A piece of salmon topples from her fork.
‘I feel like I’ve lost a child,’ she says at last, her voice almost a whisper. She places the cutlery on her plate and wipes her mouth.
He notices the faint dark rings under her eyes. There are so many things he could say but he’s not sure what would help.
So he reaches for the wine bottle and tops up her glass, then half-fills his own. To hell with abstinence.
‘Aren’t you worried who he’s with?’ Angela says.
‘No.’
‘No?’
Michael sips his wine and wonders how to tell her what he’s thinking.
His wife pulls her chair closer to the table and sits up stiffly, gazing out the window at the lights on the water of the bay, the ferry cruising past in the distance.
Michael remembers the waitress at the café this afternoon. He reaches across the table and takes Angela’s hand. ‘I don’t think our son wants to be a teacher.’
He feels her tense.
‘Angela, remember when Jim asked if he could have a gap year?’
‘Are you saying it’s my fault?’ she says sharply.
‘No. No. Of course not. But . . . we didn’t let him choose. Neither of us.’
She pulls her hand away from his and reaches for the napkin, twisting it tightly between her fingers. ‘He couldn’t choose for himself, he needed guidance.’
Michael shakes his head. ‘No. He needed time.’
They both turn to look out the window at the stars, the beam from the lighthouse sweeping the harbour, the bobbing fishing boats.
Angela’s voice tightens in her throat. ‘He’ll phone tomorrow. From the school.’
Michael sees a man casting a line on the beach below the window. The fisherman is wearing a long jacket, much like the one his own father wore fishing in the highlands.
‘Let’s make a deal, Angela.’
The line of the fisherman straightens with a bite. The man reels it in slowly.
Angela raises her eyebrows, waiting for Michael’s proposition.
‘Whenever Jim rings, we accept what he says, without argument. No matter what it is.’
How will his wife react to all this? In his mind, he sees the waitress at the café wiping the table, smiling, telling him to invite James over.
‘Michael, he’s only a day late. That’s all. We . . .’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ he says slowly. ‘But what I’m saying is, we should let him choose. For a change.’
‘Without saying a word?’
Michael smiles. ‘Let’s accept what he says, whatever it is. And wish him good luck.’
The waiter hovers. Michael quickly shakes his head and they’re left alone. A tiny fish dangles from the fisherman’s line. He carefully removes the hook and tosses the fish back into the water.
‘To not say . . . to not ask anything?’ Angela’s voice wavers. ‘I don’t know if I’ve got it in me.’
Michael shrugs. ‘He’ll tell us, if he wants. But if we argue, he’ll hang up and switch off the phone.’ The fisherman skewers the bait on a new hook. ‘Everyone needs to win sometimes.’
The colour rises in her cheeks, only this time her voice is playful, mocking, ‘Are you calling him a loser, or me?’
‘Darling . . .’
After a long silence, she reaches across and takes his hand. ‘Let’s order dessert? The chocolate trio. Something wicked.’
The fisherman casts his line into the harbour, then sits back in his folding chair, placing the fishing rod into a hollow plastic tube he’s pushed into the sand. He reaches down to his esky and takes out a bottle of beer.
We drive west on a rutted single-lane road with thick stands of ghost gums on one side and pastures of ploughed ground on the other. A flock of galahs swoop low over the soil. Sophie points me down a dusty track and I steer carefully over a cattle grate. A sign on the fence reads Lake Moogera. In my rear-view mirror a dust cloud follows our car, coating the trees along the road in a fine grit. The day’s rain has yet to reach here.
The lake shimmers. From under a stunted willow, we gaze across the expanse of water. In the shallows, a cuddle of ducklings nudge behind their mother, who leads them into the bullrushes and safety.
Sophie reaches down and unlaces her boots, peels off her socks and wriggles her toes.
We walk to the lake’s edge where Sophie lifts her dress and dips her feet into water the colour of ginger ale. A distant tractor ploughs a field on the far side of the lake.
Sophie swirls her toe in a wide circle. ‘Dad used to bring us here. He’d lie on a blanket and cover his face with his hat while we swam.’ Her voice glides easy like the ducklings on the lake’s surface, their feet churning wildly underneath. ‘My brothers took turns throwing me in. I’d call for Dad to tell them to stop and he’d wave a hand and say, “Stop that, boys.”’ She reaches down and cups her hands in the lake, offering it to me. ‘It’s clean enough to drink, filtered by the tea-trees.’
She splashes it over her face. Water runs down her neck, across her bare shoulders.
‘As we got older, Dave brought a girlfriend along. They’d swim off to the far side of the lake together. That left Brad and me.’
Sophie picks up a rock and skips it across the surface, then steps out of the lake and walks to where I sit. She laughs bitterly. ‘I’d swim out to the middle of the lake to get away from Brad, because he’d always want to wrestle, or pretend to drag me under. I’m a good swimmer — I had to be.’ She leans back and looks up to the sky. ‘Lie down next to me,’ she says.
The grass tickles my neck. I close my eyes, intent only on Sophie beside me.
‘I’ve read a bit about reincarnation and law of karma,’ she says, ‘but in the end I don’t believe.’
A Coke bottle floats past, dancing on the lake, a partner to the wind.
‘Maybe what stays alive . . . is what we carry inside us,’ I say. I picture my grandfather, standing in a cold mountain stream, casting his line across the water. ‘What we keep is more than just memory. It has to be.’
Sophie’s mutinous hair falls across her face and tangles at her neck. She brushes it aside. ‘God is too random, too unpredictable for me.’ She tries to smile.
‘I hope the spirit of those departed hear . . . feel us . . . without the middleman of God. Just you and your dad, Sophie.’
A tear rolls down her cheek. She comes close and snuggles into my chest.
‘I’m sorry, Sophie,’ I whisper.
The afternoon unwinds like a ripple on water.
‘My dad said, “You can tell what a person’s like, by looking into their eyes.”’ Sophie pauses. ‘When I was a child, I’d stare into the mirror, trying to see . . . inside.’
‘You’re a good person, Sophie.’
She rests on one elbow and looks at me. ‘James.’
‘Yes?’
‘Stop talking, okay?’
She leans down and kisses me. My hands wrap around her waist, a vein pulses madly in my temple and suddenly I think of being naked beside Sophie.
I pull away, flushed with embarrassment. Sophie opens her eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Sophie.’
Her hair tumbles across her eyes. She ties it back, leaning close, the silk of her cheek on mine. ‘Swim with me?’
She stands and quickly undresses, dropping her underpants and bra in a pile with her frock, and runs into the lake. She dives underwater and surfaces a few metres out, her hair like whorled seaweed.
I take off my shirt and trousers but pause in my boxers. Sophie smiles.
‘Did your mother buy them?’
I pull them off and twirl them around my head, tossing them on the breeze. ‘See ya, Mum.’
I race to the water and leap
in feet first, my heart hammering. The chill shoots from the soles of my feet up my spine, prickling the hair on my neck. I splutter, halfway between laughter and fright.
The windblown waves rock against my chest. Under the water, my skin shines copper gold. Sophie swims languidly, and I splash beside her. She rolls on her back and floats, studying the mystery of clouds.
‘I’ve never been on a plane. Can you believe it?’
I shake my head, too aware of being out of my depth in the lake to answer. The bank is an eternity away. Sophie swims towards me and reaches for my hands. My arm hooks around her body.
‘James, put your feet down.’
‘What?’
‘Stand up.’
‘It’s . . .’
My feet sink into the sandy bottom. The water is only up to my chest. Sophie laughs and cups the water, throwing it high above us. Then she opens her mouth and drinks the tea-tree shower. I do the same. When she turns to face me, water trickles like silver over her breasts. She looks at me with a serious, concerned expression.
‘It was tails, James.’
‘Pardon?’
‘The coin-toss at the service station. It was tails, not heads. I needed the lift. Will you forgive me?’
My laughter is long and loud. ‘You lied . . . and you owe me a dollar!’
I feel both weightless and heavy. My feet anchor in the sand and my arms circle Sophie. Her hair coils around my neck like a lasso until I’m sure it will drag me under. I want it to drag me under. My knees buckle; my hand reaches for her hips, stroking along the curve of her back. She rests her hand on my chest.
The wind niggles across the surface of the lake. Sophie holds my hand and kisses my palm, strokes my fingers. I nuzzle her neck as drops of water slide off her shoulders. She wraps her legs around my waist and pulls me close.
Sophie kisses me and I kiss back.
Sophie glides back to the shallows, while I alternate between clumsy breaststroke and walking. She dives low and brings up cradles of sand, tossing it high on the breeze.
There’s a movement on the bank, a blur of shadow.
Standing guard between the lake and our clothes is a huge goanna, head raised, sniffing the breeze and the smell of scared humans. We kneel in the water, goosebumps fresh on our skin.
‘Off you go, James,’ says Sophie, tilting her head towards our clothes. The goanna looks me in the eye.
‘He – he’s rather . . .’
‘He’s just a lizard.’
‘A big lizard, on steroids.’
His tongue is very long and he seems to enjoy poking it at us.
‘Sophie?’
‘Yes, my hero?’ She giggles.
‘Can goannas swim?’
‘You mean like crocodiles, alligators and snakes?’
We both sink low in the water, only our heads exposed. The goanna bows its long neck and flicks its tongue.
‘I don’t suppose he’s catching flies?’ I venture.
‘He has a very long tail.’
‘And a very, very, very . . .’
‘Please don’t say something bad!’
‘. . . friendly face – if you like that sort of thing.’
The goanna walks ponderously towards the water, its skin weathered and spiny.
‘Sophie, lizards can swim. I’m sure of that.’
‘So?’
‘So, a goanna is just a big lizard. Right?’
As if on cue, the goanna barrels towards the bank and plunges into the water.
Sophie and I glance at one another for a split second and then run as fast as we can, staggering up the bank towards our clothes. We scoop them up in one movement. I frantically search my pockets for the car keys as I run, pointing the key and pressing the electronic lock again and again, sure I can feel the breath of the monster at my back. Sophie races past me. We fling open the doors and leap inside onto the soft warm leather.
We look at our wet snail bodies and the clothes bunched on our laps and laugh. Sophie leans across and kisses me on the mouth, long and slow enough to steady our breathing, and forget the monster lurking outside. She touches my cheek. ‘James.’
I open my eyes. ‘Yes?’
She barely suppresses a smile. ‘Your pants. You dropped them outside.’
My trousers are a sad heap in the grass, halfway between the car and the lake. The goanna is nowhere to be seen. My knees are shaking from the cold of the water and what I have to do now, in broad daylight, with the goanna lurking. How fast can I run?
‘You could always leave them there,’ she says. ‘Just drive around in your boxers.’
‘Do you think he’s close by?’
‘Maybe.’ Sophie’s eyes roam to my pants. ‘Maybe not.’
I quickly pull on my boxers and open the door noiselessly. ‘If he comes back, start the car and run him over.’
‘I couldn’t do that. He’s such a beautiful animal.’
With cartoon exaggeration, I creep to my pants, eyes keen, every sense prickling. In the anxious silence, Sophie sounds the car horn and I jump in fright. She opens the door and wolf-whistles. I turn around, a stick figure in bright underwear, and give her the finger, then pick up my trousers and stroll nonchalantly back towards the car. Suddenly, Sophie’s expression changes to alarm as she points at something behind me. I sprint the remaining few metres and dive inside.
‘I thought I saw something . . .’ Sophie pokes me in the ribs. ‘I did. It was a big chicken!’
We can’t drive away, not yet. We’re worn out by the funeral, the lake, the goanna. ‘My dad used to say this was the quietest place on earth,’ says Sophie. ‘He’d boast that he could sleep here better than in his own bed.’
Our breath drifts like memory.
‘I’ll remember the day I farewelled Dad. And it will be good, thanks to you, James.’
She reaches across and pushes the recline button on my seat. ‘I’m glad you’re in the passenger seat.’ In one slow movement she is on top of me.
Afterwards, Sophie cuddles close as we look up at the foggy windows. She draws something elaborate with her fingernail.
‘What’s that?’
‘Can’t you tell?’
‘A whale?’
‘It’s got four legs!’
I click my fingers. ‘Of course. Our friend, the goanna.’
‘You know, what?’ says Sophie. ‘I almost chose the Impreza.’
‘Pardon?’
‘At the service station. There was a silver Impreza filling up behind you. The driver had gel in his hair.’ She puts a hand up to my curls. ‘But I’ve never liked gel.’
After dinner, outside the restaurant, Angela takes Michael by the hand and leads him away from the car park, where the valet will be waiting with their keys. She steps carefully over the cracked concrete of the boardwalk until they reach the stairs to the beach. ‘I want to feel the sand between my toes, Michael.’ Her voice stretches between tender and tired.
She removes her strap-on sandals and flings them on the sand. Michael reaches down and rolls up his trousers, relieved there’s only timid moonlight to witness this display. He sits on the bench seat and takes off his shoes and socks, tying the laces together so he can carry them in one hand.
They walk to the water’s edge, their feet tingling on the hard, cool sand. In the distance, a strobe beam illuminates Centrepoint Tower.
Angela takes a long, wavering breath and directs her words west to the harbour and beyond, to the plains, to where her son is. ‘Maybe I was jealous of James’s age, of all that . . . potential. I thought some of it would rub off on me, if I held him close enough.’
Michael hears Angela talking in the past tense and feels the hope rise in his throat. She flicks sand with her toes into
the water. ‘It’s selfish, I know. But I’ve felt like someone who’s always behind the camera, taking the photo, never . . . you know, in the spotlight. I’d wait for you or James to arrive home, to give my presence meaning. Don’t you see? And now, there’s only one . . .’
Michael rubs her back gently. If only he was trained to heal this kind of pain. ‘We should encourage his independence, darling,’ he says. ‘That’s what I was trying to say over dinner.’
Angela looks up quickly. ‘I agree. I do, really. I understand, Michael. It’s just going to take me a while to . . . adjust.’ She pulls her hair back loosely and tilts her head towards the water.
‘What?’ he asks, grinning.
‘Sometimes when you and James aren’t home, I tie my hair back in a ponytail.’ She laughs. ‘Like I’m a teenager. I stand in front of the mirror and remember being young.’
‘We’re not that old!’
Both of them think of the night before on the verandah, and their smiles linger.
‘We could take our clothes off right here, in the shadows. A moonlight swim?’ Angela asks, teasing.
‘Would that make you feel young again?’
‘No! We’d freeze to death!’
They walk to the headland and tentatively clamber over the rocks, aiming for the bench seat in the park ahead. In the night sky, a fruit bat wings above them, heading for the fig trees in the Botanic Gardens. Angela notices the glow of televisions in the houses along the beach. Most nights that’s what she and Michael are doing too, when all this beauty is a short walk away. She digs her fingernails into the palms of her hands and speaks more to herself than her husband. ‘I’ll worry, I’ll fret, I’ll be scared of everything James does. But to try to cage him, to dictate a future where the reward is a night in front of the bloody telly . . . that’s really a life of safety and boredom.’
Michael laughs. ‘Are you calling us boring?’
‘Not when we do this.’ Angela waves her arm at the view.
Michael reaches for his wife’s hand and feels their fingers softly entwine, and knows everything will be fine.
‘When I was six years old, my dad gave me a snowdome for my birthday. The scene was of a surfer catching a wave with palm trees on the beach and a bright sun in the sky. I’d shake it and it would snow, right there, in the middle of summer.’ He smiles, sheepishly. ‘The thing is, I really believed it was snow in the dome, magically suspended in water. And Dad would play along with me. Both of us marvelling at snow on the beach.’
Black Painted Fingernails Page 13
