Dust

by Christine Bongers

Clean surfaces winked in the light with dinner and dishes disposed of, tablecloth fresh for the morning. Nothing out of place, yet the sense of an uneasy breach in the order of things persisted, my mind worrying at it like a tongue probing a new gap in a smile.

  Everyone was present and accounted for: the boys flung like dirty socks about the lounge; Cool Hand entertaining himself with spastic jerks of his legs in a springy bouncinette on the floor; Mum perched on the edge of her chair, a tea towel, forgotten, on her shoulder; Dad, clean after the paddock, disapproving and impatient at the bikie influence invading his evening serial.

  His fingers drummed at an armrest until the well-known theme song sang out its namesake, propelling him out of his chair.

  ‘Load of flaming rubbish.’

  He flicked off the set, jerking his head in my direction. ‘You can give me a hand. There’s something we need to do.’

  I followed the trail of Life Buoy soap drifting off him, past the dull vinyl of his armchair. It looked lonely and worn without him: flaking and cracking on the seat and at the back.

  The missing piece of the jigsaw leapt into focus.

  The ashtray on a stand that spun at Dad’s elbow, a press-action spinner discreetly disposing of any evidence of the weed’s evil hold, was gone. And with it, the smell that defined my father.

  He’d shoved it headfirst into the rubbish drum near the chook shed. Tin ashtrays from his bedroom, the kitchen and the dunny, scattered like cards in the bottom of the drum.

  Flickering flames from the nearby burning drum carved the hard lines of his cheekbones and jaw. My heart thudded.

  The glossy white and red packaging was the first to go, curling to ash as the flames melted off cellophane and licked at the shiny cardboard packets.

  He fed in more newspaper, stoking the flames and watching them chew at the hard-packed contents of his addiction. Choking fumes drove me back, but Dad stood his ground, feeding the flames into a frenzy, making sure they consumed every last stick.

  When he finally spoke, his voice rattled like gravel in the silence.

  ‘I was thirteen when I had my first smoke. A soldier traded me: a cigarette for an egg. Thought it made me a man. Thirty years now – and I can’t leave the house without flaming cigarettes. Always thought if I could get through just one day without them, I’d be rid of the cursed things forever.’

  Dad’s face was grim over the licking flames. I peeked into the fiery cauldron, wondering what sort of accelerant he’d used and tried for an upbeat note.

  ‘Well, today must be the day. No flaming smokes left in there.’

  He continued as if I hadn’t spoken.

  ‘Armies handed them out to their soldiers. Not just Hitler, all of the bastards. Handed them out with their rations, to calm the men down, pass the time, take away the constant hunger, stop them tasting the rotten food. When the war was ending, the Germans took everything, left people dying of hunger. Left us cigarettes to chew on. So we smoked them. We didn’t have much choice.’

  His eyes were hot ashes, burning into me.

  ‘You have choices. No-one makes you do anything in this country. What you do, what you make of yourself, it’s up to you. Do you understand that?’

  I knew then that he knew; that maybe he’d always known. The knowledge made my cheeks burn from more than the fire; my eyes tear from more than the smoke.

  I had a choice. I could lie; pretend I didn’t know what he wanted; tell him what I knew he wanted to hear.

  Instead I reached into the neck of my school uniform and tossed the last packet into the fire. Then I stood shoulder to shoulder with my father and together we watched them burn.

  chapter 30

  Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been ages since Dad last made me go to Confession, Father, and here are my sins.

  They’ve been stockpiling for a while now, so if it’s OK with you, I’d like to make a good one now and get it all off my chest.

  I’ve given some of the Commandments a real caning over the years, what with all the blaspheming and lying, not to mention the stealing, but that’s all over now, which is something, I guess. And Punk survived that fall from the tree, so there’s nothing worse on the list, thank God.

  Except for this, which you won’t find in the Commandments. Though as Wart pointed out, it does fall smack bang into the ‘doing unto others’ category, so it probably is a sin. Sure feels like one. Even though it’s not really something I did. More something I didn’t do. A sin of indifference, of ignorance, if that makes any sense. Against someone who deserved better.

  I ignored her, leaving it to others to take the worst kind of notice. To be ugly and hateful and cruel to someone who had never done anything bad to anyone. Yet nobody befriended her. Not even me. And now she’s gone.

  Like Mrs Leddes and her caravan. Gone. And she’s taken with her all the beautiful things she had inside that no-one ever knew about because no-one ever cared enough to look. And to see.

  Not even me.

  So now I’m sorry. But there’s no-one left to tell …

  That’s all, Father, and I am sorry for all my sins.

  I am cocooned in the cool, in the dark; the tang of wood polish and holy water hovers inside the curtained cubicle. The discreet wheeze of the organ and the low croon of hymns cover the murmur from the other cubicle and the brief silence that follows.

  A slide and thump announces Father Brophy’s dim profile on the other side of the shuttered screen.

  ‘Yes, my child?’

  It’s my chance to pass on the burden: to place it in more experienced hands than my own. My chance. My choice.

  ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

  His bowed head waits patiently like it has a thousand times before and will a thousand times again. Balding skin peppered with freckles fingers back from his temples to caress his crown. So human; an old man ready to take away the hurt from a child.

  ‘It’s been –’ The words scrape across my throat as I make my decision.

  ‘It’s been two weeks since my last Confession, Father, and here are my sins. I fought with my parents. I fought with my brothers. I used bad language and I told some lies. That’s all, Father, and I am sorry for all my sins.’

  Father’s murmured instructions for penance barely register as I drift out, past all the Kennys lined up outside. I console myself with the thought that I’d spared poor old Father a bit of time; he’d be tied up for ages as it was.

  The truth was I’d spared him nothing. Spared myself less. It wasn’t my burden to pass on. I didn’t want to be forgiven or allowed to forget. My penance was to remember.

  The pew pressed cold and hard against my knees as I offered a silent apology to Janeen in the only poetry I knew.

  Hail Holy Queen

  Mother of Mercy

  Hail our life, our sweetness and our hope.

  To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve.

  To thee do we send up our sighs,

  mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.

  Turn then, most gracious advocate,

  Thine eyes of mercy towards us,

  And unto us, in our exile, show the blessed fruit of thy

  womb …

  The sadness of it tugged at me: Lila’s poor banished children, battling alone in their valley of tears. Months that had flooded and burst into flower had raised a bitter, stunted crop on the other side of our barbed wire boundary. While I was squabbling with Punk, Janeen had been fighting – and losing – a real and ugly war in her own home.

  Aileen too, I guess.

  A galaxy of stars burned behind my closed eyelids. Burned for the sisters who’d been to hell and back. Burned for the fact that at least they were together.

  I was no expert on sisters, but maybe Aileen’s tough hide would help protect Janeen in the long run. And her baby.

  I looked up, destroying an entire galaxy just by opening my eyes. Wish I’d opened them sooner. Wish I’d –

  ‘’
Scuse you.’

  Punk squished me into the pew in front as he stepped over the back of my legs and slid onto his knees beside me. He blessed himself, but I could tell he wasn’t even pretending to say his penance.

  His eyes flickered over me. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Not really.’ His silence encouraged me to ask the question that had been prodding at me. ‘Do you think saying sorry makes you feel better?’

  ‘Better than what?’

  ‘Better than if you didn’t say sorry.’

  ‘Dunno.’ He frowned. ‘If you did something really bad, wouldn’t you feel bad enough already, without going on about it and making it worse?’

  I tried to follow his tortured logic. ‘So you reckon you’d feel worse if you said you’re sorry.’

  ‘Yeah, probably.’

  ‘But you don’t know, because you’ve never said you’re sorry when you’ve done something bad.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  We both made the sign of the cross and settled back into our seat.

  ‘So saying sorry might make you feel better.’

  Punk squirmed. I was like a cat with a lizard and just couldn’t let it go.

  ‘Theoretically,’ I prodded him, ‘it could make you feel better.’

  Punk shook his head but he wasn’t disagreeing. ‘Maybe. I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘OK. Let’s conduct an experiment. Think of something really bad we’ve done to each other and say sorry and see how it feels.’

  Punk actually snorted, which got us a warning look from Dad. As soon as he went back to his missive, I dropped my voice even lower.

  ‘Come on. I’ll start.’ But even with a run-up I was having trouble making the leap. I took a big breath.

  ‘I’m sorry I pushed you out of the tree. I’m glad I didn’t kill you. I would’ve been really sorry if I had.’

  Punk frowned, still sceptical. ‘So … feel any better?’

  I gave it some thought. ‘I think so. Go on, you give it a go.’

  Punk thought for a moment, then leaned towards me. ‘I’m really sorry –’ His hot breath in my earhole made me cringe away. He yanked me back.

  ‘I’m really sorry O’Dribble caned me for scarring you for life.’

  He nodded once, breathing in through his nose. ‘Yup, you’re right; that makes me feel better.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant –’

  ‘And I’m sorry I ever let you choose your punishments, I should have always given you all three –’

  ‘That’s not fair. You’re supposed to –’

  ‘I’m sorry that you only got me seven-and-a-half out of ten for the scale drawing of the Kon-Tiki –’

  I slapped him in the chest with the back of my hand but it was too late; he was on a roll.

  ‘I’m sorry I ever let you take it in turns to drive.’ His eyes shone. ‘Jeez, Sis, if I’d known how great saying sorry makes you feel, I would have done it years ago!’

  ‘I’m sorry we weren’t nicer to the Kapernickys.’

  Punk flinched like I’d slapped him. And my eyes filled with tears.

  He cleared his throat.

  ‘Me too. But it’s like Dad says, anyone can make a mistake –’

  But only a flaming idiot keeps making the same mistake over and over –

  ‘We’ll know better next time, won’t we, Sis?’

  ‘Next time? How could there be a next time? How the hell did it ever happen this time?’

  ‘Shit, Sis –’ We both jerked at the whispered profanity. ‘I mean, about being nicer. To people who don’t have anyone to look out for them. Jeez. You know what I mean.’

  I did. It could be our act of contrition. For Janeen. For both of them.

  My nose dripped a great glassy dollop onto my arm. ‘Sorry.’

  Punk reared back as I wiped it on my skirt. ‘Me too. Sorry you never learned to carry a hanky like nice girls do.’

  I wiped my nose on the back of my wrist and sucked in a big liquid sniff. ‘And I’m sorry we never found out why farts smell worse in the bath.’

  Punk nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’m sorry we killed that rooster that used to torment you. We should have let him live forever.’

  I started laughing through my tears. When I tried to hold it in, it came out my nose. Punk was disgusted. ‘Urky! Get a tissue!’

  ‘I don’t have one – sorry!’ And then we were both laughing. And it cracked the hard shell in my chest, swamping the dry stone of my heart and sweeping it away in a great wash of tears and laughter.

  Dad leaned over. ‘Cut it out!’

  ‘Sorry, Dad!’ we chimed and that was it. We were gone. We tried to stop, we really did, but right at that moment we would have laughed if Dad had picked us up and belted us right there in front of everyone. Instead he dragged Punk off to the far side of the pew just as Father strode up the aisle to the opening hymn.

  The whole congregation swelled to its feet as I tried to get myself under control. I leaned back to see if Punk was OK. He tilted back too and mouthed Sor-ry behind Dad’s back. I rocked with silent laughter, tears running down my face. Punk slotted back into line as I joined in the final chorus.

  When I soar to worlds unknown,

  See Thee on Thy judgment throne,

  Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

  Let me hide myself in Thee.

  I pressed my belly into the pew in front and peered down the line – at Big Hairs and Wart, who were helping the little boys finish the water bomb they were making out of the church bulletin; at Mum, fussing with Cool Hand’s bunny rug; at Dad, next to her, with his church face on; and finally at Punk, trying to sober up at Dad’s side – and I felt something rear up in recognition, prancing, deep in the heart of me.

  Father raised his hand.

  ‘In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit …’

  Biloela, Central Queensland

  Present Day

  chapter 31

  ‘Shit. Shit. Shitcrapshit.’

  ‘Potty mouth, Ma. Bad example, remember?’ Jenna stood beside the car, stretching the kinks out of her lanky frame, as her mother thumped on the closed door of Biloela Funerals. Jed lolled in the back, a glassy-eyed Lazarus, not quite back from the dead.

  The theme song from Mission: Impossible rang out from a side pocket of their mum’s bulky leather backpack. She snatched out her mobile, glancing at the caller ID before answering.

  ‘A freaking semi lost its load just before Gayndah – I’ve missed the whole bloody thing … What do you mean, where am I? I’m outside the funeral parlour. The place is deserted … What –?’

  She reached Jenna in two strides, spun her round and stuffed her back into the car. Slamming the door on her protests, she ran round and slotted herself back behind the wheel, mobile still clamped to her ear.

  ‘Uh huh. Gotcha. See you in a minute.’ She hung up and tossed the mobile on the seat beside her, muttering as she flicked on the ignition. ‘Wrong bloody funeral parlour. How many people they got dying in this town?’

  Jed struggled upright as the Mazda swung back out onto the street. ‘They’ll have one more, if I don’t eat soon.’

  He tossed the empty Hello Kitty lunchbox onto his sister’s lap. ‘Jenna, that tapeworm of yours must be the size of an anaconda by now.’

  The lunchbox skidded onto the floor as the Mazda swerved into a parking spot in front of Callide Funerals. It was barely a block from its rival.

  Their mother grabbed her mobile and pushed open the door. ‘Go forage. Bilo’s not big enough to get lost in. I’ll call you when I’m through.’

  Jed shambled across the street, his jeans hanging precariously from the lower reaches of his arse. He looked like a zombie laundry pile come to life: Attack of the Darks Wash, the perfect B-grade horror scenario – scary, smelly and about to invade a small, unsuspecting country town.

  Jenna loped at his side, flicking crumbs off her canary-yellow Wonder Woman T-shirt.

  He
jerked his head back at the funeral parlour. ‘She’s in the zone. What did I miss?’

  ‘Think Smelly O’Malley and rewind thirty-odd years.’

  Jed stopped in the middle of the street. ‘You’re kidding – she’s back on that blast from the past? What was their name again?’

  ‘Kapernicky.’ She grabbed a flapping bit of flannelette and hauled him out of the path of a dusty ute. ‘You want the five-minute synopsis or the full mini-series?’

  ‘I’ll go the thirty-second trailer. But first, I got to bring down a roo and gnaw it down to the bones.’ He glanced down at his beanpole sister. ‘How’s your fat-arsed tapeworm, mate?’

  Jenna patted her flat stomach. ‘Terry’s good. But I’ll need some chips for Ron.’

  He nodded: later-ron. She was so predictable.

  John Patrick O’Malley was the yick kid in Jed and Jenna’s Fifth Grade class. Undersized, inattentive and malodorous, but easy to avoid in a crowded inner-city school playground. That was, until the twins’ tactical blunder in the lead-up to their tenth birthday party.

  ‘Do we have to invite Smelly O’Malley? He pongs.’

  Their first-hand experience of interrogation at the hands of Cecilia Vanderbomm, investigative reporter, didn’t make the papers, but John Patrick O’Malley made the party – to everyone’s amazement, including his own.

  It was then that the twins first heard their mother’s story of the icky Kapernickys and how it echoed down through the years for too many lonely figures in too many schoolyards.

  The sticky tentacles of the past had reached out, forever binding together, in the twins’ minds, Smelly O’Malley and the Icky Kapernickys.

  Jed lifted the lid on his works burger and nodded approval: steak, hamburger and bacon; the little café had done good.

  ‘Remember Ma’s lecture? ‘Faecal incontinence can be a sign of child abuse.’ I’ll never forget her explaining that sentence to me. Bloody hell, we were ten.’

  He bit into the burger, sauce oozing between his splayed fingers and trickling down his wrists.