A water stain stretches across the burgundy carpet from one wall to the door. I kick off my shoes and flop down on the bed. There’s a Bible under the lamp with a red cover and gold embossing. On the inside cover is a stamp reading Property of The Pines Motel.
Maybe Sophie found another ride. Somebody at the pub, when I was in the toilet: one of the pool players, a truckie driving all night?
I jump off the bed and walk barefoot out to the car. The breeze cools the sweat on my forehead as I listen to the tramping of cattle penned in a truck parked across the road. I reach inside the glovebox for the mobile. The screen tells me there are three missed calls from home. Mum couldn’t wait until I stopped for the night.
Back in the room, I toss the phone on the bedside table, deciding to ring Mum and Dad tomorrow morning before driving to Hillston.
Then I flop on the bed and stare at the door, hoping for a knock, or to hear Sophie turn the handle and waltz back in.
Silence.
I grab the Bible and throw it with all the force I can muster against the door.
The bedside phone rings. I glance quickly at the Bible, splayed open, its pages twisted. A disapproving voice cuts in before I have a chance to speak. ‘There’s a woman here for you. A young woman, at reception.’
I rub my eyes and stand.
‘She claims to be your sister. Her name is . . . Sophie. She wants to know your room number. She should know the room number.’
I hear Sophie’s voice in the background.
‘She now claims she walked into town before you checked in. For food. Is this your sister, Mister Spalding?’
I walk across and kick the Bible into the corner. ‘Yes, she’s my sister. My big sister.’
The phone goes dead in my hand.
In the bathroom, I splash water over my face. My rumpled reflection grins inanely back at me from the mirror. Sophie’s back, and casting spells. I quickly tuck my socks into my shoes and toss them under the bed.
There’s a soft knock at the door.
Sophie enters wearing a white scarf tight around her tornado of hair, tied in an outlandish bow under her chin. She’s carrying a plastic shopping bag from which she unpacks a carton of orange juice, dip, a packet of corn chips, a box of chocolates and a bottle of soda water. ‘I thought we could have a picnic and watch old movies.’
She puts the juice in the fridge and removes her scarf, shaking her hair free and holding the cloth away from her, like a soiled handkerchief. ‘It cost two dollars. I thought it would make me look more . . . sisterish. It didn’t work.’ She notices the Bible on the floor. ‘Were you praying for my return, James?’
Sophie reaches into her handbag and pulls out a bottle of Johnnie Walker.
‘The rewards of my last job.’
The rich aroma of whisky flushes the staleness from the room.
Sophie opens the corn chips and pours them onto a plate next to the dip, then unwraps the chocolates and arranges them on the silver foil. She places everything between me on the bed and her on the chair. She lifts her legs and rests her feet on the mattress. Her toenails are painted black. She checks the TV guide, and flings it disdainfully into the corner with the Bible. ‘Let’s turn off all the lights and draw the curtains so it’s dark, like we’re camping in the forest. We can tell stories, with the Scotch to keep us warm.’
This morning I was driving west to six weeks of lonely work in a school with a dusty playground and a pot-holed car park. Now, I’m romping through the imaginary woods with a woman whose last name I don’t know.
Sophie gets up to switch off the lights. Her silhouette draws the curtains. She walks to the foot of the bed.
We both speak at once.
‘Me first?’ she says.
‘You first,’ I say.
‘Truth factory, James?’
‘Always.’
‘It’s not pretty.’
‘I won’t tell a soul.’
Sophie takes a swift hit of whisky. ‘I was eighteen and still living at home. I’d finished school and, yes, I could have gone to university, but there was Dad and my two brothers. I stayed home looking after three men, three boys . . .’
She shifts uncomfortably. Her head is bowed.
‘. . . until one night.’
My hands clench. ‘Sophie, you don’t have to—’
‘It’s . . . it’s time I told someone.’ She reaches for a chocolate and her laugh sounds forced. ‘Chocolate makes everything easier.’ She takes her time eating it, as though considering whether to go on. ‘One night, it was stinking hot in my room. All I could hear were mosquitoes buzzing through the screen and the hum of the neighbour’s air-conditioner. Even with the window open, there was no air, and the sweat was just trickling off my body.’
She sighs, unable to stop the story unfolding. ‘I slept badly. In the morning, I woke to a sound just like the air-conditioner, only closer.’
She takes a sharp breath. ‘Leaning over me is my brother, filming. He’s fiddling with the lens, zooming in for a close-up. He’s so involved, he doesn’t see I’m awake.’
I shake my head involuntarily, not wanting to hear what happened next.
Sophie’s voice is low, measured. ‘I pretended to be asleep, trying to decide what to do. And then I felt his breath. His hand touched my breast!
‘I jumped up . . . and smacked him as hard as I could in the nuts. He dropped the camera. It bounced on my bed and I grabbed it, wanting to kill him. I swear I could have killed him. I hurled the camera on the floor. A piece shattered and stabbed him in the shin. He’s holding his balls, doubled over in pain, screaming at me for breaking his camera! My sixteen-year-old baby brother.’
From next door, I hear water running, a woman’s high-pitched scream on the television, the dull thud of shoes tossed on the floor.
In this room there’s only our breathing and the quiet fog of whisky.
‘I’ve never told anyone about it. About what a prick my brother is.’
Sophie picks up the plates and puts them on the bench. She goes to the bathroom, switches on the light, turns back to say something, but stops herself. She walks to the single bed and picks up the towel, clutching it to her chest. ‘I need a shower.’
There’s a knock in the pipes as she turns on the taps. I imagine her scrubbing the thick knotty hair, the spray channelling down her spine, shivering at the memory, despite the warm water.
My mobile rings.
I answer without thinking. ‘Hello.’ My voice is a whisper.
‘Where are you, James?’ Mum doesn’t need to whisper. ‘I’ve been worried sick. Didn’t you notice all the missed calls on your phone?’
Silence.
‘James?’
‘I’ve . . . been held up, Mum.’
I bet she’s gesturing for Dad to bring her a drink.
‘How’s Dad?’
‘He’s fine. Where are you?’
‘I’m . . . I’m not there yet.’
Sophie opens the bathroom door and peeks out. Inadvertently I shake my head and she gently closes the door, exiling herself to the bathroom.
‘Which town, James?’
‘I dunno. What the hell does it matter, Mum?’ I can almost feel her flinch at the end of the line. ‘I’ll be in Hillston tomorrow.’
I picture Sophie standing in the bathroom at the sink.
The words tumble out of me. ‘I’m just giving someone a lift home. It’s not far out of my way.’
There’s an audible gasp down the line.
‘Please don’t say a word, Mum. I’m – I’m doing it anyway. I’ll get to the school on time.’
‘Are you all right, James? Have you been—’
‘What? Drinking? I’m going now, Mum. I’ll call you after my first da
y at school.’
‘But . . .’
‘I’m fine, Mum.’
My hands are shaking as I turn off the mobile. I know she’ll worry, but I have no choice. The decision was made for me the moment Sophie came back and told me the story of her brother.
A picnic in the dark deserves a lift all the way home.
Hillston and the primary school fade into the shadows of this room.
I strip down to my boxers and slide under the sheets. Tomorrow, I’ll phone the school and make an excuse. Car trouble.
Sophie pads into the room wearing the black dress. She climbs into her bed and tries to take it off under the sheets. She swears, jumps out of the bed, pulls her dress over her head and then hops back in.
‘Goodnight, James, who makes phone calls late at night.’
‘Goodnight, Sophie with the black fingernails.’
Michael rolls on his back and keeps snoring. Angela wants to reach across the Egyptian cotton sheets and hold his nose until he splutters awake. How can he sleep?
She gets out of bed and closes the bedroom door behind her, walks down the hallway to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. Her friend, Miriam, has given her some Turkish Apple tea for its soothing qualities.
Angela switches off the kettle before it whistles, pours the tea, takes the cup and saucer out to the back verandah and reclines on the outdoor chaise lounge. She looks up at the sky. Not even the lights of the suburbs can dim the stars tonight. A storm bird calls from high in the trees along the back fence.
The bird is wrong. There’ll be no rain tonight.
Where is James? She thinks of her son asleep in a motel, some hitchhiker prowling the room, reaching into James’s jeans pockets for the car keys, creeping out and making a dash for the car. James dreaming the night away and waking in the morning to find an open door, a missing wallet and a vacant space in the car park. She’s prepared to drive all day tomorrow to rescue her son, if need be, to bring him home.
Angela sips the tea, hot and sweet. So sweet! What is she consuming in the hope of relief? She tips it out over the box hedge and clatters the cup back onto the saucer. It seems as if nothing will wake Michael until morning.
She thinks of both men, husband and son, together. How alike they look. Their wild curly hair mocks Angela’s neat lacquered style. If she hadn’t given birth to James, she’d doubt there were any of her genes in him.
A cloud covers the moon and the storm bird starts up again. She laughs to herself, waiting for the first raindrop. Maybe she’s wrong about many things. You shouldn’t argue with nature or children.
The box hedge is in need of a trim.
Angela walks to the back shed, past the prostrate grevilleas, the native grasses and the lavender bushes. She quietly opens the door and switches on the light, to search for the hedge clippers, chuckling to herself at the thought of gardening in a silk nightie and padded slippers. She normally keeps the hedge immaculately neat. Perhaps she’s paid too much attention to the vegetable garden? The rows of tomato vines and lettuce heads are all ready for harvesting. She should have cooked up some pasta sauce for James to take with him.
She shakes her head.
James can’t cook, and he’s staying in a hotel room in Hillston – when he eventually gets there.
Where is he?
Damn! She’d stopped thinking about him then, just for a minute.
She shuffles in her slippers across the grass to the hedge. She takes a deep breath and settles down to work, hoping old Mrs Reynolds next door doesn’t hear the sound of the clippers.
She’d like Michael to wake and sit with her, for them to be together in the dark, the hedge trimmed, the clouds parted, that ghastly bird flown off to haunt somebody else.
She tries to remember when they last made love, and is surprised at herself for thinking of it.
It was over two weeks ago, on a Saturday night. James was staying at Pete’s house. Angela realises that the only time she feels comfortable and relaxed enough to enjoy it is when her son isn’t home.
She tingles with the memory.
Michael never pressures her. Most of the time it’s she who instigates their lovemaking. He often seems almost surprised.
She would like to make love to her husband right now, on the chaise lounge, in full view of the ripening tomatoes and the box hedge. To hell with the storm bird and approaching rain.
Sex would offer more relief than Miriam’s bogus tea.
She considers scratching her fingernails down the outside of their bedroom window, until Michael wakes. When he comes to the window, she could flash her bare shoulders and beckon him outside, slip off her nightie and lie on the lounge. He could hardly miss the intention!
Angela laughs aloud, then considers making herself a real pot of tea, Twinings, with a slice of lemon. She returns the clippers to the shed. After she locks the door, she stands quietly in the yard watching the moon reveal itself again. She knows this is the same moon James can see, from wherever he is, and the thought brings her comfort.
As she steps back onto the verandah, Michael parts the curtains. They stare at each other for a few seconds.
She beckons him outside.
A sliver of light wakes me in the morning. Sophie is asleep on the single bed, her fists tight under her chin, her long legs like flowing caramel, the sheet bunched at the foot of the bed. As quietly as I can, I roll over to face the window, leaning across to pull the curtain closed.
From outside comes the sound of slamming doors followed by a car starting. A young girl calls, ‘Daddy,’ and someone answers, ‘Princess.’ The child giggles. Car tyres crunch over the gravel.
Above the window, a huntsman spider gangles along the wall, all soft pudgy body on spindly legs. Huntsmen bleed yellow. If I threw my shoe, I’d squash him flat and put a hole in the wall the size of Queensland.
Sophie’s voice is drowsy behind me. ‘He’s harmless.’
I don’t turn around. ‘Repulsive.’
The spider creeps into a crack near the ceiling, one long limb hanging out.
‘He’s graceful,’ Sophie says. ‘Misunderstood, with those nimble legs.’
Sophie stands at the foot of my bed, the towel wrapped around her.
‘I didn’t dream, for the first time in years. Maybe it was the Scotch, the clean sheets or the quiet man sleeping beside me.’
‘In the bed next to yours.’
She tilts her head to one side, then walks to the bathroom.
There’s a knock on our door, harsh and urgent. Slipping on my pants, I unlock the door. The manager bustles past me, carrying the breakfast tray.
‘Good morning,’ I say.
She puts the tray on the fridge and stands with her hands on hips, looking at the Bible in the corner. ‘The Lord’s book does not belong on the floor.’ She walks briskly across to pick it up.
‘Thanks for breakfast,’ I say, opening the door a little wider.
The woman walks to the bedside table and places the Bible in the top drawer. ‘Check-out is at ten.’
I call to Sophie, ‘Darling. The nice lady has brought us breakfast.’
The woman scowls and checks both beds.
‘We took . . . we tried each bed.’
She bustles past me, leaving the door open.
I pour milk over the cereal and open the carton of orange juice. Sophie comes in, a towel wrapped around her hair, wearing a black T-shirt and long black skirt. Does she know any other colour?
‘Where did the clothes come from?’
She pirouettes across the room. ‘A girl’s bag is bottomless.’ As she reaches for some toast, she asks, ‘What did you call me, in the shower?’
‘It was for the Jesus-freak manager.’
Sophie raises her orange juice. ‘Halle
lujah, brother! By the way, where did the Bible go?’
‘The woman rearranged the room.’
Sophie licks butter from her fingers. ‘Did she scare you?’
‘I’m growing a backbone. Remember?’
She reaches across to pick up her boots, searching in her bag and removing a clean pair of socks. ‘I don’t believe in God.’ She lifts her foot and pulls on a sock. ‘Not in the religious sense. Maybe as a benevolent spirit.’
‘If God existed, would he see everything we do?’.
‘Oh Christ, I hope not!’
I stack the tray with our leftovers and place it outside near the doormat. I look through the window at Sophie, gracefully lacing up a boot, her hair a tangle in front of her face. She brushes it back and sees me watching. We stare at one another through the glass.
She blows me a kiss.
Neither of us moves for a long time.
Dave heard the shouting. He ran down the hallway and opened Sophie’s door. She was pulling on a T-shirt and pants, and Brad was picking up the pieces of the camera. Blood was trickling down his leg onto the floorboards.
Sophie’s breath caught in her throat. She moved to the wardrobe and pulled out her backpack, unused since the school camping trip in Year Nine. She dropped it on the bed. Dave stepped into the room.
‘What the hell is going on?’
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘At work.’
‘Tell him, Brad. Tell him.’ Sophie could barely control her voice.
‘She broke me fuckin’ camera.’
Sophie pulled her clothes out of the cupboard and shoved them into her backpack, the zip catching on a shirt. She ripped the shirt, tossing it on the floor; it was the wrong colour anyway. She walked to the dresser for the nail polish, checked the cap was on properly and slipped it into the outside pocket of the backpack.
‘Did you break it, Sophie?’
Dave was wearing singlet and shorts, his truck-driver uniform, except for his ugg boots. Sophie wanted to tell him he looked ludicrous. She was suddenly worried she looked guilty. For what? Waking up and finding that bastard filming her? Her lips curled in spite.
Black Painted Fingernails Page 8
