Carlos waits, glancing at the van. ‘Did you order the truck?’
‘What, for a bag of clothes and some DVDs?’
‘Maybe you were going to take my stuff as well.’
‘It’s your furniture, why would I do that?’
‘Because you don’t love me.’
‘I don’t love anyone. Doesn’t mean I’d steal from them.’
‘That would be dishonest,’ says Mrs Daintree.
Carlos’s voice wavers. ‘I’ll count to ten.’
‘I’m still not saying yes.’
When Sophie’s mother left, her family ate cereal for breakfast, lunch and dinner until ten-year-old Sophie opened a recipe book and tried scrambled eggs with chives. First, she had to find out what a chive was.
She took her dad’s wallet to the grocer’s. Mrs Janus helped her buy what was necessary for a week of cooking. The plastic bags cut into Sophie’s fingers as she struggled home.
Scrambled eggs, poached eggs, fried eggs. Then roast vegetables – the trick of throwing everything into an oven and waiting ninety minutes. The stove had a timer, so Sophie could do her homework without being afraid of leaving it in too long. Sausages and ham steaks were quick and easy. She graduated to mashed potatoes, adding lots of butter. And chives – she knew what they were now. Her father got up from the couch when he smelled the roast. He helped with the washing-up, standing at the sink wearing pink rubber gloves.
Sophie’s brothers were always out at football training. And that left Sophie and her dad in the kitchen. Together they learnt how to peel potatoes and slice them thin for chips, drizzling olive oil over them before baking them in the oven.
Sophie’s favourite dish was spaghetti; they’d add lots of salt to the saucepan and her dad would throw a strand against the wall to test if it was ready. If it stuck, he’d carefully peel it off the wall and toss it high in the air, trying to catch it in his mouth as it fell. He’d always end up with spaghetti stuck to his face, his shoulder or in his hair.
Sophie waited one year and two months before her dad spoke his wife’s name again.
Cynthia.
Her mother.
‘Why don’t you love me?’ Carlos’s voice is insistent.
‘Because.’
‘That’s not an answer, it’s just evasion.’
‘Invasion?’ Mrs Daintree doesn’t have the best hearing.
‘Evasion!’
‘Come up, Sophie love. I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘You could at least say you like me, you’re fond of me, that we have good sex,’ Carlos pleads.
Mrs Daintree pretends not to hear. ‘A pot of Irish Breakfast.’
Sophie sighs. ‘I like you enough, Carlos, not to tell you what I really think of our sex.’ She turns and walks away, crossing the lane and heading towards the bus stop. Nigel will still be at work. He’ll give her the money if she argues.
‘Sophie, come back.’
She hears the sound of the door release, long and persistent.
Carlos calls her name across the alley.
Sophie turns the corner.
When I was nine years old, Dad picked up a hitchhiker. The man wore leather sandals, baggy harem pants and a patchwork Indian vest. Before he got in, he stubbed his cigarette out on the bitumen and picked up the butt, lodging it behind his ear. He had the longest beard I’d ever seen.
He bowed at us as he got in, then kept his hands folded together on his lap.
I turned in my seat to marvel at the hippie Santa. A fat buddha hung on a silver chain around his neck, laughing through the hair. If I touched his beard, would the grey flecks come off in my hand like sparkles? Would it feel like smooth silk, or cold wire?
When Dad asked him where he was heading, he said, ‘Eternity.’
Dad put the car in gear and suggested somewhere closer. We dropped him near the freeway, Dad pointing out where best to wait to get a ride. The man walked to my window, his hand funnelling down the beard. In a deep voice, he said, ‘It took me twenty years to grow this.’
The Buddha jiggled on his chest. He walked off along the roadway, scratching his backside.
‘You’re a student teacher . . . this is your first job, right?’
It’s a statement, not a question. She’s been watching me, trying to work me out.
‘Yeah.’
What wit! What repartee! Say something more . . .
‘C-can . . . you guess anything else?’
She turns in the seat to face me, cracking her knuckles as if getting down to work. Her eyes roam over the car and me. ‘I don’t guess. It’s a . . . gift. If I’m right, you buy lunch. Deal?’
I sink into the quicksand of company. ‘Okay.’
‘You live in the eastern suburbs, with your parents. You’re studying at university and so they bought you this car.’ She runs her fingers along her leather seat. ‘A very nice car it is, too. Your dad is a lawyer, or a doctor, or a CEO who makes an obscene amount of money.’
She looks up, quickly, wondering if she’s pushed too hard. ‘How am I doing so far?’
The first rule of hitchhiking is not to upset the driver.
‘I-I asked for a beat-up Mazda and they bought me a new BMW.’
She smiles knowingly and I feel a tinge of regret at betraying Dad so easily. ‘Dad is a surgeon.’
‘Ooh, a surgeon.’
I feel the colour rise in my cheeks.
The second rule of hitchhiking should be not to pick up know-it-all women with long hair and perfect skin.
The side of the car vibrates as a semitrailer thunders past. I instinctively back off and let him cut in. I check my mirror for more trucks. They roam in packs, like stray dogs.
My mobile rings. The hitchhiker makes to pick it up from the console. I quickly snatch it, fumbling with the button. It could only be . . . ‘Hi, Mum.’
‘James? It’s Pete. Not your mother.’
Pete and I shared six years of cheese rolls, file- swapping and chess games in high school.
‘Hi, Pete.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Heading west . . . just outside of Lithgow.’
‘You lucky bastard.’
The hitchhiker crosses her legs.
‘Yeah. I’m off to Paris, New York . . . Hillston.’
‘At least you’re not stuck at uni for another five years.’
‘You chose law, Pete.’
He coughs quietly. ‘I rang Mandy Bartlett, after you left last night.’
My going-away party: me and Pete and a bottle of vodka on the pontoon at Rose Bay, the harbour water black and shimmering, and both of us wishing we had some girls to invite over, or the keys to his parents’ speedboat, which was tied up beside us.
I squirm in my seat, knowing where this conversation is heading.
‘I got her number from a friend on Facebook,’ says Pete. ‘I said I needed help with an assignment, urgently.’
‘You need help all right.’
‘Do you want to hear this or not, James?’
‘I’m kind of busy . . .’
‘What, driving a BMW is that difficult?’ Pete scoffs.
I glance across at the hitchhiker. She’s leaning against the passenger door, watching me. My voice lowers self-consciously. ‘Did you speak to . . .’ I hesitate at saying Mandy’s name.
‘No, her voicemail. I left a message. Something to do with ice and her naked back.’
‘That’s obscene.’
‘Yeah. I said my name was James Spalding.’
‘You bastard!’
There is the hint of a smile on the hitchhiker’s lips.
‘Lucky you’re leaving town!’ says Pete.
I hang up and toss the phone on the console, i
magining Mandy Bartlett scanning her memory for a James Spalding.
Nothing.
No one.
And me spending two years sitting behind her in the lecture theatre, taking notes, trying to focus on the lecturer, not Mandy’s graceful neck and golden skin.
Bugger Pete.
‘Your mother has a very deep voice.’
‘That was my mate Pete. He’s a—’
‘Bastard, I think, was the word you used.’
‘We were . . .’ How could I explain Mandy to a woman like her? ‘. . . talking.’
‘I’ll have a tofu burger and a coffee, thanks.’ She smiles. ‘For lunch. Remember the deal?’
That’s how easy it is. Transport, food – why not just hand over the car keys now and be done with it? I may be two metres tall, but I’m out of my depth.
‘What if I can guess stuff about you?’ I ask.
She rolls her eyes.
We both know I’m kidding myself.
‘You can pay for afternoon tea if I’m right,’ I suggest. ‘Scones, with jam and cream.’
‘Good luck,’ she says.
I mimic her cracking-knuckles routine to give myself time to think. A row of eucalypt trees lean too near the shoulder, their muscular trunks patchy with age.
I have no idea, but I have to take a stab.
‘You’re twenty-three . . . no, twenty-two. You could have gone to university, but didn’t. You, um, deferred and never reapplied.’
I look at her handbag, hoping for clues. It’s black and worn. Doesn’t she have any other clothes? Where’s the backpack?
‘Your boyfriend is away for a week, so you decided to visit your family. A surprise . . . for your mum.’
She stares out the side window.
‘Am I right?’
She doesn’t answer.
Maybe the boyfriend dumped her? She’s too erratic, too unpredictable?
My phone beeps a message, but neither of us reach for it. Pete wants the last word. My eyes flit from the phone to the white line to the radio. Would it be rude to switch it on, to fill this awkward silence with pleading country music sung by women with names like Kasey or Stacey or Lacey?
Her voice is soft. ‘I’m twenty-one.’
Last week, my mother came indoors after tying brightly coloured Christmas streamers to the fruit trees to scare away the birds. She poured us each a glass of iced tea and sat beside me on the sofa.
‘You’re worried about something, aren’t you?’ she said, squeezing a lemon into her glass.
‘I’m . . . fine.’
She reached over and rubbed my shoulder, gently. ‘That’s what everyone says, James, right before they snap.’
‘Maybe I’m telling the truth, Mum. Ever thought of that?’
‘Don’t be silly. I know my son!’ She pulled my ear playfully.
‘Can you let go of my ear, please?’ I tipped the glass back, gulping quickly, and a piece of ice clunked against my nose.
‘James, you’ve got so much promise, so much to look forward to.’
‘What, such as leaving home?’
‘Don’t be like that.’
I stood and walked to the back door. ‘I’m not like anything, Mum.’
‘That’s why I’m worried.’
‘That’s the issue, isn’t it? What you’re worried about.’ I slid open the verandah door and said, ‘Well, don’t worry.’ Then I tripped over the entrance mat.
The highway is full of potholes and loose gravel. Clouds roll in from the west, their grey and white patterns giving shape to the distance. There’s a tattered billboard on the side of the road. Someone has scrawled a sign over it.
The Possum Man
63473526
It’s written in black paint on a yellow background. He’s even tried to draw a possum: beady eyes, small mouth, ears the size of a donkey. Perhaps he can catch them, but he certainly can’t paint them.
I wonder how many calls the Possum Man receives.
The hitchhiker’s voice brings me back. ‘I reckon his name is Harry. Harry Burns.’
‘Who?’
‘The possum man.’
‘How did you know I was thinking . . .’
She gives me a look as if to say, psychic, remember?
‘Harry wears an old hat given to him by a customer who thought money wasn’t enough. He shoved it on his head and he hasn’t taken it off since, except for bed and showers. His wife puts it through the wash occasionally; that’s why it’s so crumpled.’
‘How many possums does he catch each week?’
‘Five, no sweat. He takes them into the forest and lets them go. He’s hoping they’ll mate. The more possums, the more work.’
Suddenly a crackle of cockatoos swoop from a gum tree and the windscreen fills with white balls of feathers, flapping wings, pink eyes. I slam on the brakes and veer off the road, expecting the thump of bird on glass. The front wheels start to skid on the dirt, bumping over potholes. I ease off enough to give the tyres a chance to grip, too scared to change direction in case we roll.
We finally grind to a stop as dust envelops the car and a light on the dashboard blinks. The breath is high in my throat. The cockatoos land in a field beside the road. I switch off the engine, fingers of one hand locked on the wheel.
We look at each other, then at the birds. A semitrailer thunders past. I reach for the bottle of water in the cup-holder, twist the cap and offer it to her. She shakes her head. The water trickles down my shirt as I take a long gulp. I start the engine and slowly pull out, my eyes alert for birds, kangaroos, wombats . . . possums?
After a few minutes of silence, she says, ‘That’s twice you’ve swerved off the road.’
‘I didn’t want to . . . hurt the birds.’
‘Now that you’ve saved the wildlife, can I tell you a secret?’
‘If you do, it won’t be a secret anymore.’
‘I trust you – despite your driving.’
‘I’m not going to surprise my mum.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘I knew my mother had left home before I was told. By the look in my father’s eyes when he picked me up from school. I didn’t let on that I knew. I kept right on talking.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Ten. When Dad told my eldest brother, he punched the wall. How’s that for a reaction? My other brother just looked dull-eyed and sad, like a calf separated from the herd.’
‘What about your dad?’
‘Every time Dad walked past the damaged wall, he touched the splintered plaster. It was years before he fixed it. And he didn’t repaint it. That’s the only reminder we had of her leaving. An unpainted wall.’
Her eyes focus on the steering wheel. ‘Your parents, are they happily married?’
It’s not a question I’ve ever considered. They’re just . . . there. I shrug. ‘Yeah. I suppose.’
The silence expands between us. Up ahead are two grain silos, painted white, with the name of the town written half on one, half on the other: DAH MOOR. Parked under one silo is a truck, loading grain in a swirl of dust and noise. The driver covers his mouth with a hankie. I pull over, letting the car idle, thinking of a little girl in a house full of boys.
She sighs. ‘None of us have seen her since she left.’
The truck moves from under the silo, the truckie watching us as he drives slowly by. A skinny tomcat pads across the gravel, eyes on a sparrow in the tree. The cat creeps forward, measuring the distance. Can a cat climb that high, that quickly? The sparrow flickers from branch to branch. I don’t want to see what happens next.
‘I owe you lunch,’ I say, putting the car in gear and pulling out.
She leans across and looks in my rear-view mirror, smoothing her thick eyebrows with her
index finger, first the left, then the right. When she sees the dusty roadhouse and the cattle dog sleeping beside the petrol pump, she says, ‘No chance of a tofu burger here.’
I park in the shade of a flowering wattle. On the petrol pump is a hand-written sign that reads Pay before you pump! The dog gets up and walks to a tap dripping slowly into a battered dish and takes a drink.
‘By the way, my name’s Sophie.’ She holds out her right hand.
It feels small in mine. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she says. ‘Yours is Michael, Andrew . . .’ She clicks her fingers. ‘William?’
‘James. William is my middle name, Michael is my dad.’
She smiles and reaches to open her door. ‘Great. I’ll have a hamburger and a coffee, James.’
Sophie sits at the bus shelter and admires her painted nails. Damn. The nail polish is in the bathroom cabinet. Carlos can give it to the next girl, if he’s capable of finding another. It was she who found him, tapping away furiously on his laptop in a café not far from the flat.
A writer?
Beside the computer was a stack of magazines.
A student?
He had a hex tattoo on his bicep.
An anti-religious anarchist?
None of the above.
Carlos was a share trader who smoked too much dope and lived in his pyjamas. At first she thought it was curiously subversive. From Bob Marley to stock floats seemed an awfully long way. In fact, it was as close as the click of a tab on his MacBook.
He was scruffy, homely and oddly endearing. After a few weeks together, she moved into his flat. He rearranged the wardrobe and chest of drawers, leaving just enough space for her clothes and her two books. He picked the books up while she unpacked.
‘Of Mice and Men. What’s it about?’
She looked up quickly, thinking he was joking. His face was as unreadable as a spreadsheet.
‘Men . . .’
He grinned. ‘And mice?’
‘Something like that.’
He tossed it on the bed and reached for the other book.
‘Travels with Charley. Don’t tell me it’s about travelling . . . and this bloke named Charley.’
‘Charley is a dog.’
‘Oh.’
Black Painted Fingernails Page 2
