This is How We Change the Ending

by Vikki Wakefield

  Someone has to make it stop.

  D&G lights the community barbecue using a match. He unwraps five sausages, cuts them and places the sausages on the butcher’s paper an equal distance apart. He opens a sweating bag of ninety-nine cent bread and eats a slice the same way I do—peels the outer crust, feeds it into his mouth like a noodle, squishes the rest into a dumpling and stuffs it in his cheek. When the barbecue starts to smoke, he transfers the sausages to the hotplate in exactly the same order.

  I’m sitting on the edge of the track, dangling my legs. I was hoping Merrick might show up, but it’s only D&G and two kids on scooters riding the shallow track. When they switch tracks, I swing my legs over and move to the bench under the shelter.

  Up close I can smell D&G’s body odour, his unwashed clothes and greasy hair. There’s an unzipped bag strapped to the back of his bike and it’s full of things people usually leave at home: clothes, shoes, books.

  D&G might be the loneliest man in the world and I don’t have the time or the energy to be his friend. That makes me another shit human being in an entire world full of shit human beings. Connections complicate things—I almost wish Jake and Otis had never been born, otherwise I’d pack a bag right now and take my chances somewhere else.

  He pays me no attention, although I’m only a few metres away. I’m just a secondary character in his life, too.

  I wipe my nose on my hand and sniff.

  ‘Are you all right?’ D&G says.

  His voice is deeper than I expect, and he has several missing teeth.

  ‘I’m fi—’ I start to say. But I’m not fine. Things are not fine. ‘Actually, I’m just trying to hold it all together.’

  He looks as if he’s about to say something but decides not to. He turns his sausages one-eighty degrees and pulls a bottle of BBQ sauce from his bag.

  ‘Hungry?’ D&G asks. ‘Bread.’ He points. ‘Sauce?’

  I stand and take a piece of bread.

  He chooses a sausage, cuts it lengthwise, and flips both pieces over to blacken the inside. After about a minute, he squirts parallel lines of sauce between the halves, reconstructs the sausage and places it squarely in the middle of the bread.

  It’s not how I do it, but it looks edible. ‘Thanks.’

  He nods once, and indicates I should eat.

  While I wait for the sausage to cool, I watch his movements. His clothes are filthy, but his hands and nails are clean. He slices another sausage, squirts the sauce. Repeat. He eats his meal slowly and thoughtfully, and when the hotplate has cooled enough he cleans it, using a scraper and a few pages from a newspaper. Everything has to be just so; it’s like a choreographed ritual performed to a beat playing inside his head.

  ‘Thanks for the sausage.’

  He turns sharply as if he’d forgotten I was there, nods again and goes back to cleaning the hotplate.

  I think we’re finished, but then he says, ‘Moments. Just moments, one after the other. You only have to hold it together for one moment at a time.’

  I dig in my pocket for Dec’s twenty, thinking I’ll pay D&G more than the sausage is worth and I won’t take change. But he’s so dignified. He probably won’t accept it for the same reasons I wouldn’t. The guy rides around on a kid’s bike—he probably sleeps on benches and squats to shit, but the crappy life he’s having is so ordered, so completely within his control, and this upsets me more than it should because I’m so fucking undignified, even though I have more than him.

  When he’s not looking, I slip the twenty in his bag. This way I don’t owe my old man anything, D&G keeps his dignity and everyone is better off.

  ‘Man is no island,’ I say to D&G, and leave him there.

  ‘No man is an island.’

  I tell myself he was just repeating what I said, but deep down I know I misquoted. He was correcting me.

  Just make it through this moment. And then the next. And the one after that. I repeat this all the way home, until I get to the flats and I see Margie sitting on the top step, alone.

  I think moments are the problem—I’ve never been able to see past the next one. How can you choose a future like that? Margie took things a moment at a time, but even-tually those moments piled on top of one another and her dog exploded.

  Like Owen Kleinig, the twins and I are at the losing end of a whole string of bad transactions. And when we grow up to be nothing, people will say it’s because we have character defects, not because we grew up in Bairstal and we never found our way out.

  Mr Reid was right—they stole our futures. And I’m finally fucking angry about it.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Otis is lying on his stomach on the floor, chewing his fist. I wonder how long he’s been there. The bedroom door is still closed and I can’t see Jake anywhere.

  Something’s burning.

  O reaches for me, but I brush past him and head to the kitchen. Inside the oven, Nance’s lasagne is a smoking corpse. I use the pot-holder to pull it out, slam it on the sink, open the window and fan the smoke.

  ‘Nance?’

  No answer.

  ‘Jake?’

  I scrape the lasagne into the bin and fill the pan with hot soapy water. Otis is starting to whine so I hand him his sippy cup.

  While Nance still hides in the bedroom, I shove almost everything I own in my school backpack: a few clothes, my phone, my toothbrush and notebooks—nothing I don’t need in the next few days, or that can be replaced. I can’t find any more cash lying around but I steal Dec’s phone charger from the kitchen, wondering how many people could travel this light. I’ve been kidding myself that my life is huge and complicated, but here it all is, stuffed in a bag. There has to be a cosmic reason why I have so few possessions; there has to be a pay-off.

  And it’s this: I can leave. I’ll go to Mum’s apartment by the beach. If that’s not an option, I’ll create another option. I’m a master plan-maker. I’ve been planning my whole life.

  Leave through the front door and tell the people you love that you love them.

  ‘Nance?’ I knock on the bedroom door. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  Nothing.

  A familiar odour is overpowering the smell of smoke. Otis has oozed shit all over the carpet.

  I worry about leaving him like this, so I pick him up, carry him to our bedroom, and lay him on a towel on the bottom bunk. In the five seconds it takes me to grab a nappy from the top drawer of the dresser, he rolls off the bed and crawls towards the hallway. I haul him back by his nappy, and he’s paddling like when you hold a dog above water, and now there’s shit on my hands and the carpet needs scrubbing. I use about fifty wet-wipes to clean him up, change him and stuff the dirty nappy and wipes into a plastic shopping bag. I spray the marks on the carpet with toilet bleach (that’s all I can find in the laundry cupboard) and stomp on paper towel to soak it all up.

  Otis has commando-crawled back to the lounge room. I prop him between two pillows on the couch and press play on The Lion King. It should keep him quiet for a while. He doesn’t remember he’s already watched it about a hundred times. I wash my hands, dry them and look for a piece of paper. I’ll write Nance a note. There’s a sheet of discount vouchers for Dominos on the fridge; I tear it through the middle and flip to the blank side, but I’m having no luck with the mighty pen—luckily, I find a half-eaten black crayon on the floor, but I don’t get beyond Dear Nance before I realise I can’t write small enough to say everything I need to say, and anyway, it looks like a ransom note.

  I worry the boys will be hungry and Nance might be too upset to remember dinner, so I slap together two cheese-slice sandwiches, cover them with cling wrap and finish the note with: here’s dinner for the boys.

  I worry about the trail of dirty washing leading from the front door to the hallway. I scoop up as much as I can and stuff it all in the washing machine, which is still in the middle of the laundry after the last time it shuddered so hard, it walked. I turn the machine on but, partway through filling, the p
ipes rattle and the water stops. I make sure the taps are turned on. I check the kitchen taps, too—water runs for a few seconds, then the same thing happens. Clang-clang. Nothing in the bathroom, either. I can’t imagine why the water would be turned off unless the bill wasn’t paid, and I can’t imagine the water bill hasn’t been paid, or the electricity bill, because Dec’s plants would die without both, and priorities.

  Fuck.

  I pull the washing out again so it doesn’t stink.

  ‘Run away, Simba…run. Run away and never return.’

  ‘I’m trying,’ I mutter. By now, I could probably quote The Lion King in its entirety. In Swahili.

  ‘Simba! Run!’

  It takes me ages to realise it’s Otis, not Jake, speaking. And when I turn around, Otis has rolled off the couch. He’s standing, no holding on, like he’s been practising in secret the whole time.

  Now we get our miracle.

  ‘Ruuuuuun!’ O raises his fist and stares at the TV, his eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Nance!’ I bash on the bedroom door. ‘Come look! Look at O!’

  Jake opens the door a crack.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  He scowls. ‘Nance won’t get up.’

  I push the door open and peek through the gap. Nance is lying on her stomach, the quilt wrapped around her body, the pillow over her head. Her fists are bunched around her ears.

  ‘Nance, you have to see.’

  She doesn’t answer. Now Nance isn’t functioning. This completely screws up my plans.

  I cross the room and tug at the pillow. ‘Are you trying to suffocate yourself?’

  ‘Yeth,’ is the muffled reply.

  ‘Won’t work. It’s like holding your breath until you black out—you can’t die, because as soon as you pass out, your brain tells you to breathe again. Survival instinct. Come on.’ I grab one of her hands. ‘Please.’

  She flings the pillow aside. ‘He cheated.’

  ‘What? Who?’ But I already know.

  ‘It was that Irish girl from the pub. She might be pregnant.’ Her eyes are swollen like she’s been crying for a long time. ‘Give me one of your alternative realities. I do not like the one I’m in.’

  I know nothing I’ve ever imagined will make Nance as happy as what is real in the next room. ‘O’s walking.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, he’s standing.’

  Nance leaps out of bed. As she throws back the quilt, a biscuit tin clatters to the floor. She pushes me aside and bolts for the door.

  I grab the tin and carry it to the lounge room. Jake follows close behind.

  Nance has picked up O. She’s laughing and crying at the same time, spinning in circles.

  Jake is still as confused as all hell, but he punches the air and yells, ‘Yeah, little buddy! Go, little man! All right!’ with an American accent, like a kid from a seventies sitcom.

  Nance holds Otis so tightly his face turns purple. As she spins him like they’re dancing, his head whips around so he can see the screen—he doesn’t want to miss a thing.

  Nor do I. I can’t leave. My little life is huge and complicated.

  ‘What’s this?’

  Nance glances at the tin. ‘Money.’

  She puts Otis down gently. He wobbles and falls on his arse, and she lifts him under his arms. The second time he stays up.

  ‘Oh.’ Her hand flutters to her cheek. ‘What do we do now?’

  It scares me to say what I’m about to say aloud, and I don’t know what she’s really thinking—but if she’s think-ing what I’m thinking, she’s wondering how long this moment will hold us before we crash.

  Dec will never leave his family.

  Dec will never let his family leave.

  ‘Just…go. Leave. Take the boys.’

  Her eyes brighten. As quickly as it appears, the spark goes out. She shakes her head.

  ‘Your folks would come, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘In a heartbeat.’

  ‘Then why? Why stay?’

  But I know why. Dec has worn us down, like water over stones—he just keeps running over us, wearing us down, until we offer no resistance.

  Nance takes the tin and gestures for me to follow her to the kitchen. ‘This is all I’ve got.’ She opens the lid and tips the contents onto the table.

  I stare at the cash. It looks like a lot. ‘How long have you been saving all this?’

  ‘About a year. I had to do something. I needed a plan.’ She rubs her eyes with her fists. ‘Nate, it’s not enough.’

  ‘What do you mean? It’s like—’

  ‘It’s exactly four hundred and forty-six dollars and fifteen cents. I counted.’

  ‘Yeah, a lot.’

  ‘Not enough.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘I know where there’s more.’

  Nothing has changed in so long. Now it’s all changing too fast.

  Nance has only packed the basics, but the rooms already echo. I wander through the flat, tidying up after her, keeping one eye on the boys.

  Nance races from the bedroom to the kitchen clutching an armful of clothes. She shoves them into a duffel bag. Her eyes are wide and panicked. ‘How much time do you think we have?’

  ‘Pub shuts at twelve.’ I shrug. ‘Five or six hours?’

  She grabs my elbow. ‘You shouldn’t be here when he gets back.’

  ‘Will you leave a note?’

  ‘I’ll call him. When things settle down.’ She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. She seems on the verge of tears. ‘We’re going to get picked up at the shops so no one sees. We have to go before—’

  ‘—Dec comes,’ I finish.

  ‘Before I change my mind.’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘You have to tell him you were out. You don’t know anything.’

  ‘Okay.’ All around me is chaos, but I’m eerily calm.

  ‘That’s everything.’ She surveys the lounge room with her hands on her hips. ‘I think.’ The pram is near the door, the basket underneath loaded with nappies and shoes.

  I pick up O and press my face into his neck. He wriggles and kicks his legs against my thighs. He doesn’t want to be held and I don’t want him to start screaming, so I put him back down.

  Jake is sitting on the edge of the couch with a Sponge-Bob backpack between his knees. ‘Bye,’ he says cheerfully. ‘We’re going to a farm. I’m going on a tractor.’

  Nance’s face crumples and she pulls me into a brief, hard hug. Her bones are jangling, her heart beating crazily against my chest. She straps Otis into the pram, slings the duffel bag over her shoulders and takes Jake by the hand.

  Then they’re gone.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I’ve been sitting on the verandah with the front door wide open, wondering if Nance and the boys are safe and far enough away. I don’t remember ever having the place to myself this late.

  Out on the street, a single working streetlight flickers on. It’s getting dark and I’m getting hungry.

  I head inside. On the way past Dec’s surfboard I give it a flat-handed shove. It moves the tiniest bit. I wiggle it using both hands, but it must be buried deep. I step away, kick out sideways and it gives a little more. Five more hard kicks and my ankle is throbbing and the board’s leaning backwards at twenty degrees, but that’s as far as it will go. Something is stopping it. Another kick. The board makes a sound like a branch breaking; it falls over, leaving its tail fin in the dirt.

  Something inside me breaks, too.

  I rip Nance’s hydrangea out by the roots, fling it out onto the driveway, go inside and open the door to my old bedroom.

  The day the cops came to the door, Dec asked what would happen to all of us if he was locked up. In a few days or weeks, the plants will be gone—right now there are twenty-two of them, plus an unregistered gun in the roof space, and there’s still some cash taped to the bottom of the kitchen sink. There’s a good chance he won’t even come home tonight, but Nance needs more time
.

  If Dec is right, that’s two years right there.

  I take some leftover change from Nance’s forgotten jar in the kitchen and walk to the phone box near the service station.

  I’ll become the monster to defeat the monster. One phone call, anonymous, the flat will be raided, Dec will probably be held for at least forty-eight hours, and Nance will have a better chance at full custody of the boys. For most people, this wouldn’t even be a choice—it’s simply right or wrong. For me it’s like deciding between doing nothing and waiting for the asteroid to hit, or doing something to change its course. These are my options. Either way, probable mass destruction.

  I step inside the phone box, sweep cubes of broken glass from the counter, lift the handset, feed the coins into the slot and jab the buttons—my hands shaking, heart speeding, pits sweating—and I can’t dial the final number. I physically can’t do it.

  I’m part of the problem. I have been for a long time.

  I go to Youth.

  I lean against the wall, wishing I smoked so I’d have something to do with my hands other than pretend to scroll through non-existent messages on my phone.

  I text Nance—Are you okay?

  The court light’s working again. Cooper and Deng are taking a smoke break in the far corner. Povey is half-asleep, leaning against rear of the wall with a melted Zooper Dooper in his hand.

  Someone goes in; somebody else comes out. Business as usual. A blast of warm air from inside brings the smell of burnt toast.

  Cooper calls out. ‘Shoot?’

  I give him a thumbs-down.

  The doors open again.

  ‘Hey, Nate.’

  ‘Hi, Mim.’

  ‘What are you doing out here by yourself?’

  I shrug.

  ‘I’m just checking on Mr Povey.’ She takes the Zooper Dooper from between Povey’s pinched fingers and touches his neck. ‘Didn’t spill a drop. Are you coming inside?’

  I shake my head. ‘I’ve got things to do.’ I point at Povey.

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘He’s fine. But what about you?’

  ‘Good.’

  She smiles. ‘That could mean you’re fine, or you want everyone to think you’re fine, or you’re absolutely not fine.’