What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?

by Alan Duff

  Man, I was freaked, Abe, when I heard ’bout her. I was. Cryin’ for you, man. I was cryin’ for you. Cryin’ for me, too, Mook. For the fucken lot of us. (I felt sumpthin’ go in me that day when we were told by Mum Grace had, uh, killed herself. Knew straight away in my heart, even though I was only fifteen, I knew why she’d done it. And when it came out a cupla weeks later it was cos of my ole man she thought, her letter said, had been doing really bad bizniz to her, rape, I was the only one who didn’t believe it. Sure, she was being raped by someone — had my suspicions it was Bully, sumpthin’ about that man. But I think she killed herself for a heap of reasons, not just that. I think because she all the time went on about potential and why shouldn’t she and us her sibs have our potential realised, what was wrong with us that we weren’t allowed to reach our potential as like a birthright. She used to talk like that. And I think she woulda told me if dad’d done that to her. Which I don’t think he did.

  Dunno why. I think cos I’d never seen that side inim, me who useda be thinkin’ about him all the fucken time, half in fear, the utha half, funny thing, with, like, love. Cos he was my ole man afta all. And the man I knew wouldn’t’ve done that. I had observed him too closely; I woulda seen a sign, an indication as our next father, good ole Charlie, woulda put it and encouraged us to put. (Sorry to let you down, Charlie, and Mum, too. But I felt I had to do this. I’m thinking I mighta made a bad decision.) I would’ve seen an indication somewhere in his range of behaviour I was always observing cos I was always trying to figure out where I fitted, what I was, who I was, and man, even what was bein’ made of me from having him as my father. I sure as hell knew it was doin’ something to me.

  But he wouldn’t’ve touched his own daughter. If everyone sayin’ he did had given it some thought, they mighta said different: cos he hardly ever touched his kids, as many times as he beat up Mum, thrashed her sometimes, he hardly laid a hand on us kids. To him that wouldn’t a been manly. Yet comes to a woman, he was like every — every — man we grew up knowing: he thought it was — whassa word? — acceptable. Acceptable to beat a woman cos, well, cos she was a woman. But he never had nothin’ against — nor for — kids. To him they were like they existed somewhere out of his reach or care, out in neutral territory. Not territory he ever thought of invading, it was just neutral. Didn’t mean anything.)

  We never got to visit Boogie. Yeah, I know, Abe. You tole me. Tha’s right, I did. Well, when I was sittin’ in the back when he pulled up outside that pub he used to drink at, I said to myself right there an’ then: He ain’t coming back out. Not till he’s off his face pissed and with his mates headin’ to our place for a pardy. I wanted to say this to Mum. To tell her don’t hang around hopin’, he ain’t comin’ out, it’s his real home in there, those people’re his real family. But I didn’t say it. I wanted to tell Grace, to talk it over with her while Mum was in the pub the firs’ time trying to gettim out. If me and Grace were one voice sayin’ the same thing, we coulda jus’ gone on and visited Boog. I c’d drive, was your big bro taught me. Right, Mook? (I need his friendship more than I need anything right now.) Right, Abe, ’member you jerkin’ my bro’s car down the road — ughh-urgh-urgh! Abe taking the relief of laughing along with his friend.

  But I didn’t say what I wanted t’ say, Mook. Same as back there, tryin’ to be a driveby. To be what I ain’t, even though I been wanting that Jimmy’s blood since he set up my bro, I ain’t a driveby … A silence between ’em, of friendship, of being confused in this world either never gavem the answers or they came too late.

  Man, an’ nor’m I. Tell the truth, I di’n’t wanna be in that rammie. Abe toldim, I know you didn’t. And here’s me making you cos all I wanted was in with the Hawks, eh bro? Yeah, man. What gave me the what-for to do it, thought of bein’ a patched Hawk. (But now they weren’t so sure.) Mookie pulled over. As it happened there was a piss-up goin’ on at the back of a house, gats goin’, fire goin’ (kids running round the front, on the street, down the road). Laughter, mos’ly fat people standin’ around drinkin’, it’s what they do when they ain’t eatin’, they’re gettin’ drunk. Singin’ to the gats, sounds that’t reach down to the lower new housing areas if the wind was carrying that way, and maybe — Abe had caught a glimpse earlier, of the grey slate roof — to the Trambert place and their hearing (and judging) and living free of worries, woes, bad influence fathers, failed drivebys, the daily hourly call on a man’s manhood (and only a young man, too). Only to be found wanting when most it counted, or did now that Mookie had told someone.

  So what’re you gonna say after we ditch the car and’re back at the pad, Mook? Say what, to who? Well, whoever you tole what we were gonna do. Who was it anyrate?

  Uh, was Apeman I tole. Apeman! You tole him? The sarge-t arms, you tell him and now he’ll be — man, Mook, what’ve you done to us? Abe, I tole him for you. He was bad mouthin’ you, man, to a few of the bruthas. So I piped up and tole him maybe he’d change his mind after we’d done the driveby. Shoulda seenis face, Abe. He looked sick. (Yeah. How I feel right now.) And Abe sighed, took his eyes out the stolen window and for yet anutha time of doubts on who and what he was. No one to go talk about it to neither. Not even Mook. Was sumpthin’ a man had to do onis own. Yet he couldn’t help feeling so much of this (shit) had been already pre-decided for him. It hit Abe Heke (fuck the Blackie nonsense) in a thunderbolt flash of revelation: I — we, me and Mookie, all of us — got made to what we are. We di’n’t have no choice. It felt, though, anything but a revelation; it felt like knowing every robbery job was guaranteed to have a man caught.

  He reached out for Mook. Man, please, Mook, I’m freakin’ out. Mookie’s instincts were to grab his friend; so here they were, two sposed-to-be-tough cunts, patched-up Hawk membas, holding each utha in a stolen car. From the swift current of his startling thoughts, Abe said: What if we di’n’t want to be how we are? And Mook said What? What you say, bro? I ain’t gonna laugh at ya, jus’ wanna know what you’re sayin’. Still holding Abe.

  But the feeling passed; he felt as if he were up on the bank with contemplating eyes down at the water mirroring himself, and Mook, too. He eased away from Mook, patting his mate’s cheek as he did. Bes’ friend I ever had. What we mighta been, eh, Mook? And Mook got that. Yeah, Abe Heke: we mighta been — he frowned. What would we’ve been, man, if we’d, you know, hadda different life? A bedda life ya mean. Yeah, a bedda one. Man, then I would say (I would say …), I’d say fucken near anything. My dead sis used to call it … She used to tell everyone in the Block. Potential. Yeah, that’s the word.

  But then their almost-mirroring looks changed yet again, Abe with sigh, Mook echoing it. Oh, well, Abe ran black leather cut-off gloves over the dashboard of a car too suspiciously modern to be likely their lawful possession. Ain’t ready (not now, man) to be the jailbird found his, uh, potential. Nah, fuck that, Abe. Who needs that at our age? Hahaha. (Gotta laugh or we’ll cry. Or do sumpthin’ people, Real People, will not know the reason for.) Hahaha …

  TWENTY-FOUR

  HE THOUGHT IF he had a few beers first that’d do it and he could walk in not feeling stupid. But then he thought having beer jus’ to buy some lousy flowers prob’ly been sitting in the Hindu’s shop for days was a bit stupid — who’d buy flowers around here even if the area was one better than Pine Block? — and if he focused on gettin’ the price down he’d be glowing about his li’l victory over a Indian and halfway up the street before he was worried about being seen carryin’ ’em and before he knew it he’d be home, and they, the (lovely) flowers, would be sitting in some nice cool water in the jar there on the window-sill. An’ a man’d be grinning and sayin’, There there, my li’l lovely flowers, Jakey’ll look after yous. But if he didn’t hurry up and make up his mind, Rita’d be here and he wouldn’t have the surprise for her.

  But then, he thought, Nah, I got her one a those wine cask things last time, she should be lucky I thoughta that. But standing there in his sitting room some weeks m
issing of Cody’s messy, always drunk, stoned and pilled presence multiplied by six or ten or sometimes twenny of the bastards, though he kind of missed the li’l cunt, Jake had eyes only for the blue vase and in his mind it had yellow and white flowers pluming from it. So he clapped his hands against his nicely pressed jeans and decided fuckit, jus’ go an’ buy the fucken things, man.

  In the shop, Yes Mr Jakey, don’t see you much in here? Where you take your business, not down the road, I hope? My prices very good. (No they aren’t. You’re a fucken black thief.) Yeah, well, I go to work early, home late. How late, Mr Jake, we stay open till very late, ten o’clock here. Open before you go to work. (Alright so I don’t buy stuff here, only when I’m desperate. Buy my groceries at the Four Square down the road, a lot cheaper.) But Jake had seen — been taken by — a particular bunch of flowers in a big plastic bucket outside the Hindu’s shop (smells of curry — don’t mind a curry myself, but not too hot). He’d got a takeaway curry once, from his regular Chinese shop in town, and it was so hot he marched back to the shop and asked what the hell they’d put in. Only few chilli Missa Jake. Li’l cunts, they were jus’ havin’ a laugh at a man’s expense. But they did givim some free rice to make up and ladled some other kinda juice into his foil container that would help make curry no’ so ho’. Li’l slit-eyes, live here a hundred years and still can’t speak English prop’ly. Know how to say money a hundred different ways though, li’l money-hungry bastards. And these Hindus aren’t no bedda.

  How much those ole flowers in the bucket? Old, Mr Jake? They are fresh in. But Jake didn’t miss the blood-shotty eyes assessing him. Fresh when — las’ week? No, not last week. Yesterday, I think. Ya think? Or you know? You buying, Mr Jake? ’Pends. On what, Mr Jake? (On if I c’n get ’em for a good price but mos’ly if I c’n walk out of here carryin’ ’em. Fucken flowers!) On how much, Mr Patel, he had the name from waiting for the bus across from the block of shops and seeing it (proudly) lettered on the window running the outside perimeter of a red circle: PATEL’S DAIRY OPEN LATE — the longer to take the people’s money, Jake’s notion of the Indian man’s entire outlook.

  For you, because I see you every day ’cross the road, big man, proud man, waiting for his bus, I will drop from five ninety-five to, let us see now … Regarding Jake with those eyes’t looked like the man got on the piss every night when he knew these Indians didn’t. (Mus’ be the curries they eat has their eyes on fire, haha!) Shall we say very special price of thrrre ninety-five? Rolling the r like a li’l Indian blackbird trilling, if they do trill. Even Jake could figure that was a good discount, but first he stepped outside and grabbed the bunch he wanted (firs’ time I ever held flowers in my whole life. Now ain’t that sumpthin’?) and held up close for inspection. And in just holding them, the stems wet (and crisp) and green in his big hands, he knew he was going to walk home with them. And the idea he’d got earlier that he’d have them wrapped up in newspaper so people wouldn’t know now came to him as almost an insult to the flowers (Y’ sweet li’l lovelies, Jakey never meant t’ hurt ya feelings.)

  So he pulled out a ten and asked, How much the discount if I buy two bunches? Oh, Mr Jake, the one discount was just a favour, for you the proud man, the big man, when I see you there, so handsome, so — he made a bicep gesture — ooo, strong (so what’s he meaning by this, of me standin’ at the bus-stop?) But you see, if I sell you two bunches at my very special price I am myself, my family, out of pocket. (His family? What’s his fucken family got to with the price of fi — of flowers?) So Jake said it: I ain’t asking the family for the discount. Ah no, you are quite right there, Mr Jake, you are not. And yet you are. You see, this is a family business. My wife, my children, my brother who buys our vegetable — and flower — produce from the market, you see how it is never my decision? (No, can’t.) Jake shook his head, he didn’t understand. If I make a sale, in this particular — he said the word as though starting with a b, why Jake was trying to stop himself grinning, as well at the li’l cunt tellin’ these lies about his family — case I am losing money that belongs to all my family. And, you know, I am being a good family man, Mr Jake — Yeah, alright, alright. Nex’ you’ll be tellin’ me their names an’ how old they are an’ that, Jake cut in. I never asked for your home (and your flash car you change every year), jussa couple a bucks discount. I’ll still take two bunches though. (But leave me out on the family lecture stuff, mista. That’s your lookout not mine.)

  Walking home he was thinking not about the flowers but Patel’s words, and his parting question. Big strong man like you, Jake — he’d dropped the Mr — no good wife to bear your children big and strong and handsome the same, no? He hadn’t answered — couldn’t answer. If he told the truth he’d be telling his (private) life story. Wouldn’t surprise him if the black cunt knew half of it anyrate. He sure knew his name when Jake hardly ever shopped there. Little reason if a man no longer smoked. He might run out of butter, milk, bread, but thinking about it he had rarely done that. The only times he was short in the grocery department was if Cody and his mates got stoned and pigged out anything they could find, tinned stuff and toasting the bread from the freezer. But mostly Cody knew there’d be serious trouble if they did that too often, so they managed to live within their budget. (Hadn’t thought about it like that. I just lived.)

  Another funny thing, he got in his bank statement that he had one-thousand nine-hundred and two-dollars something cents. That was last month. He got such a fright he borrowed the firm van and went the next day lunchtime into town and withdrew the lot in cash in case they’d made a mistake (not my lookout). And every night after work checked the mailbox for a letter from the bank saying they’d made a mistake. But a week and no such letter. So he put it back in his account, less a hundred to go out and celebrate, and not before giving it a good look all spread out on the kitchen table and seeing, just maybe, the start of a car sitting there. Put an end to the shame of catching a bus. He’d worked out it came from his pay automatically going into the account and him drawing a set amount every Thursday lunchtime to buy groceries, the rent got deducted automatically, and he’d draw for the electricity bill when it came, and with a couple of wage increases with his change of job off the shovel onto a machine, then being made a charge-hand which he at first thought was cos he had the muscle power if any man got stroppy, till the boss told him, You’ve got good communication skills, Jake. You get on well with the men and they respect you. Well, that’d made him think, as well brought him out in the flushes of such praise, to know that he was respected and it had nothin’ to do with his fists, which in turn led him to realise the Douglas brothers who he very much liked and admired, well they respected him, too, and yet they hadn’t seen him have one fight. (I seen them fight, just the once when those smartarse dudes, a rugby team from outta town, thought they’d show how tough they were.) Maybe, he thought as he gave the flower vase a good wash in the sink and then towelled every square inch cos he knew the flowers wouldn’t like the detergent not even a hint of it, didn’t know why he knew since they were his first flowers ever, prob’ly instinc’, maybe a man’s changed a li’l bit. Maybe.

  He (I’m) was (so) glad he’d got the two bunches, even if the other bunch he’d only got a buck off the price, because one wouldn’t’ve been enough. He had the flowers individually laid out on old fish-and-chip wrap newspaper (not as if I read the paper. What would I be interested in, ’cept for the sport? The world out there don’t include me in it. I’m on the outside lookin’ in — well I’m not lookin’ in, I ignore it, mostly I do. I’m jus’ on the outside and that’s it. Like most of the people I used to know, maybe most of my race) having filled the vase with water, and started placing them in, jiggling them about and smiling at the stems jamming up and his impatience, so he slowed himself down (calm down, boy, anyone’d think this was sex you was urgent for).

  He slowed himself down and placed each one carefully and with consideration into the vase, alternating the colours, white, yello
w, white. But they didn’t sorta like fit. So out they came and he tried a more random combination. And as he added a flower the water started to spill over the top so he had to empty some of it out. Another flower in, careful-careful (Jakey ain’t gonna hurt ya.) There. That was better. One flower left over.

  Stepped back to admire his handiwork. This blue vase transformed by yellow and white bursts from green stems like bird plumage from its head. Smiling. Jake Heke was smiling. Well. Well how about that, exclaimed aloud in his li’l tidy kitchen. Rita’d be here soon. He took the vase, carrying it very carefully and more than that, with a kind of emotion-niggling reverence, to the window-sill. Stopped halfway across the sitting room floor. I know what. I’ll keep ’em on the kitchen table while I’m sittin’ there havin’ a beer and when Rita knocks I’ll take ’em to the sill then. That way he could sit and gaze at them.

  After three quick cans — to get the rush and maybe the flowers — he sat down again with the fourth from his well-stocked-with-beer fridge and began to think about beauty, since it wasn’t actually something a man spent his time giving thought to, except when it was in women, and not as if the woman now late coming here was beautiful and yet she was. Alright, how’s she compare with those flowers? She doesn’t, was his first reaction. Well she sort of does, if flowers’re natural and this arrangement being his is not sophisticated, it just is, which is pretty damn good, and so is she, Rita. Stripped off she’s plump, got them ripples in her upper thighs and a bit of a bump in her gut. But she doesn’t make a man sick as soon as he’s had her and nor does she think she has anything to be ashamed of when she stands around naked after they’ve done the business and always it’s good business, so is she beautiful? No she’s not. But she has beauty. But then what is beauty? What if a person’s born with ugly features but beautiful inside? All these questions of, suddenly, great importance. (It’s like the question of what meaning are stars to sea dwellers or those who are blind?)