Munro vs. the Coyote

by Darren Groth

  “Because we are late, I think it is logical we run to gate twenty-six.”

  I scoff. “I like that—we are late.”

  He tugs me along for a few meters, then releases. In a flash, he is past the duty-free shop and on the moving walkway, suitcase of consolations by his side. I set off after him, ignoring the leftover tremors in my legs and the visions of rickety suspension bridges in my head.

  WHEN I FLOP DOWN INTO my aisle seat on Flight 47 to Vancouver, it’s a victory. We’ve made it this far. There is a journey to come—starting with fifteen hours nonstop across the Pacific—but this is a moment to savor. I want to ask the nearest hostess to give three cheers during the safety demonstration.

  Perry is across from me. It was my plan to have the two of us sit together but apart, each with easy access to the aisle. It was also important that Perry be seated beside an adult. An early-morning need for a toilet or an attendant’s help could be a tad disruptive to a sleeping child. Not nearly as unsettling as a shouted quote from Shanghai Noon or an impromptu rendition of “Born This Way.” Though, if one of those meteorites fell from the sky…well, we’d all just have to wait until it burned out. Hopefully, the damage would be minimal. Firefighter Jus would, of course, be on hand with a bucket and a garden hose.

  An announcement from the captain assures us we’ll be taxiing out to the runway in ten to fifteen minutes. There’s been a delay in the fueling procedure. I study Perry’s reaction to the news. He shifts in his seat and squeezes his hands together hard, causing the knuckles to blanch. He takes two long breaths. The passengers alongside him—husband and wife, late fifties, holding the morning edition of The Australian and a Kimberley Freeman novel—give Perry an obvious, but not unkind, once-over.

  “Afraid of flying, mate?” the husband asks.

  Perry directs his gaze at the armrest between them. He inches over in his seat, closer to the aisle. Closer to me. He shakes his head. “I like jets.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Oh, okay. Just thought you looked a bit nervous.”

  Perry does like planes. He has several model bombers he built from kits. And he bought a replica Qantas jet from Myer the day I told him we had tickets to North America. Actual flying? No idea. This is his first ride in a big bird.

  The man smiles and offers his hand. “I’m Ross, by the way.”

  Perry accepts, pumps three times, withdraws. His eyes move from the armrest to Ross’s secured tray table. “My name is Perry Richter. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  “Good to meet you, Perry. This is my wife, Jane.”

  “Good to meet you, Ross. Good to meet you, Jane.”

  There’s a pause. Ross taps his chin twice, narrows his eyes. I recognize the signs. He’s had his first inkling that the young guy in seat 39G is not fashioned from a familiar mold. Bravo, Ross! Unless the association is patently obvious—Perry’s under stress or immersed in one of his favorite obsessions—it takes most people a while to suspect my brother is a bit skewiff. It’s one of his weightier burdens: look like everyone else, act like no one you’ve ever seen.

  It’s also the main reason I’m up front about it. Before people get confused or angry or frustrated or gooey or freaked out, I give them the standard spiel: Perry has a brain condition that can cause him to feel anxious or upset in different places and circumstances. He has trouble with people—mixing with them and communicating with them—and it sometimes results in inappropriate behaviors. I appreciate your understanding and patience.

  Depending on my own reserves of patience, I might embellish it from time to time:

  What the hell are you staring at?

  Why don’t you take a picture? It lasts longer.

  If the wind changes, you’ll look like that permanently.

  You’ve never seen a disabled person and their homicidal caregiver before?

  At these times, I know for sure I am my father’s daughter. He never sought to explain Perry to the public. Let ’em get an education, he would say. If they don’t want to be educated, they can go jump.

  I lean in as Ross’s education commences.

  “Did you know that the earth is made up of four layers?” asks Perry. “There’s the core—actually two cores: inner and outer—and the mantle and the crust. The crust is where we live. No lie. I like the mantle the best out of the four. It’s mainly made up of molten lava, and the crust floats on top of it and is always moving. Isn’t that cool?”

  Ross glances left and right, then nods.

  “That’s a funny joke, saying it’s cool, because the temperature can actually rise to 5,400 degrees Celsius. Anyway, scientists call the moving convection. They also have a theory that we are living on a series of tectonic plates floating on the mantle. Some say twelve, others say it’s more than twelve. I’m not sure who is correct. One thing is certain, though—the plates can rub together or pull away from each other or smash into each other or one might go underneath the other. These events are what cause earthquakes to occur, and of course earthquakes are measured on the moment magnitude scale, but they used to be measured on the Richter scale. That’s my last name—Richter. No lie. My father used to say it was my scale and that was a funny joke too, because it was invented by Charles Richter in 1935, which is fifty-five years before I was born. In fact, it was twenty-eight years before my father was born—”

  “Uh, Pez?”

  Perry halts his runaway train of thought, takes a breath and begins lightly tapping the tips of his fingers together. He looks down at his seat-belt buckle. The couple stare in my direction.

  “My name’s Justine Richter. I’m Perry’s sister and caregiver. Just so you know, Perry has a brain condition. It can cause him to feel—”

  “Brain condition?” asks Jane.

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “So, is he one of those people who are very good with numbers?”

  “I am good with numbers,” confirms Perry.

  The husband arches his brow and twists in his seat. “What’s 1,491 times 6,218?”

  Perry thinks for a second, then unbuckles his seat belt, leaps out of his chair and opens the overhead bin. Ross stares at me, eyebrows high on his forehead.

  “It’s coming,” I say. “Takes him a little longer than the ones they trot out on TV.”

  Perry closes the compartment and flops back down in his chair. He’s holding a calculator. “What were those numbers again, Ross?”

  “I…I can’t remember.”

  “Was it 1,491 times 6,218? Or was it 4,191 times 2,618?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “Let’s try the first one.” Perry brings the calculator up very close to his chin and punches in the equation, emphasizing each digit entry with a small nod. When the sum is done, he thrusts the calculator at Ross’s face, causing him to rear back. “Is this the correct answer, Ross?”

  “I’ve got no idea.”

  “Oh. I thought you knew the answer.”

  “You took the words out of my mouth, son.”

  Perry wrestles with the meaning of this for a moment. He twists his lips this way and that, voices a quiet hum, then gives up. He stashes the calculator in the seat pocket, then starts playing with his touchscreen video monitor. I’m ready to provide some assistance, but he doesn’t need it. Within seconds he’s wearing earbuds and watching the opening sequences of a documentary on saltwater crocodiles.

  I engage the couple with a clipped smile. “Perry has trouble with people—mixing with them and communicating with them—and it sometimes results in inappropriate behaviors. I appreciate your understanding and patience.”

  “Reckon I might’ve been the one with the inappropriate behaviors, love,” says Ross.

  “Make that two of us,” adds Jane.

  I study their earnest faces. No need for further education here. Class is dismissed. “It’s fine,” I say. “All good.”

  They breathe a sigh of relief. Jane asks Ross to sit back so she ca
n see me. “Thank you,” she says. “It’s Justine, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Justine, if you don’t mind me asking, did you say you were Perry’s sister and caregiver?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mean just for your trip?”

  “No, I’m his sister all the time.” A badum-tish follows. I announce that I’m here all week and ask that they don’t forget to tip the waitress. Jane blinks three times. “Sorry, my jokes aren’t as good as Perry’s. The answer to your question is no, I am the current full-time caregiver for my brother.”

  Jane places a hand on her breast and tilts her head. “Oh, that must be so difficult for you.”

  “Ow! That’s gotta hurt!” Perry mimics a crocodile’s lunge and snap with his hand. His focus remains on the small screen.

  “It has its moments,” I reply.

  “Wow. You must be an amazing person to do that, especially on your own. Do you have any help at all?”

  The question loiters in the aisle like abandoned luggage. Then it’s in my lap, heavy and pointed. I’m overtaken by a desire to share it all with these people, these complete and decent strangers. To tell them how our mother left and we were raised by our father. How he did the best he could, better than he was obliged to do. Then he up and died two weeks shy of our eighteenth birthdays. And even though he swore on his deathbed I was ready—that my future was more than just being my brother’s keeper—the two years following made his words seem like a coin tossed into a wishing well.

  Do I have any help? It’s coming. When this holiday is over and we touch down again in Brisbane Town, the balance my father wanted will be possible. “Home” will be elsewhere for Perry. “Dependence” will be measured by degrees. The wishing well will answer with the name Fair Go Community Village. Yes, help is coming, all right.

  But the truth is, I never asked for it.

  I want to tell these polite outsiders all of this and assure them of one last, important fact: I am not an amazing person. But the itch to unburden recedes when we’re interrupted by the pilot’s update. “Apologies, again, for the delay, folks. We are all set to go now. Shouldn’t be a problem making up for lost time.”

  I shift my attention from Jane to Perry. He senses the rolling movement of the plane and removes his earbuds.

  “We’re moving,” he announces. He digs around in the seat pocket and extracts the laminated safety card. He lifts it high so it is visible to the passengers behind him. “If we crash on takeoff, I can help save some of you! No lie, I have first-aid expertise!”

  “Shoosh!” I rein Perry in with a tug on his forearm. Amid the crowd murmurings—some good-natured, others not so forgiving—I turn back to Jane. “Why would I need any help?”

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