The Eye of the Sheep

by Sofie Laguna

  When I heard the Holden in the driveway I ran to the door but Robby said, ‘Let her get inside, Jimmy.’

  ‘But I want to help her! I want to help her!’

  ‘You will if you just wait till she’s inside.’

  I watched Dad through the window as he took Mum’s hand when she got out of the car. As she smiled up at him her face became a heart. Dad led her slowly up the path. The closer she came to the house the faster I became. Any minute she would come through the door! Any minute! Any minute! And then the door opened.

  ‘Mum! Mum!’ I tried to climb her.

  Robby said, ‘Jimmy!’

  Mum said, ‘It’s okay, love.’ She came to Robby with me holding on to one side and she pulled him to her. ‘Oh, my sweet boy, Robby, you did such a good job with your brother.’ For a moment he was hidden by her wide, soft arms and I could only see the top of his head, his hair sticking to her dress with the static. Then he stepped back and his eyes were wet as if the pools inside them couldn’t hold. Mum looked around the house. ‘It’s so tidy. Looks like you boys hardly need me here at all.’

  ‘We need you, Mum, we need you.’ I said. ‘We really need you.’

  ‘The boy’s got that one right,’ said Dad. He touched her arm, just at the elbow, quickly, as if he didn’t know if the arm wanted it.

  Later, when Dad and Mum were watching the news together in the sitting room, I went into the yard, lifted the lid of the garbage bin and looked inside. It was filled with the broken glass of a thousand shipwrecked Cutty Sarks.

  For weeks after Mum came home from Sunshine Hospital Dad only drank beers. Every time it got to the end of Sunday I counted another weekend without Scotch whisky. I counted five in a row. For all that time Merle slept quietly between his paper sheets. There were no sounds in the night, and in the mornings when Mum stood at the kitchen island and stirred sugar into her tea, her face was as clear as the moon.

  But when I stood in the yard of Nineteen Emu and looked into the sky, just before it turned to night, I could see a giant shadow full of tiny squares we were too big to swim through. Something was coming down over the house like a net.

  Mum sucked on her puffer and went to work at Westlake and brought home slices for Robby and me that only she ate. Cherry and coconut and lemon, she sat on her blue kitchen couch, coconut rain falling over the covers of Death on the Nile. Her breathing tubes were clear. At the hospital the nurse took the throat vacuum and did to her channels what Dad did to the carpets. There was no dust on her tentacles and they waved freely; she was back at the start of the build-up.

  On Saturday morning of the sixth weekend I was drying the dishes with Mum when the telephone rang. Mum picked it up.

  ‘Hello, Rodney, nice to hear your voice,’ she said. ‘Oh no, nothing serious, I hope? . . . Of course . . . Yes, love, I’ll just get him.’ She put the telephone down on the bench, her forehead creased with lines, and called, ‘Gav? Gav! Your brother’s on the phone.’

  Dad came in from behind the house where he’d been working on the hot-water box. The flame kept going out because the pilot was gone. ‘Rodney?’ he asked Mum, as if it was a surprise. Mum nodded, passing him the telephone. Dad put it to his ear. Uncle Rodney was the brother Dad spoke to the most. Dad was the oldest of the four and Uncle Rodney was just under.

  ‘G’day, Rod . . .’ Dad said, a smile in his voice. Then, as he listened, I saw the smile and the pink and the brown and the red and the black fall down from his face into the neck of his shirt. ‘Jesus . . . Bloody Steve. Oh, Christ.’ He shook his head, back and forth as he listened. ‘Was only a matter of time . . . Yeah. Yeah. Thanks for calling, Rodney. Yes, they’re fine . . . Not right now, mate. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’ He put the telephone back into the receiver.

  ‘What is it, Gav?’ Mum asked, looking worried.

  ‘Steve had an accident,’ Dad answered. Steve was the brother he never saw. He did time for guns. Dad said he used to go fishing with Steve and he never knew about the guns. Steve stored them in the back of his ute in a silver box along with a bucket of speed, and the police weren’t even looking for them when they found them – they were looking for stolen tools and they found the guns and the bucket instead.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Mum.

  ‘He hit a tree in his ute.’

  ‘Oh no. When, love?’

  ‘Early this morning.’

  ‘Is he okay?’

  I had never seen my dad’s tears fall before, but he didn’t have time to close the gates and one escaped. It came out his eye and stopped at his cheek. ‘He’s dead,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Gav . . .’ Mum touched his shoulder. Dad pulled away as if she’d burned him.

  ‘Steve was a prick,’ said Dad, walking back outside. ‘Him and bloody Ray. Nothing fucken changes.’ Soon Mum and me heard hammering from the hot-water box.

  Once I heard Mum talking to Pop Flick on the telephone about Ray, another one of Dad’s brothers.

  ‘Oh no, Pop, I know, terrible . . .’ she said. ‘Are they saying he raped her? Are they sure? . . . That’s no good. Poor Ray. I suppose I’m glad he’s put away . . . I know . . . But still, I can’t help but feel for him. No . . . shocking . . . I know, I know that.’

  ‘What’s raped?’ I asked Mum after she got off the telephone.

  ‘It’s nothing, Jimmy. You shouldn’t be listening when I’m on the phone.’

  ‘What’s raped? I should know, Mum. If it’s a word then I should know the meaning. What’s raped? I should know, Mum. I –’

  ‘Alright, Jimmy, alright! Your father’s brother Ray went to jail because he hurt a girl. He hurt two girls, alright?’

  ‘Is raped hurting?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you say to Pop Flick that you are glad Uncle Ray is in jail for hurting? Why didn’t you say that?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Mum took a breath. ‘Because raping is hurting a person in a particular way.’

  ‘What way?’

  ‘A bad way. The worst way, Jimmy.’

  ‘What way?’

  ‘It’s when a person forces themselves onto another person. That’s what Uncle Ray did. He did it to two girls and now he’s going to jail.’

  ‘Did he know the two girls?’

  She sighed. ‘I don’t know, Jim. I don’t know anything about them.’

  I watched as Mum took off her apron. She stood pulling at her lip. Raping. ‘Alright, Mum. That’s what Uncle Ray did.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what he did. Now forget about it. Let’s eat lunch.’

  I only met Uncle Ray once, at a Christmas at Pop Flick’s. His nose was a lump like a mushroom and his eye had a tear down one side. A piece of his network was missing. Somebody took it from him. Maybe he was looking for it in the two girls. Maybe raping was a search.

  ‘Why did that happen to Steve?’ I asked Mum.

  ‘Oh, Jimmy,’ she sighed. ‘Steve was a tough case.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Oh God, he drank too much. He had an accident in his car. He hit a tree, that’s what your dad said.’

  An accident is when something happens even though nobody did it on purpose. Gravity and other forces like tidal make it happen. Steve was in his car. It was still dark. Steve’s headlights showed him the tree by the side of the road. The road went past the tree but Steve’s hands on the wheel couldn’t turn away. There was the tree, its wide branches full of sleeping birds, and nests and rustling leaves, growing up towards the stars, the sky still black, and Steve knew which way the road went, he could see it marked with broken lines, he could see the way, but there was the tree, live and growing up and up and up, a different pathway, and that’s the way Steve took. That was the accident.

  That afternoon, after Dad fixed the hot water, he got in his car and drove away. Mum watched through the window and chewed at her lip.

  Robby came home from football practice. ‘Steve died, Robby,’ I told him. ‘Dad took off in the car.’

 
‘You don’t waste any time, do you, Jimmy?’ said Mum, rolling her eyes.

  ‘What happened?’ Robby asked.

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ I told him.

  ‘Yes I do,’ Robby said.

  ‘Steve had a car accident,’ said Mum.

  ‘He was drunk,’ I said.

  ‘Jimmy!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t leave anything out, do you?’

  ‘Where’s Dad now?’ Robby asked.

  ‘He’ll be home soon,’ Mum answered.

  Robby picked up the telephone and said, ‘Hi, Mrs Davids, is Justin there?’ and then, ‘Can I come over?’ After that he got on his bike and left.

  Dad came home just before dark. In his hands was a bottle in a brown paper bag. He leaned against the island, his eyes red around the edges. ‘I’ll have my tea in the sitting room, Paula,’ he said.

  I ate fat noodles with cheese and bacon at the table while Mum stood at the kitchen island sprinkling salt over her bowl. She said, ‘Your dad is feeling sad tonight, Jimmy. He’s lost his brother. We need to be a bit quiet for him, okay?’ She kept sprinkling.

  ‘Steve was a prick,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t use that word, Jim,’ she said, putting down the shaker.

  ‘What word?’

  ‘You know what word. Steve was your father’s brother. Imagine how you’d feel if something ever happened to Robby. We need to keep quiet around the house tonight. You can do that, can’t you, love?’

  I imagined something happening to Robby. I chose a volcano. The highest on planet Earth. Robby walked up its hot slope because he wanted to see inside; he didn’t know about the lava.

  It came spewing up over the sides and down towards him. Robby saw it coming – he started to run, but the lava was catching up. How would he get away? What would happen to him?

  ‘Okay, Mum. Okay.’

  That night we stayed out of the sitting room. The house was thick and heavy with the quiet we were keeping. I lay in bed and watched the shadows of sheep floating up and down the walls. They crossed from the window, moving up to the cornices, then down to the carpets – the shadows of sheep without the light. Soon I heard shouting. In my dream was a field but I couldn’t tell if it was made of grass or water. It rocked, animals moved over the top of it, calling to each other with animal sounds. I couldn’t tell if they were walking or flying. I heard my dad’s voice, then Mum’s, softer than Dad’s, asking for something, Please please. But it mixed with the sounds of the animals calling over the water. Who was asking? Who wanted?

  I got out of my bed and went to Robby’s but it was empty. I’d forgotten Robby was at Justin’s. I left the room and walked down the hall. I looked into the sitting room and saw an empty bottle on the floor and beside it the paper bag Dad had brought the bottle home in. A record spun round the player with no music. I smelled cigarette smoke. I kept walking. I heard voices rising and falling.

  I passed the bathroom and the kitchen until I got to their bedroom. I stood in the doorway and I saw Dad hit Mum across the mouth with his hand open, smack.

  ‘Mum!’ I called.

  Dad turned to me. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Steam rose from his pores.

  Mum swung round, her cheek bright red, like a stop light under the skin. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Oh, no, Jimmy.’

  Panic streamed through her and was transmitted to me. I ran from wall to wall, my cells spinning me around the rooms, one after the other. Hallway! Kitchen! Bedroom! Bathroom! Sitting room! Hallway! Nobody could stop me! The energy of the refinery that moved through Dad’s arm onto Mum’s face was now in my cells – bounce bounce bounce from wall to wall.

  ‘Fuck this,’ said Dad.

  I was faster than the speed of light. I knew if it went on much longer I would disintegrate. The power of the refinery was blasting me apart bounce bounce bounce.

  Mum ran at me; the bulk of her legs and back and bottom held me tight. It was only the mountain of her that was big and strong enough to contain me. She was shaking and damp. It was like being held by a storm. She carried me to my room and got into bed beside me. I heard the sounds of moaning, like something in trouble. Was it the animals in my dream? Was it me? Was it Mum? Was it Dad? Was it everyone in our family?

  By the time Robby came home the next day, there was a bruise like a plum on Mum’s cheek. The top half was turning black. I saw the vision of the blackening plum enter Robby’s pupils, then his eye pools. He didn’t speak. Mum looked at him and she didn’t speak either, but her eyes asked for something from him. Robby knew what it was.

  He took me through the fence and we crossed the trench, past the Lady Free, past the rusted car, further and further, until we came to Queen Street. We stood at the side, Robby holding my hand, and when there were no cars we crossed and walked towards the beach. Pelicans flew above our heads, their huge wings beating once, twice, three times against the grey of the clouds, then spreading wide and still as they rode the invisible currents, their heads resting back, as if they never got too fast, were never sent spinning by flames and heat. They circled above our heads, staying with us like guides as we walked.

  The cool wind was in our faces, blowing back our hair and drying our eyes. Robby looked right into it. Out across the sea were ocean liners that seemed never to move, but were moving, moving, so that one day, even if it took a long, long time, they got there. We waded through water thick with seaweed, climbing across the sea urchins, and where they got too many, pricking my feet, I stepped in the places where Robby had stepped. When we came to the other side it was our own beach shared only with the black swans and pelicans and gulls. Far away on the other side, the flame burned a warning from its pole, never extinguished, fuelled by crude oil drawn from the centre, endless supplies that began with the earth’s formation. The flame was the final result.

  We ran through the shallows, kicking at the foam and watching it charge upwards. The birds spectated without movement, as if they were the audience and we were the show. We ran back and forth and any stone we saw we stopped and picked it up and threw it over the ripples into the sea, and any feathers we found we held for a while before letting the wind carry them back to the motionless birds. Robby found seaweed in wide rubbery strips and we looked up close at the lines and the circles, and felt its slippery surface before throwing it into the wind.

  Robby pulled off all his clothes except for his underpants and I saw Dad in the thin of his arms and legs, and in the line of bumps under the skin down his back. He ran into the water, stepping high as if he could stop himself getting wet. He shouted and yelped and plunged, waving to me to come too, though he knew I wouldn’t. I waved back and kicked my legs and threw sand at the water.

  We stayed and stayed. We ate driftwood and shells and seaweed for our dinner cooked on a fire of stones. The invisible flames warmed our hands and turned our cheeks pink. We watched as the sun fell slowly down, leaving only the memory of its colours, orange and gold and red, and when the memory was gone we had to go back, we had to go back.

  When we got home Mum’s red suitcase stood in the doorway. Dad wasn’t home. Mum was in the kitchen moving quickly from cupboard to fridge to sink to island, as if she wasn’t sure what to wipe. The white of her black eye was mixed with blood.

  ‘What’s the suitcase doing there?’ Robby asked. We knew the suitcase lived in the laundry behind the buckets. Mum used it to store winters.

  ‘Why are you boys all wet?’ Mum asked, cross. But she was the one who was wet; tears gathering under the pores, wanting to burst through. ‘You’re bringing sand in the house. Go and get changed.’

  ‘What’s the suitcase doing there?’ Robby asked again, not moving.

  ‘Nothing.’ Mum’s voice was thick with blocked water. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you.’

  ‘But, Mum,’ I said, ‘it’s a suitcase and it’s in the doorway. It’s in the doorway, Mum. Why?’

  ‘No reason!’ Mum shouted. ‘No bloody reason! No bloody reason under
the sun! Now go and get cleaned up like I told you!’ The suitcase bulged. I could see one of Mum’s stockings caught in the zip. Robby and me walked to the bathroom. I kept checking the suitcase through the open door. Why was it there?

  Dad came home late. I got out of bed and stood hidden behind the wall to see what he was going to do about the suitcase. Mum’s tears finally burst through, drenching the ceiling like spouts from a fountain. He held her in his arms. ‘I’m sorry, love. Please unpack it. Put it away,’ he said.

  Her sounds were muffled in his hold.

  ‘This time it will be different, I promise. Please give me another chance.’

  In the morning the red suitcase was gone. I got down on my hands and knees to look for evidence of where it had stood – there were four dents in the carpet, one for each corner.

  I lay in my bed at nights and drew a line from week to week like a wave that rose with the number of beers. Three Sundays would pass, the wave growing higher, then on the fourth Sunday, sometimes the fifth, the wave would break and down the Cutty Sark would sail from the high cupboard, through the kitchen, along the hall and into the sitting room.

  Mum tried to stay away, but she couldn’t. She did Weight Watchers, but she gave up. She couldn’t say no to slices and lemonade and extra gravy. She said, Food is for enjoying, not counting. Enjoying is when you don’t want it to stop. My mum enjoyed vanilla slices. If she could, she would’ve crawled between the pastry sheets, pulled the custard in tight around her and slept in one. Her mouth would’ve been open all night so she never had to stop enjoying. Like gravy and chips, my Dad had magnetic powers. Mum had no defences for him. He got in underneath. He was like a slice: she couldn’t give him up.