by Scot Gardner
He groaned, but dragged himself to the bathroom. I collected his discarded towel and, on the way to the laundry, found Tori sitting on the toilet.
She saw me jump.
‘Sorry, Adam.’
‘No worries,’ I said, but I waited in the laundry until I heard the toilet flush. We met in the hallway.
‘Sorry. It’s only been in the last six months that Francis has been okay with me closing the door while I’m in the loo. I thought you were still in the lounge. Sorry.’
‘Yeah, no worries,’ I said again and, for once in my life, I meant it. There were no worries if Tori peed with the toilet door open.
Francis fell asleep in five minutes and, to my delight, Tori said yes to rum. We cracked our cans as quietly as we could and the little bloke let out a sweet singsong breath. We toasted to that.
‘He’s growing up quick,’ I said.
Tori nodded emphatically.
‘He’s a good kid. You’ve done a great job with him.’
She scoffed. ‘I haven’t done anything. He’s just a great kid.’
She raised her can to her lips, then added, ‘With a big mouth.’
I laughed and settled into the couch.
‘I wasn’t surprised that he hugged you when we got here. He asks about you. He misses you.’
‘Misses me? Why would he miss me?’
She thought for a minute and slurped as she drank. ‘You talk his language and you play with him.’
We’d finished our first and were halfway through our second when Tori started the interrogation.
‘So, what are you doing here, Adam?’
‘Drinking rum.’
She sighed and shook her head. ‘It’s a nice house.’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
‘Nice, but it’s not you.’
‘Yeah, well I don’t exactly live here.’
‘Where exactly do you live?’
I shrugged. ‘I’ve been sleeping in the car. I stayed at Mum’s flat, but that wasn’t much fun.’
‘So, it’s no fixed address.’
I had to raise my can to that. ‘I was sick of Splitters Creek. I needed a life. Had to get off my arse and . . . I dunno . . . find myself.’
‘Did you?’
I lifted a shoulder. ‘Sort of. In some ways.’
‘Bonnie’s hot. Is she the one?’
I frowned at her.
‘So, what did you find?’
I wet the insides of my neck again and pondered the question. My head was a little bit fuzzy but that only meant I had to take my time to collect my thoughts.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Everything. Nothing. That’s like asking what colour water is.’
‘Fine. You don’t want to talk about it. I understand.’
‘But I do. You know more of the story than anyone and I feel like we can talk about anything.’
She grabbed another can each and got comfortable. I gave her the full family pizza of my week since leaving Splitters Creek. The story went backwards and forwards and I filled in a new level of detail with each can. With each can Tori asked more probing and personal questions, shed light in the dark places and unfolded things I’d tried to stuff down the back of the couch in my mind.
I was thankful for Harry and Bonnie and my job. I was thankful for her and Francis, Bully and my old ute. I got angry at Dad and Mum and Simon and Debbie.
‘I couldn’t believe it when your dad told me you’d done a runner. Ya wuss.’
I was about to protest, but somehow when the words came out of Tori’s mouth – even playfully, as they had – they were sharp with honesty. They tore right through me and I felt myself die a little.
‘You have no idea. It’s a mess. My life’s a mess. I didn’t ask for all this shit.’
‘Listen to yourself, you drama queen. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. Life is messy. Get over it.’
She held out her hand and I took it.
She rattled my fingers. ‘Finish . . . all . . . unfinished . . . business.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I said to her back, as she performed a drunken sashay along the hall to the toilet.
‘Fess up. Own up. Take responsibility.’
My throat grew tight and, if the rum hadn’t kneecapped me, I would have tried to run again. I could feel it in my guts. How exactly do I take responsibility for my wasted brother and my fractured family? And why should I?
Because they’re family.
Then my head was swimming with ugly thoughts and sadness. It was a shit decision to get in the car and drive while I was pissed. It was a shit decision to keep driving after I fell asleep at the wheel. It was stupid to try and bullshit Cappo and to run. And to drag Bully into it and to leave without saying goodbye.
Tori crouched in front of me and closed her hand over mine. ‘You been cutting onions again?’
I tried to laugh, but the sadness had me. Tori sat and rubbed my back while my body pitched and shook. The waves of grief slashed against me for a long time. My nose ran and my chest ached and I prayed that I wouldn’t wake Francis. And the whole while Tori rocked with me and whispered comfort. When the storm eventually passed, I thanked her and we hugged – a tight, almost desperate embrace normally reserved for lost children found and the banishing of nightmares.
Later, with a foot propped against the toilet wall for balance and my stream musical in the bowl, I felt ashamed of my blubbering. It did feel like the outpourings of a drama queen and that most certainly wasn’t the man I wanted to be.
Tori had fashioned a bed from the leather couch cushions and one of Francis’s spare blankets. The blanket was way too small and even with her body curled in a foetal position, her socked feet poked from the bottom.
I gently unrolled my swag beside her. ‘You can have this,’ I whispered.
‘No, I’m fine. This is fine.’
I found a proper pillow and an extra blanket in the hall cupboard and tucked Tori in. She thanked me.
I thanked her and kissed her cheek. I flicked off the light and undressed in the dark.
Something woke me at one twenty-six a.m. A nagging metallic clunk. I thought it was the guys coming home, but then I heard a whisper and realised it was the letterbox. Rattling.
I crawled out of my swag and opened the front door, quick and quiet. There were two hooded figures at the end of the drive and one of them had just torn the letterbox from the ground.
I bolted at them. The porch light flicked on behind me and one of the characters swore. The letterbox clattered onto the footpath. I saw a boy’s frightened eyes under his hood. In his panic, he ran into the other dude. They righted themselves quickly and fled across the street. I charged after them.
I closed the gap quickly, my bare feet drubbing on the tar, the nature strip, the pavement. They split up and I followed the dude who’d had the letterbox. I could hear his nylon jacket rubbing frantically as his arms pumped. He was panting like a cattle dog. I was close enough to smell his breath, sour with cigarettes. He hurdled a pine log rail and entered a small grassy park. I cleared the log and gained another foot.
Under the lone streetlight at the other end of the park, I dived. Perfect flying tackle. The air was punched from letterbox boy and I rode him to the ground. He covered his head and whimpered.
I got to my feet and dusted the grass from my bare knees.
My naked knees.
Letterbox boy swore and sat up.
I stood there under the streetlight, with the breeze welcome in my pubic hair, and gave the boy some advice I knew he’d take.
‘Don’t do it again.’
Fifteen
‘Where is that wascally widdle wabbit?’
Francis had the volume down low, but I woke on Sunday morning to the happy chatter of cartoons. He sat on the cushionless couch with the remote perched on his knee, mouth partly open and the vacant stare of a kid transfixed. During the night, his mum had rolled off her makeshift bed and we’d shared the single swag mat
tress – Tori on the outside of the canvas, me and my naked grass-stained knees on the inside. The warm arc of her back pressed against my side and I wished the canvas wasn’t there.
Banging and swearing from the other end of the house.
I rubbed my eyes and sat up.
The movement made Tori groan, roll and eventually sit up.
‘Shit, sorry,’ she said, and dragged herself back onto the cushions.
The banging down the hallway continued.
Tori flashed me a bewildered look.
‘Did you hear them come home?’ I asked.
She guffawed. ‘No. Didn’t hear a thing.’
I’d found my boxer shorts and had them on inside the swag when Bully burst into the lounge. His face was grey and sleep-starved, his chest bare. He had a mess of clothes under his arm and was trying to balance on one foot and drag a sock on. He lost balance and butted the wall with the side of his head.
Francis laughed.
Bullant scowled. ‘You guys ready? We’re going.’
Tori’s brow creased. ‘Well, yeah, I suppose. What’s the hurry?’
‘We’ve got to go. I’ve got things to do.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ I said. ‘Slow down. What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’
The front door slammed as he left.
Tori shrugged and sighed and started getting dressed.
‘What was all that about?’
Francis stared at me. ‘I think he’s a bit grumpy.’
Tori sniggered. ‘I think you’re right, mate. Come on, get dressed.’
I found some eggs in Tori’s food box. I fried them up while they were packing and made them into sandwiches to eat on the road. I wrapped them in paper towels and handed them out in the carport.
Bully was dressed and belted in the passenger seat. He put his sandwich on the dash without looking at me and mumbled his thanks.
Francis had the whole back seat to himself, his booster strapped into the middle spot. I leaned in and kissed him goodbye. He landed his lips on mine and dragged me into a headlock hug. I tickled him and he let go. He unwrapped his sandwich and peeled it apart to inspect the insides, before chomping into it like an animal.
Tori stood beside the driver’s door. She frowned and gestured with her head at Bullant.
I shrugged. ‘You’re driving?’
‘Reckons he’s still a bit seedy from last night. I reckon he’s scared of the traffic.’
Bully drummed his knuckles impatiently on the window beside his head.
Tori hugged me. A quick squeeze and a peck on the cheek. ‘Love you. Look after yourself. Come home soon,’ she whispered.
‘Yep,’ I garbled.
I didn’t want to let go. And I would go home. I wanted to pile in the back with Francis right then. Sometime during the night my bubble of self-pity had burst and I was ready for the next challenge. With the self-pity gone, I missed my brother. I missed Dad. I missed the mountain air and the silence. I wanted to finish my last two terms at school. I wanted to work at the mill and it no longer seemed like a death sentence to do so. It was just the beginning. I could do whatever I wanted.
But there were things I needed to do first.
Tori guided the Subaru out of the drive. I had to move the uprooted letterbox and I stood there with the metal pole under my arm like some sort of gatekeeper.
Tori laughed as she passed. ‘Did I do that? I didn’t do that, did I?’
‘Nope. Kids. Last night. Didn’t you hear them?’
‘I heard nothing. Except you snoring.’
‘I don’t snore.’
‘Oh . . . and Francis farting in his sleep.’
I squatted and gave Francis the thumbs up. He waved, then blew me a kiss. I blew him one back.
‘See ya.’
Bully conceded a three-fingered wave as they moved off, his face an ugly mix of tiredness and confusion. Whatever happened overnight had seriously rattled his cage. Maybe Bonnie was more than he’d bargained for?
I cleaned up the kitchen. I made a lot of noise in the hope that one of the other guys would get out of bed and hustle up a few smiles, but Bonnie and Harry obviously didn’t believe in Sunday mornings.
I took the dog for a walk. I spotted his chain hanging in the laundry and felt I was up for the challenge. Bit of tug and drag. Bit of wrestling with the crotch-sniffer. With the choker chain around his neck, he was a different dog. He walked at heel with military precision and when the sun came out and I started to jog, he trotted obediently beside me.
The shadow of a cloud raced along the street ahead of us and I sprinted to keep up with it. When the shadow raced off and I slowed and admitted defeat, Felix and I were both panting, tongues hanging out. I felt envy for the clouds – so close to the light and so far from their shadows.
We’d run to the next suburb, and across the railway tracks from where we’d stopped was another Hardware House store. It was the same shape and colour as the place I worked and – I discovered after I chained Felix to a bollard out the front – the layout inside was identical, too.
I cruised by paint and through to the timber shed. A big guy, easily six foot seven, with a face pocked like a golf ball with acne scars, asked me if I needed a hand.
‘Just looking.’
‘Yell out if you . . .’
‘Actually, I’ll have some concrete. Rapid set. One twenty-five kilogram bag.’
‘Can I get you a trolley, sir?’
‘No, I’ll carry it.’
‘How far’s your car?’
‘Springvale.’
He scoffed. ‘And you’re going to carry it to Springvale?’
I paid the cashier and lifted the bag to my shoulder. It wasn’t heavy. Not country heavy, anyway.
Felix wanted to run when he realised we were heading home, and jogging with the bag of concrete across my shoulders, I felt like an iron man in training.
Harry and Bonnie were still in bed. I looped Felix’s lead around the front tap, found a shovel in the garden shed beside the workshop and dug a new home for the letterbox. Mostly I followed the instructions on the bag of concrete but had to approximate the litre of water required. I slopped it into the hole from Felix’s backyard drinking bowl and held the pole in position.
Fifteen minutes. It was going to take fifteen minutes to set but, one minute in, the street exploded with activity.
A grey tabby dropped from the plum tree on the nature strip beside Felix and the dog was off after it. When his chain drew tight, he just kept running, bending the tap until his lead popped off. The dog was free and hot on the heels of the tabby. There was a frenzy of barking and growling and Iran at the dog, shouting his name at deaf ears.
Felix caught the cat behind its neck and shook it with more violence than he had seemed capable of. The cat howled and thrashed at the air.
I hit the dog with a flying tackle that stunned him, forced the air from his lungs and made him drop the cat. The cat scrambled under a car parked in the neighbour’s driveway.
Claws rasped on concrete as Felix fought to chase his prey and, for a couple of steps, he actually dragged me along, barking and snarling with a ferociousness that made my guts churn.
A ferociousness that turned on me.
He snapped at me, narrowly missing the back of my hand. I let go and rolled clear, covering my face with my arms, but the dog had only one thing on his mind.
The cat was safe. The car was too low for Felix. He growled and scrabbled at the concrete but couldn’t get under. The cat hissed and spat, then tore from its hide, up the fence and into the neighbour’s backyard.
Felix backed from under the car and I grabbed his chain, yanked hard and shunted him through the back gate. He snorted indignantly when I let him off and trotted to the side fence, sniffing at the ground.
The poor cat.
Part of me was happy to pretend that nothing had happened but another – freshly groomed – part of me wanted to take responsibility.
>
I straightened the tap. I knocked at the neighbour’s door, then noticed the button for the bell on the architrave and rang that too.
A stubble-jawed man in flannelette pyjamas and a terry bathrobe answered.
‘A dog . . . Next door’s dog just attacked a cat . . . a grey tabby. It climbed over your fence. Is it okay?’
‘A cat?’ the man said. ‘We don’t have a cat.’
‘It went into your backyard.’
‘Come through,’ he said, and flung the door wide before leading me through the house. A woman, similarly attired, sat at a small round kitchen table. She stood when the man explained in shorthand why he was leading a stranger through the sliding glass door into their yard.
The cat was nowhere to be found. There were a few low shrubs, but nowhere really for a cat to hide. The three of us called and even peered over the fence into an adjoining yard.
‘Here,’ the woman said.
She’d found a tuft of grey hair and a smudge of blood on the top of the weathered palings. The blood was fresh. The cat had gone over.
‘Probably in Footscray by now,’ the man offered.
‘Or little kitty heaven,’ the woman added morosely.
I smiled and apologised for disturbing them. The man escorted me back through their house and wished me luck before closing the door.
Poor cat.
The concrete had set. The letterbox was crooked. I heaved on it and managed to bend the pole.
‘Shit.’
The letterbox itself was now level but the pole was far from straight.
I tidied my mess and wrote a note for Bonnie and Harry that said I’d be back in the afternoon. I rolled my swag and carried it over my shoulder to the station. I caught a train to Mum’s. To sort a few things out.
And pick up the ute.
Sixteen
It was a conspiracy.
I could hardly contain my delight when I stepped over the low wall at the front of the flats and Mum’s Corolla wasn’t there. I dropped the swag in the back of the ute and wasted no time unlocking it and slipping into the pilot’s position.
She wouldn’t start.
The lights on the dash glowed but a click further with the key produced none of the familiar clunking and grinding of a starting engine. Nothing.
