by Darren Groth
Where WERE you?
You know where. I was interviewing for my volunteer hours.
Why wasn’t I there?
Maybe you can’t go there.
Are you trying to trick me?
No.
You can’t trick me, Munro. I’m too clever for that. You can do morning push-ups and count your breaths and think good thoughts and all the other things Ollie told you to do. You can pretend you don’t see me or you can’t hear me. You can bring me to Australia, hoping I’ll stay. It doesn’t change anything.
We’ll see.
No, YOU’LL see. You can’t just walk away from me, Munro! If you think I’ll just say goodbye without putting up a fight, you need to think again!
Okay, you can stop now. You’ve made your point.
You know you can’t let go of me. You did it with Evie, and you know how that turned out.
Fuck.
The one time she needed you to hold on, and you couldn’t do it.
I am Munro Maddux. I am a good person. I am not responsible for what happened.
You could do it every other time. But when she needed you most? When her heart stopped?
I am Munro Maddux! I am a good person! I am not responsible for what happened!
You couldn’t do it—that’s why she’s dead.
I AM MUNRO MADDUX! I AM A GOOD PERSON! I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT HAPPENED!
You’re the reason she’s dead.
IAMMUNROMADDUXIAMAGOODPERSONIAMNOT RESPONSIBLEFORWHATHAPPENED!
That’s why I’m with you, Munro. That’s why I’m here.
I AM…MUNRO MADDUX…I AM…A GOOD PERSON…I AM NOT…RESPONSIBLE…
Forever.
I AM…MUNRO…MADDUX…I AM…NOT…GOOD…
I stumble out through the doors of the train as they close behind me. The platform sways and rocks, but I manage to stay upright. My heart booms like a cannon.
“Mun! Did you forget your stop?”
“Whaaa?”
“Whoa, dude, your backpack. It’s caught in the door! HEY, HEY! OPEN THE DOORS!”
I turn my head. Rowan is jogging toward me. Gum in his mouth. Skateboard under his arm. Panic in his eyes.
“DON’T GO!”
It’s okay, Rowan. It’s over now. The Coyote backed off.
“HIS BAG! HE’S STUCK!”
My feet are dragging, but it’s over now.
“STOP THE FUCKING TRAIN!”
There’s a heave and a hiss and a sigh. I’m still. I fall forward, and Rowan catches me by the shoulders.
“Holy shit, Munro! You all right?”
“I’m okay. It’s over now. No big deal.”
“Did you know you were caught in the door?”
“It’s over now. No big deal.”
“Well, being pinned all the way to Central Station would’ve been a big deal.” He drops the skateboard onto the concrete, starts rolling it back and forth under his sneaker. “I’m guessing things didn’t go too great at Fair Go.”
“I start next weekend.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s…awesome?”
“It might be.”
“You sure you’re okay? You look like someone ran over your dog.”
“Coyote. That would be good.”
“Hey?”
I wave a hand. “Forget it.”
Rowan stops his skateboard roll. His eyes narrow. “Man, I know there’s more to your story than you’re willing to give up. And that’s cool—it’s totally your business; you can do whatever you want. But take it from someone whose family went through a real rough patch: find somewhere or someone to talk to. And soon. Before the next fight on the basketball court or the next Liber8 freak-out or the next train door that wants to rag-doll you to Roma Street.”
I hook my thumbs under the shoulder straps of my bag. An image of Fair Go’s Welcome sign flashes in my mind. The o has an upgrade to its smiley-face—a wink.
“Let’s go,” I reply.
The fast walk home helps shake off the lingering effects of the Coyote’s attack. By the time I open the screen door at the Hydes’ house, I’m feeling close to Munro Maddux levels of normal again.
“MUNSTER AND ME ARE HERE!”
Nina appears in the hallway, carrying a clear, bubbly drink in a tall glass. “You’re back! We’re just watching the cricket. How’d you do at Fair Go, Munro?”
“Good.”
“Oh, I’m so pleased. I know you were worried about it.”
“I got a thumbs-up from the residents, so I’m in.”
“The residents?”
I tell her about the interview—the setup, the vote. I don’t get into the questions asked or how I answered them without incident.
“Did you have to bribe any of ’em?” asks Rowan.
I shrug. “Just the manager.”
“And what work will you be doing there?”
I explain the Living Partner role. Rowan makes impressed noises.
“Sweet gig, hey, Mum,” he says, increasing the chewing rate on his gum. “I have to scrub toilets at Habitat for Humanity.”
“The needy families who move into those homes—they’ll appreciate those sparkling loos.” Nina pats her son’s shoulder, then sips her drink. “Munro, it’s very admirable what you’ll be doing at Fair Go. Fitting, too, because of…well, it’s fitting…”
“Thanks.”
“I think your sister would be very proud of you.”
I remove my backpack, put it between my feet. “You’re right, Nina. She would be proud.”
“And as your other mother in Australia, I’m proud of you too.”
“When do I get an other mother?” asks Rowan through a burst bubble.
“When you send your real mother round the bend… which will be a blessed relief for her.”
“Cool.”
Nina takes another sip. “Okay, Munro, I’ll leave you be—unless you want to watch the cricket with us?” On cue, Geordie starts shouting and swearing at the TV, something about a ball down the leg side and the umpire’s finger not doing what it was supposed to do. “On second thought, maybe you’d rather not put up with a retired copper acting like he’s still on the job.”
“Yeah, I might pass, Nina. I’ve got some schoolwork to do for tomorrow.”
Nina turns to her son. “Hear that, Rowan Hyde? Munro’s going to do schoolwork.” She exits, giving him the “I’m watching you” sign.
Rowan smirks and points at me. “I should’ve let you ride to Roma Street, brother.”
Picnic at Hanging Rock gets another shot at kicking my ass. After half an hour, I tap out. I open up my laptop and go to the website I’ve been avoiding since my arrival in Australia.
The new video—the one Mom and Dad were working on when I left, the one I was afraid to be filmed in—is up on the Foundation’s home page. I click Play, fold my arms and lean on my elbows. A series of photos featuring Evie drifts in and out of the frame, backed by a Sarah McLachlan tune. As the montage fades to black, my mother and father appear, standing in front of our house, holding hands. Mom begins: “Evelyn Maddux had a smile that would light up a room. She had a laugh that made you want to tell her a joke. She had a spirit that overcame every challenge that stood in her way. Evelyn Maddux was our daughter, and she was the very definition of life. Tragically, that life was far too short.”
Dad’s turn. “The eighth of March will mark the first anniversary of our beautiful daughter’s passing. To remind us all to live the way Evie did, and to help fund research and awareness of Down syndrome, we ask you to buy this button.”
A graphic of the button appears. The word E-LIFE is in bold yellow, set against a blue background.
“You can find these at Save-On Foods, Safeway, Best Buy and Canadian Tire stores, or you can purchase direct through the Evelyn Maddux Foundation. Thank you for your support.”
The video fades with the two of them holding a button toward the camera. Just before they disappear, Dad gives his a kiss. A pop-up asks if I woul
d like to see the video again.
“No thanks,” I say aloud, exiting the screen and shutting the laptop. “I’m good.”
THE STRAYA TOUR
Everything.
What?
Everything.
What’s that supposed to mean?
It’s like Jeopardy. Clue: This hasn’t changed for Munro Maddux in his student exchange so far…What is everything?
Did it take you this whole train ride so far to come up with that? Golf clap for you, Coyote.
Hey, don’t go wasting that bad attitude on a Sunday. Save it for school. After all, you need to top what you did in week three, eh? Another flashback—this one walking out of the library. Janitor found you crying near the tennis courts. Another freeze-up in your English presentation. Not practice this time—for real. You were lucky the teacher…what’s her name?
Ms. Nielsen.
You were lucky Ms. Nielsen gave you an extra point because she liked your accent. And then there was fight number two.
It was just a bit of a scrum.
Fight, scrum…let’s not split hairs. The main thing is, you taught those three tenth-grade boys a lesson. Douchebags. Who could possibly think surfing was better than snowboarding? And then they’re dumb enough to say it out loud! Talk about asking for it!
Yeah.
The gang didn’t have your back this time, did they?
Rowan did. And Caro.
Not the others though. On the basketball court, they came to your defense. This time—not so much. They felt you were being pretty douchey yourself.
I said sorry afterward.
How many sorrys is that now?
Fuck, why couldn’t Fair Go be a couple of stations closer?
Ah, you’re still thinking Fair Go is some sort of safe place. I’ve got news for you, Munro: it’s not. First time there, when I went missing—that was a mistake. I’ll be right alongside you today. I’ll be everywhere.
And everything.
Kelvin directs me to sit on the couch and plonks down beside me. He’s gone casual; in our one previous meeting he was all business—dress pants and collared shirt. Today it’s jeans, sneakers, sunglasses and a black ballcap with a masked-bandit logo. His T-shirt says I Bring Nothing to the Table. His office has a new look as well. A small bookshelf, stuffed full, sits under the Il ritorno dello Jedi poster.
“Ready to rumble?” asks Kelvin.
“Yes.” I adjust my Canucks cap. “I was thinking if I could get hold of some equipment I’d teach them floor hockey.”
Kelvin nods. “Sounds fantastic. Now forget all about that.” He slaps his thighs. His face is lit up like a Catherine wheel. “Munro, my man, this is going to be a whole different caper to what you were expecting.”
“What do you mean?”
He tells me. The team decided during the week that hanging around Fair Go for my stint was not going to cut it. Young man in eleventh grade, visiting from Canada, never been to Australia before—he needs to see the sights! They came up with a plan. Every session until my fifty hours are up will be a stop on the Munro Maddux Australia Tour, or “Straya Tour,” as they preferred to call it. We’ll visit places in and around South East Queensland of the residents’ choosing. Each resident will get a turn, in an ongoing rotation.
There is more.
Kelvin will come along as well. It means extra time put aside midweek for paperwork, but something like this is worth the sacrifice. He will be supervisor, bus driver, cash machine and videographer. When I ask about the last one, he explains that this is a chance to tell a great story—a group of residents showing off the city while getting recreational opportunities themselves. It is too good to pass up. As an afterthought, he asks if I have a problem with being in the video. I say I don’t.
“So it’s field trips the whole time?” I ask.
“That’s what the team wants to do.”
“A ton of sight-seeing.”
“There’s a lot they want to show you.”
“And all five of them are good with it?”
“All five.”
“Florence? And Shah?”
“So they say.” Kelvin looks over the top of his sunglasses. “I’m sensing you’re a bit uncomfortable with this.”
I’m uncomfortable with being away from Fair Go. The Coyote threatened to be everywhere and be everything. So far, in my short time here, it’s been nothing. For all I know, the physical environment is the reason why.
“This feels weird,” I reply. “It’s not really for residents. I mean, they’ve even given it a title using my name. I don’t want them doing this for me.”
Kelvin throws his hands up in mock disgust. “Man, it’s all about you, isn’t it? Typical bloody teenager!” He laughs. “Yes, you’re the inspiration for why they want to do this. The catalyst, if you will. But like I said, there’s plenty in this for them too. Believe me.”
“I guess I had it in my head that I’d be helping the guys do stuff at Fair Go. You know, here, where they live.”
Kelvin smiles. “Yes, they live here”—he jerks a thumb over his shoulder—“but they also live in the world out there.” He stands, and I get to my feet too. He gives me a playful punch on the arm. “This is a unique opportunity, mate. So go with it, yeah? You never know—they might still become floor-hockey legends.”
There are five familiar faces on the bus. The sixth requires an intro.
“Dale is joining us on the Straya Tour,” says Kelvin, talking over his shoulder from the driver’s seat. “Functional interaction in the community is a big focus for him, so this fits the bill perfectly.”
I wave. Dale waves back, then taps the iPad in his lap. An artificial voice responds.
G’day.
“Communication app,” says Kelvin, inserting the key in the ignition. “Great stuff. Allows the user to have a voice, literally and figuratively.”
“He’s my boyfriend! Remember?” adds Blake, who is sitting beside Dale, head on his shoulder. “I told you about him at the interview! I said he doesn’t get jelly!”
The iPad responds: I like ice cream much better.
I move down the short aisle, past Iggy—he’s fogging up the window with his anxious breathing—and the seemingly unconscious Shah. Three from the back is frowning Florence. The seat beside her is free. Without acknowledging me, she shifts to the middle, taking up both seats, in case I had any ideas. I sit across the aisle. As I buckle up, Bernie rises, makes her way to the front of the bus and strikes up a conversation with Kelvin, who waves a hand and says, “Fine, fine. Don’t take too long.” Bernie takes hold of the bus’s microphone, pulls her rounded shoulders back as far as they will go and clears something awful from her throat.
“Hello, everyone. Welcome to our first field trip on the Munro Maddux Straya Tour. Munro, I hope you’re excited. I’m very excited. I know the others are too.” She pauses. Shah’s snoring fills the gap. “This is a great chance for us to show how awesome we are, not just to our brand-new Living Partner, but also to the people out there.”
“You’re pointing to the forest,” says Blake.
Bernie shifts her aim to a more populous point on the compass. Blake approves. Kelvin fires up the bus.
“Can we go now, Bernie?” he asks.
“Soon.” Bernie points. “Florence, what do you do if someone calls you the R-word today?”
“Drop-kick them in the throat.”
“Uh…no. Don’t you remember what we’ve been taught? S-N-A-P? SNAP? Blake, what does the S stand for?”
“Stop!”
“That’s right! We tell them to stop. What about the N? What’s that?”
“Now?” suggests Kelvin. “As in, ‘Let’s leave now’?”
“No, that’s not correct. Dale?”
Dale types his response and holds the iPad up so it’s better heard: Name the behavior.
“Yes! Call it out. ‘That’s rude,’ or ‘That’s mean.’ Now the A. Iggy?”
“Away?” says Iggy, blowi
ng his nose. “Get away as quickly as you can.”
“A is for advise. Advise them what will happen if they do it again. And, last, the P?”
“Please?” suggests Kelvin. “Please let’s leave now?”
“No, that’s not correct. Munro, do you wanna guess?”
I look to Florence across the aisle, who is poking at her teeth. “Punch them in the throat?”
“Prove it! Do what you said you would do! Whether it’s telling someone or refusing to walk away or taking a photo of them to put on Instagram later. Stop, name, advise, prove. S-N-A-P—SNAP!” Bernie’s speed-blinking paces her march up and down the aisle. She closes her hand into a fist. “Everyone say it together. SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SN—”
Bernie trips on a stray bag in the aisle, stumbles forward and drives her still-extended fist into sleeping Shah’s stomach. He jackknifes and lets out a yowl, then a torrent of angry words in another language—presumably swearwords—before stomping to the back of the bus. Awkwardness rules for a few seconds, and then laughter erupts. Blake roars like a bear. Dale is full of snorts. For good measure, he types LOL on the iPad and hits some sort of repeater button. Iggy giggles into the crook of his elbow. Even Florence cracks a half smile. Bernie waits for the commotion to die down, then apologizes for her behavior. She sheepishly airs one last “Snap” and takes her seat.
Kelvin swings the bus toward the exit.
In the online stuff I’ve read about trauma treatment and recovery, one message always stands out: when you find something that works, keep doing it.
Something worked when I visited Fair Go and met the residents for the first time. And I want to keep doing it. One problem: I haven’t figured out what the something is. I don’t even know where to look.
My team is probably a good place to start.
Iggy is staring out the back window of the bus at the trailing traffic. Every so often he points and ducks down in his seat. Florence watches his behavior. To my surprise, she does so without a scowl or a frown or an eye roll.
“We bein’ followed again, Ig?” she asks.
He nods. “Green Camry. Rusty bonnet. Front left headlight is smashed in.”
“Orright.”
“It’s been on our tail since we got on the highway.”
