by Bill Condon
The guard raps on Dad’s window.
‘You can’t park here, sir.’
Dad winds down the window.
‘Oh really? Well I think I just did.’
The guard’s expression changes. He’s got a face he keeps for this kind of situation and a voice to go with it. He brings them out.
‘Yeah, real smart – jerk. This is a reserved parking space.’
‘Is that so?’ Dad turns to me. ‘Hop out, David. We’re not moving.’
We both get out. The guard is in Dad’s face.
‘No, no, mate. This is not on. I won’t muck around with you. I’m tellin’ you for the last time. You have to park somewhere else!’
‘Wrong, my friend.’ Dad casually locks the car. ‘I don’t have to do anything.’ He starts walking to the club. We both do.
The guard brushes past me to get ahead of us. ‘No further. Not a step.’ He points a finger at Dad. ‘Forget about lunch. You can rack off. I want you out of here.’
‘We are going to have lunch – here. Now get out of our way.’
‘I’m warning you, mate.’
‘Dad.’
‘Stay out of this, David.’
He walks straight at the guard. Big hands grab him by the shirt-front and he’s driven backwards. It happens too quickly for him to say or do anything. His legs buckle under him and he’s hauled along like a sack of potatoes until he’s dragged onto his feet and rammed face-forward against the car. When Dad struggles the guard bends his arm up high behind his back and bears down on him.
‘How does that feel?’ he says. ‘You want some more, eh? Do you?’
I hear my voice. ‘Leave him alone.’
But it’s just a voice. I’ve got nothing to back it up. I don’t move.
‘Piss off, kid.’
Dad kicks out behind him.
‘You bastard!’ The guard doubles over. Free again, Dad stands waiting to fight. ‘Come on,’ he urges. The guard pulls a baton from his belt.
‘No, Eddy! Hold it right there. Come on now. Settle down, settle down.’
The clubhouse door has opened and an older guard steps out. His grey hair is cut way short so it’s a mass of spikes on his head and he’s got hardly any neck. He’s a bulldog who doesn’t need a baton. Striding quickly, he holds his hands in front of him, palms facing Dad. ‘How about we all take it back a notch or two,’ he says. ‘Let’s talk about this.’
‘We came here to have lunch.’ Dad tucks his shirt back in. ‘And if you get out of our way, that’s what we’ll do.’
‘Look where he’s parked, Steve.’ Eddy, the tattooed guard, points at the car. ‘I give him every chance to go. Bloody won’t listen.’
Steve rubs his chin, nodding. ‘Now it’s like this,’ he tells Dad.
‘No!’ Dad snaps. ‘I don’t want your advice – your lecture. I will not be told where I can park by some thug. That’s all there is to it!’
Steve remains calm. ‘Look, mate, me and Eddy here, we’re family men. You know, wife and kids and that. We don’t like hurtin’ blokes. We just want to get through the day without any trouble. So let’s not make life any harder than it has to be. Now be a good fella. Move yer car for us. Hey, I’m askin’ yer real nice. Whadda yer say?’
I’m wishing, I’m praying. Do what he says. Please do it.
‘Come on, David.’ Dad nods to me. ‘There’s nothing more to be said here. Let’s go and have something to eat.’
I don’t move but Dad does. He doesn’t get far. Eddy clamps a hand onto his shoulder and Dad swings a wild punch that misses. In an instant he is forced to the ground, the weight of both guards on him.
‘You can’t park there, matey!’ Eddy bellows it. ‘You a slow learner or somethin’? How many times have we gotta tell ya?’
It feels like I’ve been watching it from a distance, behind a wall of glass. Watching it hypnotised. Terrified. Finally a message seeps into my brain.
Do something. This is your father. Do something.
I throw myself at Steve, trying to pull him away. Eddy drags me off and pins my arms behind my back.
‘Let him go!’ Dad forces his head up. ‘Let him go!’
Steve gives a nod and I’m set free. He releases Dad, too. ‘Listen, buddy,’ he says. ‘I’m almost out of patience. Now get into your car and take off.’
Dad climbs to his feet. There’s dirt and blood on his face. He takes the keys from his pocket and tosses them to me.
‘Sit in the car, David. Lock the doors.’
I can’t believe it. The guards can’t either. He won’t quit.
He squares up to them like a boxer. Both guards grab him.
Steve grunts at me. ‘Open the car.’
Dad shouts, ‘No!’
I do it anyway.
They shove him into the driver’s seat and slam the door.
Taking the keys from me, Steve leans into the car, his face close to Dad’s. ‘Whatever’s got you stirred up, my friend, don’t drag yer kid into it. All right?’ He pushes a key into the ignition. ‘If you care about him at all, you’ll bugger off out of here and you won’t come back. Now go!’
Steve steps away from the car. Dad doesn’t attempt to jump out, so I get in and sit beside him. He’s breathing heavily and quickly, anger steaming off him. If Hate is a physical thing, in that moment, I know what it looks like.
The car starts up. Dad floors it. We’re speeding backwards. Then he brakes and I’m thrown towards the dashboard. Somewhere in a cloud of dust there’s our car and us in it. One of us screams abuse, the other cowers. The engine roars and we leave the club far behind.
I can’t look at Dad or talk to him. He’s a wild animal caught in a trap and lashing out. Don’t get too close. Just hang on, that’s all I can do.
We barrel along a narrow road and in a furious minute we’re in another sleepy country town. Dad pulls over next to a bus stop. He leans out the window and looks at a timetable on a post.
‘Right.’ He reaches across and opens my door. ‘There’s a bus in an hour. You’re on it. Get out.’
Just by shaking my head, I use up all my bravery.
‘David. We end this here. I’ve had enough.’ He thumps down his wallet beside me. ‘I don’t want any arguments. Take all the money you want. You are getting out of this car and taking the bus home. No questions. No tears. Just go. Is that clear? I’ve got nothing more to say to you. Or to anyone else. You have to go. Get out.’
I shut the door.
‘Do you want me to make you, David? Because I will.’
‘Why can’t we just stay together?’
He stops listening and he’s out of the car, heading for my door. I lock it.
‘Open up.’
It must be on my face plain as day – You’re freaking me out. Please stop. But he doesn’t see it. He pounds on the window.
‘Open this door!’
I lock the driver’s side, too, as he storms around to it.
‘Fine! Fine! Then I’ll go! Just don’t you dare come after me! You hear? Don’t you fucking dare!’
He stomps off – swearing, muttering. If anyone saw him coming their way they’d cross the road.
I have to go after him.
‘Dad.’
‘No! No! I told you! Don’t you talk to me!’
He whirls around and raises his hand. I’m a frightened mess but I stand as straight as I can and wait for the blow. Instead, he grabs my shoulders and shakes me.
‘Why? Why won’t you let me go? I’m no good to anyone! Can’t you see that? Catch the bus! Catch the bus and leave me alone!’
I don’t move.
‘Please, David …’
‘No. I won’t leave you.’
He slumps to the gutter where he hunches over like one of those lost people who live on park benches. When I see them I always wonder how anyone could fall so far. Looking at Dad now, I see how easy it is to be lost. I sit beside him.
‘I want to drive the car into a tree. Plough
into a tree and have it over with. If you would only get on the bus …’
His voice is straight out of a nightmare. It makes me shiver, uncontrollably. It sweeps from my shoulders to my legs. I will myself to stop, but I can’t. The fear in me won’t let go.
‘Stop shaking, damn you.’
‘I can’t help it, Dad.’
‘Why? Why are you shaking? What is the matter with you?’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Of what? I am not going to hurt you!’
‘It’s you, Dad. I’m scared for you. You’re acting real crazy and I wish you’d stop … I love you.’
I shake even harder after saying that.
‘You get beyond love sometimes, David.’ Turning his back to me, he sighs heavily. ‘It can’t reach you. It becomes just another word. Another empty word.’
‘No, no. That’s not true.’ I don’t know whether I’m saying it or thinking it.
He stands up. I think he’s going to walk away and leave me there. I’m sure that’s what he’s considering as he looks down at me with his burnt-out eyes. But he doesn’t do it.
‘There has to be some place to eat in this lousy town,’ he says. ‘You want to help me find it?’
We’re in a café. A couple sits one table away holding hands. Somewhere else a baby cries. The waitress is young and pretty. Every time she comes over with a knife and fork or a plate, she smiles and I thank her as if she’s donated a kidney to me. It’s like I’ve stumbled out of darkness and re-entered the world on a sunny day.
Dad’s coffiee arrives. He stirs in the sugar, around and around, as if mesmerised by the swirling. His scrambled eggs reach our table on soggy toast and turn cold as he stares – out onto the road, at the floor – always into nothing. For me it’s wedges dipped in sour cream with sweet chilli sauce. The wedges are too hot, and anyway, I suddenly don’t have an appetite anymore.
I start to think that Dad’s forgotten that I’m there, until he speaks.
‘This trip isn’t about fishing or camping,’ he says.
I already know that but I don’t say anything.
‘I was trying to fit a whole lifetime into one day. Being a real father. Sharing and teaching. All the things I’ve never done with you.’ He reaches for my hand and I give it to him.
‘I am so sorry that I hit you.’
Tears flow and he doesn’t try to hide them.
‘You didn’t mean it.’
‘Yes, I did. You know I did. I wanted to hit out as hard as I could. It didn’t matter who it was. I was in such a rage for so long. Last night, after your mother had taken you and Allie, I was in a terrible place. Just going insane. I did an unforgivable thing, David.’ He stares at me, through me. ‘I went to a man’s house to kill him.’
A salty aroma, warm and buttery, wafts through the lounge room. We’re all out of our wet clothes and into PJs, cosy in front of the fire. Following Rory’s example, we slouch on the floor, scooping up sticky handfuls of popcorn from a glass bowl on the table. It’s eleven-ish – late for us with school tomorrow – but it’s like we’ve invented our own special day, one that demands to be celebrated right now. It’s so important, it stops time.
Rory is back in every way. He tumbles out words and excitement at a dizzy gallop. All twenty sentences can be summed up with: ‘That was cool! Can we do it again tomorrow?’
Mum and Dad readily agree. Rory doesn’t know it, but if he wanted the moon tonight they would lasso it for him. Positioning themselves on either side of him like bookends, they hang on his every word, if only to drink in the sound of his voice. There’s no fleeting touching of fingers with them, no accidental on-purpose brushes with their feet. That’s not going to happen any time soon. They remain two people on the edge of becoming strangers. But something is different. For the first time in ages there’s laughter in our gloomy house. Smiles are on the loose. Anger and bitterness don’t belong here tonight. I know that in the morning, when their sense of relief isn’t as strong, Mum and Dad will probably return to their separate islands. I don’t want the morning. Let’s just keep now. While it lasts we’re a family again.
Rory rushes to the cupboard where our board games are stored. It’s Mum who gives into him.
‘All right then.’ Her shoulders slump. ‘Just a quick game before you go to bed.’
Rory rattles around until he finds the Monopoly set.
‘This one!’
‘No.’ I pull a face. ‘That takes far too long, Rore.’
‘I’ll be really fast! Go on, Mum – Dad – pleeease!’
This is the kid they almost lost tonight. Are they going to send him to bed unhappy? I don’t think so.
Dad mutters, ‘I suppose it won’t hurt to stay up for a little bit longer – just this once.’
Rory gives Mum the big-eyed look – the waiting in suspense, my whole life depends on what you say next, look.
She nods. ‘Okay. One quick game.’
‘Yaaayy!’
Make the best of this, Rory. Tell them you never want to do homework again. They’ve forgotten how to say no.
Before long he has bought all the railway stations on the board. My baby brother is on the verge of becoming a millionaire. He waves a wad of phony notes at me. Flicks them in front of my face. This is his favourite game in the world. That lasts for close to half an hour, but then he has a run of bad luck: lands in gaol, has to pay water and electricity bills – has to hand back some of his precious money.
‘It’s not fair,’ he whines.
Mum enjoys this part because she gets to console him. Lately she hasn’t shown much tenderness to anyone. Now her hard shell crumbles to dust. She rubs Rory’s back as if he is a baby again and she is a brand new mother.
‘You’re looking a bit tired, mate,’ Dad says. ‘You want to go to bed?’
‘Nooo! We’ve got to finish the game!’
Ten minutes later he’s asleep.
After wrapping a rug around him, Dad steers a lock of hair away from his eyes. Rory doesn’t stir. There could be a bowling alley in the room and it wouldn’t wake him.
‘He’s exhausted.’ Mum kisses his forehead. ‘Poor lamb. He’s had such a big day.’
Dad stands next to her. ‘You want me to carry him for you?’
‘No. He’s not all that heavy.’ Mum pauses, their eyes meeting. It’s not quite a smile she gives Dad, but it’s not a slammed door, either. It’s a look that says, ‘Still keep away, but don’t go too far’.
She hauls Rory into her arms – ‘He can sleep in my bed tonight’ – and he flops limply across her shoulder like an overgrown koala.
Mum starts to leave but then remembers she has two kids. She pecks me on the cheek while Dad, who’s beside me, pointedly steps away to avoid an awkward moment. I know it’s not the chance of a kiss he’s avoiding, it’s the certainty of a rejection. ‘Goodnight, you two,’ she says.
Knees creaking, Dad, who’s a rusty forty-eight, drags himself up off the floor and takes a blanket from a shelf before flopping facedown on the couch. Snuggling under the blanket, he growls and groans like a bear settling in for the winter hibernation. A disembodied voice mutters, ‘Goodnight, Caitlin. You better make a move, too. School tomorrow. Turn the light off when you go. Sweet dreams.’
Everything he says sounds normal, but my father’s camping on the couch, like some not-so-special friend who’s just dropped in from out of town. At least Mum could let him sleep at the foot of her bed like a faithful dog … The word ‘faithful’ scratches at me and makes me remember why he was relegated to the couch in the first place. It’s hard to feel sorry for him, but I do.
‘Dad.’
‘What?’
‘Will things ever go back to how they used to be?’
‘No … probably not.’
‘It was a tiny bit better tonight – don’t you think?’
‘I don’t know. Go to bed, Caitlin.’
‘But I can’t sleep.’
‘Try shutting your e
yes in a darkened room. Go to bed.’
‘Is the couch comfortable?’
‘I am now officially asleep.’
‘You can have my bed if you like. I’ll take the couch.’
He makes loud grunting noises. That hibernating bear again.
‘I’m going to make toast,’ I say. ‘You want some?’
Dad raises the fake snores to an even higher pitch. I’m almost out of the room when a set of headlights slices through the darkness outside. I watch as a car parks in front of our house. The same car I’ve seen before.
‘Hey, Dad.’
‘I can’t hear you.’
‘This is serious.’ I shake his arm. ‘I’m not joking.’
He pulls down the blanket. ‘What’s going on?’
‘That car’s back – the blue one.’
Dad is quickly on his feet.
I walk to the window for a closer look.
‘Get down, Caitlin.’
He flicks off the light switch then crosses the room in a few big strides to kneel beside me. Together we peer from behind a curtain.
‘See, Dad. It’s the same one, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
The car starts up.
‘He’s leaving,’ I say.
Instead, the car hurtles in reverse, screeches to a stop, then lunges forward again, into our driveway. It stays there, its lights burning on high beam.
‘What’s he doing?’
‘Being stupid, Caitlin, that’s all.’
‘I’m going to call the police.’
‘No. Don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’ll go away.’
‘Are you kidding me? It’s past midnight. He’s got his lights full on. In our driveway. He’s gotta be crazy. Forget it, I’m callin’ the cops.’
‘No, you’re not!’
I stare at him. Dad never raises his voice to me.
He touches my arm. It’s his way of saying sorry. ‘You should go to bed. Don’t worry about the car. He’ll go away in a few minutes.’
‘I won’t give my name. I’ll say we think he’s a burglar or something – a prowler.’
