by Brown, Honey
He stood on the deck as his father came out, bruised and stooped. Monty and Jerry were down on their bellies near the door, wagging their tails and gazing up at Adam’s father. They rolled onto their backs when he looked down at them. For a few moments Adam’s father stood there taking in the changes – the empty cages, the dead chickens scattered around the yard, and then he looked at Adam, down Adam’s body, at the clothes, the socks. Adam stared back. He was holding the hose, ready, almost hoping for a bad reaction.
‘Where’s the spade?’
His father was unsteady going down the steps. He took a deep breath before raising the spade. He wasn’t steeling himself for the job of killing. He was steeling himself for the effort in it. Adam felt relief with each dull chop. He wasn’t sad, not anymore, he just wished the chickens had more time out of the cages, more time being chickens.
Done killing them, his father let the spade drop and walked back towards the house. His eyes were glassy. His lips were white. Adam let him pass. He let his father return to the front rooms.
Adam felt that he didn’t need a weapon. He could stop his father with his bare hands if he wanted. A kick would send him sprawling. A push would topple him. His father didn’t sit in the armchair. He sat on the couch. He didn’t turn on the TV; Adam did. His father went, without speaking, into the kitchen and ate while standing at the fridge. His hands were trembling. He chewed weakly.
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘What do you think – you hardly brought me anything to eat.’
‘No, what’s wrong with you?’
‘I told you, I’m sick.’
‘What have you got?’
He didn’t answer. The smell of him had changed. It was old sweat. He went back into the lounge room and sank down on the couch, breathed shallow and short. Adam left him and went out to pick up the dead chickens. He held them by the feet, bundled them in his hands. They weren’t as heavy as they looked. Beneath the feathers they were bony. Sun seared hot. The chopped-off heads of the chickens, the ones his father had killed, Adam left in the grass. He took the bodies and threw them in the rubbish trailer. Monty and Jerry hung around the decking steps, sniffing the air, not coming any closer.
‘Where’s the key from the radio?’ his father said when Adam went back inside. He was standing in the hallway outside his bedroom door.
‘I’ve got it. I’m keeping it.’
‘Where are my tablets?’
‘I’m keeping them too.’
For a few moments his father stood there, the same place Adam had crouched with the carving knife. His father swayed on his feet. He went past Adam, into the lounge room, staggered the last few steps and collapsed onto the couch. He lay there, silent.
Adam made his father breakfast. Vegemite toast. He made him a cup of tea. Into the drink Adam dropped a tablet from the brown bottle. He stirred. One tablet didn’t seem much, so Adam dropped in two more and stirred again. He was careful not to let the teaspoon hit the sides or bottom. He capped the bottle soundlessly. His father didn’t eat all the toast. But he did drink all the tea. Adam ate five pieces of toast and drank milk from the carton. They watched The Midday Show, Days of Our Lives and The Young and the Restless. Monty and Jerry started following Adam around. His father stayed lying on the couch. His lips were parted and his eyes half-closed. He wasn’t sleeping, though. Whenever Adam went in or out of the room, or whenever something sudden happened on TV, his father’s eyes would open wider and stare, unseeing but looking. He tried to move but it was as though it was too much effort and he would lie back down. The white-hot feeling returned as Adam stood, watching the effect the tablets had on his father.
Dr Who was on that night. Adam sat on the footstool, close to the TV. When the show was over, hungry again, he went into the kitchen and stood by the table thinking of what to eat. The ability to choose was new. He wanted meat. He turned the dial on the stove. The pan was on the draining rack from when he’d washed it. He waited until the black rings of the hotplate turned red.
‘Does the meat go straight in the pan?’ he called.
His father didn’t answer.
Adam put the pan on the element. He opened the fridge. There was no meat. He turned the stove off and made a bowl of cornflakes instead.
Adam brushed his teeth. It was unsettling to be at the basin, head over the sink, scrubbing, rinsing well, using dental floss, opening his mouth and checking his back molars in the mirror. Everything else had changed, but this hadn’t. All Adam knew was that he didn’t want a cavity. Of all the rules, this one stuck. Each loose tooth he’d had as a child his father had removed with pliers. Before the tooth was properly loose. He’d used the heavy tool and ripped the tooth out, explaining, as he did it, that it was what he’d do to Adam’s adult teeth if he ever got a cavity or didn’t brush enough. Adult teeth weren’t meant to come out. He’d said he’d strap Adam down, tie his hands, tie his head back, jam open his mouth. If Adam thought it hurt to have his baby teeth removed, wait until he felt the pain of adult teeth, rooted down into his jaw, being ripped out. Adam had never felt that pain. He brushed enough and flossed enough to stop it happening. To make sure Adam understood, his father had dropped each baby tooth he’d pulled into a glass of Coke and left it on the kitchen windowsill until it had turned black and began to rot. He’d then made Adam drink the Coke, tooth still in it. Sweet things will rot your teeth. Fizzy drinks still made Adam gag.
He went to bed. He heard his father get up and go into the bathroom. Adam listened to him stumble into things, try to wash. He listened to him stagger into his bedroom. It sounded like he changed into pyjamas. Monty and Jerry didn’t sleep with Adam. He could hear one of them yipping softly in its sleep in the lounge room. Probably dreaming of killing chickens.
The thing that lived inside Adam’s father never stayed down long. It came to the surface the same way the sun went up and down each day. The following morning it was up. Meanness was showing in his mouth. It was rippling through his expression. It coated his words.
‘Is this all that’s left?’
He was in the kitchen, shaking the bread bag. There were a few pieces in the bottom. He’d showered, dressed in long pants and a T-shirt. Adam saw that the rope from the table leg was missing. Whatever it was that lived inside Adam’s father evaporated his age. Adam understood that now. His father looked and sounded younger. His body was old, but the things in him weren’t, his mind wasn’t; it was tough and durable like leather. Looking at him it would have been easy for Adam to let the fear take hold, to be like Monty and Jerry, dropping to their bellies at the sound of the sneering voice, rolling onto their backs to see Adam’s father standing straight and well again. But, instead, Adam raised his fist and rushed his father. Adam knew the moves. He gave no warning. He pulled up short before hitting him, snarling in his father’s face, fist shaking in the air. His father dropped the bread bag and crouched by the sink.
‘Give it to me.’
His father took the rope from his pocket. He passed it to Adam and then cringed, waiting for the blows. Adam looped the rope as though about to strike him. But didn’t. Just let his father stay like that, cowering, a moment longer, before slowly pulling away.
Adam walked out and hurled the rope into the centre of the pool, watched it sink.
His chin trembled, but he refused to cry.
They needed bread and they needed meat. The milk carton was almost empty. Adam went into his father’s bedroom and looked at the pairs of shoes against the wall. He chose the brown leather ones without laces. Adam practised walking in them, up and down the hallway. The day was hot. He put on shorts. He kept on the brown checked shirt. He looked at himself in his father’s wardrobe mirror. Adam’s fringe was hanging in his eyes. His arms and legs were long, ghostly white and skinny. Boys on the TV had similar hair to Adam’s but none of them dressed the way he was dressed. His father had jeans, but he wore them often and they reminded Adam of his father; he couldn’t bring himself to put t
hem on.
‘Take me to the shops.’
His father was sitting on the couch. ‘I’m too unwell.’
‘I don’t care, take me anyway.’
‘I’ve got no money.’
‘That’s not true. I found the money. If you don’t take me I’ll take it next door and ask them to take me.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The money under the house. Are you going to take me or do I have to go next door with it?’
When his father did nothing Adam moved as though to leave. His father shifted on the cushions.
As his father got ready, Adam didn’t let him out of his sight. He followed him into the bedroom and then into the bathroom. He watched while his father washed his hands and face. It felt to Adam that if at any time the gun was going to reappear it was going to be right then. His father dried his hands for a long time. His head was down. He was thinking.
‘What do you want?’ he said, turning suddenly. ‘I didn’t mean anything before. I was getting rid of the rope. I meant what I said down in the room. I am going to change. Do you want me to say I’m sorry?’
‘I don’t want you to say anything, I want you to take me to the shops.’
‘They’re closed.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘People will see you’ve hit me. You’ll get in trouble.’
‘I don’t think I will.’
‘Where have you put the safe key?’
‘I’m not telling you.’
‘What food do you want? I’ll get anything you want. I can get new things this time.’
‘I’m coming. You can’t stop me.’
They went out through the billiards room, across the decking and down the steps. They walked around to the gate. The sun was high. Concrete shimmered and rippled in the heat. His father had hidden the key for the gate padlock inside a length of hollow metal pipe. It was lying on top of a pile of bigger pipes. His father’s hand rested on the bar as he withdrew the key, his fingers closed a little way around the steel. Adam took a few paces back. He’d left the hose inside, but he had the bottle opener with him. It no longer felt big enough. Adam looked at the things around him – blocks of timber, beams of rusted iron, a metal fencing stake. Adam crouched and picked up the stake. He stayed crouched, watched his father. A car passed in the street. A ball bounced. Two voices drifted up from the other side of the fence. The conversation was fast and jumbled. The voices grew louder. They were right there, on the other side of the gate. Adam lifted his head, opened his mouth as though about to shout, eyed his father.
His father let go of the bar. He unlocked the gate.
Adam let go of the stake.
Monty and Jerry howled the moment the gates were closed. Adam guessed they usually got to go shopping. He’d never heard them howl like that before. Or maybe, locked in the backroom, the sound hadn’t reached him. Adam’s father’s car was parked in the street. It was a blue station wagon that could fit birdcages in the back and carry bags of seed. Once or twice, when very young, Adam had been allowed to play inside the vehicle. Now and then his father drove the car into the yard, unloaded seed, took caged birds away or brought new birds home. There were chicken feathers on the seats and scattered on the floor. The temperature in the car made the air hard to breathe. Adam closed the door and burned the backs of his legs on the vinyl seat. He perched on the edge with his knees against the dash. His father wound down the window. Adam watched and then did the same on his side. The boys bouncing the ball were on the footpath up ahead. They looked over their shoulders. One of them made the sound of a chicken. Both boys laughed. They were near enough to call out to, but it didn’t make them seem any closer. To Adam it felt as though there might as well have still been a fence between him and the boys. Everything remained far away. Adam’s gaze skimmed the fronts of the houses, the wide driveways, the short green lawns and colourful gardens. Tree branches arched over the road. Huge stretch of sky above that. Adam gripped his knees. The car sped up. Air blew in through the window. Things passed fast. He forced himself to look. The picture didn’t change. The world was tall, it was spread out, long and deep, filled to the brim, there were people in it, colour sprang forward, sun glinted off leaves and windows and off the moving cars, yet the world was a single thing, one big place. And Adam didn’t feel like he was in it. Was it just like his father had always said? There was no place for Adam. He didn’t belong.
‘Mr Vander, you’ve taken a fall or something?’
The butcher came out from behind the counter. He was wearing a white apron stained with blood. He wiped his hands on a tea towel tucked into his apron strings.
‘Are you okay?’
‘A bit of heart trouble, I took a tumble.’
‘That’s no good, sorry to hear it. Is that why you’ve got a helper with you today? G’day, young fella, you’re a good lad to help out.’
The man’s eyes were so brown they looked black. There was a steel rod hanging from his belt, resting down his thigh. The other man behind the counter was dark-eyed too. He was whistling along to a song on the radio.
‘Come and sit down, Mr Vander.’
The butcher brought forward one of the chairs lined up against the wall. He placed it in the middle of the long section of the shop where other people were waiting.
‘Hot day to be out if you’re not feeling well. What would you like? We’ll get your order quickly, let you get back home.’
Both men wrapped the meat. There were mirrors on the walls. Adam could see himself from different angles. He looked at the other customers. They didn’t look at him – not even when he tried to catch their eye – they looked into the cabinet at the meats.
In the next shop they knew Adam’s father too. They also saw that he was sick. He told them the same story.
There were trolleys and wire baskets. His father took a basket and passed it to Adam. Foods advertised on TV were on the shelves. The store was a strange temperature, not warm, not cool. No smell. Adam’s shoes were rubbing on his heels. His father filled the basket. A woman with a baby walked along the same part of the shop as them. She jiggled the boy on her hip and talked to him as she put things in her trolley. She wheeled the trolley one-handed and asked the boy to point at things.
‘Where’s purple?’
The child pointed to a packet on the shelf. ‘There.’
‘That’s green.’
‘There.’
‘No, that’s pink.’
‘There!’
The woman stopped and took a packet from the shelf. Her face was flushed and her hair was blonde and curly.
‘That’s purple,’ Adam said, pointing at a packet.
The woman pulled a wide-eyed face. She smiled at Adam. He smiled back. The skin on his bottom lip split. Adam’s father turned to face them. He exchanged a look with the woman. His eyes softened in a message – Take no notice of him.
‘There!’ the boy kept singing out, able to be heard even when Adam and his father were at the front buying their food.
A motorbike had parked beside Adam’s father’s car. There weren’t many other cars about, not many shops. There were lots of houses, in every direction. The yards were small, no high fences. In the car on the way home Adam went over in his mind what had happened. He didn’t look out the windows as he had on the way to the shops. He looked down at his knees. Adam could feel each breath he took. He was aware of every time he blinked. Could feel every heartbeat.
They turned into their street. His father parked the car. Adam felt cold despite the sun burning down. He took the bags of food from the back seat and stood waiting while his father opened the gate. Monty and Jerry darted out and raced around their feet. Adam followed his father through into the yard. His father was talking.
‘It’s only ever been that I’ve worried about you. I’ve looked after you the best way I could. We’ll make lots of changes now that you’re older . . .’
The moment the gate was shut, before
his father had time to thread the chain and close the padlock, Adam put down the bags and picked up the steel pipe. As he turned with it his father stopped talking and crouched, covered his head. Adam stood over him, the bar raised, trembling and gripping the steel so tightly it hurt his hand. Down on the ground his father huddled against the gate. After a moment Adam started to cry. Tears began to roll down his father’s cheeks. Adam threw the pipe towards the house. It landed with a clank on the concrete. Adam gasped, catching his breath, tasting blood on his bottom lip, where the smile to the woman had cracked it.
Tears spilled from Adam’s eyes. His chest was tight. He had to drag in each breath. His father stretched out on the hot concrete, put his cheek against the rough surface and lay there like he wasn’t going to get up.
‘I’m normal, aren’t I?’ Adam cried.
His father nodded.
‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’
His father shook his head.
‘You didn’t have to hurt me. You could have loved me.’ Adam’s voice caught in his throat.
‘I do love you.’
‘Don’t say it! I could have been like other children. You made me —’ A sob stopped Adam talking.
‘We can make it all right. I promise you we can. I want things to change as much as you do. I’m going to make it up to you. I will. From now on it can be everything you want. Anything you want.’ His father’s body began to tense up. Adam watched his hands curl against his chest, watched his father’s face grow grey and his lips turn pale. ‘I need a tablet . . .’
He left his father there. Adam went inside. He lay down on the lounge room floor. The tears wouldn’t stop. Adam curled on his side, pulled his legs into his chest. If he closed his eyes he saw everything too clearly, he had to keep his eyes open, but if he looked at things, like the carpet, or under the coffee table, or at the dogs’ cushions, he saw those things too clearly too. He had to blur his vision and stare at nothing. Monty and Jerry came in and licked his face. They jumped on top of him.
