Crow's Breath

by John Kinsella

  This is Stink’s moment. He thinks he can have me with a display of bravado. Idiot. He is calling out, Hello, hello … anybody home? He is bolstering himself up with sarcasm. Hello, hello … The room, the house, remains silent. The light is patchy, but we can see well enough. Though the windows are boarded up near the bottom, they’re open at the top, with jagged bits of glass in the frames and shreds of curtain. They are too high up to see through from the outside, unless you had a ladder, and when you look out from inside you can just see sky through the tops of tall pines planted like a welcome to sailors coming into port.

  There’s a lot of rubbish lying around. Be careful, says Stink, pointing to used needles. He picks one up by the plunger and swings it like a pendulum. This one’s got blood in it. I shriek at him to put it down. It’s diseased! I say. He edges on, making more of it, but thinks better, puts it down, and wipes his hands on his jeans like a show-off. We step around them and go into the next room. It seems all the inner doors have been removed – one is on bricks to form a hard bed, others are broken up, clearly to be used for wood in the lounge fire. There are bits of cooking gear lying around – pots, forks, broken cups and plates, bent spoons.

  I say to Stink, It’s a wonder the house stays upright. Cracked brick walls, broken sheets of asbestos, the woodwork either burnt or termite-ridden. It’s the fireplace that keeps the whole thing up, he says. We pass through into the kitchen, which is a total write-off. The taps are lying on the floor and buckled, torn piping pokes out of the wall. Gee, it would have taken a bit of strength to rip those off, says Stink, almost admiringly. I’m feeling sick by now and have seen enough. Let’s go, Stink, it will be dark soon.

  But Stink, being Stink, has to go through the whole place and when he comes across the stash in one of the bedrooms, he lets loose with a triumphant war whoop. Shoosh, you idiot! I whisper hard. But Stink is in there among the stuff. Piles of porno mags, DVDs, monstrous-looking ‘toys’ and packages of blow-up dollies. It’s stolen, I reckon, says Stink, salivating. Yeah, I reckon so, I say – we better get out of here. Stink grabs a couple of DVDs and within seconds we’re out of the place. Come round to mine and watch these, he says, as we push open the flap and dash out into the dusk. Get real! I say.

  Later, I throw away my shoes. Running out of there I’ve gone straight through some fossilised shit. It takes some explaining to my mum.

  *

  Over the next few days my relationship with Stink changes dramatically. He’s weird and offhand and doesn’t want to talk about our experience. He doesn’t even show me his rotten old condom anymore. To try and get him going, I even offer to watch his stupid stolen DVDs but amazingly, he says Naahhh, they were boring so I ditched them. I can’t believe it. After a week he stops talking to me at all. I only see him at school and he won’t look me in the eye.

  So that’s that. I think of the pentacle and the rumours of covens in Freo and think maybe he’s been possessed. That something in the house got him but not me. I think about the teacher I’ve got a crush on. Maybe she’d know what’s wrong with Stink, but I can’t bring myself to ask her and anyhow, I’ve lost interest in her. I mean, she’s so affected, with that hair and everything. My mind runs all over the place and I come up with lots of theories but because Stink won’t talk to me they don’t mean much.

  *

  When I hear that Stink hasn’t been seen for twenty-four hours and his parents have gone to the police, I know where to look. I don’t speak to anyone but go round to the house myself. At the back, I call out his name … softly at first, then a little louder. It’s a bright morning so I push up the flap, pin it up so it stays open, and step into the back room. I reel with the stench. I wonder what it will do to my lungs. After a second, like before, I adjust, and it almost seems like the air I usually breathe. The house seems exactly as we saw it when we were last there together. I step cautiously towards the bedroom where all the porn stuff is stashed. Stink, I call gently. Stink, it’s me, are you in there? I poke my head around the doorframe. I can’t see much in the room because of all the inflated dolls with gaping mouths and a strange nakedness I don’t understand. I push them aside, and feel them laughing at me: out of their mouths, out of the strange holes between their legs. Their skin is clammy and grips me, their hair makes me shiver. And eventually I find Stink, buried beneath them, his condom packet gripped so hard in his hand that it has torn, his mouth open as if it’s waiting to have something put in it, fossilised, set like plastic. His eyes are wide open and look as if they have never closed, never even blinked. And he is naked, and between his legs is nothing – nothing at all. It is sealed over like plastic. There are no signs of his genitals. No sign of anything down there at all. And it looks natural and comfortable like this. And for this I love him.

  The house fills with serenity and a sweet perfume. But it is also strong and determined in character, like the sisters I have so carelessly pushed aside. I am not selfish by nature. I have always been willing to share. And I will share him with them. And he will share with us.

  GOLDEN GLOVES

  Mid-Ohio

  Though the snowstorm has passed, there are still flurries. The roads between town and home have been ploughed, but black ice has formed on the roads and they are deadly. I have left Kroger and am driving alongside the Kokosing River. Across the river, I see the cinder track laid over the old railway-line bed, the tracks ripped out and a kind of public space created amid all the private ownership. To my left, black walnuts – the first and last to lose their leaves – and maple trees rise bare up the slope. As the ground levels between the hills, the odd field with tough rumps of harvested corn just peeking through snowdrifts at the lower point of their waves. Mostly the white swell rises high above these bristles. GM corn. A scarecrow is drowning.

  I turn right to cross the river. A car approaching, too centred. I lightly touch the brakes and the slide begins. The slide on black ice. The approaching driver touches his brakes and drifts further to my side of the road. I am up against the rails sliding sliding sliding forward. The other car scrapes the side of mine and crunches it against the railing, which I feel will be broken by the weight. I will burst through into the shallow, icy river as it cuts over pebbles and rocks with its sharp white froth.

  I bounce back as the car passes, and slide across to the other side, pass the end of the bridge, and thump into a drift. Dead stop. The other car has stopped on the far side of the bridge.

  We both emerge, we drivers – furious, slipping and gliding across the bridge, indifferent to the risk of other cars. Two big blokes closing in on each other. Two big blokes emerging from ‘medium-sized vehicles’, small cars for us. A matching pair of Dodge Neons. It’s getting dark and the snow is reflecting twilight through the flurries.

  Carnarvon

  I am sixteen and walking the streets with my thirteen-year-old brother late at night. We have been down to the foreshore, meeting up with Vin, an old alcoholic we befriended on our wanders. Vin yarns a lot about Ireland and recites Yeats poems. Through the night palms, not far from the one-mile jetty. He tells us about his good friends, the ‘blackfellas’. He says they are his only friends. He also tells us that Carnarvon is considered one of the most racist towns in Australia. It is a balmy night, though there’s a touch of high pressure, a cyclone very distant out to sea. There’s a light breeze, and the river is trickling brown into the ocean north of the town. We have seen banana plantations, the tracking station, and the expanse that echoes out from the coast. We’re staying with our uncle and aunt, who are childless and grateful for our company, and pretty well let us do what we want. We think they are excellent people.

  Vin says, You boys should check out the Pioneer Cemetery. Not all white blokes in there. You’ve got Afghan cameleers and plenty of other outback types.

  We sit and look out onto light working the water. We are not sure where the light is coming from. Headlights? We are not sure why Vin is saying what he’s saying, but we like listening to hi
m. He offers me a swig and I take it. My brother sticks his hand out and I slap it away. No way, mate, you’re too young. He huddles up to himself, then says, I don’t want it anyway. Good philosophy, says Vin.

  So what brought you here, Vin?

  The weather, mate. Won’t die outside if you crash out. Mind you, it can get much chillier at night than people think.

  Yeah, it’s pretty cool now.

  Well, in midwinter, at night, it gets cold. Not freezing, but cold. But mostly it’s nice. And when it’s really hot and humid it makes you sweat the shit out of your body.

  You mean you can drink more up here?

  I did all right in Belfast, he said, adding, Drinking, that is. Cold makes you drink to keep warm.

  But mostly we talked about things other than drinking. He told us of his wanderings around the world and I’ve often wondered if that’s why my brother and I have lived in so many places, places so far apart, with so many different climates, different languages.

  We better head home, Vin.

  I’ll walk you, boys.

  Gee, Vin, it’s dead quiet.

  Don’t let that fool you.

  We’ll be right. Where are you crashing?

  Just up the road – on a mate’s verandah. I won’t even disturb him. He’s got a beer fridge on the verandah! That’s what I love about this place. All out in the open.

  You’d think someone would swipe it!

  Nah, you should see the bloke. Actually, every now and again they do. But he’s not too worried if it’s a bit here and there. He knows everyone. Everyone. They know that. No one wants to fall out with him.

  Well, we’ll be seeing ya, Vin.

  Yeah, seeing ya, Vin.

  Okay, boys. Walk safe.

  Mid-Ohio

  It’s hard to become part of a place. After a few years, you pick up local ways. I’ve picked up an Ohioan inflection to my Australian English. Not much, enough for family to tell, but not locals. They always pick you as a foreigner and politely ask when you’ll be heading home. And my foreignness, despite the Ohio driver’s licence and insurance, was a bugbear for the guy driving the other Neon. He was restraining himself, but my accent was a red rag. His fists were flexing and I asked him if he was getting a chill and needed a pair of nice warm gloves.

  I’ll give you gloves, he said, raising his fist. Between it being cocked and glancing off my chin, there was a lifetime. In that lifetime I saw a golden glove coming towards me. A bare fist in a golden glove.

  Carnarvon

  It happened near the Port Hotel, a notorious watering hole and home to a white troll with a reputation for bashing black guys. It might have been two or three in the morning, and only the vague yellow light of the streetlamps illuminated corners and crossroads. We walked right down the middle of the street, looking at the ghostly arms of eucalypts and regularly planted palms. It was coolish. We had light skivvies tied around our waists and decided we should put them on, though we ended up swirling them into a rope and flicking each other. Ouch, that hurt! Sissy. Ouch, cut it out! We yelled and shrieked. If people were asleep, too bad for them. From behind the pub, a large group of youths bolted out, surrounding us. It happened that fast. As if they’d been spring-loaded. Some were carrying flagons of red and others longneck bottles of beer.

  Got ya, ya noisy little bastards. What are you two doin’ out of bed, away from Mummy and Daddy?

  One of us replies, It’s Aunt and Uncle! We have no idea why we said it. Less information is always best.

  Fuel to the fire. These guys were fighters and were stoked. Two or three were shirtless. Six or seven ranging in age from, say, seventeen to twenty. Quick assessment. We could have yelled louder and with more force. Called, Help! Police! but we didn’t. We just huddled together and waited for the kicking. The proddings and the pokings had begun; the ridicule. The punching and kicking were seconds away.

  Then came the call through the night, a voice we half recognised. Hey, kuddas, yous guys okay?

  We couldn’t see where it was coming from, the voice. The mob lurched around to take on the new target.

  You givin’ those fellas a hard time, ya big white cunts!

  The wall of hate broke away from us and formed in a semicircle around David Harris, Yamaji Golden Gloves flyweight from Geraldton.

  Geraldton

  David Harris was small, really small, and between my brother’s age and mine. Last time we’d seen him, he was being given shit by some security guard at a Geraldton shopping centre. The guard was threatening to search him, saying he’d seen him steal a Mars bar. We were there and said to the guard, No, mate, he never took anything. We saw him come in just now; he hasn’t even been down to the lolly section. The guard knew this was true, and he’d seen us in there with our mum who was a well-known clerk in the court, so he grunted and let the matter go. Harris didn’t thank us or anything, just sneered at us and took off. We had griped long and hard about his ‘ingratitude’, holier-than-thou.

  My brother knew David Harris a little, from the Police and Citizens Youth Club. I had only lasted half a lesson there, but my brother had done a term of jujitsu that might have no benefits when it came to defending himself, but did have a lot of kudos among his schoolmates. There he’d seen David Harris in boxing training, and the cops were saying things like, Not like the rest of ’em, this one’s really useful.

  Yeah, really useful, we kind of joked, feeling uneasy about it, talking it over in our bedroom late at night. He’s good, but, said my brother. I mean, you’ve never seen hands move so fast. Always one step ahead of his opponents; I’ve seen him sparring. He’s a Golden Gloves, you know. The best there is. I think the cops try and keep him under control – you know, dish out a bit of praise. Makes them look good. Yeah, and they wouldn’t want him turning on them when he’s older, like his cousins who’d fight the cops and all white cunts on Friday and Saturday nights, down at the Sail Inn Car Park near the harbour. The lights would bounce off the sea and way-out ships heading to far-off places would take with them stories of the fights, which sailors would join for the hell of it.

  Carnarvon

  When the gang outside the Port Hotel attacked David Harris for standing up for us, we didn’t do much. We yelled, Leave him – us – alone! And though we might have flailed our arms like windmills, we were nigh-on fucking useless.

  But David Harris was spurred on by our efforts, we reflected later, when he dropped three of the big white cunts to the ground, and yelled that his cousins were just down the road and would be on them any second. He yelled his cousins’ names, and the white cunts vanished.

  Mid-Ohio

  I wasn’t really hurt, but I was stunned. Snow flurries fell on my smarting face like bad taste. I slid as I hauled myself up. Was I sizing up the opposition? What’s the best tactic in such situations? Don’t move too fast, don’t move too slow. Don’t think of vengeance, of legal situations. That comes later.

  I hadn’t seen that there was a passenger in the other vehicle, but I heard her scream. You animal! It was a long time coming, but everything was slowed down. She stayed his hand. Girlfriend? Wife? Neighbour he was giving a lift to?

  She walked over as if there were no ice on the ground, her spiked boots daring it to misbehave. She stood between us, hand on hips. As I lifted myself against the bridge rail, she asked if I was alright and I nodded in that in-between way that says, Yes, but no thanks to him. Her husband – I was sure now he was her husband – stepped back and was nursing his fist.

  I am okay, I said, I am okay.

  I wondered if it sounded like I was gibbering.

  Then she said, Please don’t lay charges. He’s on probation. It was an instruction more than a request, a direction more than a plea. He looked small now, retreating … retreating.

  I walked back to my car, wondering why I thought that what had happened had something to do with her being an unwhite American, me being foreign, and him being a great white cunt in a lumber-jacket. Why had I faked an Irish
accent when the woman spoke to me? I had, hadn’t I? I’d sounded like Old Vin from way back in my … childhood. I wondered why she interested me. I wondered why I sloshed over the sides of the melting pot.

  Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. That I had travelled such a short distance from roots I was never able to put down. That I was snow-blind, defaced by the storm of whiteness that had swept the world.

  Carnarvon

  Vin wasn’t impressed when we told him the tale of the attack outside the Port Hotel. What did impress itself on him was that we weren’t to go traipsing about at night anymore. A curfew. He was drinking a bottle of sherry as we sat dangling our legs over the side of the one-mile jetty. Vin always started off talking a lot, then went quiet. Have you seen Harris since? he asked. We must have looked askance because he asked again, as if we were thick-witted.

  Nah, why would we?

  Well, you’ve got a mate in him, he said. I looked across at my brother for a little too long and Vin interjected, Ya silly young buggers, ya don’t get it, do ya? We didn’t.

  Vin went off and ‘acquired’ another bottle and found us dropping crap we’d collected on the foreshore off the jetty into the water. Splash measurements. Ya’d think yous guys would have something better to do, he said. He drank off most of the bottle, then got rowdy.

  Problem with you little bastards is that you don’t know how to look after yourselves. Couldn’t fight your way out of a paper bag.