We’re closer to crocs than you might think.
One bloke on a cruise once was telling us how he reckons crocs used to be warm-blooded creatures because his research showed that their ancient relatives were smaller and faster and probably chased their prey more actively. Whereas the modern-day croc has evolved into a coldblooded creature. It sits and waits for the right opportunity to catch its prey. Crocs can also slow their heartbeats down at will, sometimes beating only once in thirty seconds. Like cryo-sleep. I think it’d be easier being cold-blooded. Caring a whole lot less about anything other than your own patch of water. And sometimes I think I already am. Sometimes I think that because of what happened I could survive anything. I know how to hold my breath and wait. And if I could only learn how to slow my heart rate down, too, I might learn how not to care so much. I might even think I’m happy.
I walk to the edge of my mum’s bed, kneel down on the ground, and reach my hand underneath the mattress. I can feel dust and knobbly bits and pieces. My hand touches the edge of something hard and solid and I drag it to the side. It’s Mum’s box.
I shake it first. It rattles. The things inside move and bump together. I take the lid off and the bottom of the box is covered with little coloured, wooden drink umbrellas. There aren’t as many as I thought there would be. The box seems emptier than it should be, too. I was expecting it to be stacked to the top with umbrellas. My fingers are running across each of them. I’m lookin’ for something particular in the box, though I’m not exactly sure what it is. Yet I have a feeling that it’s not there. And then I realise what I’m lookin’ for. A blue umbrella. There are pink and yellow and orange umbrellas, but not one blue. I close the lid carefully and slide it back under the bed. It’s a lonely, bland coffin. All of Mum’s dreams and hopes. The only reminder that she was young and beautiful once. Collecting the most exotic thing she could lay her hands on. But somehow my mum is already in there. The nothingness of her life rattling in the spaces between the umbrellas. No one will ever find her, I think to myself. I’m the only one who knows where she is.
I’m outside walking from the van to the hospital. She’s up there, lying in a bed, waiting. I’m suddenly panicking about what we’ll talk about. I don’t really have anything to tell about my life since I left. In some ways I was more interesting back then. I don’t want to tell her about Sally or Boof or Cassie. I don’t want to tell her I hack into pig meat, or how I wash the windows and floors of the boats. The only thing I can think to tell her about is the crocs. They’re somehow impartial and interesting all on their own.
When I see her lying in the bed, the first thing I’m aware of is how thin she is. Her skin sags and hangs where her weight used to be. Something has sucked her dry.
‘Hello, Mum.’
‘Barry?’ she opens her eyes.
‘Hi,’ I say.
She’s quiet for a minute, lookin’ me up and down. She smiles and pats the edge of her bed. ‘Come closer.’
‘I got your letter,’ I say, sitting in the armchair that is next to the bed.
She nods. Her breathing is strained. ‘Yeah. I took a bad turn after sending you that. Happened quick.’
‘They treating you good? The doctors?’
‘Yeah. Can’t complain.’
It’s good to hear her say this. It means her old self is still around.
‘Tell me what you’ve been up to, Barry. I want to hear everything.’
It’s a small request, but it’s a big ask. I don’t think I’ve got enough to fill in the gaps. ‘Well,’ I start, ‘I work for the Croc Jumping Cruises.’
Her eyes widen and she’s really interested, and it isn’t as hard as I thought it was going to be. I tell her about it all. Just the fun stuff, everything I know about the place. The crocs and what I have to do. I even tell her about the Humpty Doo Hotel and my room.
A nurse comes in to check on Mum. I get up and leave the room while she does her thing. The nurse pulls a curtain around the bed so I can’t see what’s going on. I walk down the corridor lookin’ for something to eat. There’s a vending machine at the end of the passage near the visitors’ lounge.
‘You can go back in now,’ the nurse calls from the end of the passage. I feed my money into the machine for a small bar of chocolate.
Mum is propped up on two fat pillows and her sheets are straightened and pulled tight across her body. There’s a fresh jug of water on the small table beside her bed. A cup, with a blue straw, beside it.
‘Listen, Barry. I’m not real good, you know. Doctors don’t think I’ve got long.’
The statement hangs awkwardly in the space between us. ‘Take the van and the car. They’re yours. I’m real glad you came back to see me.’
‘I met Teabag,’ I say because I can’t think of anything else.
She looks at me for a while. ‘Teabag?’
‘Yeah. Lives in Darwin.’
‘He’s not your father,’ she says quickly. It’s not a question but a statement.
‘What do you mean?’
Something in her eyes changes. Like she’s said something she didn’t mean to. ‘Nothin’,’ she says. ‘It’s just that I never really thought it was actually him.’
‘Then why?’
‘It’s not important, Barry.’
‘But—’
‘Leave it, Barry.’
She closes her eyes and her pulse flutters erratically in her neck. For a moment I feel like I’m about to lose everything I ever had and the weight of it is swallowing me from the inside.
‘It’s skin cancer,’ she says, her eyes still closed. ‘My bloody white skin and all that sun. Spread through my body.’ She opens her eyes and looks at me. ‘You should be thankful for the skin you have, Barry. You’re dark. And you didn’t get that from me.’ She pauses. ‘Those names I gave you, Barry, see, any one of them would have made a good father. They’re the ones I want you to have.’
‘So, you mean you didn’t tell me—’
‘What I told you was better than the truth, Barry. And I’d rather die than tell you who your father is.’
‘You know?’
‘Yeah. I know. A girl always knows,’ she says quietly, her voice like shifting gravel.
‘You told me a bunch of friggin’ lies?’ I stand up and move to the side of the bed. I feel my whole body start to heat up like I’m on fire.
She opens her eyes and I wish she was strong so I could lash out at her. I want to scream and yell and tell her she was a lousy mother and I wished I belonged to someone else. I want to shake her and make it all change. I want to wind back the clock and set things right, like I know I could. But she’s shrivelled and wasted and I can’t help her any more than I can help myself.
‘Don’t hate me forever, Barry. You’ve got every right but I’m askin’ you.’
‘Who? Who is it then?’ I yell.
‘Trust me, Barry. Leave it be.’
I haven’t driven in a while but it feels good holding the wheel in my hands. I don’t look back. I hear the tyres spin on the gravel and feel the bounce of the van manoeuvring over the uneven edge of the road. Katherine shrinks into the rear-view mirror. I feel free but it’s a dark and heavy change. Like I’m running down the road out of trouble with all my rubbish bolted to my legs.
I stop twice before I get home. The first time I pull over in Batchelor where we lived when I was eight. Blue’s town.
Then, closer to home, I pull over at a shopping centre to buy supplies for the week. The usual bread, coke, milk, juice. There’s no Donut King in the shopping centre, so I plan to buy a pre-packed dozen donuts from Woolworths.
On my way to the bakery department I walk down the party aisle. I suddenly see small packets of cocktail umbrellas hanging in rows, sixty-nine cents a packet. I can’t take my eyes away from them. I wish my mum hadn’t saved up cocktail umbrellas, thin
kin’ they were something flash and fancy, when she could have bought them at Woolworths for less than a dollar. That’s what it must mean to be worthless: a better life is more affordable than a loaf of bread.
When I arrive at Humpty Doo on Sunday night, the rain is easing up. Big, lazy drops fall in patches here and there. The ground is soggy and flooded and everywhere water pools and runs in tiny rivers and currents. Water always flows. It goes and goes and goes. It rushes and gushes towards the river where the crocs lie waiting. Holding their breath, listening and watching.
I park the car outside the Humpty Doo Hotel, but I can’t bring myself to sleep in the van. I don’t want to go back there.
I’m dreaming. I’m sitting on the bank of the river and it’s like a wall that I’m stuck on. It’s raining and the water is rising fast and I know that if I wait long enough, I can slip in and swim away. I forget about the crocs until it’s too late. And then I’m really caught. If I don’t swim I’ll drown, but if I make any noise the crocs will get me for sure.
27
It’s Monday morning and I’ve just phoned Boof to tell him I don’t need a lift to work.
It’s a lonely drive by myself. Considering how old the car is, and how many years it’s sat idle between moves, it runs pretty well. There’s a package on the front seat next to me addressed to my mum. I’ve decided to send her a few things. It’s not going to change anything, at least not anything permanent, but it feels good to do it. They’re things I want her to have before she goes.
I’ve thought about her dying all morning. And I’m not sad. The thoughts go round in my head, the specifics and details, and even what it all means. But I don’t feel anything about it. I imagine the men in movies rushing to their mother’s bedsides and staying there until the final moment. Crying unashamedly and saying everything right. And I don’t know what my lack of feeling makes me.
I’m sad that there isn’t anyone else to see her. It’s just her and me and I’m not enough. It doesn’t seem right. There should at least be one person for each of the umbrellas in her box. But there isn’t. And the package is all I know how to do.
I have to park at the far end of the car park because the rest of it is under puddles of water. I get out and look over towards the river and it’s up high, just lapping the jetty. The ground between the café and the jetty is muddy. Doesn’t look like there’ll be tourists today.
I’m halfway to the office when I see Bait round the corner come running towards me. His tongue is hanging out, his tail is wagging, and he near jumps into my arms. I’m so pleased to see the little bugger that I bend down and pick him up. Then I realise he’s covered in mud. His feet are wet and the bottom half of his fur is damp and sticky. He’s licking my face and arms.
‘Bloody hell, Bait. A snake can’t keep you down.’ I give him a good scruff on the ears and set him on the ground. It’s good to see him.
Boof walks out of the office. ‘Barramundy,’ he calls. ‘About time. Plenty to do today. Bloody rain has left everything in a mess. Found Bait, then, I see,’ he says, sizing up the mud stains.
I follow him past the office and in through the café. I leave him to put my bag in the laundry.
I see myself in the mirror while I’m washing my hands and face. I want to see someone else. Something different but it’s the same face as always. I imagine what I’d look like with white skin and then I think of Mum. I begin to realise I’ll never know who I am. There won’t ever be an explanation for the colour of my skin. I’m just another boy from the bush.
The water is dripping from my nose and I don’t bother reaching for the hand towel. For a moment it looks like I’m crying without any effort or discomfort at all.
‘Barra!’
I spin around to find Sally behind me. I quickly reach for the hand towel and wipe my face.
‘You’re filthy,’ she points to my shirt.
I look down and see there was more mud than I thought there was.
‘Here,’ she says, moving towards me. ‘Take it off and let me wash it. It’ll dry quick enough. Besides, it’s bloody hot and steamy and Boof’s got a lot of jobs lined up for you. Can’t see why you can’t be comfortable. No one around today.’ She’s right up close to me with her hands on my buttons. I step away and undo them myself.
‘That your car out there?’
‘Yeah,’ I mumble.
She moves to the door and closes it. ‘Here,’ she says, ‘I’ll do it.’ She takes my shirt and runs it under the water in the basin. She rubs into it with the soap. ‘I’m pregnant, Barry,’ she says without lifting her head up. ‘I didn’t know till after we...’ she stops talking but her arms are busy wringing the shirt. ‘But it happened before us, and—’
‘Bob,’ I say. The thought of it makes me feel empty but I know it all the same.
She nods. ‘I think so,’ she says slowly. ‘I just couldn’t tell you.’
And then it all makes sense. I can see her at my mum’s age, her kid all grown. Asking about his father. She’s been thinkin’ about it all now. She’s been thinkin’ of me as her kid all grown. Wondering if she should stay with her baby’s father.
She turns around holding my wet shirt in her hands. ‘I really like you, Barra, but I’ve got to do the right thing.’
‘You in there, Barramundy?’ Boof yells and knocks on the door.
‘Yeah, just a minute,’ I say.
Sally’s still holding my wet shirt as I walk towards the door.
‘Barra?’ she says again.
‘Barramundy, come on!’ Boof calls again.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I pass. ‘He won’t hang around, Sally. He’s not a stayer.’ And I’m out of the door, following Boof down towards the river. But I don’t know if it’s me or Bob I’m talking about.
‘Bait. Come here,’ Boof yells as Bait takes off across the jetty. The water is lapping up the sides and rushing fast. Boof whistles loud and Bait scampers back down the jetty to the bank where he sits underneath the nearest tree. It’s no relief from the heat, but at least it’s a bit of shade. The sun’s blaring down and the humidity is damn high. If only the river was a good place to cool off.
‘I need you to fix the hinges on the gate here, Barra. They’ve gone rusty and with the changing river levels, the gate’s bent. And the tyres up the end there,’ he points to the end of the jetty where the boat usually rests against the rubber tyres, ‘check to see they’re still hooked on.’ He looks out across the water and fans his face with his hat. Then he slicks back his hair and walks to the bank where Bait scampers from the tree to run along beside him.
I decide to deal with the gate first. Boof has left his toolbox on the edge of the timber and I use the screwdrivers and wrench to get the bolts out of the hinges. Then I take the whole gate off and rub the hinges down with steel wool before re-screwing them in the timber so they sit straight against the edge.
I’m sweating hard. My shorts are dirty and damp and my skin seems to glow in the sun. But I don’t mind the change of work. I don’t mind fixing things with my hands and in a way it’s nice not to have the tourists around.
I can see the café from where I’m working. Sally has come out of the laundry and she hangs my shirt on the back of a chair in the sun outside the office. She looks small. I imagine her belly swollen with a baby and I can’t believe it. Bob’s baby. It’s sickening. I still want her, and I feel bad that I’ve got thoughts of our nights together still fresh in my mind. She doesn’t belong to me. And then I realise that I’m relieved the baby isn’t mine. What a prick.
I imagine Mum fat with me, stuck in the van waiting. No man around. Just a box of umbrellas under her bed and a growing collection of wooden spoons.
For a minute I wonder how it happened with Bob. How he impressed her. Or was he like me once. Just a fella she fancied in the moment. I really know nothing about her. Whether
she has parents or friends, or anyone to look after her. Maybe that’s why she went back to Bob. At least he’s someone.
‘Looks good,’ Boof comments as he walks past me with a load of rubbish for the industrial bins. ‘You’re a good worker, Barra.’
Boof is generous with his praise. It comes easy and natural, like it don’t cost him a thing. He’s happy, whistling and walking with his bony stride. He’s the first bloke I’ve met – that hasn’t been in the movies – that I admire. He’s straight up and down.
‘I gotta go into town, Barramundy, is there anything you want?’
I look up from the gate and remember the package. ‘Yeah. You going to the post office?’
‘Can if you want.’
The gate is fixed and I leave the tools and run to the car. I give Boof a five-dollar note to cover the stamps. ‘Thanks,’ I say before returning to work on the tyres.
I stop by the laundry to get my water bottle.
‘What do you think you were doin’ talkin’ to him, hey?’
It’s Bob’s voice. He must be with Sally in the kitchen, which shares the back wall with the laundry.
‘Nothin’, Bob. Leave it alone, will ya.’
‘Listen here, girl. You’re mine. I don’t want you near any other bloke. That clear?’
At first I can’t quite believe it’s Bob. He’s so slick and full of false smile and cheer in person. I can’t stand the bloke, but I still can’t believe he’s talking like that to Sally. I’d imagined him to be all cheesy grins and false promises.
‘You don’t own me, Bob.’
‘You wanna bet?’
There’s a sound of saucepans clanking and something shuffling. ‘Don’t,’ I hear Sally say. Then there’s the shuffle of feet and I can’t hear anything else. I grab my water bottle and run back to the jetty.
I’m pleased with the gate. It hangs better now than it ever has before. Cassie comes out of the office and waves over to Boof in the Land Rover. He comes back and she leans in the front window. Bob walks over to the car and I turn around. I don’t want to look at the bastard.
Brown Skin Blue Page 14
