‘God yeah.’ Dave made finger guns at another family. ‘Half the time I’m not even teaching, just trying to remember their names.’
Our waitress was large and bouncy and had her breasts buttoned so tightly into her shirt that I could almost hear it straining. She pulled a pencil from the pocket in her apron.
‘Drinks?’ she said.
‘Pale ale,’ Dave said, and Dad said, ‘Pot of draught,’ and I said, ‘Water.’ She took our wine glasses. Ran her eyes across Dave. Told Dad she liked his shirt (orange hibiscuses). Dave watched her leave, her hips bound in black pleather and the clack of her kitten heels.
Dad coughed. ‘After this I thought we could go into Frankston. Five minutes down the road.’
‘What for?’
‘Sandcastle building competition. The bird running the Courtyard told me about it. Expert sandcastle builders.’ He shoved a couple of chips in his mouth. ‘I could’ve been an expert sandcastle builder.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Mermaids, dragons. The whole bit.’
A couple sat at the table next to us. The man: oblong, robust. The woman: limp-haired, thin-lipped. She looked over at me and I stared back at her, the two of us locked together in our recognition. Dad glanced across, squinted.
‘Friend of yours?’ he said.
‘No,’ I said. Dave’s foot hooked around mine. Jenny’s face disappeared behind her menu.
We got a bowl of chips and a shiny boat of gravy, and Dave poured it everywhere until we had soup. Dad plucked the chips out with his hands, laughed as the gravy ran down his fingers. They clinked their beers. The afternoon tripped through the open windows until it was all around us and the bowl was empty.
Dave drove into Frankston. We hadn’t paid it much notice before we moved, and certainly not after, but it had a pretty foreshore and a new cinema complex, and the dodgy old bars our friends had frequented as children. People moved everywhere, great hordes of them, and right down at the beach sand structures stretched into the sky.
‘Sand sculpture,’ Dave said. ‘Not sandcastles.’
‘Still. Missed my calling.’ Dad winked at me, inexplicably.
We parked the car miles away and walked down the main street. Dad skipped ahead on his bony legs. ‘He looks like a newborn foal,’ Dave said, and he did. From the entry to the exhibition, he turned and shouted: ‘Forty dollars!’ and we walked on, tried to see the best sculptures over the fence but it had been blocked out with mesh.
‘Forty dollars to see sand,’ Dad said. ‘Cheaper to hire your own sandcastle builder.’
‘You think?’ Dave opened the calculator on his phone. ‘I make it fifty-eight dollars to hire a sand sculptor.’
‘I wouldn’t have charged that much.’
‘You’re a man of the people, Bruce.’
We went down the back of the plot and across the sand, dry and soft, losing our feet in its tiny dunes. Dad slipped in alongside me and Dave walked down to the water’s edge. Dad cleared his throat.
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘Look at him.’
Dave carried his shoes. I watched him draw circles in the wet sand, and the water rushed into them and carried them out to sea. He found a jellyfish and kicked it. Bits of clear blubber flew into the air. He did it again, kicked the broken bits. Kicked them again so they were smaller still, again until they disappeared completely.
‘What about him?’
He put his arm around me. ‘When your mum was sick, everybody looked at her.’
‘No they didn’t. No one looked at her.’
‘Hear me out.’ Dave found a shell and hurled it into the sea. ‘Her sickness was invisible, that’s true. I mean, you’re right people mostly didn’t look at her. Walked past. Saw her in the street and crossed the road. People she’d known for years and years pretending they didn’t know her.’
‘I don’t think that’s Dave’s fault.’
‘The people who did care about your mum – and they were there – only saw her. Not you. Not Fleur. And definitely not me.’ He let out a long breath. ‘I always had to be there for her. And I did it because I loved her and she was my wife, all those reasons. But when you’re the partner, no one looks at you.’
‘Right. Poor you. Poor Dave.’
‘Don’t be like that. You’re not listening. Being the “sick one”’ – he made air quotes – ‘gets attention. Caring for the sick one is exhausting. Seriously, you have no idea.’
I clenched my jaw. ‘I have some idea.’
‘There was a time when I was out at work and I got a call. In the middle of the night. It was a big deal to get a call to the rig back then. No mobiles. No emails. Manager came down to my room, pitch black. Flicked the light on and just stood there for a bloody age. Staring at me. I said to him, John, what the hell time is it? And he said, it’s three o’clock. Kept staring.’
Dave found another jellyfish and blitzed it. Dad’s arm was so tight around my shoulder.
‘So after a minute I guess I got out of bed and went over to him and punched him in the arm or something. John! Why are you in my room! And he sort of patted me on the back and said, Shelley’s in the ICU.’
‘The ICU?’
‘I rang the hospital right away but they couldn’t tell me anything. Your Gran was with her, I think. I asked them, is she going to be okay? and they said they didn’t know.’ His voice cracked. ‘It took me two days to get back to Melbourne. I called from every stop I made but they just said the same thing, they didn’t know.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I went straight from the airport to the Epworth. They’d flown her there in the air ambulance.’
‘Why though?’
He made a ball of sand and threw it. ‘Overdose. They were mine, from when I threw out my back. I had to watch her almost-die in that hospital bed three times and know it was my fault. Nurses kept telling me it was. Never would have happened if I’d been there. Someone should have been looking out for her. Everyone knew she shouldn’t have had access to pain pills. Just got lucky this time. Just lucky. Look, now you’re so lucky you get to go home and watch her for two months without pay and hope she doesn’t try to die again. Hope and hope. People will stop coming and it will just be you.’
‘I don’t remember any of this.’
‘My sister Jean came down from Ararat so I could stay with your mum. Six days in the ICU.’ He kicked a jellyfish and it sprayed across the sand. ‘I’m just saying, we’re invisible. No one looks at us because we’re not the sick ones.’
And there he was, my Dave. Sitting in the tide, letting it pool around him. Unnoticed.
*
The next night we met in Sylvia’s front yard. She’d packed a picnic basket and it filled the car with its doughy sweetness. The night was warm and the wind licked our skin, rushing through the windows and then out again, sparrows caught in currents. Dad sat against the window, Dave with his long limbs folded into the middle seat, then me. Fleur got shotgun on account of her leg, which she propped against the dashboard, pushed her seat right back.
‘Hey!’ said Dad, crushed into himself.
‘No Ashok?’ I said.
‘No dogs allowed at drive-in,’ Sylvia said.
The twilight was golden, in both colour and mood. We drove deep along the foreshore, past the turnoffs to other places (Dad: ‘Tyabb? That’s a stupid name.’ and Dave: ‘Flinders has a great bakery though.’), across a bridge that was more of a modern art piece, and a milkbar with a couple under an umbrella. The sea crested quickly as the tide moved; it was blustery. Sylvia had her window up but the rest of us let our bodies flutter.
A row of cars blinked back to the main road.
‘Great turnout,’ Dad said.
Dave eyed the line, tapping his fingers on his seat. ‘Lots of them.’
‘Nervous?’ I said.
‘Me? No way.’ But his hands went around and around in his lap. I felt myself slip into the adult role momentarily, touching his knee and
telling him it would be fine. The parents will love it. Only night out all year. ‘You’re probably right.’ His body relaxed. Sylvia’s stereo crackled through golden oldies.
Ours was the only car rattling. The others hummed and moved in rows of polite ants.
Sylvia tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. ‘I have not been to drive-in movie since boys were little,’ she said. ‘We came to see this movie Mary Poppins. Grant did not like it! He hide under my feet until the end.’ I watched her ears lift; she was smiling. ‘We get hot dogs. Not picnic. I was too tired to make picnic.’
Fleur groaned a little, lifted her leg through the window and let her foot drop to the side mirror. ‘Better. No one had a caravan we could borrow?’ She threw her hand into the back seat. ‘Water in that basket?’
Sylvia slapped her hand. ‘This basket has everything! Water. Sangria. Little Christmas brandies.’
‘Water will be fine.’
‘Some pate made from ducks. You ever had pâté from ducks? Better than pâté from chickens. Not so good as pâté from peasants.’
‘Pheasants,’ Fleur said.
‘Yes, peasants.’
‘Chuck us the water, Heather.’ Fleur’s face gleamed in the late evening sun, slung as it was low across the sky. ‘Don’t suppose you brought my scratching wand?’
‘There are some forks here.’
‘Fork will do nicely. Give it.’ She stuck it deep into the cast, let out a long sigh of relief. ‘Reckon there’s a spider in there,’ she said. ‘Saw it in the corner of my room last night and then this morning? No spider, and all this new fucking itchiness.’ She reached around and put the fork back into the basket.
‘Gross, Fleur,’ Dad said.
They were all around me, my people crammed into the car. Each one buzzing in their own way, kicking the world along on its axis.
Ten minutes later we were at the yellow ticket booth. The woman in the booth smiled with all her teeth showing. Dad coughed up the twenty-five dollar entry.
‘I’d like my future grandchild to have a music school,’ he said, without looking at me.
‘Flute,’ said Dave, and he didn’t look at me either.
‘Violin,’ Dad said.
It wouldn’t be either of those things. An oboe, actually. A child of mine at the edge of a lake, playing the soundtrack to The Mission in as mournful a tone as she could muster.
‘Oboe,’ I said. They looked at me then. Both of them with all four of their eyes boring right into me. I hadn’t said Oboe. I had said My future child, and they knew it and we were like that for a minute, staring. They didn’t say anything, and I didn’t say anything, and the car moved and we went along with it down the road and the words were left behind at the booth to be swept up by the woman with all the teeth.
It was packed by then, so we were relegated to a spot up the back of the field, near the diner. Dad helped Sylvia tune her old stereo to the cinema’s frequency and it cracked and popped through the local advertising. Fleur opened her door and stretched her legs. Dave took my hand. ‘Food?’
‘Sylvia’s brought a whole picnic basket.’
‘And I’m sure it’s delicious,’ he said, ‘but nothing beats a shitty drive-in hot dog.’ Sylvia scoffed. ‘No offence, Sylvia. I’ll be back for some of those custard things.’ He took my hand and we walked up to the diner, which glowed out from the hillside. People everywhere, all kinds. Most had brought their children and they scurried underfoot and disappeared. Little spectres.
‘It’s so good that you’re feeling better.’ Dave tried to twirl me under his arm but the tread of my shoe caught on the concrete. ‘Unfortunately, I am no better a dancer.’
‘Terrible,’ I said, and let him guess whether I meant myself or his dancing. But I was new with him. That night, I was new. Comforted by the closeness of the air and the lightness of the conversation.
We blinked into the diner. Lit in every available inch by fluorescent lights, and they hammered and flickered above us. Dave led me to the back of the long line. In front of us, a tired woman told her child he couldn’t have a choc top. Over and over. ‘No, Harrison,’ she said. ‘You can’t have a choc top. It’s eight o’clock. No sugar after dinner. And you’re five. No, no choc top. Please stop asking. It hurts mummy to tell you no.’
Dave looked at me. His black marbles. ‘Can I have a choc top?’
‘Are you supposed to make fun of the parents?’ I hissed.
‘That’s the major perk, honestly.’
He was a little manic, bouncing on his heels. Windy. Distressed. He talked fast with all his limbs moving. Did I want mustard? Could you even have a drive-in hot dog without mustard? What were my thoughts on mustard and tomato sauce together? Did we have to call it ‘ketchup’ if we were in a diner?
‘Right!’ The woman in front of us grabbed her son’s wrist. ‘That was your last chance. Back to the car.’ She stormed out, dragging the child like a puppet while he sobbed. We moved into our newly vacated place in the line. He swung his hand next to mine. Our fingers touched.
‘Vanilla choc top? Mint choc top?’ He gasped. ‘Chocolate choc top?’
‘Your mum would never have let you get a chocolate choc top.’
My speech was liquid, in that hot diner. I stood with my husband and I watched the shapes his mouth made and my own mouth moved easily. Hints of months earlier, the two of us on our tiny balcony in a cloud of gladness.
‘Two hot dogs. Two?’ He looked to me. ‘Would your dad eat one?’
‘Probably. Fleur, though. She’ll kill us if we don’t bring one back for her.’
‘Sorry’ – the girl behind the counter rolled her eyes – ‘four hot dogs.’
‘Sauce?’ she said.
‘Sauce. Mustard. Cheese. Give us everything you’ve got.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘They have curly fries. Curly fries too, please.’
‘Size?’
‘Biggest.’
Behind us, the line hummed. People laughed. Each time the door clicked open, hot air rushed in. The last glimpse of sun dropped behind the movie screen.
‘It’s funny,’ I said, ‘how everyone’s laugh is different, but you can always tell it’s laughter.’
‘I went to school with a guy who laughed like he was choking. Like, to death.’
‘That’s unfortunate.’
The girl pushed our food across the counter, charged us a small fortune for our butcher’s floor scrapings. It didn’t matter. Dave grabbed it all in his arms. Eyed every single person in the line as we walked out, nodded to the ones he knew and the ones he didn’t. I noticed the way he was part of his community. Welcomed. Invited.
‘They like you,’ I said, as the door closed behind us.
‘I like them.’ He bumped me with his shoulder. ‘And I like you.’
The last of the sea birds headed west to roost, and the bats came. Blotted out the sky for a moment. The opening credits rolled and the children fell silent, clambered into their various SUVs.
‘Elf,’ I said. ‘Good choice.’
‘Can’t take credit for that, I’m afraid.’
We took our hot dogs back to the car and passed them around.
‘Curly fries?’ Fleur said. ‘You are a magician, David. Christ. Give them here.’
Sylvia turned up the radio. ‘It is so quiet. I cannot hear what the tall man is saying. You tell me what he is saying, Fiore.’ Through mouthfuls of fried potato, Fleur relayed the entire story to Sylvia.
‘The human thinks he’s an elf, but he was actually just an orphan. See? Now he’s going to New York to find his real dad. No, his real dad. Yeah, the mean one. I know you’d never make spaghetti with maple syrup.’
Dad leaned across Dave. ‘Heather, it’s so nice you’ve made the effort tonight.’
‘Of course I did.’
‘Jeans. Clean t-shirt. It’s good to see.’
‘I’m not a child. I do know how to bathe myself.’
‘I know you know how. Just good to see that you did.’<
br />
Dave squeezed my rubbery hand. ‘You look beautiful. Thank you for coming.’
I shook him off. ‘What do you mean, Dad? My sadness getting too boring for you?’
‘It’s hard when it seems like someone’s not making any progress.’
‘Oh my progress isn’t fast enough for you?’
Fleur turned the radio down a little. ‘The elf-human thinks the dwarf is an elf. But the dwarf is actually a very angry man.’
Dad rubbed his head. ‘You’re not getting what I’m saying. Now you’re going great guns. Which is great. All I’m saying. Great.’
‘So because I put jeans on, I’m all fixed? That’s really going to help our bank balance. You know that woman in the cafe yesterday? That’s my shrink. She looked at me like that because I’ve told her all the bad stuff I’m thinking but she’s not allowed to talk to me in public.’
‘I didn’t realise.’
‘No, you wouldn’t.’
Dave tried to climb out of the car, over Dad’s lap. ‘Can you not do this now? This is supposed to be my thing. Mine.’
Dad pushed him back, looked at me. ‘Hey. Hop out for a sec, meet me round the back.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Come on.’
I climbed out of the car and met Dad at the boot. He opened it and took out a tartan rug. ‘Sit here with me. For a minute.’ He spread it out on the grass. I eased myself down, trying to ignore the pinching pain in my guts. ‘Remember that stuff I said yesterday? About Dave?’
‘About you, you mean.’
‘Yeah, and me. We don’t get it right all the time. Most of the time we don’t, probably. Just go sticking our feet in our mouths.’
‘You really do.’
‘I’m trying to help. Swear it. I’m worried about you. We’re all so worried about you.’
‘Waste of time.’
‘Wanted you to know I noticed you’d made an effort. That’s all.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re what?’
‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry.’
‘I didn’t know you even knew that word. Who knew the drive-in could be such a momentous occasion?’
‘I should be better at this. But I’m not. Just an old fella trying to figure out the lovey-dovey stuff.’
The Paper House Page 13
