by J. C. Burke
Gran walked in and I was happy to see her.
'Gran,' I think I said in an overly chirpy way, 'hi.'
'Hello, Thomas,' she replied with a strange look. 'Good day at school, dear?'
'Yeah, thanks.'
She took in the scene. 'Oh, Kath, I thought Tess was going to help you?'
'So did I.' It was almost a snarl.
Gran frowned and started fussing around with the empty containers on the table. 'I wonder where she is?'
Kath glared at Gran. I'd never seen her look like that before. Her lips were drawn into one thin line and her hands began to twist the tea towel around and around her wrists. 'Where – do – you – reckon – she – is?'
We were headed for something, and the next afternoon when Dad and I got back from footy training, we ran smack into it. Their voices hushed as they heard the screen door close behind us. But you could feel it, it was almost like a rumbling in the walls.
Dad and I didn't say a thing. We didn't even look at each other. Slowly he walked through the kitchen and down the hall. I followed, even though I knew where we were going.
Brendan was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. Mum was way over the other side curled up into a little ball. Gran and Kylie stood glued against the wall, while Aunty Kath paced up and down the floorboards.
'What's going on?' Dad said at the doorway. 'Brendan? What . . .?'
Brendan looked up. 'Daniel,' his voice croaked. 'Daniel . . .'
'What . . .?'
'He called.'
'He called?' Dad said.
'You know he's allowed those special calls from the unit.'
'Is he . . .?'
'He's fine.' Now it was Gran speaking calmly. 'He just wanted to speak to his,' she coughed, 'his mother.'
'But I answered the phone,' Aunty Kath said, a weary tone in her voice. I could guess what was coming next. 'And Daniel, well – I guess I caught him off guard.'
'Off guard!' Mum suddenly sat up in bed. 'He can't afford to be off guard in that place. Every second he has to watch his back.'
'Well, Tess,' Kath started, 'I'm sorry about that. But my son can't even turn his neck to see his back.'
No one moved. No one breathed. The silence rang in our ears.
'Let's not go there,' whispered Brendan. 'Please.'
'No!' Kath snorted. 'We wouldn't want to upset Tess anymore, would we? Oh, my goodness, that'd be a disaster. She might never get out of bed then. She just might decide to stay there forever.'
'Kath,' Dad's voice cracked.
I closed my eyes.
'Kath – please.' He managed to continue. 'Come on. We don't want to do this. Remember, we decided that? It's not, it's not fair . . .'
'Fair?' Kath yelled. 'Fair!'
'You know what I mean,' he answered.
'Joe, why do you let her lie here, wallowing?'
Dad started to shake his head.
'Why? Why should you and Mum and Brendan have to pick up all the pieces? She's his mother. She's their mother.' Kath pointed at Kylie and me. 'Hey? What about them? Where's her . . . her sense of responsibility to them?'
'What am I meant to do?' Mum shrieked. 'Get down on my hands and knees and . . .'
'Well, at least that'd be doing something,' Kath yelled. 'It's not too late for that.'
'I can't help it,' Mum's voice was shaking. I could feel my hands trembling behind my back. Kylie had hers pressed against her mouth. 'Some days, some days I can't move, can't speak. Can't do a thing.'
'I can't afford such indulgence, Tess. I have no choice. I have to move. I have to speak.' Kath took a deep breath. 'Do you need to shit, Fin? Where's the pain, Fin? Why are you crying, Fin?' She stopped suddenly, turning, taking us all in. 'Do you know I even have to wipe the tears off his face?'
The rest of the week we tiptoed around each other. So when it came to mass on Sunday, I couldn't work out why Dad was making such a production of it. Surely we'd just slip in and slip out like we usually did.
Dad walked into the bathroom with my good shirt, the one I'm forced to wear to weddings.
'I'll give this a press,' he told me.
'Dad?' I screwed up my face. 'No way am I wearing that poofy shirt.'
He raised his eyebrows at me through the bathroom mirror.
'No!' I said again. 'I'm not. We're just going to mass. What's the deal?'
'Okay, okay.' Dad surrendered. 'Then a t-shirt with a collar. Just something nice.'
I shook my head. I could not work him out this morning.
'It'll keep your grandmother quiet.'
'Is Gran coming?' Usually she went to the early service on her own, which suited me. 'Why?'
'We're all going – together. All of us.'
I walked out of the bathroom, and there was Mum – showered, hair washed and dressed.
We had to take two cars. I was the sucker who had to go with The Grandmother. I could feel Kylie's smirk as she watched Gran drive off with me in the passenger seat.
I stared out the window. Gran's lecture on Palm Sunday and the deception of Jesus went in one ear and out the other. Mass was usually just under an hour, I'd timed it enough. But if the ancient priest who sometimes filled in for Father Vincent was there, then it'd be more like an hour and a half. He looked like a corpse on legs and his sermons went on forever. Sometimes there were huge silences between words. Everyone'd sit forward, wondering if he was going to finish his sentence, or better still keel over and die, giving us an early mark. I never understood what he was raving on about. As far as I was concerned, sermons were nap time.
Gran marched straight to the front row. Soon Dad, Kylie and Mum were squeezing into the pew with us. Being Palm Sunday, the church seemed extra crowded. But we were in luck, as it was Father Vincent walking down the aisle. We'd definitely be out within the hour as long as there wasn't too much singing.
I stood, sat, knelt, every now and then glancing over at Mum to check she was handling it. Dad was holding her hand. She seemed okay.
Mum didn't take communion. Instead she got down on her knees, buried her face in her hands and prayed. Us Brennans had a lot to ask for and not much reason to give thanks. But I was thankful. Mum was up. Crazy, but I thought of those words when the men walked on the moon: 'One small step for man. One giant leap for mankind.' 'Cause today, for my family, that's what it was like.
Dom Finch, who played breakaway, stood in the queue for communion. In front of him was his sister Virginia, who worked in the newsagency. She was quite pretty, in a gawky kind of way.
Jimmy Rogers was behind Dom. He was the outside centre and seemed to have a pretty good set of legs on him. Apparently he'd done some representative running for the Coghill athletics team. He gave me a wave and mouthed a yawn.
I spotted Soupe with about six brothers and sisters, all of them younger, running up and down the aisles. Rory told me no one expected Soupe to get in the firsts yet he was made hooker. He seemed okay in the scrum, but his line-out throws were crap. Matt had one of the most pinpoint throws around. He could show Soupe a thing or two.
Upstairs in the choir, a lone voice sang. As far as hymns go it wasn't a bad one, and the girl singing was pretty good. Us lot down below would ruin the atmosphere with our assortment of flat tones. So we sat back, enjoying her voice and, in my case, enjoying the fact I'd be out of here in five minutes, tops.
I looked up and saw the chick with the good voice was Chrissy Tulake. Now I didn't want the singing to stop. I watched as she sang the last few lines. She had a sexy mouth. Her lips were full, the top one sort of curling up, and she had the same white, straight teeth as Jonny. Her dark hair was hanging over one shoulder. Her boobs were big, not too big, just right for the shape of her body. She gave a little wave to a bloke down below and I watched him wave back. Of course she was taken. She was a bloody goddess.
The first official match of the comp was on the 19th of April, the first Thursday after the Easter break. I was relieved it wasn't the Saturday, 'cause i
t was my turn to see Daniel, and clicking away in my brain was a birthday pressie idea for him. Something real special. Something I knew he'd love.
I went down to the sheds before school. Brendan was in the middle of his 200 sit-ups. 'One hundred and thirty-nine,' I heard him pant, 'one hundred and forty.'
I sat on the doorstep outside his cabin, watching his face go from red to purple each time he heaved his chest to his knees.
'Where were you this morning, slack-arse?' he grunted.
'Slept in.'
That was a lie, I just couldn't be bothered getting up. Instead, I lay in bed, planning how I was going to get Daniel's pressie together by the weekend. It was my new mission. It felt good having my thoughts on some-thing, especially something that was good for Daniel. It stopped my mind finding its way to the dark places it still liked to visit.
I'd been running most days, so I was hardly being a slacker missing one morning's run. I had to be at the gate by 5.55 am or Brendan'd leave without me. A couple of times I had to sprint to catch up with him; then he'd keep up that pace to extend my suffering a bit more.
'You need an alarm clock,' Brendan said. 'Then there's no excuse.'
'Yeah, right,' I mumbled giving my nuts a bit of a scratch through the boxers. 'Anyway, you must've left earlier this morning.'
'One hundred and sixty-two,' he breathed.
'Or were you the slack-arse who didn't go to the top?'
'Hey?'
'It's not even 7.00,' I said, checking my watch. 'We usually don't get back till now.'
'One hundred and seventy-eight,' he puffed. 'What are you, a bloody detective?'
I felt something push against my back.
'Eh?' I looked up and saw Jonny trying to open the door. 'Sorry, Tom, didn't see you there, mate.'
Jonny stepped over me, wearing a pair of boxers too. His were covered in Homer Simpson faces.
'You all Simpsons fans?' I asked. Not that I cared. I just wanted to talk to detract from the 'cosy' scene I'd found myself in. 'I saw your sister's Bart slippers.'
Jonny smiled, his big white teeth glinting like a comic strip.
'One of my favourite shows, The Simpsons.'
I sat there trying to act casual. I mean, I guess Jonny and Brendan were together. That made sense.
'Um, Brendan? Remember Gran used to have those scrapbooks of Daniel and me playing footy? You know, articles and photos, stuff like that.'
'Yeah, I do,' he nodded. 'I think . . .'
'Oh, no, she hasn't burnt them or something, has she?'
'No!' He laughed. 'They're probably still in the wardrobe in your room. I haven't seen them for a while. Check the bottom drawer.'
'I want to make one for Daniel. For his birthday.'
'A scrapbook? Okay.' I watched Brendan nod as he took in my idea. 'That could be good. Yeah.' Jonny and him smiled at one another. 'That could be really good.'
'I mean, I'll photocopy the clippings. I won't just hand it over to him, Gran's scrapbook, that is. I want to make a new one. Make it really special. Give him something to, you know . . .'
'Yeah,' cut in Brendan. 'I might have some stuff you could use too.'
'You're a good brother, Tom,' Jonny said. 'It sounds real special.'
'Well, I think I'll go and have brekkie.'
Brendan didn't say anything, like, have brekkie here. A couple of times after our run he'd made awesome omelettes with ham, cheese and mushrooms but it didn't look like I was going to get them today and that suited me.
'Okay.' I got up and started back.
Ahead, a blue wagon had stopped at the bottom gate leading to the sheds. The driver's door was opening. I signalled I'd open the gates and jogged over, but he was already getting out of the car. I mean she! It was Chrissy Tulake.
Her hair was tucked up in a baseball cap, her long brown legs showing through her shorts, that were certainly short. I felt the blood rush to my groin. How could I ever have mistaken her for a bloke?
'Hi, Tom,' she waved.
'Hey,' I swallowed. 'How're you doing?'
'You're up early.'
'Not really.' Suddenly I felt like a prize jerk standing there in my racing-car boxers. My hairless chest looked hollow and my skinny arms seemed to have grown longer, as if they were dangling around my knees like an ape. At least I'd kept a lid on the movement in my shorts. I saw she was eyeing them. I leant against the gate.
'Cute,' she laughed. 'Racing cars.'
I racked my brains for something to say but my mind was blank except for the odd flash of her standing there with no clothes on.
'I've got this stuff for Jonny?' He's here, isn't he?'
'Yeah.'
'Can you give him something for me?'
'Sure.'
I went through the gate and followed her around to the back of the wagon. She leant into the boot, clanging things into a box. I tried not to perve at the back view but it was bloody impossible not to.
Chrissy tried to lift the box out of the boot. 'God, it's so heavy,' she groaned.
I got on the other side and we dragged it to the edge. A tiny drop of sweat had pooled in the top curl of her lip. I resisted the urge to wipe it. I was resisting a hell of a lot of urges.
'What's this stuff for?' I asked her.
'Tools for some repair, I suppose. I told him I'd drop them round this morning.'
'Oh?'
'Just put it in the entrance,' she told me, pointing to the sheds. 'He'll find it.'
'Sure.' I wrestled my arms underneath the box.
'Will you be okay?' I'm sure there was a smirk on her face. 'Maybe I should help you with it?'
'No, no, I'm fine.' I was going to bloody lift this box if it killed me. I groaned a bit too loud as I picked it up.
'Sure?' she giggled.
My fingers were burning and my biceps felt like they were going to snap. At least they looked good. 'It's not too bad,' I choked.
'Thanks, Tom,' she said, closing the gates behind me.
'Yeah, bye.'
The box was so heavy I couldn't even turn my neck to have one last look at her. I was doing my best not to stagger even though my knees were virtually knocking together. I took a deep breath and concentrated on keeping one foot in front of the other until I knew the wagon was out of sight. Then I dropped it, the tools spilling out all over the ground.
I got back to the house and took a long hot shower until Kylie started banging on the door and I had to hurry things up.
'What were you doing in there?' she said as I opened the door.
'You can't talk,' I replied, trying not to look guilty. 'You spend the most time out of anyone in the bathroom.'
'Do I need to disinfect?'
I smirked at her.
'I wish this house had another bathroom!' she yelled.
I sniffed my way to some clean boxers. Dad and Gran were doing most of the washing, and the rule was I had to put my dirty stuff outside the bedroom so Gran didn't have to pick it up off the floor. That suited me; I didn't want her snooping around in here anyway.
I pulled the bottom drawer of the wardrobe open and there they were, Gran's scrapbooks. I recognised the paper she'd covered them in: fluffy kittens playing with balls of red and yellow wool. A faded print of unicorns with flowing manes covered the oldest one.
I flipped the top book open. 'The Legend of the Brennan Brothers' was the page that fell open. I turned back a few pages. There was a photo of Dad and me together. The caption said, 'Tom Brennan with his father and coach Joe. For the third consecutive year Tom has been named Player with the Most Potential.'
I closed the scrapbook and opened the next. Pasted in the front were three certificates: 'Daniel Brennan, best kicker – under elevens', 'Daniel Brennan, best and fairest – under twelves', 'Daniel Brennan, most tries scored – under twelves'. This was exactly the sort of stuff I wanted.
I pulled one from the bottom of the pile. This book wasn't covered and looked fairly new. I turned to the back – nothing, so I opene
d the front cover.
The whack came hard and fast and I wasn't prepared.
Staring at me was the photo of Daniel's blue falcon up on its side, leaning against the tree.
'Football Party Tragedy,' the ugly black words read.
'A party celebrating St John's Marist College's entry into the Wattle Shield Grand Final has ended in tragedy. Two passengers were killed and a third suffered suspected spinal injuries when the car in which they were travelling hit a tree outside the old scout hall in Booker's Reserve.
'The driver of the car was reported to be a P-plate holder, allegedly with a blood alcohol reading of 0.12. The driver was not injured. The third passenger was transferred to the Royal Prince Charles Hospital in Aralen. All passengers were students of St John's Marist College.'
TWELVE
I sat on the floor in the cave, my fingers running along the smooth wood of the wardrobe drawer.
It was Wednesday night and I was running out of time. I had to have Daniel's present ready by the crack of dawn on Saturday. Tomorrow night was our first rugby match; that just left Friday.
Finding the news article about the accident, seeing the photo of his car, remembering that night like I was there all over again had set me back a few paces. It wasn't until now, two days later, that I could force myself back to the drawer and attempt once more to look at Gran's scrapbooks.
Once, probably not that long ago, I'm not sure I could've gone back at all. But here I was sliding the drawer open.
I took the books out and carefully, page by page, started to remove what I wanted to copy. With each memory I touched, I felt it again – that pain, like a sledgehammer slicing through your heart. It hurt so much but it was a good hurt because it wasn't in vain. This was going to help Daniel. If he had to face a future, then so did I.
'Who are you sticking on the fridge, Gran?' I yawned.
'This, Thomas, is Saint Vitus. The patron saint of oversleeping.'
I tried to keep a straight face. 'So why are you putting Saint Vitus there?'
'Your mother goes to the fridge.' Gran ripped the sticky tape with her teeth. 'This way Saint Vitus and Theresa will make a connection.'