by Darren Groth
“No. He’s not here.” Kelvin scuffs at the asphalt with his sneaker. “He left, Munro. Cleared out of Fair Go. I don’t think he’ll be coming back.”
“What are you talking about? I just saw him on Wednesday. He played like, ten checkers moves the entire game. Everything else was chess.” I look up into the front seats of the bus, expecting to see laughing “gotcha” faces. “Is this for the video? Are you punking me?”
Kelvin shakes his head. “He left Thursday, mate. He made the decision to cut ties and go back to a family of Afghani refugees in Goodna. He lived with them when he first got to Brisbane, but they couldn’t give him the specialized assistance he needed, so that’s how he came to be with us. Now, it appears circumstances have changed.” He drops a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Munro. I know you and him had a good thing going.”
Found you.
I’m reeling. The air has left my lungs. I suddenly have my sister’s tongue, too big for my mouth, making it tough for words to form and find their way out. A brisk wind skips through the parking lot, carrying twigs, brown leaves, an empty coffee cup. And invisible knives aimed at my right hand. I scrunch my eyes tight, willing a loophole to appear.
“It appears circumstances have changed…that’s what you said?”
“Yes.”
“So you just…let him go?”
“No. In our discussions, I stated a number of times that I felt Shah’s best placement was here. But ultimately, the decision to stay or go can only be made by the residents themselves and their custodial connections. Shah and the Goodna family made their decision, and we have to respect that.”
No we don’t! I silently shout. What if it’s the wrong decision? I get the whole shared culture thing, but it’s not like this is Shah’s actual family. Is he going to sleep less with them? Do more? And what about the chess? For fuck’s sake, he’s almost there! Who’s going to take him those final few steps?
Not you, Munro Maddux.
“I must’ve done something wrong.”
“You didn’t.”
“Why didn’t he just ask for a different Living Partner? At least then he’d still be around.”
“There’s nothing more you could have done, mate. He’s not gone because of you. Things just happen. My old man has a saying: ‘Sometimes, Life takes on a life of its own.’” He digs into the side pocket of his cargo shorts and extracts a small object. A black pawn. “Shah asked me to give you this. He said he enjoyed kicking your arse.”
I stand the piece on my open palm. After a few seconds it tips, and I have to grab for it so it doesn’t fall to the ground.
“Did he leave an address?” I ask. “Email, phone, anything?”
“No.”
The bus horn bleats. Bernie, dressed in a Helvetica Freetard shirt, is in the driver’s seat. She points to her watch and pretends to turn the steering wheel. Kelvin nods and waves.
“We should go.” Kelvin shifts his head to one side, peers at me through narrowed eyes. “You okay to do this?”
I stuff the pawn in my shirt pocket. My heart thumps against it.
“I gotta finish my fifty hours.”
Kelvin half smiles, makes for the driver’s-side door, stops. “By the way, the guys wanted to dedicate the tour trip today to Shah, so we’re still going to the place he chose before leaving.”
“What did he choose?”
Kelvin puts his sunglasses back on. “Boggo Road. It’s a jail.”
There’s nothing more you could have done.
That’s a lie, isn’t it, Munro?
People say that when you try to stop something bad from happening and then it happens anyway. It was all you heard after Evie died. From family, friends, strangers. The doctor at the hospital who pronounced her dead. Your mom and dad said the words too, but they knew.
There is always more you could’ve done. Made one more phone call, driven one more mile, asked one more question, read one more book. Held on for one more second. You can tell yourself you did your best, and it may even be true; you might be able to say it with a straight face and sleep like the dead that night. But your best is never the best. That’s a fact. And in the end, your less than best has only one measure: Did the bad thing happen?
You should have done more.
I can’t sit still. My left hand is clamped on my head. My right—I’ve wrapped it in my shirt. It looks like I broke it and put together a makeshift sling. The team is wondering what’s going on. Bernie is blinking. Blake and Dale take turns glancing over from across the aisle. Iggy’s tracking me rather than the car on our tail. Even Florence is a little off balance.
Get it together, Munro. Count your breaths. Ten? Better make it twenty.
The Coyote’s not back.
Not for real.
This is a hiccup, a stumbling block. An echo. That’s all. I got blindsided. Yes, Shah’s gone, but the others are still here. I still have them. And they’re the key. It doesn’t matter that my time is up. I can be there for them. I can do more for them.
The Coyote’s not back.
No way.
We arrive at the Boggo Road Gaol. Our tour guide walks us through all the modern services they provide—film shoots, parties, weddings, corporate retreats. A marquee has been set up in the main courtyard, with a podium and chairs and white flowers all around. I recognize the opportunity immediately. I lay it out for Kelvin.
“Say what?” he says.
I go through it again.
“You’re serious.”
“What do you guys say…deadset?”
Kelvin frowns, puts his hands on his hips. “I don’t know. It’s actually a pretty cool idea, but I don’t know.”
“It’s not for real, obviously,” I add. “But I think it would mean a whole lot to them.” I point to the small stage area of the marquee. “Check it out! It’s like they put this together just for us! We have to do this!”
Kelvin looks me up and down and whistles. “Check you out. You’re certainly fired up. Where’s this coming from? Is it because of Shah? You think you have to make up for that somehow?”
“No.”
“I’ll say it again, mate. It wasn’t your fault. You shouldn’t feel bad.”
“This isn’t about what happened earlier, Kelvin. This isn’t about feeling bad. This is about doing good.”
You don’t give a crap about them.
This is all about you.
“These guys can have the moment they’ve dreamed about, a moment they deserve. Right here, right now.”
Kelvin considers the team, spread throughout the courtyard. They’re swinging on the gates, pointing at the tower, surrendering to finger guns. Iggy mentions to Florence that he feels safe—a bad guy wouldn’t dare follow us here. Bernie says Shah would’ve liked learning about the riot that happened in 1988.
“You know what the deal is, don’t you?” says Kelvin.
“I do. Blake and Dale have to agree to it.”
“That’s right. And if they’re good, this stays in the group. Everyone has to understand that. Photos have to be on Blake’s and Dale’s devices, no one else’s. No video, and that includes yours truly. This is private, not for sharing on social media.”
“Agree totally.”
Kelvin smiles and snaps his fingers. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go find out if we’re having a wedding today.”
Bernie blinks several times, then opens her hands.
“Okay, we don’t have long. I’ve never done this before, but I’ve seen lots of movies.” She claps once, then commences. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today at this prison to celebrate the pretend marriage of Blake and Dale. If anyone knows why these two lovebirds should not be joined in pretend marriage, speak now or forever shut your gob.”
The “wedding party”—best man Iggy, bridesmaid Florence and the happy couple—looks toward the assembled audience of Kelvin, me and the Boggo Road Gaol tour guide.
“We’re good,” I say, giving a thumbs-up.
Bernie rolls her shoulders. “Okay. So I know the two of you have had wedding vows prepared for ages, in case you ever had the chance to say them. Well, here we are. Blake, would you like to start?”
Blake takes the iPad from the groom’s hands. She fills her lungs, exhales and waves a hand in front of her eyes, warding off the tears.
“Dale, I take you to be my guy, to hug and to kiss on this day and all the other days after that. I promise not to laugh too loud, or complain too much when you watch Totally Wild on TV, or sneak swearwords into your voice program. I promise to listen to you and respect you and support you and love you. Most of all, I promise to live as your girl, now and forever.”
With a broad grin, Blake gives the iPad back. Florence hands over a crumpled tissue, and Blake dabs away the tear tracks on her red, round cheeks.
“Your turn, big fella,” says Bernie.
Dale takes the hand of his bride and kisses it. He opens the voice program.
Blake, I take you to be my girl, to hug and to kiss on this day and all the other days after that. I promise not to hide your ‘furreal friends,’ or burn your French toast, or stink you out after a long day sweating in the sun. I promise to listen to you and respect you and support you and love you. Most of all, I promise to live as your guy, now and forever.
“Ignatius?” asks Bernie. “Do you have the Fruit Tingles?”
Iggy lifts the candy from his pocket, two pieces. He hands them to the couple with a Fabergé-egg level of care.
“Good thing you had those,” I say to Kelvin.
He shrugs. “Life Savers would’ve been better.”
“Blake, do you take this guy to be your guy?”
“I do.”
She places the candy on Dale’s open palm. He lifts it to his open mouth and drops it in.
“Dale, do you take this girl to be your girl?”
I do.
He returns the Tingle favor. Bernie nods.
“By the power vested in me as creator of the Freetard line of clothing—shirts $19.99, caps $14.99—I now pronounce you together forever. You may kiss each other. But no tongues, please. And no exchanging Fruit Tingles. That’s gross.”
Dale and Blake lock lips. Iggy applauds. Florence does a celebratory Flo-jitsu move. The iPad approves with a pre-programmed, AWWW, YEAH!
After the photos—two each on the newlyweds’ devices—Blake runs over and throws her arms around my neck.
“Thank you, Munro!” she says in my ear, her voice way too loud. “That was the best moment of my life!”
I pat her back. “So stoked for you and Dale.”
She separates, squeals and returns to her “husband.” He’s staring at the photos, mist gathering in his eyes. The wedding party soon morphs back into a tour group and follows the guide toward the cell blocks. Kelvin and I bring up the rear.
“I’ve seen plenty of Fair Go moments in my time. Not too many better than that,” he says. “How do you feel?”
I take the black pawn out of my shirt pocket and toss it from hand to hand. My face is achy from smiling so much. My head is clear.
“I feel like I did good.”
Kelvin nods. “Can’t argue with that, Munro. Can’t argue with that at all.”
I should be dog-tired, dozing, destined for some faraway platform on the opposite side of Brisbane. I’m not tired. I’m wide awake. That’s what a wake-up call will do.
The school planner is out of my bag. The calendar is open. In my hand is a red marker. It looms over the grid of dates, ready to strike.
The first X—Vaccination Day—is marked as the train leaves Banfield station. There are six more Xs by the time the announcement for Wattle Ridge comes over the PA.
“Rowan’s gonna be real busy deleting messages,” I murmur.
“So how was it? Where did your mate Shah choose, Munro?”
“Boggo Road Gaol.”
Geordie and Nina exchange a glance across the dinner table. Rowan says, “Awesome” through a mouthful of his incredible bacon-potato pie.
“Brings back some memories,” replies Geordie, between glugs of his XXXX beer. “How’d it go?”
“Bad start, but it got better.”
“Did Shah enjoy it?”
I set my knife and fork down on the plate. “That was the bad start. He wasn’t there. He left Fair Go last Thursday. Gone for good.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mun,” says Nina, levering another slice of pie out of the pan. “From what you told us, you did a lot of good for him.”
“It wasn’t enough. But I won’t make that mistake again.”
The Hydes’ faces turn wary, each of the trio silently chewing on my vow. Nina wipes away a dot of grease from the table. Geordie splashes Worcestershire sauce on the last of his vegetables. Rowan studies a slightly overcooked scrap of bacon. A long minute passes; the sounds of supper fade. I kill the pause, compliment “MasterChef Rowan,” gather up the Hydes’ empty dinner plates and, with my own still half filled, carry all four to the kitchen. After dumping my leftovers in the garbage and depositing the plates in the dishwasher, I return to the table.
“If it’s okay, I’d like to be excused.”
“You mean from the table or from the mistake you made?”
Geordie makes out like he’s joking, but there’s a kernel of something underneath. Frustration? Disappointment?
“You’re excused, mate,” he adds before I can figure out what to say. “Catch you later? Row and I are gonna watch a tape of the Broncs game from this arvo.”
“Absolutely.”
I start to step away.
“Munro?”
“Yeah?
“One last thing.”
“Okay.”
Geordie delivers his words like they’re written on palm cards. “Your heart is in the right place. That’s been clear from the beginning when you told us about Mr. Adams and how he tried to save your sister. You said you’re searching for his spirit?”
“I am.”
Geordie stands and brings a hand to his barrel chest. His mouth twitches, as if there’s voltage in the words he’s about to say.
“Are you sure it’s his spirit you’re looking for?”
He sees you, Munro.
On your knees, keeping Evie’s head still. Working on her. Chest compressions, breaths. Keeping going, not stopping. Not stopping when it was all too late.
It was you that held her hand. It was you that let go.
He knows, Munro.
He knows it was you.
Before the rugby match replay, I invite Rowan to hang out for a bit in my room. I tell him about all the Fair Go time I mean to do this term. He walks to the corner nearest the window, grabs the little stuffed koala clinging to the stem of the pedestal fan and attaches it to his middle finger.
“I take that to mean you won’t be wiping any more phone calls.”
“You gotta help me out here, man,” he says. “You gotta give me a reason.”
“I thought you said you would keep doing it. That it was like littering for you.”
“It is.”
“You said you wanted to help me.”
Rowan pats the koala on the head. “I am helping you, brother. And I will keep helping you. But you gotta get real now, Mun. You gotta talk about what happened.”
I tilt my head, allowing my hair to fall forward. I look at Rowan through the dark curtain. “You still don’t know?”
“No.”
“You didn’t look it up out of curiosity?”
He smiles. “No. Didn’t search any of the million articles out there.”
“More like ten.”
“A million, ten…not cool either way.”
“What about your dad?”
“What about him?”
“He didn’t look it up?”
“He’s not much of a Googler.”
“At supper, it just seemed like he…knew.”
Rowan sits in the office chair. “He doesn’t know about you, b
ut he knows what’s going on. He sees you.”
I move so I’m seated on the edge of the bed, my legs dangling over the side. My heels bounce against the wooden frame.
“It goes no further than this room.”
“Only if you say otherwise.”
The story I told in the Thai restaurant my first week—I tell the same one now, only Mr. Adams is nowhere to be found. Where was Evie’s favorite teacher when she lay dying in the corridor between the library and Mrs. Bouchard’s class? Probably on the other side of the Pacific Ocean, back in his hometown of Brisbane. Certainly thousands of miles from DSS. I wonder if he even knows what happened. I wonder if he’s even aware that his brightest star fell from the sky.
Rowan listens without reaction. No What the? or I can’t even or That’s totally messed up. At the finish, he strokes the peach fuzz on his top lip, crosses his legs, leans on one of the office chair’s armrests.
“You need a drink of water?”
“I’m okay.”
He closes one eye. “Bundy and Coke?”
“Pass.”
“How’s it feel to unload that stuff?”
I count out three breaths, then answer, “Makes me want to jump on a train and head back to Fair Go.”
Rowan nods and gets to his feet. He tosses the koala to me and shoves his hands deep into his jeans pockets.
“I’ll rub out as many messages as I can.”
As he heads for the door, he has the last word. “The residents out there—they’re not your sister, man. And they’re not your chance to make things right.”
I sit the koala on my bedside table. He looks a bit lost, his outstretched arms pleading for something to hang on to.
“I gotcha, buddy.”
I dig into my shirt pocket and pull out the black pawn. It’s a perfect fit.
I do fifty push-ups, then get into bed and turn out the light.
So, you gave me a scare today, Coyote. A little throwback to the bad old days.
It’s done though. The Fair Go effect is about to go into overdrive. No more scares, no more glitches, no more echoes. Just goodbye. For good. It’s the home stretch, Coyote. Starting tomorrow.
Sleep well tonight.
You too, Munro.
Just like Shah.
