He was back on the stool next to me; his hand was pale resting on his thigh. I couldn’t stop staring at it. It still had paint on it. His fingernails were all raggedy. I looked at his hand and thought about holding it.
Customers came and went. There was nothing I wanted to say to Luke that could pass for casual conversation. After twenty minutes with barely a word between us, Luke turned to me. He looked me right in the eye, and there was the hint of a smile playing on his lips.
He said, “Your dad’s weird and your brother’s intense.”
I laughed a little. “Gully has social problems.”
“What’s with the mask?”
“He thinks people can read his facial expressions. You ever heard of the Facial Active Coding System?”
Luke shook his head.
“You will.”
Luke put his arm up to scratch the back of his neck. I could see the muscles under his skin. Again, I felt like touching him. I imagined I was the kind of girl who could do that.
“Sky?” It was the first time I’d heard him say my name. “I get the feeling you don’t want me here.”
“It’s not personal. Besides, I think I’m changing my mind.”
Luke smiled down at the record he was cleaning. And I couldn’t stop myself from smiling too. What we had here was a ziplock moment of certainty, of like and like. Outside, shoppers shopped and schoolkids idled, but Luke and I were in one of those bubbles he’d talked about in Gully’s profile.
The door burst open, and the Fugg rolled in with his signature scent of beer and sun-dried urine. Even in the heat the Fugg still wore his fur. Under it was a frayed St. Kilda jumper and football shorts. He had scabs on his legs. Also food in his beard, but at least that meant he’d eaten. Most people meeting the Fugg at close range flinched. Not Luke. He jerked his head dude-ishly. “Can I help you?”
I reached behind the counter for the Fugg’s stash bag.
“We keep Ernst’s stuff here.”
I hefted it over. The Fugg picked through, settled on a record, and carried it off to the listening booth/tardis.
Luke and I watched him, the silence between us like a moat. I decided Luke was either shy or disinclined. How hard could a conversation be? But then I couldn’t seem to start one either.
“Cool phone booth,” Luke said. And I was so grateful, that I couldn’t stop the babble flow. I told him how Dad had found the tardis in the Trading Post for a hundred dollars and retrofitted it with a stool and record player and headphones. I told him that most record shops limited their listening facilities so you could only hear what they wanted you to hear, but Dad thought that was against the Whole Vinyl Experience. I told him how the Fugg stayed in there for hours and after he left, we had to use air freshener.
“I’ve seen him on the street,” Luke said. “And at the park.”
“He’s a poet.”
I stared at the Fugg through the glass. “I like watching people’s faces when they listen to music. I like how it’s private. Even at a gig if you’re all hearing the same thing, you’re really all hearing something different.”
Luke didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched the Fugg. Then he half turned toward me. My hair had fallen across my eyes, and he moved a finger to lift it. “You do that too. I mean, your face changes.”
He stopped suddenly and looked away, but I had a warm feeling growing inside, spreading from toe to tip.
The Fugg came out, his cheeks damp with tears. He put the record back in his bag. He stared at Luke and rumpled and unrumpled his mouth. He bent his creaky body to bow low and when he came back up, he said, “I’m sorry for your loss.” And he shuffled off out into the fading sunlight.
Luke sat as if stunned. His face was like a mask. The telltale muscle pulsed on his cheek.
“I know about your sister,” I blurted. “It must have been terrible. If anything happened to Gully, I . . . Dad said I wasn’t supposed to talk to you about it, but it’s hard because I keep thinking about it. I’m sorry. I know that’s weird.”
Luke was silent.
I bit my lip. “The posters . . . You must miss her.”
Still nothing. Seconds passed like exam hours. I didn’t know what to say. I’d done exactly what Dad had warned me about, and now Mia was in the shop with us and the feeling of her was growing with every second. I thought about my dreams, and what Ray had said, and even Granny saying the thing about turning over stones.
“I feel like I knew her,” I said.
Luke’s eyes were like carnival glass; they changed color depending where the light hit. First they were blue and swimmy with sadness, and in the next second they had clouded over.
He looked at me blankly. “You didn’t know her. I didn’t even know her.” He stood then and shrugged his jacket on. “I have to go,” he said without looking at me. When he closed the door, it felt like he’d taken all the air out with him.
MATCHING MOHAWKS
BILL THE PATRIARCH WAS no monk. He’d had girlfriends since Mum, but apart from Vesna they’d been mostly doggerel. We’d seen a lot of stonewash over the years. Every so often one of his ladies would come into the Wishing Well feigning interest in, say, an Allman Brothers album. When this happened, Dad would hide out in the back until the coast was clear.
It was different with Eve. Dad was nervous. Drinking nervous. He looked like he’d stopped for a few after the chicken shop. His eyes were shiny, his gait was clumsy, and he was boom-talking all over the place.
“Dad,” I said. “Take it easy. Have a glass of water.”
He chugged one and then breathed into his cupped hands to determine whether or not his breath smelled. He rushed up to brush his teeth for the third time in twenty minutes.
Eve looked pretty out of uniform. She wore tight jeans and a red cowboy shirt, her hair curled nicely. I liked the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled; and the way her front two teeth crooked into each other, like they were having a conversation. Eve must have seen Dad was tipsy, but she didn’t comment on it. She drank too, but I noticed she had water between wines, and she didn’t touch the Dunlops. She was easy with me and Gully. And she’d brought some photos of Dad we’d never seen before.
“Dad, why are you all dressed up funny?” Gully asked.
“I’m not dressed up. That’s just what I wore back then.”
“How’d you get your hair to stay up like that?”
“I used to use honey,” Eve answered. “Creamed honey.”
I turned the photos over in my hand. The last picture was of Dad and Eve in psychobilly threads with matching Mohawks. Dad’s arm was slung around Eve’s shoulder. His head was turned. Eve was looking directly at the camera. The expression on her face was almost demure—it looked odd against what they were wearing, how they presented.
“So did you guys go out, or what?” I asked.
Eve looked at Dad. “Not reeeeeallly. I mean, we were all friends then. There was a gang of us who used to hang out.”
“I had a crush on you,” Dad admitted. He had his elbow on the table, his palm cupping his chin, his expression dreamy.
“Eve used to walk up to straights in the street and force them into conversation. She could talk about the cricket, or how to get red wine out of white plush-pile. She could talk about the Dow, whatever the bloody Dow is . . .”
Dad was talking to me and Gully, but his eyes were on Eve and then it was like they were in their own bubble and there was nothing we could do to pop it.
Eve said, “Did you hear about the Berlin Bar reunion party?”
Dad nodded. “They sent me an invite. Are you going?”
Eve gave a tiny shrug. “I’m not working.”
“You should go together!” I said, clapping my hands.
Dad eyeballed me—he had his finger near his throat, indicating I should cut it out—but I was having too much fun.
He busied himself with his glass and mumbled, “Maybe. I mean, would you want to go?”
It was like
watching a couple of teenagers.
Eve teased, “Are you going to dance?”
“If they play Iggy.” Dad held his glass like a microphone and growled into it, “I am the passenger . . .”
Gully and I groaned and laughed. With the lights soft and everyone’s faces all shiny-happy, I felt flooded with warmth—it was like we’d been infected with a buzzing, shaggy loveliness that I guessed meant the best kind of family. Eve tidied our plates. She did it so fast I barely noticed, and then she was filling the sink and boiling the kettle. “Sky, have you got a coffeepot?” She didn’t look at Dad as she said this, but I could tell she was trying to sober him up, keep him sweet.
I found the coffeepot. Under cover of dishes’ clatter I felt the need to explain, “Dad’s nervous.”
Eve just smiled and touched my arm. “I know, honey.”
After ice cream Gully pulled his notebook out. “Agent Eve? Can I ask you some questions for my profile?”
Her mouth twitched. “Go for it.”
“Why did they call you Evil Eve?”
“It was just a nickname. People thought it was funny.”
“I don’t think it’s funny. I don’t think you’re evil.”
I poked his shoulder. “It’s not supposed to be literal, Gully.”
“I still don’t like it.” His mouth crooked under his snout. “Why did you become a police officer?”
“I got headhunted. I was in Queensland, doing community work and teaching martial arts to women and children, and someone made me an offer.”
“What’s your greatest regret?”
Was I imagining it, or did she look at Dad? She laughed to cover it up. “Where do you get these questions?”
Gully tweaked his snout. “That’s classified information.”
“Agent Gully.”
“Yes, Agent Eve.”
“Can I ask you something? We had a call from an elderly resident on Robe Street reporting, ah, stalker-like activity from a youth in a pig mask. Know anything about that?”
“It was probably from my stakeout.”
“Right. Why Robe Street?”
“Just following a lead,” Gully said. “It’s okay.”
“Actually, it’s not.” Eve looked at Dad for backup, but he was beery and streets behind the conversation.
“Just don’t do it,” Dad said. “Whatever it is.”
“Well, I will,” Gully retorted. “I have to.”
He flapped his hand, wrote something in the air, and then proceeded to work his way under the table in small slips. Once he was well under, I said to Eve, “He’ll be there for a while now.”
“Sorry—I didn’t mean to —”
“It’s not your fault,” Dad said roughly. He aimed his voice under the table. “Someone’s just being a bit of a sook.”
Gully responded by biting Dad’s leg. While Dad sucked his teeth, Gully slunk and cowered.
“Come out,” Dad hissed. “This minute.”
“NO!” Gully’s voice had gone up an octave.
I could see Dad trying to keep it together in front of Eve. He eyeballed me again and I felt my shoulders tighten. I could hear Gully’s breathing coming fast and hard. I waited until it slowed and then crouched down. I didn’t try to touch him or meet his eye. “Agent Gully,” I whispered. “Evacuate!” He nodded sharply and then backed out and away to the safety of the living room.
Don’t say anything, I mouthed to Dad, and he nodded and put his hands together in a silent thank-you. It made me feel peevish. I pictured myself shaking my head, saying, This is what happens when you bring a new person into the mix. But the trouble with that was I liked Eve. I figured she was worth some minor regressions, as long as that was all they were.
I sat with Gully through Monkey Swallows the Universe. In the episode, two crazed cannibals called Golden Horn and Silver Horn were on a rampage, eating the souls of holy men to steal their power. They captured Monkey, made him a miniature, and put him in a magic bottle. Things looked dire for a while, but with the help of Pigsy et al, Monkey managed to escape and annihilate the deadly duo. The TV was a balm, and soon enough Gully was all smiles again. We went on to the next episode as the smell of coffee and the sounds of laughter wafted across from the kitchen. I was amazed that Eve could move Dad on from the bottle. Maybe that was her superpower.
“What do you think?” I whispered to Gully.
“I like her,” he whispered back. “She has moxie.”
Halfway through the episode the picture turned to snow; then it went black and then we were looking at Mum pre–Galaxy Strobe. She had filmed herself—she must have been experimenting. Her face came close and went far-away. She stood back and belted out a song; then baby Gully wandered past crying, and the last thing we saw was Mum rolling her eyes. I jumped up and turned the TV off. Gully’s face was reflected on the black screen. Under the snout his mouth turned down. A few seconds crawled by.
Then:
“What was she like?” He used to ask this all the time. It was sort of a game between us, but now when Gully asked, his voice had an edge to it.
“You know,” I said.
“I don’t remember. Give me the specs.”
“Let’s see . . . she never smiled in photos; she always paused before speaking, as if she was talking to a TV audience and not just the guy from the fruit shop; and she used to reapply her lipstick every hour on the hour—”
“Enemy Red by Max Factor.” Gully sighed so deep I could feel it in my vertebrae. He pushed his snout back up and showed me his face. “Will we ever see her again?”
I ruffled his hair. “Sure. In dreams. On YouTube.”
He nodded. He looked like a little old man. Like Dad put through a way-back machine, minus the beard and black jeans and Residents T-shirt.
More laughter from the kitchen brought us back to Eve and Dad.
Gully wrote something in the air. He said, “Do you think Dad’s in love?”
“He’s definitely excited.”
“Constable Eve Brennan is exciting,” Gully affirmed. Then he yawned and pushed his snout into sleeping state, loose around his neck.
We crashed on the couch. I woke up just as Eve was leaving. It was late late. I could hear Eve and Dad making their way down the stairs, sounding merry. I padded over to the window and peeked out from the curtain. I saw Dad open Eve’s car door for her, and then they merged into a kiss. I watched them, holding my breath, then creeped back to the couch. When Dad came back, I pretended to be asleep. I heard him open the fridge. I heard the twist top of beer. He put on an Al Green record and crooned along. Dad was hopeless. He was so happy he had to have a drink. For a few seconds I was annoyed with him, and then I fell back to sleep and dreamed of Mohawks swarmed by honeybees.
Memo from Agent Seagull Martin
Profile: Eve Brennan
Constable, St. Kilda Police Department
Date: Wednesday, December 10
Agent: Seagull Martin
The subject is approximately five foot seven inches and weighs around 140 pounds (approx.). She is Caucasian, of Scottish descent, but admits to having possible gypsy on her grandmother’s side. She was born and bred in Bundaberg but moved to Melbourne at age sixteen after emancipating herself from her parents. She worked for a record company as a secretary and went around in mohair jumpers and holey tights. The subject said that when she was a child, she dreamed of robbing big corporations to give the money to the poor. The subject is a pool shark. She likes cats and has a ginger tabby called Alvin Purple. The subject is a known associate of Agent Bill Martin. She worked as a barmaid at the Paradise Theater and has allowed that Agent Bill Martin used to wait around to walk her home. She said sometimes he would fall asleep waiting. The subject still has family in Bundaberg—she went back in the noughties after a relationship breakup, and began doing the community work which ultimately led to her current employment at SKPD. The subject’s favorite food is enchiladas and Lindt dark chocolate. She believes that people are
inherently good and that public transport should be free. She has no plans for Christmas.
ACTION
Agent Bill, ask her already!
CATSUITS AND WHIRLY-WINDS
OLD PEOPLE WORK FAST. Dad took Eve to the Berlin Bar party. Clothes came out of mothballs: second-generation stovepipe pants and pointy-toed boots, a shiny black jacket with leopard-skin lapels. Dad shaved his beard and pomped his hair and twist-toed down the stairs, snarling like Lux Interior. Vesna came over to babysit me and Gully. She found the Dunlops and poured Dad a long one. After he left, she looked wistful. She moved over to the window and watched Dad getting into Eve’s car. She swirled the liquid in her glass. I could hear the soft rattle of her twenty-a-day habit.
“What’s this one like?” she asked.
“Eve? She’s nice. They’re old friends. She’s a cop.”
Vesna’s skimpy eyebrows went up so high they almost disappeared. She came back from the window and started straightening up, first herself, then the living room, then the kitchen. Finally she turned her attention to me. “You’re getting pretty. You’ve got your dad’s eyes. Have you got a boyfriend yet?”
I shook my head, but a smile snuck out. Vesna caught it.
“Who is he?”
“No one.”
She grabbed my hands in a gesture of girlish community. “Ask me something. I’ve been around the block, but no one ever asks me anything.”
“Okay. How do you know if a guy likes you?”
I’d asked Nancy the same question. She’d said if a guy liked you, his pupils would dilate. “When a dude gets those black marble eyes, he either wants to fuck you or he’s stoned.” She’d laughed her donkey-honk laugh. “Or both.”
Vesna had a different take. She spoke to me with a scientist’s precision. “A guy who likes you pays attention. You’ll say something, and to you it’ll just be a blip—inconsequential—but he’ll take it and make it part of his woo.”
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