The Hands

by Stephen Orr

  ‘No.’

  ‘All those blocked passages.’

  There were balloons, blown up and twisted into a dachshund which, at least, was an improvement on last week’s misshapen monkey. After this, Diamond went over to an empty bed beside Harry’s and said, ‘Well, he seems to have lost a lot of weight.’

  ‘He’s as white as a sheet,’ Dr Feelgood added.

  ‘I think he’s had a nip-and-tuck,’ Diamond observed, returning to Harry, taking his wrist and looking at his watch. ‘Eins, zwei, drei,’ he began, ‘vier, fünf … hold on, it’s stopped.’

  Feelgood raced over to Harry’s side. ‘Is the patient still alive, Doctor?’

  ‘He’s okay, it’s my watch.’

  Murray walked in, saw the clowns and said, ‘Oh, it’s you two.’

  Diamond looked at him with a spark of recognition. He could remember him from the previous Friday, sitting, falling asleep in the armchair. ‘Which one’s this?’ he asked Feelgood.

  ‘Sneezy,’ she replied.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Grumpy?’

  ‘I think he likes your card tricks,’ Murray grumbled, sitting in his well-worn seat.

  Diamond stared at him, momentarily stumped. ‘Right.’ He took out his cards and sat on the bed beside Harry. Meanwhile, Dr Feelgood lined up a Polaroid. ‘Does Sleepy want to join in?’ she asked.

  ‘No, Sleepy does not,’ Murray replied.

  Doctors and patient smiled, Feelgood took the photo, waited for it to dry and wrote the date on it. Then she put it with the other five beside Harry’s bed.

  Diamond guessed Harry’s card.

  ‘I know how you do it,’ Harry said.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘The trick.’

  ‘Uh uh …’ Diamond sprayed Harry with water from a plastic sunflower in his lapel. ‘It’s magic.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘It is. Don’t you believe in magic?’

  ‘I think you’re barking up the wrong tree,’ Murray said.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Diamond asked.

  ‘He’s just lost his mother in an accident.’

  Diamond stared at him.

  ‘The fairies and pixies seem to have deserted us this year, Doctor.’

  Diamond shrugged. He looked at Harry, smiled, picked up his ukulele and tried again.

  I’m like a man demented,

  Oh, it is a burning shame …

  As Diamond played, Murray studied his grandson’s face; he grinned, and Harry grinned back; he rolled his eyes, and Harry nearly smiled.

  When Diamond finished, Murray applauded. ‘Do you take requests?’

  ‘I only know three songs.’

  So, Murray took Diamond’s ukulele, strummed an E chord and began.

  My wife has run away from me,

  And I forget her name …

  When he was finished the three of them applauded. Harry said, ‘I didn’t know you could play, Pop.’

  Murray returned the uke. ‘I can play,’ he said. ‘The ukulele, that’s idiot-proof.’ He smiled at Diamond, squeezing his arm and saying, ‘Next week I’ll teach you another one, eh?’

  10

  Chris sat spinning a knife on a placemat. He leaned forward so his chin was only an inch above the table. ‘You could get everything in there,’ he said to Aiden. ‘Choo-choo bars, chocolate frogs …’

  ‘And food,’ Fay added, stirring the bubbling stew.

  ‘Chips,’ Chris continued. ‘Every flavour.’ He stopped to remember, visualise the lollies, washing powder and Gravox lined up on the shelves of the Tea and Sugar, a supply train that once traversed the Nullarbor, stopping at sidings, work camps and one-pub towns. As farmers’ wives and their brown-skinned kids waited with their wheelbarrows, eager to fill them with flour and sugar and pork from the butcher’s van.

  ‘Sparklers and humbugs,’ Chris remembered. ‘And the man used to give you peppermint leaves.’ He paused to smell them.

  ‘Fuck,’ Trevor said, slamming the computer keyboard. ‘I’ve done exactly what it says—costs in one column, deductions in the other—but it won’t work it out.’

  Aiden stood, approached him, studied the screen and changed a single value. ‘Try that.’

  Trevor pressed Enter. Smiled. ‘That’s what I did.’

  ‘Obviously not.’ Returning to his seat, tearing a chunk of bread from a loaf and slipping it in his mouth.

  They all sat at the table. Fay moved the four bowls into position, leaned over the bread and started slicing. Threw them each a slab. ‘They had bread on the Tea and Sugar,’ she said, taking her first forkful, ‘but it was always as hard as the hobs of hell. Remember, Trevor?’

  He looked at her, wiping gravy from his lips. ‘Not really. I just remember Mum saying she’d only buy what she really had to.’

  ‘The butcher always had choice cuts,’ Fay recalled. ‘Nothing fancy, but good for stews and braising. When Carelyn got her crockpot …’

  It’d be far easier if no one mentioned her, Trevor thought. Two months. Surely it’s time to get on with things.

  ‘She made a beautiful beef burgundy,’ Fay continued.

  Aiden looked at the empty chair and wondered why no one had moved it. It wasn’t his job, of course, but it looked so lonely, so obvious, so wrong. A chair was no memorial, just a reminder of something, someone, inconveniently lost.

  ‘Remember the Nullarbor Cliffs?’ Fay said.

  ‘What?’ Trevor.

  ‘That holiday, when the boys were little?’

  He wasn’t interested; he knew where it would lead.

  ‘We were up on those high cliffs, remember? And I was scared one of the boys would topple over.’ She stopped. Nothing but the sound of forks on cheap china; the computer, humming, guarding the columns of numbers that described their lives.

  Aiden ate, stopped, looked at his father, turned away, wanting to say, Yes, Dad, you can say it. You can think it.

  ‘And remember, when we saw the whales?’

  ‘I remember that,’ Chris said. ‘Five or six of them. We watched for hours.’

  Aiden could remember. Sitting beside his mother, staring out across the Southern Ocean, indifferent, bored with whales. Saying, ‘Do I gotta sleep with Harry tonight?’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘Can’t you? Can’t I sleep with Dad?’

  He could still see her face: soft, covered with fine hairs, a couple of freckles on her cheeks and around her eyes; her pink-tipped ears; two crooked teeth.

  ‘I’ll sleep outside,’ he’d said to her.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘He farts.’

  ‘We all fart.’

  ‘Not as much as him—for a four-year-old.’

  No, he thought, as he played with his stew, someone should move the chair. Not far, just against the wall, so she’s not there every time we eat.

  ‘I remember the tiger snake,’ Chris said.

  Trevor had finished; he sat staring out of the window.

  ‘That’s right,’ Fay said. ‘Do you remember, Trevor, how you went and got the shovel and took off its head?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And you boys,’ and she looked at Aiden, ‘were screaming, and Carelyn was growling at you. Stop goin’ on like a couple of girls!’

  ‘Okay,’ Trevor said.

  ‘Then Carelyn said she refused to sleep in the tent that night.’

  Aiden was watching his father.

  ‘And she slept in the car, remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ Trevor managed.

  ‘And when she woke the next morning she was screaming, cos you, wasn’t it, Aiden, had laid the dead snake across the windscreen?’

  ‘It was Harry,’ Aiden said, still watching his father.

  ‘Yes, and he went and picked it up, and Carelyn was screaming loud enough—’

  ‘Right,’ Trevor said, and she stopped.

  Chris was still giggling, but he soon worked out that he should be quiet. Then, for a few moments, there
was silence.

  Fay gathered the plates, took them to the sink and returned with four bowls of chocolate mousse. Aiden kept studying his father, as though he were some not-quite-dead specimen squirming under the lens of a school microscope. Eventually he said, ‘What’s wrong, Dad?’

  Trevor started his mousse. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

  ‘They sold this on the Tea and Sugar,’ Chris began.

  ‘No, they didn’t,’ Fay replied, sensing the new mood in the room.

  ‘They did.’

  Silence; spoons in bowls.

  ‘We’re allowed to talk about her,’ Aiden said.

  ‘Who said you couldn’t?’ Trevor shot back. He worked on his mousse: slowly, methodically, scoop by scoop.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The accident.’

  Silence. Chris started licking his bowl. ‘Don’t be so disgusting,’ Trevor thundered.

  ‘It was a kangaroo,’ Aiden said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘You seem—’

  ‘Enough!’ Trevor stood, pushed his chair in and looked at Aiden. ‘You should leave people to themselves.’ Before turning and storming out the back door.

  Harry sat in his wheelchair, his leg sticking out at an uncomfortable angle. The television flickered flower-people and pots-with-legs scampering across green pasture. Murray was asleep on his couch, his head on his shoulder, his chest rising and falling to the in-sync rhythm of a distant monitor. He had nine cigarettes lined up on the table, the last two rolled from newspaper.

  Harry studied him, angrily. He knew the old man was running out of patience. The little things: the hours with his head in a newspaper; the reluctance to make or follow up conversation; the way he’d seek fresh company in the television room.

  Even that morning, while he was in physio. He’d worked hard, holding the bars, moving one foot in front of the other; walking back and forth as he sweated and felt his arm muscles aching.

  And then he’d sat down.

  ‘Come on,’ Murray had said. ‘You gotta keep at it.’

  ‘I’m resting.’

  ‘You got all day for that.’

  He’d looked at the physio, and she’d turned to Murray and said, ‘We gotta take it slowly, Mr Wilkie.’ He’d just looked at her, thinking, If we waited for you …

  The evenings had become lonely. Murray would make his way to the Cathedral Hotel after the news, settling in for the evening, ringing every few hours to make sure he was okay. One night, after he’d staggered up drunk, he’d woken Harry and said, ‘Listen, it might be best if you don’t mention this to your father.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s got a lot on his mind.’

  He studied the old man’s nasal hairs. Disgusting. Why didn’t he cut them? This was a hospital, there were scissors everywhere. And what about his ears? The rabbit-fur fluff and glowing yellow wax?

  Murray shifted, raised a finger, scratched his nose and drifted back into his musty (Harry thought, if it smelt anything like his clothes) dreamworld.

  The smallest things. Once, at the beginning, he’d lay out his meal, open his orange juice and watch him eat. Maybe even help him cut tough meat. Now it was just the girl bringing it in and plonking it down. He wasn’t even interested in the leftovers—he was buying his meals at the hotel. He’d wheeled him across to the park, but no more. Now there was just television, the activities’ room and, since the start of term, lessons. Two hours every morning: worksheets, corrections in red, colouring (although Harry explained he was too old) and, on the previous Friday, an afternoon in the art room making a collage. So, he thought, why not? Enough was enough. At the rate Murray was spending money on himself he wouldn’t miss it anyway.

  He manoeuvred his wheelchair around the room. Quietly moving a drip-stand, he brushed past his grandfather’s leg. Then, without running over the old man’s feet, he approached the fat wallet beside the cigarettes. Opened it and took out a five-dollar note. Replaced the wallet, and set off down the hallway.

  ‘Where you going?’ a nurse asked, and he showed her the money. ‘Pop said I could get chips, as a treat.’

  He glided across the glassed-in walkway between the two main buildings. Arriving at the lifts, he stopped, reached up and pushed the button. He travelled down with a doctor who looked at his leg and asked, ‘How did you manage that?’

  ‘It was my first parachute jump,’ he said. ‘The main chute wouldn’t open so I had to use the reserve.’

  The doctor looked at him. ‘Truly?’

  ‘Truly. It was a rough landing.’

  The doors opened. He wheeled himself out. He knew which machine he wanted, and the number: K2. The money-slot sucked in his note but spat it back out. Shit, he thought. Maybe it knows. Maybe Pop’s woken, found his wallet, reported the money missing, and maybe the hospital has put out some sort of bulletin. Maybe there are security guards searching for me?

  He tried again. The money slid in and stayed there.

  K2.

  The metal spring twirled and his Crunchie dropped into the pit. He moved closer and got it out. Took the change, found a quiet spot beneath the stairs, across from the florist, away from the gaze of anyone coming or going from the hospital. Then he began, slowly, determined to make every mouthful count.

  When he returned to his room, Murray was awake. He wheeled himself in and said, ‘Hi, Pop.’

  ‘Where you been?’

  ‘The telly room.’

  ‘They set you any homework?’

  ‘No.’

  He checked his hands for chocolate and cleaned his lips with his tongue. ‘You goin’ to the pub?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Murray replied, fixing him in his stare. ‘When you give me my change.’

  Morning and evening always happened in the distance. Every day was the first day; always had been, always would be. A butter-smudged horizon leaking light onto a land of gorse, and shingles, and bluestone ruins. So that every fold, and exalted valley, welcomed its next dose of day. Flooding wombat holes and filling turkey nests. Heading towards another equinox of sweat-soaked socks. Birds shredding shade in native pines. High, trailing clouds (that made Trevor feel good). No breeze; excellent flying weather. As he offered his head to Fay, and listened for the helicopter.

  The extension cord ran from the laundry, under the fly-door into the compound. He sat on an upturned crate, his body covered with a sheet. Fay switched on the clippers and started on his collar-line. He could feel chunks of hair against his skin, dropping onto his shoulders and down his back.

  ‘How much?’ she asked.

  ‘Number two … stubble,’ he replied.

  Soon she’d done the back of his head, the sides, the front. It felt good. He took a deep breath and tried to smell the morning.

  ‘You got red patches,’ she said. ‘You need to stop scratching your head.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You do. I see yer.’

  He heard the distant chopper and within a few minutes it was on top of them, slowly dropping into the compound. He stood, kicked the crate away and waited as his part-time manager landed. Clumps of hair scattered; Fay’s dead petals flew around the compound. He heard Harry’s bottles and jars working against each other, and one smashing; the chooks, squawking, as a cloud of dust consumed them. Fay smiled, waved at Bill Clarke and went inside, dragging the extension cord.

  Bill touched down and allowed the rotors to slow. Then he motioned to Trevor, who came over and opened the door. ‘Wanna cuppa?’

  ‘When we get back.’

  Trevor climbed in, settled into his seat and slipped on his headphones. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good … and you?’ They shook hands.

  Without looking, Bill slowly pulled the collective and the Robinson lifted into the air. Trevor noticed Chris and Fay watching from the laundry door. He waved but they didn’t respond. Fay was shaking her head, as she did every time there was a helicopter.

  Bi
ll climbed, banked and said, ‘Where do you reckon?’

  ‘West,’ Trevor replied, indicating. ‘Then we can try an arc … to the north.’

  Bill gained height, selected a course and settled into his seat. ‘You been out lookin’?’ he asked, although he guessed he would’ve had other things on his mind.

  ‘Yes, some small herds, but I don’t know how spread out they are.’

  The census was twice yearly—summer, and before the muster. With the cattle spread so thinly, and distantly, this was the only way to know where the herd had wandered. Trevor opened a map and studied his farm: a million brown dots that indicated nothing; a black cross here and there for a bore; a dotted line for a track; a few contour lines where the land managed something dramatic.

  Bill looked over. He used a finger to trace their approximate course. ‘How far out, do you reckon?’

  Trevor shrugged. ‘Thirty, forty kilometres.’

  They kept flying, their machine gently pulsing through the air.

  ‘How you been?’ Bill managed, looking at him.

  Trevor knew what he meant: since the funeral. Since Bill, and his whole team, had arrived at the church in Port Augusta, done up in their best (what passed for) suits. Their hats held across their chests and their faces nicked by blunt razors; dropped shoulders and a look of, I’m not sure what to say.

  But trying anyway. ‘I don’t know, mate. She was … a good person, eh?’

  They’d sat through the ceremony, the hymns and a generic homily from a minister who’d been roped in at the last minute. But at the hotel afterwards things had come good. They’d taken off their ties, put an arm around Trevor and said things more simply. ‘Fuck, mate, whatever you want, just say, and we’ll be there. Right? Just get on the phone. Anything.’

  ‘We just gotta get things back to normal,’ he’d replied, and they’d nodded their heads, taking off their jackets and unbuttoning their shirts, one of them sneaking Aiden a beer and saying, ‘It might seem hard now, but things will come good.’ Asking, ‘How’s young Harry coping?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Yeah? He’s a fuckin’ marvel on a bike, eh? And you, too, you’re a fuckin’ marvel.’

  Eventually Aiden had started feeling good, aware, for the first time in days, that life might go on.

  Moving above the desert, Bill asked, ‘How’s Harry’s leg?’