They could be different, but how?
He picked up an old newspaper, then put it down. Glanced at the piece of notepaper by his telephone where his own handwriting told him in the morning he needed to give three quotes for new jobs. Two were the usual sort, just straight bricklaying, but the third had something to do with an accident involving a truck and a very large broken fence.
He couldn’t distract himself, even with a glass of red.
Once upon a time I stood in front of men whose job it was to tear me apart, but I couldn’t sit in a restaurant and face my own daughter?
Charlie eased himself out of his armchair and moved to the upright piano. A long player on the turntable spun an ancient blues number by Howlin’ Wolf. He had the sound down low even though his only neighbour was the elderly Mrs Eccles, mostly deaf. She’d never once complained about noise or anything else in the years since Charlie had moved in, and she didn’t notice that he mowed her yard and pruned her trees.
Charlie sat at the piano and started to echo the rough, raw guitar melody, playing by ear and adding touches of his own, improvising a little tune over the song’s harmonica parts. And he lost himself this way, as he often did, the added melody he made sounding nice, even if, mostly, Charlie was far away, barely listening.
Then came a hot Tuesday. Overnight the rain had gone and in its place left a pall of humidity, heavy as a coat. Charlie pulled up at the third address on his list. A busy road, a nice home, and a woman in the front yard with two men in work clothes. The truck in the driveway looked about twenty-five years newer than Charlie’s ute and the men—builders—were a good thirty years newer than Charlie. He tried not to take any notice of how tall and strong they looked. The woman facing them was in a yellow dress to the knees, blonde hair to her shoulders. Honey-blonde that’s what you called it. Out front was indeed a broken fence—a fractured, caved-in monstrosity of a thing, in places still an enormous wall probably two metres tall. It was built of brick and block and had been smashed through as if by a massive battering ram. While the three talked by the piles of rubble, Charlie busied himself at the back of his ute, waiting his turn.
‘It shouldn’t be so high again,’ he heard one guy say.
‘Some people got a lot to hide,’ the other replied. ‘Fences are good for secrets, hey?’
Charlie caught the way the woman glanced up at those words. She didn’t seem happy. Even Charlie could hear the teasing tone in the way both men spoke.
‘Tell you what,’ the first said, then paused, before adding, ‘Holly.’ He was giving her the up and down and not trying to hide it. ‘Get your insurance to cover the cost. We’ll add a little juice to the quote. You pay cash, keep the insurance cheque and we’ll split the difference.’
‘That doesn’t sound right.’
‘Hubby’ll love it. Or guess what, maybe you don’t tell him. Keep a little pocket money?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘We’ll never tell.’
Charlie didn’t want to hear any more. He cleared his throat and made a deliberate clatter of tools in the back tray. The builders glanced at him, no interest. Charlie saw the woman was older than them by maybe ten or fifteen years, but they had that all too recognisable look of hungry dogs ready to eat. In a minute he’d just go and interrupt, and if the guys didn’t like it, great.
As it turned out, she didn’t need Charlie’s help one bit.
‘So, wait,’ Charlie heard her say, voice steady. And maybe just a little amused too. She had about as much fear of these two big boys as she would a pair of puppies. ‘Have you had your look now?’ She didn’t mean the broken fence. ‘I think you have. So why not fuck off?’
Swaggering, they went to their truck and reversed out the driveway, radio blasting some electric rock-and-roll riff. Charlie watched as they made a screeching U-turn in the street. He smelled the odour of rubber and heard them laughing as they drove off.
When he looked around he saw the woman was waiting for him, arms folded, standing further back in the yard, in the shade. He wiped his hands on the seat of his shorts and entered the garden. It was well treed, full of bushes and shrubs, but he felt the burning of the sun, this morning so hot that last night’s rain had already dried out from the ground.
‘Some guys,’ he said.
‘Already forgotten.’
Charlie nodded like that was a good thing. She only seemed interested in that broken wall of a fence, and maybe the day starting up behind it in the busy street. He noticed that she had strange eyes, the colour of her pupils so dark, yet sort of purple.
‘So, you’re here to give a quote?’
‘Yes, missus. You rang yesterday.’
Now that he was closer he saw that her face was pale, forehead beaded with perspiration. There were small lines on her forehead, and dark smudges under those strangely coloured eyes. Her hair was lank, as if the heat had already gotten to her. She had a sort of careworn look, maybe from not sleeping well, or working too hard.
‘I rang quite a few numbers but so far only those two and you have turned up. There were supposed to be three more already.’ She checked the small watch on her wrist. ‘They’re not coming.’
‘Let me see if I can help you.’
‘Then let’s hurry up.’
As she looked at him directly a sort of shock sank into Charlie’s belly. With a glint of direct sunlight the colour of her eyes seemed to change yet again. They became somehow deeper, yet clearer, blue and purple without being either one. What did you call something like that?
‘Uh, I wrote down the address but not the name.’
‘Holly Banks.’
‘Missus, so what I can see, that’s a mess all right. Did you say it was a truck?’
‘An eighteen-wheeler.’
‘No one got hurt?’
‘My son was playing in the yard, right here with his soccer ball. Those bricks, they exploded around him. It was—’ Charlie saw that her reserve might just be trying to hide how hard this had been for her. ‘It was lucky, he’s okay. Only a couple of cuts and a bad fright.’
‘Things that happen.’
‘Yes.’
Charlie went to take a closer look at the wreck, thick-soled work boots crunching over broken bricks and blocks. It was a disaster all right; someone in the yard, a kid, could just as easily have been killed. He picked his way around as if at an archaeological dig. In a moment Holly Banks came out of the shade to look things over with him. He did his best to avoid meeting her eyes again.
‘There’s only one way to do this right and I think that’s to start again.’
‘Start what again?’
He indicated the entire fence.
‘You must be joking. I’m not expecting to spend a lot of money.’
Charlie took in the setup of goalposts further along the yard, probably meant for a boy’s soccer practice.
‘You’ve got a good reason not to want this thing coming down in the next gust of wind.’
‘Well, do whatever you have to do and post us your quote.’
‘First I want to show you something.’
He squatted down and moved rubble to one side, using only his right hand because that stupid stabbing pain had returned to his left shoulder. Soon he’d made a pile knee-high.
‘Missus, you see?’
‘Just a second. You’re making me feel a hundred years old.’
He looked up at her, into the wan seriousness of her face.
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s Holly.’
‘Uh, okay. Mrs Holly.’ He wasn’t sure that quite satisfied her, but he was trying to show her one particular crack, long as a fissure. ‘Take a look?’
She stepped closer and it was as if she had to consider him a moment. Maybe she wasn’t certain if he was trying to trick her in some way. Like those other two,
just angling for a better look. Ashen face, limp hair and, he saw now, lips almost drained of colour, but she was still a lovely woman. Shapely at the front and the strangest eyes he could imagine. Maybe early forties. Holly Banks was long and lean, about the same height as him.
‘Okay … what’s it supposed to be?’
She must have decided he was all right, gathering her dress around her legs and crouching down beside him.
‘This. It’ll go right into the foundations. I’m saying that whoever made this fence in the first place took the easy road.’
Holly Banks rubbed away some dirt, gravel and broken concrete. Charlie noticed a new interest in her expression, as if she’d finally decided to focus on something.
‘So this easy road, what’s it mean?’
‘There are simple equations to work out simple constructions, you know, formulas people like me get taught. It’s maths, or maybe physics … See how tall this fence is? You shouldn’t make them this way and I bet the council never gave approval either. The main thing is someone didn’t make the substructure deep enough for the height and width.’
‘That next gust of wind you mentioned?’
‘Probably a home handyman thought he could save some money.’
He watched her scrape away more layers of dirt and pebbles. Her hands were white and long, fingernails short and practical.
‘How far down can we go?’
Charlie used a jagged half-brick to dig beside the foundation’s concrete.
‘There.’
‘I can actually see where it stops.’
‘What you’ve got here’s so shallow it makes me nervous just looking at it.’
‘Any good news?’
‘We’re starting again before anyone got hurt. And this time we don’t rebuild the Great Wall of China.’
‘Half the height?’
‘Sounds better. Saves money too.’
It was enough conversation. There wasn’t anything else to look at. Charlie waited while she stood up. As she did, however, she seemed to lose her balance. As though her head spun. Charlie reached out to steady her.
‘Hey.’
She pulled back from his touch. Now there was a sort of glaze to those astonishing eyes, as if her moment of curiosity, of wakefulness, had waned.
‘Mrs Banks … you okay?’
She turned her face to the sky and sighed, and he caught the slightest hint of something he knew a little too well: stale alcohol.
‘Maybe get in the shade,’ he told her, not as a question, then led her into the largest patch of green closer to her house. He helped her sit on a flat garden rock.
‘I’m sorry, Mr—uhm—’ She shook her head. ‘It was a late night, maybe a bug or something.’
‘Wait here.’
He left her gazing at the grass between her flat slip-ons, and wondered if she might throw up. Down at the ute Charlie found his blue water cooler. As he returned it rattled with ice. He poured Holly Banks a plastic cupful, which she sipped. He waited. The more she sipped the more her face cleared. The pallor in her cheeks and lips was replaced with colour.
He took the cup from her hand and poured some more.
‘Like it?’
‘What is it?’
Her voice had lost a little of its clarity, had become husky. Charlie wondered just how much of a night she’d really had.
‘This is my special water. Squeeze lemons and limes together then freeze them into cubes. I add those to cold water in the morning. There’s ginger and a little honey as well. A Vietnamese lady I know does something like this, though her recipe’s a secret. Anyway, my version suits me.’ He watched her drink. ‘You take it easy. I’ll look around.’
‘Wait. Your name, sorry?’
‘Like the ad in the telephone book. “Smoke Bricklaying”.’
‘Smoke … that’s your real name?’
‘More or less.’
He left her with his cup and whatever it was that some bottle had done to her. Honey-blonde hair, an Australian’s fair skin, that careworn look and those eyes he couldn’t describe. Charlie dug around the fence but he was thinking, Sort of purple.
He tried to put the colour from his mind and concentrate on what he was here for. When he looked back Holly was no longer staring at the grass between her feet, or at the special water in the plastic cup, and she hadn’t thrown up. She was gazing at him.
In his work shirt, stained by perspiration and ancient specks of concrete. And his shorts, torn, frayed, repaired with needle and thread, decades old. In boots with their laces broken then tied back together again. And his greying hair, scar tissue around his eyes.
Funny how one direct look from Mrs Holly Banks could make him feel vulnerable, sort of exposed.
…
Bobby thought he heard himself groan, or the sound might only have been in his head, then he opened his eyes to a grey ceiling, and a church window with slanting sunlight through it, and Sistine at her small round kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea.
He lay without moving on the mattress; it was flat on the floor of Sistine’s one-room walk-up in Moreton Street. Cosy, if sometimes damp, the tiny apartment had panelled walls, the room mostly dark no matter that she always kept the curtains open. Someone had installed that church window. The crucifix on the wall had been there when Sistine moved in. She kept it where it was even though they had no religion between them. She said it was an interesting artefact that reminded her of her mother, who really had loved God and the saints.
After Tracy died Sissy had to move from the worker’s cottage her mother had rented. This place suited her, she said, and Bobby was making a habit of staying over a couple of times a week. Maybe soon it’d be more than that. Jesus, they could just live together. It was 1975 not ’55. He’d make his parents understand.
Scattered on the floor around Bobby were the pots and plastic buckets Sissy needed to put out when it rained. She hadn’t yet noticed he was awake, her attention on nothing in particular. He thought she was staring at a wall. Had the girl even slept? Maybe not. She’d wanted to take him to Emergency.
‘No, no—can’t. Just get my car. Bring it to the top of the alley and get me to your place … easiest thing. Do not say anything to my parents, that’ll ruin everything, and no hospital, no police, you have to promise …’
Neither Papi or Mamá could know what had happened or who was involved. It had to be this way. Definitely Bobby wasn’t leaving this to his old man. Junior, through those bastards Mike and Denny, had made the situation clear. Bobby had to fix things, and fast. He would. Even though he was sore all over, nothing was broken and he’d survived the first step. Which was to tell Terence Junior’s men they could trust him. He was onto it. The money, he’d find it.
Lying on that mattress he did his best to stay calm. You had to know the rules. You didn’t enter the world of these sorts of people without understanding there were laws to follow. Last night Mike and Denny had given Bobby his first education. Most of the aches were concentrated in his belly and chest, but he thought things weren’t quite as bad as they might have been. Maybe Junior’s men had decided to go easy on such a novice, on a kid no threat whatsoever.
Slowly he made himself sit up. Sistine was with him in a second.
‘The bathroom …’
She helped him then waited outside. With relief Bobby saw his urine was clear, no blood. His father had told him something about that in his stories about the old boxing days. Bobby flushed the toilet and let Sistine come in. She watched as he stood in front of the mirror studying his bruises.
‘See why you need a doctor?’
‘When I was a kid I fractured three ribs coming off my bike. Nothing’s broken.’
‘But Bobby.’
‘I told you, if I go to Emergency they have to make a report.’ He gave her a smile. Mostly it was g
enuine. ‘Unless we say you beat me up.’
She helped him back to the kitchen. They sat at the small round table drinking tea.
‘All right. I’ve waited long enough.’
Bobby looked into Sistine’s face. He was only twenty-one, but she seemed too young, and far too innocent, to have to hear about these things.
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘You sure you want to know?’
‘Bobby—’
‘It was two debt collectors.’
‘What?’
‘I, uhm, I lost some money and now I have to give it back.’
‘Are you joking?’
He sipped his cup of black tea and searched for the words that would mollify her. This part he simply hadn’t had enough time to think through. Maybe, then, just a sort-of truth …
‘What I mean is, I gambled it. And it was money I didn’t have in the first place.’
‘How?’
‘The races. Horses.’
‘What would you know about horseracing?’
‘It would appear, not very much.’
‘Bobby, this is just crazy …’
‘Thing is I got in deeper without realising it. Took more and more and kept thinking I could get it back with one big win.’
The more he spoke, the less he could meet Sistine’s eyes. She wanted to take his hand but he moved it away. Moved it away because he was trembling. Was there a worse liar in the world?
‘What’s going to happen?’ Sistine, all eyes, asked.
‘It’ll be all right, trust me. They just had to give me a warning.’
‘But Bobby, this isn’t you.’
‘Everyone makes mistakes,’ he said, feeling himself close up.
‘Are you telling me the truth?’
‘Course I am.’ He left the tea where it was and went to find his shirt.
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