Sugar Town

by Robert Nicholls

  “Is she what, Az-ee-el? Painted blue? Usin’ the loo? Waiting for you? Hey, didja hear that? I made a rhyme! Blue-loo-you! Get it?”

  Asael stared at her uncomprehendingly.

  “My God you’re a dull boy, McFarlane! You got to learn some appreciation of, you know . . . things other than your kidneys! But in answer to your unspoken question, Bridie is just super-dandy! Nothing to worry about! She’s helping us monitor ol’ ‘Kamikaze’ Cranna. Pilot extraordinaire! Since mid-afternoon, I might add! No idea why she’d want to spend time around the ol’ skirt-chaser, but it’s good from our point o’ view! Keeping him awake. Concussion an’ all. Just a born carer, isn’t she?”

  I was amazed! It’d been hours since the ambulance brought him in, but she was still here!! So, did that mean he wasn’t badly hurt at all? Or did that mean he was at Death’s door and she was doing her Christian duty by him while he struggled to survive?

  “How is he?” I asked out of the semi-darkness. “At the Showground, Dorrie said he wasn’t . . .!”

  “Wasn’t what, Ruthie? Dead? Alive? Fixable? Nah, he’s okay. Broken leg, bang on the head, lots o’ bruises. Only thing that’s prob’ly not been shaken is his ego! Made o’ shatter-proof porcelain, that; like his conscience. Nah, he’ll be in a bit o’ pain for awhile, but what the hell! Serves him right, the reckless old fart! I, for one, intend never to let him live it down.! Man, I wish I hadn’ been working! Wish I coulda been there to see that plane come down! Blasted the shit out o’ The Grand Gourd, they say! An’ you saved him, Ruthie! Kee-riste! What were you thinking, girl?”

  All the talk of ‘shattering’ and ‘shaking’ and ‘blasting’ had Asael hopping from foot to foot. “And Bridie, she’s . . . ?”

  “She’s what, As’? Boy, do you ever finish a sentence? She’s what? Here? Gone? Up the stump? What? Hey! I’m off duty in about ten. What say you give me a lift home? Wouldja do that, As’? Wheel me through the streets in your little barrow? Is it clean? What else you been wheeling around in there? Nah! On second thoughts, I don’t wanna ride in there! Maybe I could ride the goat, though, whaddya reckon? Is he saddle-broke? Hey, is it true Cranna’s rampage included bombing the crap outta the other one? How come you two’re out with the goat-lady anyhow? She a bit on the weird side, like they say, or what? Stupid question, eh? Of course she is! No other explanation for these useless little grass-munchers, is there? An’ these signs! What’s this one say? LET IT GATHER IN YOU! I mean what’s that about? I mean, what’s she – Princess Leia or something? Princess Fruit Loop, more like!”

  Asael’s head had fallen under the onslaught and I was a little daunted myself. Not by the flood of questions; Dana never expects answers to her questions. I was a little daunted by the impulse to defend Amalthea. It’s hard to stand up for outsiders – for fear of becoming one yourself! But I was seriously contemplating giving it a try when I noticed Rosemary stepping quietly up behind Asael.

  Without stopping or even pausing, she bunched her shoulders and slammed her head straight into his butt, which sent the poor kid lurching forward, straight into Dana’s arms. The two of them, squawking in surprise, reeled backwards in a short-lived, slow-motion dance that left him clinging to her like a big rhinoceros beetle, hands clamped on her breasts, and her staring at him in stunned disbelief.

  Rosemary, her head held high, strutted over to where I sat and, though the light wasn’t good, I could’ve sworn she winked at me.

  * * *

  Give Dana her due, she was back in control in a flash. True, her eyes widened appreciably and her mouth froze in an astonished little O; far from a normal state for Dana’s mouth. But then, with a genuine smile, she lifted Asael’s hands off her and held him away at arm’s distance.

  “Jeez, Aseal! You want me that bad? I mean, I know my allure is inescapable! And we are at the Emergency Entrance here, but hey! Even if copping a quick feel seems like an emergency for you, you gotta be a little subtle with it, you know? Kee-riste, Ruthie! Whatcha been feeding this boy?”

  Asael was mortified, of course.

  “I’m sorry, Dana! I didn’t mean . . . ! It was the goat, she . . . !”

  “Yah, yah!” she poked at him. “I know what goat we’re talking about, Asael! I‘ve seen hundreds just like it! And they’re all the same!”

  Rosemary bleated her contempt and Asael tried again to bleat his innocence. His mind, I knew, would be jumping like a circus act – bouncing back and forth between the feel of Dana’s big boobs in his hands and the feel of Rosemary’s horn buds in his . . . whatever big bum muscle’s are called. I couldn’t imagine which he’d enjoy more! And that thought gave me my first decent laugh in a long crazy day.

  Amalthea reappeared in the doorway.

  “Hey what’s going on?” she smiled.

  “This sly young buck here,” Dana answered, joining in the laugh, “just turned the tables on me! Decided to give ME a check-up!”

  “No, no! I didn’t . . . ! She . . . “ pointing at Rosemary, “she butted me!” And he began belatedly to lift a leg as though it couldn’t hold his weight. Dana made a mock move toward him, arms out.

  “Oh, hey! You’re hurt! C’m’ere darlin’! Let Auntie Dana check that butt out for you. No secrets left between you and me now, are there?”

  He, of course, skittered straight over to me for protection, holding onto my arm with one hand and clutching at his wounded bum cheek with the other. And he started to cry.

  Wounded pride, I knew; and anxiety and fatigue and confusion. But it embarrassed me. And I’d been through a lot in the last couple of hours, on his account. And suddenly there was just a hole where my laugh had been. A hole that re-filled instantly with full-blown crapped off. Having to kick him out of my bed at four in the morning! Having to put up with his new-found, wrong headed independence! Having him mistake my cautious supervision for fear; and then going delusional on me! Having to witness his helpless infatuation with Amalthea, without which we’d certainly be home in front of the t.v. with a bowl of popcorn instead of out here in Crazy Land!

  “Stop it, Asael!” I stood up, more abruptly than I’d intended, pushing him away, hard enough to make him stumble. “Stand up! You’re too big for this sort of crap! And I’m not your mum!”

  The looks in all their eyes – but especially his – instantly condemned me! Shock and disbelief! I couldn’t have done more damage if I’d slapped him and thrown him to the ground. It was one thing for others to tease and mock him, but for me to publicly humiliate him? It was as though I’d taken some ancient foundation of trust between us, and shattered it with a single blow. Which of course, in a sense, I had.

  * * *

  There was a worse thing, though. You know how a thing can stick in your mind? A childhood thing, maybe – an image or a word? You don’t know why, because it’s just one of a million things you’ve heard or said or done, no better, no worse, and it has no obvious importance to your life. But once every couple of years some little probe goes to that corner of your brain and eventually it’s a sensitive spot. It’s like you’ve gone on a long midnight trek and dropped your torch and it lit up a jagged little stone and you forever remember the clear, sharp edges of that stone, lying there in that passing pool of light.

  The look on Asael’s face was that lone, jagged little spot-lighted stone. I’d seen it before – not on his face, but on Bridie’s. And it went with the tears and the pushing away and my words: You’re too big for this!

  I might have been three? Certainly not more than four, because the Reverend was gone after that. And Bridie . . . twelve or thirteen . . . coming to him in tears over some forgotten slight. And him pushing her away. You’re too big for that! And that look of utter betrayal on her face!

  I was only little, but I hated him for hurting her when he could so easily have held her. And now, to my shame, I’d done exactly the same to Asael!

  * * *

  When I pushed him off, Dana’s laughter and Amalthea’s laughter were p
inched off immediately. Even Rosemary gave me a wondering look. I had no choice, of course, but to bluster it out. I grabbed his wrist and jerked it roughly.

  “C’mon, ye little rat! We’ll find Bridie and . . . you can cry on her shoulder!”

  Amalthea said softly, “You okay, Ruth?”

  “Of course! I’m fine! Just . . . sick of being responsible for him!”

  Asael was hanging off the end of my outstretched arm, sniffling, refusing to step near me. I couldn’t look at him, so I looked to Dana instead.

  “Where’s Bridie, Dana?”

  She gave the number of Johnathon Cranna’s room but Amalthea said, “I just peeped in there. He was alone and asleep. I bet she’s gone home. Want me and Rosemary to walk you over?”

  I didn’t want to be walked over. I didn’t even want to go home or see Bridie. I wanted to feel . . . I don’t know! Less responsible; less connected; less confused. I wanted something to wash away the look in Asael’s eyes, to push it back into the shadows. I dragged him closer and he gave an exaggerated limp.

  Dana stepped forward then and gently lifted his arm from my grasp. “Look, mate!” Her attention was all on him. “In all seriousness. That goat gave you a bit of a battering there.” She wrapped fingers around his wrist, much more gently than I had, and began counting off seconds on her watch. “Might be we should just make certain you’re fit to walk home, eh? Where’d she get you, exactly?”

  “Biceps femoris,” he snivelled.

  “Ah, now! You see? I was right! ‘Cause that one can be prone to spasms, as well you know! Potential for ligament trauma too! Bridie’d never forgive me if I let you go without at least a painkiller! You could spare a couple o’ minutes for a painkiller, couldn’t you Ruthie?”

  She was all business and professionalism now, with not the least hint of tease and Asael turned hopeful eyes on me. It was all play on her part. I knew it and I didn’t see how Asael could fail to know it. But it cheered him – maybe just the thought of getting away from me! But I was grateful, nonetheless, for her effort.

  “Yeah, sure. Why not? Better safe than sorry, I suppose.” And off they went, leaving me alone with Amalthea and Rosemary and my guilty conscience.

  * * *

  “Okay,” Thea said. “We’re going to head off then.” She stepped close and gave me a hug, which I returned fleetingly. “I can’t thank you enough, Ruth; for all you’ve done today. Helping with Garlic! Getting the flowers! You’ve been lovely; both of you.”

  “S’ okay,” I said, wishing that Garlic’s death was all the day had been about. Knowing it wasn’t.

  She stepped back but kept hold of one of my hands. “We’ve got plenty to think about tonight, you and I . . . and Asael. I know it’s a big ask, Ruthie, but it’d be great if the two of you came by the house tomorrow. I mean, if you want to! The sooner we talk through what happened tonight . . . what needs to be done . . . the better.”

  She obviously thought I was with her on the whole ‘message from Rita’ thing and I didn’t have the energy to disabuse her. As far as I was concerned, we’d rescued a drunken old man from a night in the cane, Asael had had some kind of excitement seizure and we’d left an unexplained something in the paddock for Alf Caletti to find. I didn’t want it to be anything more.

  “Yeah, sure. If Bridie doesn’t need me for anything . . . I’ll try. And . . . sorry about Garlic.” The last bit, I found myself, slightly to my embarrassment, addressing to Rosemary as much as to Amalthea.

  “Look at her!” Amalthea said affectionately. “You wouldn’t know she’s lost a life-long companion, would you? That’s one of the things I like best about goats, I guess. They aren’t overly oppressed by things. You know what I mean? Whatever they meet in life, they meet head on. And whatever happens . . . that’s just what happened!”

  I shook my head. “Nice way to be, I suppose. Not to care.”

  “Oh no!” Amalthea shook her head. “That’s not it! You have to care! What I’m saying is that . . . we people tend to find extra burdens . . . beyond caring. Regret, guilt, anger, fear.” Her eyes glistened as she spoke. “Things that turn us about and distract us; mess with our focus! Goats don’t let that happen! They know how to shrug those extras off.”

  She was looking at me intently, hoping for a glimmer of understanding, I suppose. I don’t think she got one.

  “Right, well, okay,” she said. “Off my hobby-horse and onto the street!” She picked up the wheelbarrow and spun it about. Then she looked back. “You’re a good sister, Ruth. Don’t ever doubt it. I’d have you for mine any day of the week.”

  And with Rosemary trotting at her side, she wheeled the protesting barrow away down the drive.

  * * *

  Johnathon Cranna was a wreck! His leg was encased in fibreglass, his cheek was swollen, his head was wrapped in gauze and his mind was hopelessly hazy from painkillers. But he woke when I opened his door.

  “Well well!” he said drowsily, looking me up and down. “Who’s a hero, then?”

  I felt unaccountably better just for seeing him – for knowing he was all right. I thought of the kiss I’d given him when he was only one eighth conscious and I had to look away to hide my smile. The smell of him somehow had become mine. And he didn’t even know.

  “They tell me you saved me!” he muttered. “From a fate worse’n death!”

  “It was only sugar,” I said. “And you saved me from breaking my neck, falling off Snowy’s Ute. So . . . we can almost call it even.”

  “Almost?”

  “Mm. For now. Until I can think of something else.”

  He tried a laugh but it turned into a little whistle of pain and I got up to go. “No, no!” he hissed and waved me back which gave me a little glow inside; he wanted me there. After a moment he said, “I’m trying to remember. I saw you somewhere! On the ground! Was that . . . ? Where were you?”

  The pain killers, I guessed, had made Swiss cheese out of his memory.

  “Yes, you did see me. And I saw you. Twice! The first time was in the street after the parade went by. You buzzed me.”

  “I buzzed you?”

  “Yup! I was back by the fire station, alone in the middle of the street! Making my own little parade. And you buzzed me. Waggled your wings.”

  “Ahh.” I doubted that he remembered, but he wanted me to believe that he did. “I always waggle my wings at the pretty ones.” He winked at me in a cross-eyed, bruised kind of way that nonetheless made me laugh. Having men call me ‘pretty’ was a totally novel experience!

  “And obviously I was at the showgrounds. Just near where the Moth crashed. You saw me there. Standing with Kevin.”

  “I did?”

  “Mm-hmm. You were so low.” I waved my hand to show him at eye level. “You looked right at me.” I was feeling a little flushed, talking to him like this, as though we were exploring a newfound connection between us. Flirting, Bridie would have called it. Reckless flirting! Something she would never do. “I saw you see me.”

  “You saw me see you? From way down there?”

  “Yes I did!” I waved my hand again. Eye-level. “It wasn’t actually very far at all!”

  “No? That low?”

  He looked at me then. I mean he’d been glancing at me, the way you do when you chat with someone or when you’re really too tired to hold your head up. But now he really looked at me. Up and down. Like he’d done that morning at the marshalling yard. And I felt the blood rise in my cheeks, just as it’d done then. This time, however, it wasn’t because he was looking but because of what I imagined he was seeing. If I’d looked like Bridie – long and regal and beautiful – or was curvy and round and feminine-soft like Amalthea – looks that I imagined must drive men mad – I’m guessing I mightn’t have minded. But what he was seeing was a scrawny, thirteen-year-old beanpole in a trainer bra, with a ponytail and a backpack. And enough cheek to be visiting after hours. I was fully furious with myself; for blushing uncontrollably; for
being . . . just stupid. And I knew he was going to laugh at me.

  “So . . .” he finally said, looking away, “what did you think . . . when you saw me see you?” No laughter. No hint at all, in fact, of what he thought. Which seemed to me like a bit of a challenge.

  “I don’t know. That you were going to die, I guess.”

  “Ooo! Did I look scared?”

  I shook my head. “You looked like you wanted to say something. But didn’t have time. You know, what with being busy lining up The Grand Gourd and all.”

  He smiled faintly and gave a weak gesture with his head, inviting me closer. I leaned in. Even through the medication and ointments, I could smell his aftershave.

  “I wasn’t scared, Ruthie,” he confided quietly. “You know why? ‘Cause I’m indestructible!”

  “Really? Are you Super-Mister-Cranna then?”

  “Time has proven it to be so, kiddo. Time and again.”

  Folded and draped over the arm of the bedside chair was a piece of cloth that I recognised. I picked it up and let it drop open. Bridie’s MISS FREEDOM HOUSE MINISTRIES banner.

  “Yeah!” he said tiredly. “Big sister was here! Big sister. Quite a looker, your sister, eh? Haven’t . . . had a chat with her . . . in years!”

  “She won! Did you know? She’s Harvest Festival Queen! Only they couldn’t find her to crown her. I guess she was here with you, maybe, when they announced it.”

  “Yeah?” He tried the laugh again and again managed only a choked bit of a gargle. Through a grimace, he said, “So the princess became Queen at last eh? Bloody marvellous! Much deserved, I’m sure.”

  He put an arm over his eyes, then, and fell quiet. I began to think he’d drifted off but half a dozen breaths later he murmured, “Miracle. She thinks she saw a miracle.” A few breaths more and he peeped at me from under the arm. “Did you see a miracle, Ruthie?”

  I shrugged. “I saw that your engine was dead!”

  His eyes disappeared back under the arm, this time for a dozen breaths or more. Then he whispered, “One o’ God’s little chillen. That’s me. Inde-bloody-structible.”

  I had no idea what he was seeing against that arm but I accepted that it was no longer anything to do with me, or even the hospital room. I sat on the edge of the chair, watching him. I’d been embarrassed when Johnathon looked me up and down before but now I wanted him to look at me, at my face . . . to focus on me. I wanted him to remember that I’d been there. I began searching my mind for something that would bring him back. I even, crazily, thought of kissing him again.