by Ross Watkins
‘I go to work, I come home, go to work. I visit my kids. Drop by the bottle-o every few days. That’s it: work and the unit and kids. You got kids?’
‘And where else?’
‘Nowhere else.’
‘Is that your grey Camry parked outside?’
‘Yep.’
‘Then how come I’ve received reports that that same vehicle has been parked outside the home of your son’s English teacher over the past few days?’
‘That son of a bitch?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘He’s a fucken sicko. He’s the one you should be arresting.’
‘Are you aware that stalking is illegal? That you can’t just follow a person about or hang around in the vicinity of a person’s place of residence?’
Danny sat forward now. He took a long look at Noel, then pointed at his face. ‘I know who you are.’
‘You’ve also made a written threat, which can be used as evidence against you.’
‘I saw you this morning outside his house. You’re family, ay? His brother?’
‘Did you know that you can get up to five years in prison for that offence?’
‘It’s cool, mate. I get it. Family’s important to you. You come here and put me into the door and choke me, take my phone.’
‘I’m doing you a favour, Mr Bowman. This is a warning. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘Especially your kids, ay? They’re important to you. What have you got – a boy, a little girl? Family’s important to me too, and that’s why I make sure no one harms my kids. Your family hurt my family – you get that? And now you come here and make threats against me. Did your brother say what he did to my boy? Ay? You think about your son and what you’d do if some sicko put his hands on him, put his dick in him. Eat shit, mate. My son’s just a boy. You think about that. Get the fuck out of my house and get in your fucken car and think about that, and ask yourself if it’s okay for someone to do those things to a boy. Ay? Ask yourself.’
Noel knew this guy was getting the edge on him. He wasn’t going to let that happen. Adrian didn’t need that to happen, and his little brother was the only reason he was in this stinking shithole of an apartment. Only God knew how much Adrian still had to endure, and Noel had to be the big brother for a change. That’s what their mother had said: ‘Be a good big brother.’ Adrian didn’t need this turkey hassling him.
Noel stood and Danny sat back, readying for another physical onslaught.
‘Look, buddy, let the police deal with the allegations and cut this other crap out. If family’s so important to you, then I’m telling you, prison’s a lot worse than what you’ve got going here. If you want to be with your family then be with them. Don’t try to be the hero.’
Noel took the phone from his pocket and slapped it on the table. He walked to the door, opened it and left without shutting it behind him.
When he got back to the car Adrian asked what happened, how it went, but Noel had to collect himself. He looked at the ‘No smoking’ sticker on the dash and thought, Fuck you, hire car company, and your fucking clauses. His hands trembled as he lit a cigarette, then he drew on it with urgency, held his breath for a moment and blew the smoke out the window. Adrian was staring at him, looking at his knuckles for evidence of carnage.
‘Is he alright?’ Adrian said.
‘I’ll take you home, tell you along the way.’ Noel started the engine. ‘There’s something I’ve gotta do.’
*
After dropping Adrian off, Noel pulled into a service station car park and went inside the store. He searched the shelves until he found a street directory and turned the pages until he located what he wanted. He then tracked the easiest route, memorised it and put the book back. He went to the counter and bought a box of matches and a newspaper, then got going.
Danny Bowman’s words had stung deeper than he’d anticipated. He had to do something about it now, before the sting turned into a stab and he did something foolish. And burning wasn’t a foolish act – on the contrary, it was an act of cunning.
He had to be more vigilant here. Sydney had changed so much since he’d left for the west coast. He drove through areas that had been open land or bush and were now suburban estates. The houses crammed onto small blocks had been built without eaves, he noticed – anything to gain extra interior space. After thirty minutes driving south-west, he turned off the M7 and pulled up at the place he’d seen in the directory – a nature reserve where the only nearby structure was an electricity substation, and the residential area was well enough away. There was no one in sight.
Noel got out of the car and had a look about. The grass was well dry, and conditions were perfect – any later in the year and he’d be creeping into fire season. He could tell there’d been a backburn here at least a couple of years ago, so hopefully it wouldn’t get out of control. He wanted it contained. Nothing too big. Just a small hit to appease.
He collected some grass and leaf litter and laid it out on the newspaper on the passenger seat. He then wrapped the matchbox and tied it all up with a long stalk of grass. The device in his hand, he shut the car door and set off into the scrub with the ease of a man far less burdened than Noel Pomeroy.
*
There was this one time when they were young that Adrian got the jump on him.
A new kid had moved in next-door – a redhead, heaps of freckles. He was nice enough, fourteen years old. Noel was almost sixteen and Adrian ten, but the kid was tall for his age. He didn’t have siblings so he ended up coming around a fair bit, after school when Glenda and Mal weren’t home from work, and on weekends. After a while he got on Noel’s nerves a bit, so Noel started ignoring him, finding other stuff to do instead. A few times the kid knocked on the door, and when no one answered he just went away. But one day he just opened the door and walked straight into the house.
There was some talk – Noel couldn’t remember exactly – and somehow they ended up out the front. There was push and shove, probably some choice words. He remembered the kid saying stuff like ‘Just hit me’ and ‘Go on’ and ‘You reckon you’re such a tough man’. But Noel wouldn’t be goaded. The kid kept it up, then pushed Noel against the fibro and called him a pussy, said he didn’t have the guts to have a go at him. Noel remembered telling the kid to just go home, over and over, while he kept saying, ‘Hit me, hit me.’
Noel had forgotten about his little brother, who must have been there as witness, listening to the back and forth and waiting for his big brother to snap. Adrian must have understood that he wouldn’t, because next thing Noel saw was Adrian’s knuckles come up and around to smack the kid’s jaw, the angle and jolt of it enough to put the kid on the ground. He remembered the kid crying and going home.
Nothing else happened. The visits stopped. But Noel didn’t care so much about the hit itself – what he understood was that Adrian had a different breaking point. That Adrian was made of different stuff. He admired his brother more after that day, and while Noel continued to play the big brother role he’d inherited, he knew that Adrian was capable of more than he let on, and that he would forever be the stronger.
RILEY
Riley saw his father’s flaws – his need to control, his intolerance for backchat from his kids – and played towards them whenever possible, just to see what reaction he could get. But coming out as a boy wasn’t part of that play. Coming out as a boy wasn’t a goad or a prank or anything; it was innate. Being a boy felt like the most natural thing he’d ever done, and yet getting other people to understand and accept this was the most fraught.
Riley knew there were only fleeting moments when his father didn’t hold Riley’s decision against him, but he suspected the Pomeroy family dinner might bring out the best and worst. After all, his dad was a cop, and Riley had broken his dad’s own law about what a man should be. Taking the piss seemed part of that law –
it was Noel’s go-to whenever he couldn’t make head or tail of something. And he definitely couldn’t make head or tail of his second-born child ever since Riley had stopped being his little girl, the daughter he tickled and put on his shoulders and swung around doing helicopters, all those typical things dads apparently did with their little girls. Now all that had changed, according to Noel. It was as though Riley’s change of gender had somehow altered their personal histories.
When it came to the family dinner, Riley only hoped that whatever was going on with his uncle might hold centre stage, and so take some of the heat off him. No one had bothered to tell Riley and Grace what was going on exactly, but they’d put together enough bits of conversation to know that Adrian was in the shit with the police over something he’d said or done to a boy from the school he worked at. Grace said she didn’t really care what was going on because she had enough going on with a boy online. But Riley, who admitted he didn’t really know his uncle all that much, although he knew he liked him, wondered if Adrian had become a rejected man. Rejection was something Riley knew well.
In the plane on the way over he’d asked his mother who actually knew about his transgender status and what had been said; the answer was nobody and nothing. This was obvious when they got to Merrylands and sat in the lounge room, with its lacy curtains, brown swirly carpet and corduroy armchairs – the house was seriously stuck in the seventies. Then there were the patchwork blankets, and a collection of elephant figurines arranged in a glass cabinet in the corner.
Grandma Glenda asked why Riley’s hair was so short and why he was dressed in black. Was he going to a rock concert? She then handed out gifts. Riley got a lavender-coloured T-shirt with a cartoon cat on the front with sequins for eyes. Wendy gave him a sympathetic smile. Riley said, ‘Thanks, Grandma,’ then quietly asked his mum when she’d finally say something. Wendy took Glenda aside straight after the gift-giving ceremony. He couldn’t hear what was said, but Glenda came out of the kitchen looking flustered. She took the shirt back, clutched Riley to her side, kissed him on the head and walked back into the kitchen. And that was it.
Grandpa Mal was easier. Riley didn’t know what his deal was but he seemed to have old person’s disease because he just assumed Riley was his grandson anyway.
‘What’s your name, George?’ he’d said.
Mal was sitting in his spot at the table out the back, already into his grappa. Noel stood on the lawn with a glass in one hand and a smoke in the other, watching warily.
Wendy came out. ‘It’s Riley, Mal. You remember our son Riley.’
Something twigged in Mal’s memory. ‘I don’t remember you being such a good-looking lad. You’ve got your uncle’s looks.’
Riley waited for the question, the one that always followed, but it didn’t come.
‘Last time you were here you kicked a soccer ball around the yard the whole time,’ Mal went on. ‘Couldn’t get you away from the bloody thing.’
The last time Riley was here, he reckoned, he was about five. Back when his mum was doing his hair in plaits.
‘And he still kicks like a girl,’ Grace quipped.
Riley shot her a death stare. He had an urge to rub his forearm, the nervous twitch he always got in trouble for, but she’d only feed off that.
‘You’ – Wendy pointed at Grace – ‘inside to help with the washing up, please.’
Grace stood, and when her mother’s back was turned she stuck her finger up at Riley. Noel saw and said, ‘Oi,’ stamping his cigarette butt into the grass.
Later, Grace bailed Riley up when no one was around. ‘Mum won’t always be there to save you,’ she said.
‘Fuck off, Grace.’
‘Why does she hardly let you out of sight? Oh, I forgot – suicide watch.’
‘Seriously, fuck off.’
‘You know, if you want to be a man some day you’ll have to learn to stick up for yourself.’
Grace was a better bitch, but Riley would always have the intellectual advantage. ‘And if you want to be a decent human being some day you’ll have to do more than just stick up for yourself,’ he shot back.
Grace poked her tongue out. That was the best she could do.
*
Riley was twelve when he told his parents. Twelve was young, but there were more and more transgendered youth these days. He’d done some reading online before he told them, partly because he wanted to be able to reassure them that he wasn’t completely alone, and partly because he wanted to reassure himself.
When he sat them down and just came out and said it – he didn’t want to show any hesitation – Noel let slip an ambiguous laugh, like disbelief mixed with mockery. Wendy looked at her former daughter as though he’d stabbed her in the womb.
‘And don’t blow it off by saying you always wanted a son,’ Riley said, trying to lighten the mood and perhaps soften the shock. But both parents were silent. Disturbingly so. ‘Please say something,’ Riley said. ‘Mum?’
‘We’re just taking it in, darling.’ She shook her head. ‘You’ve had time.’
Wendy then pulled him in close, kissed his cheek and held him to her.
‘This is a fucken joke,’ Noel mumbled. He got up, grabbed his keys out of the bowl by the door and drove off.
Riley fought back an urge to cry. It was all too much. It was a massive relief to have finally said what had to be said, but he also felt guilty for making his mum and dad upset. The little girl he knew was still in there – still a part of him, though unreal at the same time – wanted to cry into her mum’s chest and take it all back. But there was no taking it back now, so he just cried, and so did his mum as she said, ‘I’ll love you any which way.’
Noel didn’t come home until late. Riley heard him pull into the driveway, the front door clunk and the keys clink back in the bowl. Wendy had been waiting up. There was murmuring in the lounge room. Riley got out of bed and listened at the door. He knelt down and lay on the carpet, ear to the light sliding beneath. The murmuring was clearer, enough for him to follow the conversation.
‘—mental health problem,’ he heard his mother say.
‘Well, it’s not my fault, is it? I wasn’t too rough with her when she was young?’ His dad did like to play rough-and-tumble games when Riley was a little kid, swinging him around, play-wrestling, but of course that had nothing to do with it.
‘I think it’s more complicated than that.’
‘What about kids at school? They’ll tease the shit out of her.’
‘I don’t know. These things are apparently more accepted these days.’
‘It’s fucken embarrassing is what it is. I can’t be seen in the street with her if she’s prancing around all—’
‘Noel, come on.’
‘What?’
‘Well, she’s had short hair for a while now, and she wears fairly masculine clothes, I guess. She’s never been into dresses.’
‘But there’s a difference between that—’
‘I know, but—’
‘Does it mean she’s into girls now or what?’
Riley got up from the floor then – he didn’t want to hear any more of it. Grace had asked this last question straight-out when he told her. And he told her first, because he needed backup if things didn’t go well with their parents.
‘Does that make you a lesbian guy?’ Grace said. ‘Coz that’s really weird.’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I think I still like guys.’
‘So you’re … a homo girl? That’s just as freaky-deaky, dude.’
Kids at school were mostly okay with it. Public schools were good for that. Some idiots said he was next-level cringe, but he’d been wearing shorts and shirts for about a year and his best friend said most people thought he was just a bit of a try-hard, being weird on purpose, so they didn’t pay all that much attention.
But R
iley was mature and intelligent enough to understand he had to give his family time and space to get their heads around it. He figured that if he showed them respect in this way, then sooner or later they would realise he was the one who needed support through this, not them. And ‘this’ wasn’t a phase. This was a decision he felt only had to be made on a superficial level, on an outward level, because beneath the surface there was no choice. He’d had no clear-cut moment of epiphany – it was more like being in the back seat and arriving at the destination he supposed he would reach sometime. He just got closer and closer to the idea, until he felt comfortable and confident enough to let the idea become him. In retrospect, it was inevitable.
Yet he also knew his body was actively betraying him. Although he was still flat-chested he could feel his breasts developing, so he started binding, at least to get used to the feeling of constriction, and the sweating in summer. He began a routine of doing push-ups each morning to build his upper body, and borrowed Grace’s laptop and sat in his bedroom to search websites and blogs about puberty blockers – how people felt about using them and how they worked.
He wasn’t keen on the phrase gender dysphoria because it sounded more like a problem than a thing, but that was the term used for people like him. He knew that one day soon he’d have to talk to his parents about seeing a doctor and a psychologist and a psychiatrist to get the process going, but he also knew they wouldn’t buy into it for a while. At least until they were convinced that it wasn’t a phase, just being trendy or whatever, something he’d grow out of.
In the meantime, he watched for indications. Perhaps he’d know it was time when his dad stopped making jokes about him not being a real man until he could pee standing up, or about finally having another male in the family to complain about all the oestrogen, or about watching the footy down the pub with the rest of the blokes. Perhaps he’d know it was time when his mother didn’t look at him as though she’d birthed a monstrosity. Perhaps he’d know it was time when his family again looked at him with the recognition that he was one of them – a Pomeroy – not some deranged imposter with deviant tendencies.
