by Jane Abbott
The next day, fighting the pain in his leg, he climbed into Jim’s LandCruiser and drove to the site of the accident. He’d passed the place before, to and from the memorial service and the funeral, but that had been months ago and he hadn’t ventured off the farm since. He pulled onto the roadside and got out. A simple white cross had been erected, swamped with flowers and cards, some of them old, some fresh, and they rustled in the wake of cars that sped past.
He limped across the road and looked at it, bending to read some of the messages, most of them for Gabe, some for the truck driver he hadn’t known, none of them for Cait. And he felt no sadness that Cait had been so easily forgotten, nor pleasure that Gabe was still being remembered. There was only fury, rising like bile, acrid and bitter and burning, that these people had intruded on this place, trying to make it their own. Because this wasn’t their place, it was his! Thick black lines still crisscrossed the road, marking where Gabe and the truck driver had fought for control and lost it. There were still gouges in the dirt where the truck had jackknifed and overturned, scorch marks where Casey’s remains had fallen back to earth, and the wind still echoed with Cait’s long scream and the shriek of shredding metal.
And there was this shrine, new and peaceful and completely out of place.
He kicked at it suddenly, crushing bouquets, and felt it give under his boot. Sobbing, he kicked it again and again, stumbling around with his bad leg. He hurled the flowers into the bush and tore up every card and every message, and he kept stomping the white wood until it cracked and splintered and then he threw that away too. And when that was done and nothing remained to tear apart, he unleashed his power and sent it rolling towards Short Town, wave after punishing wave, until he was spent.
Casey’s legacy kicked on long after he’d gone. Jim died at the end of the year, his heart breaking for good this time. They didn’t find him until the end of the day, facedown, arms outstretched, hugging the land he’d loved in one last embrace. Michael hoped he hadn’t suffered too much. They buried him in the plot he’d reserved, and Michael stood beside his mother while people paid their respects to a man who’d had few friends.
Short Town sickened and slowly died. The recession rode in and took what it could, bleeding the district, its businesses and its farms. Tourists stopped visiting and shops closed and every season brought some kind of misery: drought, flood or pestilence. Other towns suffered too, but none as much as Kincasey.
Your anger is terrible, Michael, your vengeance too.
Barb and Michael struggled on, but the farm was never the same. Once in a while she talked of selling up, but he always talked her out of it, terrified that leaving the place might mean abandoning all memory of Cait. Of course, it was too much work for one man with a buggered leg and no hope, and the weeds soon took over, gorse crept across the land, cows died or were sold. It was too much for Barb too, and four years after burying her husband she succumbed to cancer, her final reward for a life well led. Michael didn’t try to heal her. She was ready to go, so he eased her pain and watched her slip away until, at twenty-two, he was the last.
But he wasn’t alone. Cait was there; he imagined her walking beside him in the garden, sitting next to him on the verandah, lying with him each night, listening when he talked. When she replied, his breath would catch and he’d close his eyes, yearning for her touch.
He often wondered where she was, who she’d become, her name, her face. He imagined her growing up in some far-off place, speaking a language he didn’t know, perhaps terrorised by war or famine, and he despaired of finding her again, when he was no longer Michael, when he no longer remembered. So instead he kept her close, alive in his head and in his heart, always Cait. When he visited his brother in that dry, barren place beyond the wall, Gabe listened too, but he couldn’t cheer Michael and Michael couldn’t comfort him. He never said a word about Jenny, about what might’ve been; it was too hard and Gabe could no longer cry.
Sometimes he drank, but then he’d stop because Cait’s face would blur and he wasn’t able to find the door in the wall to see Gabe. Sometimes he ate, sometimes he forgot to. Sometimes he cried and sometimes he laughed, at nothing, with no one. Sometimes he prayed for release, for the madness that hovered to take him. But he never sought death because he couldn’t bear to lose them completely.
Once every month or so, when he felt strong enough, he drove into Short Town to pay bills, pick up any mail and stock up on supplies. It was the only time he ever left the farm and he did it alone, clear-headed and without the memory of Cait. Each visit he’d see another shop boarded up with a ‘For Lease’ or ‘For Sale’ sign, buildings shedding their paint and sagging with the weight of old awnings, streets dusty and unswept. It was a town in decay, its people tired and dwindling. They whispered when they saw him and children would point before being hurried away by anxious parents, all of them scared without understanding why. Sometimes Michael spotted a familiar face in the street: Kylie, wide-hipped and already running to fat, with a toddler on her hip, or Pete, looking more worn by the hard times that dogged him. But they’d duck away, not wanting to speak to the ragged man in his ragged clothes with his ragged hair. And Michael would return to the farm, pleased by what he’d seen.
About a year after Barb’s passing, he drove back from town and unloaded the car, before clearing a space at the kitchen table. As he sorted through the mail, he told Cait what he’d seen this time in Short Town. There wasn’t much mail, just a couple of new bills, a cheque from Jim and Barb’s life insurance, and some junk. The last envelope was small and thick, handwritten, with no return address. He stared at it for a long time before tearing it open and pulling out a folded sheet of paper.
It was wrapped around a photo of a little girl. She wore a green T-shirt, frilled at the edges, and a serious expression. Her hair was gold, not the dirt-blond of her father’s, more the colour of autumn leaves, and her face was oval like her mother’s. But her eyes were her own. He turned the picture over and read the single word written on the back, before spreading out the creased paper wrapping.
It was a child’s picture, drawn in crayon and a bit smudged, of two figures on top of a tall mountain. The first was black, and at its feet was what looked to be a bird, dead, with an arrow sticking out of its body. The man’s arms were raised and long chains hung from his wrists. The second figure, with its smiling face, was drawn in yellow and was holding a bow. Michael studied the photo then the picture then the photo again, but when he finally looked up to ask Cait what she thought, she’d disappeared.
That evening he drove to the waterhole, parking the LandCruiser as close as he could and walking the rest of the way. The pain no longer bothered him, but his leg was stiff and he climbed the hill behind the spring slowly. At the top, he welcomed the frozen wind that lifted his hair and gave voice to the trees and, opening his backpack, he took out two boxes. Each bore a small plaque etched with a name, but in the low light he couldn’t read which was which and it didn’t matter. Prising both open, he held them up, one in each hand, before tipping their contents onto the world and watching as the wind picked up the ash, stirring it together like morning mist and carrying it away with a sigh. But the photo and the picture he buried, beneath a rock on the top of the hill, before he returned to the house to wait.
My mother named me for what she’d lost, and so returned my gift.
We left my grandfather’s place when I was still small, and after that we lived alone. She worked hard and made a life for the two of us as best she could, without complaint. While she dated, sometimes long-term, none came close to matching my father, and she remained single, preferring her memories. At night I’d lie in my room and listen as she cried and called his name, but each morning I’d rise to her brave smile. She kept a photo of him by her bed, the only one she had, and I’d often sit there, staring at it, seeing him half-turned towards the camera, shirtless and beautiful and with the smile I remembered so well. And I would cry too.
As
I grew older, she’d speak of him and her eyes would soften, her voice husky with long-held misery. She asked me if I thought he’d known what might happen, and I told her that I didn’t know; she never asked me if I had. But I, too, had many memories of my father, of his beauty and his brightness, his laughter and his indomitable strength, and I shared them with her, giving what I could. Only once, when I was still small, did we speak of the one I loved. After that, there was no need.
Two months after my eighteenth birthday – the same age she’d been when I was born – I packed a bag, closed the door on my bedroom and found her in the kitchen, drinking coffee. She looked at the bag and lowered her cup.
‘Is it time?’ she asked. Her voice shook a little.
‘Yes.’
‘Can I drive you?’
‘No, I have my car.’
‘What about cash?’ she asked suddenly, and rose from the table to find her purse. ‘You’ll need some. Here, take this.’
I touched her arm. ‘It’s okay. I have what I need. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.’
‘And if it’s not? What if –’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I said.
She nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, of course you will.’ But there was no bitterness and I loved her for that. ‘Will you call me at least? Let me know you’re all right?’
Shouldering the bag, I hugged her and kissed her cheek. She held me for a long time before letting go, and I bore her grief. I’d been given this second chance, but there’d be none for her.
‘Thank you, Jenny,’ I said. It was the first time I’d ever spoken her name and finally she cried in front of me.
I drove out of Melbourne, fighting the traffic and learning the new highways. The city seemed to stretch on forever, bursting its prescribed limitations with new corridors of beige brick and taupe tile, thousands of square boxes of affordable blandness. But at last I began the climb up and over the ranges, leaving the smog-filled plain behind.
Turning off the highway, I followed narrow country roads through small towns. Two recessions, one large, the second smaller, had taken their toll, but everywhere I looked signs of returning prosperity abounded. Shops were open, streets were busy, and gardens and parks were bright with spring flowers and the lime of new leaves.
It was mid-afternoon before I reached Kincasey. I drove slowly through the town, past the school and the old showground, the footy club with its tired banners, the last remaining pub, rundown and unwelcoming. Here, there was no abundance and I knew it was his doing. Short Town was dead, its famed avenue of elms standing wasted and grey, their roots poisoned. I followed the trail of sickness across the railway line, over the escarpment and down the long hill to the bridge that spanned the river, then up again, past the place where I’d died, before turning onto the old dirt road with its overgrown banks of gorse and broken trees.
The double gates hung crooked, with both the heavy sign barring trespassers and the thick locked chain weighing on the hinges. I left the car and, climbing over the gate, made my way on foot up the twisting drive with its thick carpet of weeds and grass. It was not the place I remembered and, for a brief moment, I feared I was too late. There were no signs of activity, no cattle stood patiently in neat fields, and no dogs ran up with wagging tails belying ferocious barks. As I neared the house, I saw the vegetable garden emptied of life, its perimeter of pickets rotted and mostly gone, and I peered through grimy windows into rooms emptied of happiness. Crows circled overhead, but few alighted in the pines, as though fearing what they might find there. No crickets chirped, no chickens clucked. There was only the wind catching the screen door.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
But there was another sound too, as rhythmic as the door, and I followed it, past the house and down the slope until I was able to breathe again.
He used an axe, hefting it high above his head before slicing down with precision to cleave the wood. I watched him bend to place another log on the chopping block, then another, adding to the pile at his feet, and I was content to admire the grace of his movements. But those who spend their lives alone are quick to sense the intrusion of others, and he turned suddenly.
He looked older than he was. His shirt was open and I saw he no longer had the smooth chest of a boy. It was wider and deeper and rough with hair, his stomach lean and heavily muscled. He’d cut his hair, shorter than I remembered, so that it hugged his head like a black cap, making the long scar on his cheek stand out. His eyes were darker too and deep with loneliness. He rested the axe on his shoulder in warning and watched as I approached.
‘Don’t they teach kids to read in school any more?’ he said. ‘This is private property, girl, and you’re trespassing.’
‘Michael?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Who wants to know?’
I stepped closer until I could see the lines on his face, the rough dark stubble of his beard, the weariness in his eyes. He raised the axe a fraction, as though trying to scare me, and shifted his feet; I frowned when I saw him limp.
Stopping just in front of him, I inhaled his scent, sharp with sweat and wood resin, and I studied him, noticing all the scars, the hurts he’d let fester before they’d dried and scabbed and left their mark.
‘Oh, Michael,’ I sighed, leaning in to press dry lips to his cheek, ignoring his startled gasp and relishing the warmth of his skin.
As he’d done so many years before, he drew a ragged breath and closed his eyes, and when he opened them again they glittered with tears. He didn’t say my name because I was no longer Cait, but he lowered the axe and touched my hair, tracing the shape of my fuller face and, lifting my hand, pressed it hard to his mouth.
‘You took your time,’ he said at last.
‘Yes,’ I replied, and I let him pull me to him and cradle me in his arms, holding me there, not letting go while he cried.
And for a long time, in that desolate place, there was only Michael and there was only Hope; the one I’d been before was forgotten.
AGAIN
The terminal is crowded and people crush together on a narrow platform, stirring only when they hear the hum of the approaching transport. It careers out of the tunnel and jerks to a stop, its doors opening with a pneumatic hiss to vomit passengers. What follows is a silent struggle. The doors close again and the ones left outside, who haven’t been ingested, shuffle forwards to the edge.
Inside the compartment, no one speaks. It’s hard to converse, to read the nuances of expression through the synthetic masks. The pandemic following the Last War has passed, but governments have upheld their edicts: masks may only be removed at home, where recycled air is shared with those who are known.
Eyes are glued to small screens that jut from poles and the backs of seats, garishly bright in the low lithium light and, as the transport glides through the tunnel, people stare at bulletins and public announcements and listen to military messages and secretly despair that this is their lot. There is sameness here, in the grey clothes and the pallid skin and the blank eyes and the thick masks, in the slow movements of hands and feet and the dull process of thoughts.
A woman stands near the doors. One of the last to board, she’s squashed against the metal. Her red hair is scalp-short, as stipulated, and her green eyes are weary. She doesn’t stare at a screen like the others, but at a man standing across the carriage, bodies away. He’s taller than most and his brown hair is longer too, almost defying regulations. Perhaps he senses her stare, because he lifts his head and looks around, catching her gaze. His eyes are brown too, the dark of molasses, and his look is questioning.
She begins to push against the other passengers, forging a path between them. Some glare and others protest indistinctly, but she presses on until she stands before the man, her breasts to his chest, their bodies swaying together like dancers as the transport speeds around a bend. No words are exchanged and he is puzzled as he tries to place her. He frowns, annoyed, when he can’t.
She unclips her m
ask, and those who’ve noticed her – who’ve been pushed aside by her – call out in alarm. The man says nothing, and she reaches up and unclips his mask too and gently presses her lips to his cheek, just once.
They ignore the commands from overhead speakers to refit their masks. There’s a quick surge of heat in the air-conditioned compartment, and passengers pull at collars and shirtfronts, and look around, bewildered, to see if others are suffering it too. But they forget their discomfort as they see the man cup the woman’s face and gently kiss away her tears and then touch his lips to hers, soft at first and then harder, and they watch as she slides her arms around his neck and opens her mouth to his. The two are hungry, devouring, unmindful of the eyes watching through small lenses, unheeding of the repeated instructions to stop. The heat intensifies and those around them try to recoil into space that isn’t there, afraid of what they might catch. Others simply watch and a few cock their heads to better hear a faint melody, and there’s a slow stirring, a collective awakening, as though emerging from a dream.
And they who have been moved return to their dwellings and peel off their masks and breathe their chemical air and tell those they know of the extraordinary thing they have witnessed. The perfunctory kiss given to partners is deeper than usual, and the hug reserved for children tighter, as they recall the man and the woman and remember what was lost.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Whenever a book has been written and rewritten, edited and agonised over, there remains a host of people to thank: Gaby Naher, agent extraordinaire; my visionary publisher, Zoe Walton, and the team at Penguin Random House; the amazing and diligent Catriona Murdie, for her painstaking editing; Kate O’Donnell, of Line Creative, for teaching me to never say die; my dear sister, Lou, and my aunt, Alice Halstrom, for their unfailing belief; fellow writers Ness Chapman and Tanya Davies from the ACT Writers Centre Hardcopy Program, for reading earlier drafts and not laughing; my mother, Anne (HSC English teacher and a lover of all things Austen), who, I think, has finally forgiven my preference for Robert Graves, Joseph Campbell, et al., and genre fiction; patient readers Kylie Pye and Cathy Fleay; my two beautiful sons, for putting up with it all; and last, but never least, my step-daughter, Brontë, for being a part of my life. I thank you all.
