Call Me Evie

by J. P. Pomare

  I climbed in, closed the door and reached for my seatbelt. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll direct you.’

  ‘Kate . . .’ He turned to me with a smile. ‘I know where you live.’

  FOURTEEN

  THE DAY I met Thom’s mum it was an anniversary. That’s what he called the fifth day of each of the three months that had passed since our first date, the fifth day of September. I was thrilled he took the small milestones so seriously.

  We met at the place we’d dubbed the spot – where we had finally shared our first kiss – right under the eucalyptus tree in the park at the end of Thom’s street. There had been other kisses since then, but I felt an inner warmth every time we passed by the spot. I would always think about that moment when I stood on my toes and leant forwards, our lips touching, my hands on his biceps.

  It wasn’t excitement I felt as he led me to meet his mum. My nerves were crackling and my stomach twisted.

  ‘Mum knows you’re coming,’ he said as he led me along by my hand. ‘I’ve told her all about you. Let me guess, Bomber Bennet hasn’t even heard my name yet, has he?’ He was right; I hadn’t mentioned him to Dad.

  ‘He can be a bit protective,’ I said defensively.

  ‘A bit?’ he said. ‘What about the thing with the paparazzo? The guy is a legend.’

  I didn’t know what he meant at first, then the incident came back to me. It had been over a decade ago. There’d been a guy hovering with a camera as Dad led Mum from the hospital to the car. Dad had snatched the front of the man’s shirt and drawn his fist back, but at the last second his fist had transformed into a pointing finger, veins in his throat, his teeth gritted between words. That’s the image a lot of people associated with him. Dad ripping the camera from the man’s hand, holding the man against a wall with his forearm and placing the camera on the footpath before driving away. Six months after that photograph made it onto the front page of The Sun, Mum would be dead.

  ‘The guy deserved it,’ I said, controlling my voice and my impulse to defend him. Not that he needed defending. I didn’t want this conversation heading in the direction of Mum, I didn’t want Thom to talk about her. So I added, ‘Dad is nothing like that in real life, you know.’

  As we neared the door of Thom’s house – small and neat, white weatherboard with terracotta roof tiles – I pulled my hand from his and tightened my ponytail; I cut my hair so rarely that when it was loose it hung almost to my waist. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans.

  When Thom opened the door a gust of heat rushed out, followed by the rich aromas of rosemary, garlic, a lamb roasting in the oven. I could picture his mother: floral apron, red lipstick, loving gaze.

  Inside, the walls were stark white, except for the art: single-coloured paintings of shapes I could recognise but couldn’t quite place, as if I were looking at something familiar through an unfocused lens. We stopped to remove our shoes, placing them in a steel rack.

  ‘Come say hi to Mum.’

  I followed him up the hall, the polished wooden floorboards chilly through my socks.

  ‘Mum,’ he called.

  We emerged into a small kitchen with copper pots hung above the stovetop.

  ‘Well, hello,’ she said. Her voice had the crispness of a schoolteacher, and her demeanour was serious, almost stern. She was rinsing her hands at the sink. ‘You must be Kate.’

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Moreau.’

  ‘Call me Suzie.’ She smeared her hand down her apron, then offered it.

  ‘She speaks French, Mum,’ Thom said with pride. I rolled my eyes at him.

  ‘Peux-tu parler français?’ she asks.

  ‘Oui. J’apprends lentement.’

  ‘Très bien. Persévère,’ she said. ‘Thom m’a tout dit de toi.’

  Thom raised his eyebrows. ‘Alright, Mum, I can understand that. You’re just showing off. You too, Kate.’

  His mum batted him with a folded tea towel, then turned back to the stove.

  ‘I’m still learning, so I’m not great,’ I said.

  ‘Nonsense, your pronunciation is perfect,’ Suzie said.

  Thom showed me around. The lounge room was small and conspicuously TV-free. One corner was lined with built-in bookshelves. He pointed out to the yard, where rain was beginning to fall.

  ‘That’s the veg garden and out there in the kennel is Che, our labrador. Named after the socialist revolutionary or barbaric executioner. You know, depending on who you ask.’

  He led me back down the hallway, pointing out his parents’ room and the bathroom, then his mum’s studio, where he stopped. ‘No one is allowed in there.’

  I supposed that room for Thom was like the upstairs bathroom at the house in Portsea for me – somewhere I could never go.

  He led me into his room and closed the door.

  His room was big, almost as big as the lounge. The walls were plain white, with no posters or pictures except for a long string of photos, mostly black and white, pegged along.

  ‘So no TV, huh?’

  ‘You noticed?’ he said, flopping onto his bed. ‘Growing up it was kind of weird. I know it’s a bit of a trend now, the whole “no TV” thing, but my parents have been like that since I was little. If I wasn’t into photography they’d probably have a thing about me having my laptop in my room.’

  ‘What did you do for fun?’

  ‘I don’t know. Scrabble. Thankfully the iPhone killed off all board games.’

  ‘Scrabble’s not dead.’

  ‘Of course you’re into Scrabble. I should have known you were too good to be true.’

  I looked around the shelves and walls for any memento of his swimming days, but there was nothing. My eyes fell on the string of photos.

  He leant back on his bed and laced his fingers behind his head. His eyes met mine. A subtle wink. I could feel a blush coming on in my cheeks.

  ‘What’s your favourite photo?’

  ‘That I’ve taken?’

  ‘No, just any photo.’

  ‘Well there are a lot from the Vietnam War . . . a whole series of them that are really powerful.’

  ‘Powerful how?’

  ‘There’s this photo that won the Pulitzer Prize. It’s of children running from a napalm attack. And a photo of a man seconds before his execution. Literally standing there with a gun to his head.’

  ‘Sounds gruesome.’

  ‘It is. But that’s reality.’ He smiled. ‘It’s important to see the world the way it is. You can’t do anything about it if you’re not aware.’

  ‘I guess.’

  He sat up and gently nudged my arm with his fingertips. ‘Also, if my mum asks, my favourite photo is anything by Henri Cartier-Bresson.’

  ‘Can I see your camera?’

  He reached beneath the bed to retrieve a black case. He pulled the camera out and handed it to me. I clicked back through his photos: dozens of pictures of a tree, the twisting limbs reaching up into a marbled grey sky. Then a photo of a bloody dead bird.

  ‘Gross,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, that – Che managed to finally catch one in the yard.’ He took the camera from my hands, twisted off the long thick lens and put on a short stubby one.

  ‘Smile,’ he said, bringing the camera to his eye. The shutter snapped with a crisp click, then again and again. He looked down at the screen. ‘You photograph really well. You’re beautiful through the lens.’

  Beautiful. The word reverberated in my head. ‘Let me see.’

  ‘Nope. I’m a man of principle; I never share my raw material.’ The camera disappeared behind his back. I reached for it. He drew me closer, on top of him.

  ‘A man, huh?’ I teased.

  He took my hand and placed it on his chest, leaning up for a kiss. ‘Is this man enough?’

  I slid my palm over his shoulder and down his arm. His hands roamed my body, working down my spine . . .

  Thom’s house became our routine after that, his room our haven. I knew a
t some point I’d have to bring him home to meet Dad, but not yet. Not while things still felt so new.

  PART THREE

  SOMETHING HAS HAPPENED

  In the past month, how often have you experienced memories that have made you upset, sad, or afraid?

  0 – never; 1 – rarely; 2 – sometimes; 3 – often; 4 – all the time

  FIFTEEN

  DISPATCHER: EMERGENCY SERVICES. Do you require police, fire or ambulance?

  Caller: Ambulance. And I think police too.

  Dispatcher: Okay. Can you state your name?

  Caller: Peter Turner.

  Dispatcher: And the address where you require assistance?

  Caller: Well, I’m near the park on Central Road. I don’t know the street. I was just walking along and there’s someone slumped on the kerb.

  Dispatcher: Central Hawkesburn.

  Caller: Correct. Yes.

  Dispatcher: Hawkesburn Park.

  Caller: Yes, I think so.

  Dispatcher: Are you with the victim now?

  Caller: Yes. He’s face down on the road. There’s blood. As in under his head.

  Dispatcher: Have you touched the victim?

  Caller: No. I’ve just found him. Can you hurry, please?

  Dispatcher: Does the victim appear to be breathing?

  Caller: It’s hard to tell. I called and he didn’t move. I mean he’s not moving at all.

  Dispatcher: Does the victim’s air passage appear to be obstructed in any way?

  Caller: Um. No. I wouldn’t say so.

  Dispatcher: An ambulance and the police are on their way. Can you stay put until they get there?

  Caller: Yeah. That’s fine.

  Dispatcher: It’s important that you do not touch anything.

  Caller: Yes, I’ll just stay here.

  Dispatcher: They will be with you shortly.

  > after

  SIXTEEN

  THE DOOR SLAMS and the house shudders. Jim drops the bag of groceries on the table and jams the charger into his mobile phone. He breathes deeply, holding himself over the kitchen bench. Taking his glasses off, he presses his thumb and forefinger into his eyelids. An electric mood fills the room with the weight of the air before a storm.

  I turn back from where I’m sitting on the couch. ‘Hey,’ I say.

  He doesn’t look up.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Eyes flick open, glasses back on.

  I step closer. ‘Did I do something?’

  He traps me with his eyes. He’s aged. The withering of the past three weeks is there in the lines bracketing his mouth and the skin hanging from his jaw. Then the moment passes and he looks away.

  ‘No, it’s not you.’ He goes to the sink and rinses his hands. ‘I just chipped the windscreen.’

  The colour in his neck climbs to his cheeks, shines at his crown through his brown hair, then fades. He sighs.

  ‘Did you have an accident?’ I ask.

  ‘No, no, nothing like that,’ he says, frowning. He studies me as though I am an equation on a blackboard, something he knows he can solve if only he really focuses. There’s a pulse visible at his temple. ‘I just wish things could be easier for us, that’s all.’

  I shift my gaze to the hills out the window. Is it only this time of year that the grass is damp and frosted in patches all day and the windows are fogged until noon? Some trees are electric green, some pale with spindly arms. Behind me a pot slams in the kitchen. ‘For fuck’s sake.’ A cupboard bangs closed. ‘Why are these dishes out? Kate? You need to put the fucking dishes away.’

  ‘What happened while you were out?’ I ask, anxious now. ‘It makes me scared when you’re like this. Did you see someone?’

  He shakes his head, the anger coming off him like heat. ‘Why is it important to you?’

  I turn to face him. ‘You never tell me the truth.’ He’s on me in a flash, grabbing my upper arm.

  Angry tears are stinging the corners of my eyes. ‘I’m seventeen,’ I remind him. ‘Not a child.’

  ‘Well you’ve shown me just how much of an adult you are, haven’t you? Why else would we be in this town?’ As if noticing my tears for the first time, he makes an irritated sound with his tongue. ‘Don’t cry, alright? Just stop it with the crying.’

  ‘You used to treat me like an adult.’

  ‘I know,’ he says through gritted teeth.

  ‘What happened today? Why are you so upset?’

  ‘Just some kids throwing stones. Down near the estuary. They were eight or nine years old, they threw stones, that’s it. It just made me angry. When I stopped the car they didn’t even run away. I wish I could call the police.’

  ‘Can I see?’

  He frowns, but he doesn’t say no. I walk outside. Over by the car, I peer at the windscreen, see where the glass is chipped. Voices come from up on the road. Turning to look back through the front door, I see the kitchen is empty. I walk slowly up the driveway.

  On the road, a man is riding past on a horse, leading another horse by a rope. He is tanned, despite it being winter, with curly hair and a polar fleece top. He turns towards me. I am poised, ready to run back down the driveway. Closer still, walking along there are three boys. One points at me and nudges another with his elbow.

  ‘Oi,’ the shortest boy says, grinning like a hyena. ‘Are you a boy or a girl?’

  Huh-huh-huh, the others laugh. One of the boys has his arm in a sling.

  I look down, stepping backwards towards the house.

  ‘Eh? I didn’t hear you. Is this where you live?’

  I just swallow.

  ‘Eho, don’t be nasty,’ the rider calls. He trots up beside the boys and looks down at them fiercely.

  I try to keep my eyes averted, but as they continue on past the letterbox I steal a glance. One of them is watching; there’s a threat in his look.

  ‘Pakehas all stick together, eh, bro?’ another boy says without turning around. ‘Now I know.’ They’re just boys but they seem so fearless.

  ‘Hi,’ the rider says as he passes by the top of the driveway. I see now that he’s only a couple of years older than me. ‘They’re pretty harmless, don’t worry.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, thinking of the stone that hit the back of my head. I go back down the driveway and inside.

  Jim has his feet up on the couch and a glass of wine in his hand. The television is off. The classical music unwinding into the room from the stereo is vaguely familiar. I notice then that the home phone has been unplugged and taken away. I step closer to him.

  ‘Why didn’t you chase them away?’ I say.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The kids that threw the stones.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be the best idea,’ he says, taking a sip of wine. ‘Just imagine what I would do to them if I caught them.’

  SEVENTEEN

  THAT EVENING FROM my bedroom window I can see a bar of light escaping beneath the steel door of the shed. What could he be doing out there this late? I climb down the back steps in my pyjamas and cross the yard. I stand close to the door for some time listening to him tapping away on his laptop. He sighs and a chair squeaks. I could run now and try to escape but how far would I get in the cold? He would only need to check my room; then what would happen? I hear his voice. It’s just a murmur from within the steel. I can only make out a few words.

  ‘. . .it’s my mobile number . . . she was listening, that’s why . . .’ The door swings open suddenly and light leaps out into the night. I shift around the corner of the shed, pressed up hard against the cold steel. Bile slides up my throat. The chill spreads down my body like a rash. I stay dead still, my heart thumping.

  ‘Is that better? Can you hear me now?’ he says. ‘Look, I just want to know if there’s any news . . . you broke up there a bit . . . you don’t like his chances, is that what you said?’ He lets his breath out. ‘It’s the reception out here, let me try to find a better spot,’ he says as he walks up beside the house towa
rds the road.

  I exhale. That was too close. I rush up the steps; the grass is icy beneath my feet. My jaw trembles with cold. I step inside, gently closing the back door, and creep down the hall to my room. Then I fall back into bed, waiting to warm up, thinking about what Jim had just said. You don’t like his chances.

  In the morning Jim wakes to find the words ‘Fuck Off’ spray-painted across the windscreen of the car. He simply clucks his tongue, goes out to the shed and finds a blade to scrape it off with as if this is trivial, like finding a blown bulb in the lounge room and yet small things – when I spilled a pot of water, when I let the fire go out – have made his face parboiled red, and veins rise in his throat. In the afternoon, after he has cleaned off the red spray-paint, we take a drive out of town.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Tauranga,’ he says. ‘For lunch.’

  As the noiseless sedan rolls along I gaze through the windscreen, marked by five chips in the glass although most of the paint came off. Out here, it’s not like Melbourne, with all that concrete, all those cars stopping and starting, trailing exhaust fumes. Beside the road there’s nothing but emerald paddocks and sheep with their heads bowed. He’s constantly frowning at the rear-view mirror and doubles back around a block on the way out of town. Does he think someone is following us?

  He wants us to escape Maketu for an hour or so to leave it behind and spend some time together. To be happy in each other’s company again. We drive for forty minutes further along the coast, stopping eventually to have lunch at a café overlooking the beach.

  He says the café has Melbourne food. I guess he thinks it will be a comfort for me, but it’s not the smashed avocado I miss most.

  ‘We need a proper lunch, like in the old days. Just you and me.’

  The modern-looking café is almost empty. We find a table outside and sit for a while without talking, which suits me, because when I block out the engines of passing cars and whirl and hiss of the coffee machine, I can hear the calming sound of the sea.

  A pretty waitress wanders over. She’s all smiles, pouring our water and setting out cutlery. I order a latte, noting the way his eyebrows converge. He leans forwards a little. ‘Darling, it’s almost two o’clock, are you certain you want caffeine?’