Rain

by Leigh K. Cunningham

  Helena arrived at the hospital in time to hear Michael relay the circumstances that gave rise to his injury. No, he did not see his attacker who had come at him from behind with his own fishing knife.

  “Curious,” said Sergeant Mackelroth. “How come the stab wounds are to your stomach, not your back?”

  “I might have turned around just as he struck,” Michael suggested. “But I didn’t see him.”

  “Hmm,” said Sergeant Mackelroth. He flicked his notepad shut, and stared at Michael. “So be it, Michael. So be it,” he said then left.

  “What happened?” Helena asked. “Who did this?”

  “No one,” Michael replied.

  “Where are the boys?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What happened?” she repeated.

  “I don’t know. One minute we were fishing, enjoying a few beers, then—”

  “You were drinking beer? Have you forgotten so many birthdays that you don’t even remember they’re under age?”

  “They’re not children anymore, Helena.”

  “They are.”

  Michael winced as he tried to shift his bandaged torso.

  “How bad is it?”

  “No organ damage, so he didn’t mean to hurt me.”

  “Who?”

  “William,” he replied after a long pause.

  Helena rested her head on the bed’s edge to cry. “When did all of this go so horribly wrong?”

  “They’ll be OK, Helena, don’t worry.” He reached across to pat her shoulder, but the pain pulled his arm back into his side. He closed his eyes, and fell into a medicated sleep.

  Michael woke under the hospital night light. Helena was gone, but Brian sat beside him on the bed. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he whispered.

  “It’s OK, son. It’s no one’s fault.” Michael glanced around the room. “Where’s William?”

  “He’s outside. He didn’t think he should come in.”

  Michael nodded, understanding the Baden way.

  “We’re going to Sydney.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Just hang out. It’s what we want.”

  “There’s two hundred dollars in my wallet. Take it.”

  Brian removed the notes. “Thanks, Dad,” he said then paused. “Where’s Mum? I thought she might be here.”

  “She must have gone home when I fell asleep.”

  “Oh,” he whispered. “Will you tell her I said goodbye?”

  “I will. Call her when you get to Sydney to let her know you’re OK, and call her every week.”

  “I will, Dad. Bye.”

  “Goodbye, Son.”

  Brian bowed out of the room, and Michael wept.

  The day that began in a courtroom seemed endless. Helena drove home from the hospital on automatic pilot, the winter rain reflecting in black pools on the bitumen as she stared at the road ahead. She had stopped at the hospital canteen for a supply of chocolate bars, but only wrappings filled the seat beside her. They did nothing to overcome the exhaustion and complete despair as she pulled into Orchard Road.

  Half way up the back stairs, her foot failed to rise high enough to meet the next step, bringing her whole body down on to the damp timber. She cried and cried, and dabbed at the blood on her shins. Light from the kitchen suddenly spilled onto the landing above.

  “Come inside, Lena. Dinner’s ready, and I’ve cooked a rhubarb crumble with hot custard.”

  Only after seconds did Millie tell Helena that the boys were gone, for good. Helena went to see for herself. Their bedroom door was open, and in their wardrobe, tattered uniforms hung freely, no longer pushed to one end by ragged jeans and black t-shirts.

  Tears came in earnest when Helena retired to her bedroom. A tiny bird carved from wood rested on her pillow with a note from Brian that read, ‘We’ll be OK. I love you, Mum.’

  “My beautiful boy,” she whispered.

  Chapter Thirty

  August 1984

  CARLA stretched out on her bed with arms folded above her head. She stared at the poster on the wall, and read it for the umpteenth time: ‘I asked of life, what have you to offer me? And the answer came, what have you to give?’ It explained everything. At fourteen, between her and life, there was nothing going on either way, although there were two spots of sunshine amidst the bleakness of her existence: William and Brian were gone and at last, she had a room to herself. There would be problems if they returned since Matthew now occupied their bedroom, and had defaced the walls with his charcoal morbidity. That was all there was to Matthew: his art and his writing, which was considerably more than Carla had.

  Matthew was a journalist by default arising from a series of detentions that forced him to spend afternoons writing something more palatable about Maine Public High School for the school newspaper, his writings usually shredded by Principal Mulder.

  He had made one attempt to fit in by signing up for the school football team with Jeffrey, a fellow outcast, but Carla had defeated that plan because it would cost money for boots, socks and shorts, and there was none. Carla knew this because she stayed up late at night and watched their mother sitting alone at the dining room table with Basil at her feet. On the table in front of her would be the notebook, pencil, eraser, cash, and envelopes. The pencil and eraser worked tirelessly to make the numbers add up. Her mother would insert cash into the envelopes, make adjustments in the notebook, then remove a note from one envelope to insert it in another. It was an endless process as no matter what she tried, she could not make the notes multiply.

  Jeffrey was Matthew’s only friend. Carla had two: Olivia and Tulip, a perfect combination that made Carla feel average, not inferior, or superior, which was more than a Baden could expect.

  Tulip loved her name and its story, which she repeated often because everyone liked to hear it. Her name had nothing at all to do with Holland, but Iran where the flower originates, and where her life as an embryo began. Her parents were travelers, curtailed now to a degree by Tulip’s schooling, which brought them to Maine to settle in a rented house with rented furniture. Their house and possessions almost made Orchard Road appear middle class however in contrast, Tulip’s house was alive inside with happy pictures and objects from foreign places, and something else unrecognizable. Carla thought it might be happiness if you knew what it looked like, but whatever it was, Carla needed to absorb as much of it as possible before Tulip and her family moved on to somewhere else at the end of the school year.

  Olivia Rey did not go to their high school with its green skirt, white blouse, and fake green and red tartan tie. Her school was private, and she had to travel a distance each day by shuttle bus. She could not ride her Malvern Star to school even if she wanted to, for there were onerous rules that dictated how a student should ride a bike, and since her beret could never leave her head, the task was almost impossible. Olivia had two uniforms at her school, one for winter and one for summer. Her classes started earlier and finished later, and they studied Shakespeare.

  Olivia had an interesting autonym as well, named after a great beauty and countess of high social standing. Not surprisingly, she portrayed Lady Olivia in a school production of the Twelfth Night, and was perfect for the role. Everyone who saw it said so. Carla’s name was not auspicious, not named after anyone of note or for any particular reason.

  Olivia’s house was special too. They had a fireplace for winter and air-conditioners for the summer. She had two parents, two sisters, and two of everything she wanted including two best friends. Tulip and Carla were her friends because they did not strive to be, for anyone who made an effort to befriend Olivia Rey were of no interest to her.

  Carla did not know of anyone else who lived with a grandmother instead of a father, and most of those without a father at least knew the whereabouts of theirs. Hers was a bastard, she learned a long time ago. She had not seen him in ten or so years, not even when he came to town for the trial of William and Brian.

  When Brian ha
d run away when he was six, their father had bothered to call then to make their mother cry by saying it was all her fault. He seemed to care a lot about Brian, and why he had run away, but no one seemed bothered, and no one was angry, and no one cried when Carla ran away, three times. No one even noticed she was gone, and walking the streets late at night. When no one came looking for her, she returned home, re-entering the darkened house via the unlocked back door. On one occasion, William had locked the door after she left, and Brian let her in after she threw rocks against his bedroom window. At least William had noticed she was gone.

  William was responsible also for Carla’s aversion to vomit, since all four of them had to sit through a movie, No Roses for Michael, about drugs because there were no tomatoes. The plan did not work on William or Brian, but Carla vowed never to go near drugs since there was so much sickness involved, and because of the movie, she could not witness any form of vomiting whether it be the action itself, stepping around the by-product on the footpath, or the mere waft of it on a breeze. It was enough to invoke extreme nausea.

  Grandma was a burden she said, and since she did say so almost daily, it left Carla believing it could be true except there was no evidence to support it and plenty to rebut it. If Grandma was not there, who would feed them, and who would repair their torn clothing, and if she lived elsewhere or died, they would be latchkey kids, and that, according to the playground, was the true sign of abandonment.

  It was also strange that Grandma claimed to be a burden when she had so many roles that only she could fill, like when girls phoned to speak with Brian. She always used British politeness: “May I inquire as to who is calling?” or “Who shall I say is calling?” The giggling on the other end did not irritate her, neither did the eternal ringing, and she never disconnected anyone. Carla did so often, and Matthew always. There was so much that Grandma did not include on her encumbrance scales.

  She could be a little forgetful and confused though, constantly mixing their names and applying them at random, which was fine for the boys, but Carla did not appreciate William for a name. Grandma also called everyone Robert. He was her son until he died young. There was also another daughter, Grace, and letters came in the mail from her, but she never visited, and no one ever mentioned her name. The Baden children did not have aunties, uncles or cousins. There were no family barbeques or birthday parties to attend. It was just them, Orchard Road, Grandma, and Basil.

  They also had real curtains thanks to Grandma and her old black and gold Singer with a slippered foot at the pedal. The boys’ room received a fresh coat of blue paint in anticipation of the speckled blue carpet mother had put on lay-by some months earlier. Carla hoped this did not signify that she was due pink for she was as blue as anyone at Orchard Road.

  The living room and hallway were the first floors covered, halving the decibels that had ricocheted off every unpadded surface. The carpet was black with green, blue, and orange satellites of coruscating color. It was unusual, unique, and of course on sale at a bargain, basement price.

  Mrs. Rey had told Carla and Olivia that education was power, and only the educated can be free, so Carla studied hard. Olivia did not agree—she had always known freedom, and did not need an education for her future life in Sydney as a famous actress, which required something else already in her possession in abundance: talent and beauty.

  Although she knew little of herself, Carla had learned in Modern History that freedom was everything. People even died for it. Apart from being free, what else to be was puzzling, other than her list of exclusions: she would not live in Maine, she would not be a Baden, or a wife, and she most definitely would never be a mother. She would not work herself dead for children or any man, and she would not be fat. She would not skip dinner to eat the leftovers then fill up on cake, and she would never cry alone at night when no one else could hear.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  August 1984

  KINGS CROSS was not a place to live or die: it was a place for immortals like William and Brian Baden, and the scripting of their journey to this place was in itself spiritual. If they had not broken into the house to steal, they would not have been on trial and convicted. There would not have been a fishing expedition, no stabbing, and their father would not have provided the guilt-ridden funds they needed to make the journey.

  As good fortune would further have it, work fell onto their path while they were not looking. A faded sign in a bakery window called out for helpers to apply within. The 4:00am start was not a deterrent.

  A block away from their workplace, there was a room with a view for twenty dollars a week. Most of the rotting steps to the upper story had some worthwhile pieces still intact requiring just a little crabbing to the narrow landing a straight, thin line above. A lone 20-watt bulb cast a faint glow over a long wall with four doors leading to three tenancies, and a communal bathroom of sorts with cracked mosaics on the floor, and a rusty basin for hands and feet where water trickled out of calcium-lined pipes.

  Cockroaches and other vermin shared their accommodation, which was inevitable and a minor nuisance given the convenience of Cheap Eats on the ground floor below.

  Linoleum remnants covered the floorboards, with its Peruvian tones still evident in the piece intact at the bottom of the cupboard under the kitchen sink. A single-hung sash window framed the white lime, moldy Pollock splattered against the tan brick wall of the brothel next door. Black telephone wires sagged between with only an arms-length separating the two buildings. None of it mattered: they had their freedom, from a monotone existence to kaleidoscope, from languor to life.

  At dark, Kings Cross brightened the sky neon, and buzzed, as did its inhabitants including spruikers and other characters you did not look at without repercussion.

  Thomas, who occupied the room down the hall, offered the dewy country boys a special introductory price for euphoria that would make them feel Christmassy every day of the year. And Thomas knew the populace of King’s Cross, and could open doors into every tawdry settlement in Darlinghurst Road. You did not need eighteen years with Thomas as a friend. Thomas was also an educator: dope was child’s play, and more of a purr than a bang. What the new boys needed was amphetamines to be sure bread baking did not intrude on the life they came to the city to enjoy. He offered a free trial, which was accepted.

  Michael strayed into Sydney following his convalescence in Maine. He had two days before his medical leave expired for the injury he sustained while “tripping over his own feet with a kitchen knife in his hand”. Helena had given him an address in Kings Cross for the boys, from Brian’s sole call home, and Michael lingered now on the cracked footpath out front with the piece of paper in his hand. He checked the address again, hoping he had made a mistake then stared upward at the structure. There was no demolition notice as expected given the level of rot and decay that absorbed the two-story building. He shook his head, and focused on the bright side: it would not be long before their new home sent the boys scurrying back to the relative comfort of Orchard Road, or to the base.

  Michael stepped inside the open front door, keeping a close eye on what was under his feet and above his head. A steady passage of eccentrics forced him to defend his position on what remained of each timber step. He passed the middle door with 102 hanging over its paint-chipped timber, and avoided the pedestrian traffic that turned left on the top step to a hub at the back room. At 101, he knocked, waited, then knocked some more.

  Brian appeared eventually, inert and pasty, and Michael followed him inside despite the lack of recognition. He collapsed from the effort onto a stained mattress on the splintered floor. William did not stir, but life seemed evident.

  “He’ll regret that when he wakes up,” said Michael nodding at William’s open mouth. The subdued smile in response was not the infectious laugh Michael remembered, expected, and his heart tore.

  Michael inspected the two chairs that surrounded the Formica table then released his weight on the one with the least
corrosion even though its four supports spread out at different angles. The inadvertent scraping of the chair across the floorboards disturbed William who rolled on to his side and opened his eyes. Brian had managed to stand again, but disappeared through the still open door down the hallway to the room that was the subject of so much activity. William did not see Michael, or hear him when he spoke. Dazed, he rose, and followed Brian down the hallway.

  Michael thought to leave, not knowing how long he would be alone, or if he was likely to enjoy a conversation with his sons when they returned. Then Brian reappeared, bright and talkative, firing three consecutive questions at Michael. Michael understood one word.

  “She’s fine,” he said, “but she’s worried about you. You promised me you’d call her every week.”

  Brian’s reply was incomprehensible.

  “You don’t have a fridge,” said Michael after a pause.

  “We don’t need one,” he replied, then said something about rubbish bins at the bakery where they worked, free food, and that bread was a stable, corrected then to apple, and a laugh.

  “You need to eat more than just bread,” said Michael.

  William returned with conversation erupting like a burst water main, and Michael wondered if he had fallen down a rabbit hole and entered a fantasy world. William asked to see the stab wound, his handiwork, and tempered his excitement with apologies. While they inspected his torso, Michael invited them to dinner, and while disappointed, was not surprised when they declined. He gave them two hundred dollars to get them through the winter. In October, he would return to take them home, at which time he expected the novelty of their adventure would have given way to sober actuality.

  Michael hailed a taxi for Rushcutters Bay where Grace was attempting spaghetti bolognaise for four in anticipation of a family reunion. She would be disappointed also, or relieved, given her general anathema for cooking.