Sugar Town

by Robert Nicholls

  She is the same girl who stalks the town, barefoot, in Bridie MacFarlane’s dream. In Johnathon’s dream, she’d cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted, “It’s coming!” Then she’d waved him goodbye.

  Now he sits, bathed in sweat, rolling his forehead against the porcelain. He thinks of Bridie McFarlane in a bed, just down the hall. It would be better, he thinks, if she’d died. If only the Moth had fallen that bit quicker! He’d tried, hadn’t he, to push forward on the stick? Hadn’t he tried? Or when she took the pills! The baker had saved her, but . . .!

  He sluices water across his face, angry now. He remembers how deftly he once fed the Reverend’s guilt until, like a great horse, it carried him away. It was child’s play. Surely, he thinks, managing a suicidal girl would be easier yet.

  * * *

  Amalthea emerged about the same time that Kevin and Frieda arrived, him on his motorbike and her in her car. They pulled into the yard one after the other, both a little too quick, raising dust as they braked, as though they’d been racing. He looked worried, she looked like thunder; and she wasn’t alone. When Marybeth and Vivian climbed out of the car with her, Amalthea muttered unhappily: “Uh oh! She’s brought reinforcements.”

  Hello, hello, all around, but stiffly and stuffily. Vivian, after all, along with Alf, was the owner of the house and so had proprietorial airs to put on. And Frieda’s son was inside and in disgrace, so she had the angry mother thing happening. Kevin, because of my tearful phone call, was on the defensive on my account and Amalthea was not in the mood to be put upon by anyone.

  That left only Marybeth and I, and I saw the gleam in her eye straight away as she said hello to our faces but strained to see past and into the house. It wasn’t hard to guess, from the few words that I’d passed with her on the street the day before, that she had religious ecstasy on her mind. If the heart truly does cry out for wonder, as Kevin says, Marybeth’s cried out much more desperately than most. If anyone was likely to own the proverbial stale dinner roll with a likeness of the Virgin Mary in its crust, it was her.

  She was ready, then, and anxious to believe that Isak Nucifora, having found ‘a Heavenly Body’ in the cane, had been granted visions; and that Asael, having rescued it and carried it to civilisation, had been granted powers that allowed him to raise the dead and, almost as astonishing, to wake Bridie in defiance of Doctor Dabney’s wishes. She it was who cut immediately to the chase.

  “I hope you don’t mind us old busybodies,” she indicated herself and Vivian, “coming along with Frieda. There’s just been so much excitement in the town lately! I mean even discounting the Harvest Festival! And so much of it . . . well, it does seem to be centred on your little house, Amalthea!”

  “Of course she doesn’t mind!” Vivian insisted. “Alf and I drop in all the time, don’t we, love, just to see how things are going. She’s like a daughter to us, aren’t you dear, and Alf does like us to be available. It’s not far out of town, he always says, but a young woman on her own . . . ! And a house with a history, at that!” She rolled her eyes, inviting us to remember catastrophe bursting through the door when Gramma G lived there. “Was it only yesterday Alf offered to bury your pet for you, Thea? The one that got killed by Johnathon’s lollies?”

  “Goodness, yes!” Marybeth fluttered. “Ruthie told me, didn’t you dear, that the creature had been resurrected! What was its name again?”

  “Garlic,” Amalthea said. “Yes, he seems alright! He and Asael are both sleeping. We had kind of a hard night last night, as I’m sure Frieda’s told you, and . . . !”

  But Garlic was up and, having heard his name, he nosed open the screen and came out. Animal grace can be so entrancing. For a moment, we all turned to look at him and he, in the regal way that animals have, turned his head toward each of us, one after another, as though in recognition. The last he looked toward was Marybeth and he stopped moving then, his blind eyes staring. It looked to me as though his spring had suddenly wound down but it must have seemed to Marybeth that he was particularly interested in her presence. She raised a hand to her mouth and a tiny “Oh!” escaped her.

  “Sweet Lord! He . . . he’s so . . . alive!”

  No one answered. It seemed self-evident.

  “But he wasn’t . . . wasn’t he blind . . . before?”

  “Yes he was,” Amalthea said. “And remarkably . . . !” She was about to say, And remarkably, he still is, but Marybeth’s near collapse brought the sentence to a premature end.

  Her chin began to wobble and the corners of her mouth fell so far that the bags under her eyes were reduced to mere wallets. Tears oozed across them and her breathing became erratic. She reached out, as blindly as Garlic would have had to do, for support, and Frieda put out an arm to shore her up.

  “For Heaven’s sake, ‘Beth!” she huffed. “Get hold of yourself!”

  “He sees me!” Marybeth stammered. “Look! He’s been ‘Beyond’ and come back! He was blind and he can see! What does it mean, Frieda? Is it a miracle?”

  “Don’t be daft, woman! He can’t see. He’s as blind as an apple. Isn’t that right, Amalthea?”

  Marybeth, reaching urgently for Vivian, was already oblivious to any answer Amalthea might have given.

  “Vivian!” she was whimpering. “Is ‘It’ still here? Is it still inside? Can we see?”

  “Stop it!” Frieda hissed, smacking lightly at Marybeth’s hand. “I never would have let you come if I’d known you were going to carry on like this! Go sit in the car!”

  “But . . . but . . . !”

  “No buts! There’s far more important things to talk about than this silly goat and God-forsaken bits of space junk!”

  Marybeth gasped and clenched a fist at her bosom to keep her heart from bursting through into the air.

  “I’m serious, Maybeth! I’ve come about Franz – not about any of this ‘miracle’ nonsense! The only miracle you’ll see today is that boy surviving after I get my hands on him! Now go! Sit! Get control of yourself! Maybe afterwards, Amalthea’ll let you look at her . . .Whatcha-ma-callit!”

  Marybeth went, trembling at the nearness of power, yet keeping her feet defiantly on the ground, perching in the car’s open door, so as to hear what might be said.

  * * *

  Amalthea asked me to fetch chairs for Frieda and Vivian.

  “There’s no need . . . !” an out-of-patience Frieda began but Amalthea waved the objection aside.

  “Both Franz and Asael are having a couple of quiet moments to themselves,” she said, blocking all entrance to the house. “And we need to talk!” So the five of us, plus Garlic, sorted ourselves on the veranda. When we were settled, Amalthea took charge.

  “When we spoke at the bakery yesterday, you said you’d do anything to help sort out this McFarlane mess, once and for all. I want to know if you meant it.”

  Frieda’s nostrils flared, Vivian sat up straight and Marybeth, metres away at the car, leaned forward to listen.

  * * *

  Amalthea then related the events of the night – the ‘Night of Mayhem’, she called it: about Rosemary and the gas bottle at Bessie’s caravan and her son’s confession to having done those things, as well as to having set fire to my house. And before Frieda could gather her outrage, Thea went on to say that Franz had been lying to cover up for the man HE thought was guilty – that man being his father, the mayor! Who, (once again over-ruling Frieda’s stuttered disbelief) ‘we’ also guessed, probably didn’t need to be covered for.

  (Interestingly, she didn’t mention Isak’s role; the merciful end he provided for Rosemary, and his terrorising of Freida’s son. It seemed that our promise not to mention the old man, who was even then asleep in Amalthea’s bed, was going to remain in effect for as long as we could manage it.) By the end of Amalthea’s tale, Frieda was barely containing herself.

  “I can tell you abso-bloody-categorically,” she burst out furiously, “that the mayor would never . . . ever . . . in a year of royal piss-
ups, be capable of harming anyone! Or anyone’s animals! Or anyone’s property! There’s not an ounce of hurt in that entire man! And if he was with Masher, like you say – and I don’t doubt that he was – then it wasn’t for drinking company alone! He’s had . . . things on his mind!”

  “His mind?” Amalthea asked softly. “Or his conscience?”

  Frieda bounced in her seat. Her eyebrows arched, her shoulders rose and Marybeth took a step closer, so as not to miss a thing.

  “The McFarlane family,” Frieda managed to stammer through her indignation, “is not the only family in this district to have its troubles!”

  Kevin, ever the placator, jumped in. “Whoa Frieda! No one wants to snoop in your family’s business! But you have to think . . . if Ru’ and As’ had been in their house when that fire started . . . or Bessie in her caravan when the gas was released . . . we all know how horrible the consequences could have been! Thea’s just asking why Franz would suspect his father!”

  With a vast and visible effort, Frieda stifled the explosion that was building within her. For starters, she snarled, looking levelly at me, as though I should have known better, my challenging the mayor at the Festival had been the worst possible timing.

  “Because we’d been talking about poor Rita that same morning, see? How it was ten years since she took herself off out into them mangroves! It shook us both, all over again; to think how someone in Sugar Town could be that low, with nobody knowing! That’s not how life’s meant to be here! Not death, neither! ‘S just . . . people you think might have an eye on things . . . sometimes they haven’t, eh!”

  She looked meaningfully at Kevin and he lowered his eyes. Then she went on.

  “Not that we were particularly close, Ruth – your family and mine. Nothing personal, we just weren’t. But that don’t mean we didn’t care about ‘em see? We did! And while I’m on that topic, let me jus’ say . . . if you’re thinkin’ nobody much cared about that thing with Bridie, you’re wrong! Who was to say though, eh! That it wasn’t jus’ some boyo she was leading on? Too much Festival spirit in ‘im, touches her up a bit, gives her a fright! Who was to say, eh? Common as nut grass, innit, girls?”

  Vivian from her seat on the veranda, nodded sadly, and Marybeth, caught half way between the car and the house, did the same. And Vivian added, “‘Specially after she wouldn’t name any names, that’s exactly what we thought! Kids!”

  “But then, o’ course,” Frieda continued, “Jacob fired up with all this ‘pustule of corruption’ sort of talk – about how Sugar Town had to root out it its evil! It was a big jump for us, I can tell you, from over-sexed teenagers to ‘pustules of corruption’!”

  “If only Rita’d come out an’ talked to us!” Vivian simpered. “Just amongst the women, even! But she never would! She washed her hands of us, you know? You’d go knocking on her door and . . . often as not, she still wouldn’ come out! Well, we thought she was just being over-protective, or kow-towing to the Reverend! She’d soak in it a bit, we figured. Then get over it, an’ come back to us! Like people do!”

  “An’ then there was Gracie,” said Frieda, reclaiming her story, “who went entirely off her cruet! Raving around the town! An’ before we knew it, Rita took you kids off an’ disappeared! Come back evenchally with a new baby!”

  Amalthea was like a hangman who’s heard one too many pleas for mercy. “You’d’ve had to be living in a crack not to have figured it out by then! That it was more than just a teenage grope!”

  “O’ course! O’ course!” Frieda, though she’d started reluctantly, seemed to be warming to her version of the story. “We been through this! We’re none of us stupid, you know! Especially because, in the meantime, Gracie got herself killed! That’s when everything really come clear; ‘cause mongrel old Les Crampton got linked to that, which indirectly linked him to the attack on Bridie! And then, soon’s we knew it was him . . . he disappeared! It was like some kinda justice snaked into town and done what needed doing! See? Pebble falls in the pond, bit o’ sloshing about, then it settles down! Everything’s back to rights! Leastways, that’s what we thought!”

  “Some kind of justice.’ So that was how they’d come to think of Isak! Like a rough tool that they couldn’t quite bring themselves to name. I looked up and Marybeth was there beside me, her eyes wide, her lips moving soundlessly. Frieda, realising how far off topic she’d wandered, erased it all with a wave of her hand.

  “Anyhow! The point is that all the mayor’s ever wanted is for Sugar Town to be the proud, friendly little place it’s meant to be! Prosperity and family values! That’s been his whole story, every campaign he ever fought. It was him behind the Grand Gourd, did you know that? The whole idea – the symbol – it was his! And for so long, everything was right! But then, out of the blue, him and me, we wake up thinking of Rita McFarlane, and the way she died. And then,” she ticked points off on her fingers, much as Hoggs had done: “there’s meteors falling outta the sky, Johnathon smashes the Grand Gourd, Ruth comes baitin’ us with this ‘terrible deed’ story, old Isak flares up like a bloody ulcerated colon, Bessie comes squidlin’ back into town an’ there’s Bridie . . . tryin’ to do like Rita done! Naturally the mayor’s upset! Naturally he is! He maybe didn’ handle it real well, but he’s desparate to figure what can he do to set things right again!”

  She fell silent, as though she was done, and Amalthea said, “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And now . . . let’s hear the real story.”

  Frieda gave her a look that could have knocked a cockatoo stone cold dead.

  “I just told you . . . !”

  “Oh you did not! You turned in a comfortable circle and lay down again! Look, we can all see that something needs fixing in Sugar Town! But an hour ago your son stood here, prepared, as far as he knew, to go to prison! Because, for better or worse, he’s convinced himself that his father has something to do with it being broken! So how’s about we drop the ‘family values / community pride’ rubbish and get past pointing fingers at everyone else! Why did a few questions from Ruthie and a memory of Rita McFarlane turn the mayor into such a raving, paranoid lunatic, Frieda? What’s your family’s role in all this?”

  Frieda’s breasts were heaving. A little pulse twitched beneath her eye and a furrow formed on her forehead.

  “Where’s my boy?” she hissed.

  “Exactly where I said. Inside, lying down. He’ll wait. Talk to us, Frieda. Please!”

  I felt I needed to kick in a little provocation of my own.

  “Last night at Kevin’s, we talked about Isak Nucifora and what he told them at the hospital – remember? He said there were others, besides Les Crampton, involved in that attack on Bridie. Is it possible that the mayor knows something about that, Missus Hoggitt? Is that why he’s so angry with me for asking?”

  Marybeth was nearly beside herself, hopping from foot to foot and, “Lord save us!” she whispered over the knuckles of her clasped hands. “That poor, derelict old man! Given over to drink and cursing for all these years! And yet, God has intervened on behalf!”

  “What are you on about, you mad woman?” Frieda demanded furiously. “Lyle’s the mayor, for God’s sake!”

  “No, not Lyle! Isak! Isak Nucifora!” She leaned in conspiratorially, back in the group at last. “Such a handsome, dashing man once, oh, I do remember! A beautiful man! But we all know, don’t we? What terrible sins he’s committed! But the Lord has sent him back amongst us now! His penance is done and he’s been given a vision!”

  Her eyes were like painted eggs. She sucked in a great gasp of air and her hand flew to her mouth. “They’re all signs! The Grand Gourd smashed! The object falling from Heaven! Asael’s spiritual contact – so like his father’s! All signs!”

  She sank to a seat on the steps and commenced to fanning herself with a pale little hand while we all gaped at her. It was an unexpected bit of passion that had taken the wind out of our argument. Then, “Reverend Jacob wil
l come back” she declared, “if we bring out the truth! If we redeem ourselves! Yes! That’s all you’ve been asking for, isn’t it, dear?”

  I showed my open palms, empty of everything but the little gleam of Isak’s ring. “Just the truth!”

  We all looked to Frieda then, acknowledging that the decision to start on the truth was hers alone to make.

  “Oh for the love of Gawd!” she cried, throwing her hands in the air. “I’m tellin’ youse, those troubles had never a thing to do with my family! Whole diff’rent set of issues! But I s’pose I won’t hear the end of it, will I? Nothin’ else’ll do! Well all right! Okay! I gave my promise to do whatever, so never let it be said! But I warn you! Truth for one means truth for all! No high moral stances, right? Not ‘til we see just how far the stain will spread!”

  She fixed her eyes on Kevin. I don’t know if everyone noted the set of his lips or the single shallow nod of his head; but I did and I know Amalthea did as well.

  “Don’t anybody ever say I didn’t warn you!” Freida roared, shaking a finger at the sky, much as I imagined my father must have done from his pulpit. And then she put the mayor’s long years of selfless dedication to Sugar Town in front of us, like a little box, and stomped it flat.

  * * *

  Turns out that, when Lyle first nominated for the mayoralty, he really did have a vision for Sugar Town. It was to put up a wall around the town (metaphorically speaking); to maintain a small town integrity that said ‘No’ to big conglomerate chains and foreign investors who wanted to replace our cane paddocks with timber plantations and our local Chicken Bar with KFC’s.

  Johnathon Cranna had materialised as his most vocal supporter, pushing for responsible local investment and using his silken voice to tip the electoral balance in Hoggitt’s favour. In token appreciation, Lyle had slipped Johnathon a few nudges and winks on Council’s private deliberations – thereby allowing Johnathon to become far the most successful of our ‘responsible local investors’. And the support had continued exactly as long as the nudges and winks had continued.