaces, like he’s been offered cat food instead of chicken kebab.

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  He strides ahead, leaving me no alternative but to tag along or stand holding a packet of condoms at the entrance to the chemist, where I can auction them to the highest bidder.

  Single mums with strollers.

  Too late there.

  An old lady with a walking stick and a jaunty polka-dot floppy hat sitting at the bus stop.

  Definitely not.

  Tim turns to me. ‘You coming, Walker?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Tim smells of Brut 33 and his hair sticks up in a thousand different directions like an anteater casually dropped on his skull. His trousers flop around oversize Converse shoes, laces undone. His big hands burrow deep into his pockets.

  ‘What are you doing tonight, Walker? Not that I care.’

  ‘Very gentlemanly of you to ask, Tim. I have a...’ Oops, I almost said date.

  ‘An assignment due on Monday.’

  He looks at me, pityingly.

  ‘Saturday night at home, hey?’

  He saunters along, glad somebody is a bigger loser than him.

  He lowers his voice.

  ‘I’ve got a date.’

  ‘Yeah, who with?’

  ‘Miranda...’ he waits for a few seconds and then adds, ‘and Stacey.’

  What does he expect me to say?

  ‘Where’s Braith?’

  ‘I don’t need Braith to hold my hand, mate.’

  We walk past the fish and chips shop, the Reject Shop, the florist, the newsagent and the hairdresser. Tim points at a picture in the hairdresser window, a guy with a mohawk and shaved sides.

  ‘I might get one like that.’

  ‘Great. You can play Cowboys and Indians, like when you were a kid.’

  Tim grins. ‘You’re right. It’s a crap haircut.’ Tim Harris has just agreed with something I’ve said. I’m speechless.

  Well, almost...

  ‘Tim, why did you dive off the weir?’

  He laughs, remembering the looks on everyone’s faces.

  ‘To see the looks on everyone’s faces.’

  This is getting seriously scary! Harris is thinking like me. Or, I’m thinking like him!

  He grins and I see something unexpected in his eyes. It’s humour – innocent boyish humour from bonehead Tim.

  ‘You should have seen
Jacko. He grabbed Ms Pine by the arm when me and Braith jumped. His career drowning before his eyes.’

  ‘How did you know the water was deep enough?’

  Tim studies his reflection in the shop window, patting the anteater.

  ‘It had to be pretty deep, being near the wall.’

  He smirks. ‘We didn’t even touch the bottom.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be walking around if you did.’

  He looks from his reflection to me.

  ‘You know, Walker, you can be a killjoy sometimes.’

  ‘Sure can. But one with his own hands and arms and body. All in working order.’

  Tim shrugs. ‘Nothing ventured...’

  He tries to recall the rest of the saying then gives up.

  He reaches across and lightly punches my arm. ‘You have fun studying tonight, Walker.’

  He turns to go.

  ‘Hey, Tim.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It was a pretty good dive.’

  He waits for me to add some smartass remark.

  I don’t.

  ‘Thanks, Walker.’

  He struts into the kebab shop, checking out the menu on the wall. Tim’s big night out.

  And mine too.

  The ... date

  Somewhere a lawn mower spits gravel and whines. A troupe of homing pigeons pirouette across the sky and fold in unison towards old man Smit’s cages. He pours seed into the gutters, whistling them home. Rebecca Hart plays on a swing in the front yard, Mrs Hart watching from the kitchen window. Pete and Randall Finch, in stubbies and singlets, sit on the front step of their house, listening to football on the radio.

  A young man walks nervously down the street.

  Slow down.

  Don’t sweat.

  Don’t get flustered.

  I remove one condom from the packet and place it in my wallet, underneath the student card. I casually saunter past my house, dropping the condom packet into our letterbox. Dad won’t check the mail on Saturday night. Even he has better things to do.

  I try whistling as I reach Audrey’s front gate. The sound comes out thin and dribbly, like a baby blowing raspberries. The front garden is overgrown with native shrubs and rock gardens. On each side of the stairs is a naked female statue; both have unnaturally large breasts. One statue has a snail slowly slithering up her leg.

  At the dark timber front door, I cross my eyes, trying desperately to see the blackhead on the tip of my nose.