Max

by Michael Hyde

  Max raised his eyes.

  Dave closed the first aid kit. ‘He’s not old enough to be left alone, Max.’

  ‘He thinks he is, don’t you, Woody?’

  Woody looked from one to the other but said nothing.

  ‘I don’t ask you too often,’ said Dave.

  ‘Who are you going out with?’

  ‘What business is it of yours?’ Dave was beginning to rile.

  Max smiled, wincing as he moved his head. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Woody and me like to know who you’re hanging out with. We have to watch these things, don’t we, Woody?’

  Woody grinned. Dave finally smiled. ‘Despina. Her name’s Despina.’

  ‘Sounds like a fortune teller,’ laughed Woody. ‘Does she like ants – or make jam?’

  His father didn’t answer.

  ‘OK. I’ll do it’, said Max. ‘But can we have some money for a video?’

  12

  MAX HAD EVERY INTENTION of staying home. Every intention. It wasn’t a cold night but it was cool and the moon was in full flight. He and Woody had take-away and a video. Everything was fine.

  So what changed things?

  Max couldn’t stop thinking – about the day, Fatman, Mr. Davidson, bubbles in a pink flowing stream and a fragile autumn leaf, hiding behind a boulder. His mind wouldn’t leave him alone. The ordeal had made him exhausted, but the urge to do something, anything, overpowered him.

  He waited until Woody was sound asleep. Then he rode his bike to school and watched while the security guards completed their check and left. He scaled the cyclone fence at the back of the school where the high riverbanks ran down to the water. Crouching, he scampered across to the stairs of the fire escape. The moon was in full bloom, its light, silver and chilly. The sound of his sneakers echoed on the metal steps.

  The time was 11:50 p.m.

  Time to remember Lou.

  Max clambered up onto the rails at the top of the stairs. The metal was damp from the mist that came up from the river. His fingers gripped the top of the metal doorframe. He raised himself on tiptoe till he could grab hold of the guttering. His graffiti pack felt warm and comforting on his back.

  He placed his right foot on a bracket set in crumbling mortar that held the spouting in place, testing to see if it would support him. It seemed OK. Taking a quick look down, Max yanked himself up and pushed down on the bracket.

  As he heaved himself over the edge of the roof, the bracket gave way. The useless piece of metal fell silently, then clattered onto the ground three storeys below. On the other side of the river a dog barked. A bus rumbled over the Wellington St bridge. Max froze, teeter-tottering, waiting for silence to return.

  He swung his leg over and rolled onto the iron roof, the cans in his pack digging into his back. Up on his hands and knees, he cautiously peered into the yard and street in front of the school. On one corner of the building, fac-ing the street, there was a nice big blank wall.

  Max opened his pack and pulled out blue nylon ropes, carabiners and straps. He looped part of the cord around a strong looking metal pipe that ran down into the roof, then fastened the rope around him and slung his pack over his shoulders. Taking up the slack, he eased himself off the roof and onto the face of the wall.

  The harness bit into his body. Pushing himself away from the wall, Max glided out into the night, and then returned, his feet landing softly on the bricks. He repeated the movement then stopped. Looking down, legs apart, he swung in mid-air. Wind kissed his face and ruffled his hair.

  The can of purple spray was in his hand again. ‘The best in the business’, Max said and kissed the metal can as if it was a crucifix and he was sending up a prayer. Tiny pieces of mortar fell to the asphalt below, echoing like boulders cascading down a cliff.

  Only twenty minutes left before the security car returned. He pressed his finger down on the button and heard the familiar hiss, like a python ready to strike. ‘To strike at what?’ Max wondered. Sadness? School? Unfeeling arseholes? What was happening? What was going on? Walking around like the hermit on his own little island then nearly drowning himself. Where had he been? Been to London to see the Queen. Lou would’ve said something like that. He could be a funny bastard at times but nobody really knew how funny he could be. Nobody. Let’s face it, nobody real y knew him, except Max. He knew him. He knew that Lou was a friend, quiet, quiet and fragile like an autumn leaf. Strong as a bull – Strong as an ant – perhaps. But ants didn’t go around killing themselves. They sacrificed themselves – but they didn’t do themselves in!

  What was it about suicide? Everybody wanted to know, to get in on the act. They all wanted to know why. Why did he kill himself? Why? If we knew the answer, would it make sense? Because it wasn’t the details that mattered. The details were clear, the whys and wherefores not so clear. Not so clear? If the truth was told, murky would be a good word. And no matter what you did, when your friend killed himself, the meaning of it all just fell through your hands like mist between your fingers. Why’d he do it? If Lou knew that, he probably wouldn’t have done it.

  Max and he could be spraying together right now. He could’ve told Lou about the tunnel and the blood and the autumn leaves, swinging and swaying, laying down paint like they were rich men, leaving vaporous trails of purple, making love to the wall, stroking the piece out. With Lou, Max could’ve stayed there forever, swinging on the end of the rope, arms outstretched, touching the outer edges of a circle, reaching for a star. Getting some balance.

  Standing in the shadows, Max watched the security car patrol down the street. A black bird glided past, following the power lines. With the guards now out of sight, he rode along Wellington Street, gusts of wind skittering papers ahead of him. The time was 12:45 am.

  The Tan Dai grocery lay in darkness. Upstairs, a small light shone dimly from a back room.

  13

  ANYTHING WRONG WITH YOUR PHONE, son?’ Max had been outside the principal’s office for most of the afternoon.

  ‘Not that I know of, Sir. Although I think I heard dad saying something about it the other day.’

  ‘Well, after last night’s little effort, you better tell your father that if I can’t get through on the phone, I’ll be coming to your house in person.’

  Max swallowed. ‘I told you, sir. That graffiti didn’t have anything to do with me. I was looking after my brother. You can check with my father if you like, Sir.’

  Lying was beginning to grow on him. When nothing seemed certain, truth and lies shimmered like a mirage.

  He caught sight of Mai walking down the corridor. He gave her a look that said, ‘Don’t go. Wait for me.’

  ‘I know what you told me, son! It’s not only the vandal-ism and the police visiting our school. It’s your attitude. You seem to be a student intent on shooting out of orbit.’

  Max looked away. The walls outside the office were lined with old school photos – girls in black shorts leapt over hurdles, swimmers turned their heads as they touched the finishing lines, an old teacher in overalls who lived for the school and one day died on the job. There were no photos of champion graffiti artists on these walls.

  Mr Davidson heaved a sigh. ‘Very well. Off you go – and don’t forget to tell your father. I’m serious, Max!’

  He watched the boy traipse up the corridor, asking himself why he’d even bothered to say such an ineffectual thing. Of course he was serious. But Max seemed to be serious as well. Mr Davidson went back into his office wondering if there was a company that could scrub paint from porous bricks.

  Max’s head was in a whirl after his talk with Mr Davidson. He leapt down the front stairs of the school. The street was deserted. But when he looked again, there she was, standing under the plane trees, among their fallen leaves.

  Max ran over to her. He stood for that second that always seems like an hour, then reached out and grabbed her by the hand. It felt natural.

  ‘Max. Hello. You in trouble again?’

  ‘No – yeah. Kind o
f.’

  ‘Is it about that?’ she asked, pointing to the top of the main school building.

  He turned around, knowing exactly where to look. His belly leapt and a short breath caught in his mouth. He knew the words, more or less. But he didn’t recognise the symbol, painted like a signature at the bottom. A tag, only more complete, more like a drawing – a man standing with arms outstretched, inside a square, inside a circle.

  It was not quite true to say he didn’t recognise it. He felt it, somewhere in his body. A naked constellation whirling in space.

  ‘That’s the drawing by Da Vinci,’ Mai spoke quietly, gazing at the drawing beneath words that were written like a poem.

  He stepped closer to her saying, almost whispering, ‘How come you know what it is?’

  ‘A teacher showed us in art one day. It’s really great. Did you do it?’

  It was a simple question, requiring a yes or no answer. But for Max it wasn’t quite that easy. Once more he found himself staring at words and a drawing that he could only vaguely remember.

  ‘Did I do it?’ Max said, repeating the question.

  Mai looked quizzically at him. ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘I did the words.’

  ‘If you did the words then somebody else must’ve done the Da Vinci. Who was it? Or aren’t you saying?’

  Max felt the warmth of Mai’s hand in his. ‘You’ve got hands as warm as hot pies – that’s what my mother used to say when I was little.’

  ‘Max! Are you on this planet or what?! Will you talk to me – or at least say something sensible. You say you wrote the words but not the drawing...’

  ‘I didn’t say I didn’t do them. I’m just saying I don’t remember anything very clearly.’

  Mai gave up and turned to look at the words again.

  Autumn leaves and ants

  The tunnel waits for us all

  Good luck

  Mai read ‘Good Luck’ aloud. ‘What’s it mean?’

  Max blushed. He had a hazy idea of the meaning but it was held somewhere in his mind and body, not easily interpreted by words. Mai squeezed his hand and peered into his face. ‘Well?’

  ‘Oh, it was something I’ve been thinking about – and doing.’ He smiled at her. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s all bullshit at any rate. Anyway, I thought we were going to the Falls. Still want to go?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘But you’re going to have to start talking to me, I mean real y talk to me, sometime. The way you’re going, you’ll end up like Lou.’

  They walked along the path of tan bark that ran down be-side the concrete pylons of the Wellington Street bridge. Guy and Kirsty were having their regular after-school bong. It must have made them more mellow because Kirsty called out, ‘Hey, you guys. Where you going?’

  Mai answered, ‘For a walk.’

  ‘That’s alright,’ said Kirsty. ‘I won’t say nothin’.

  ‘They should smoke that stuff all the time,’ said Max.

  At the end of the tan bark they came to a muddy track, winding through the scrub and reeds that grew down to the river. The water caught the glitter of the afternoon sun. River gums, old and resilient, grew on the opposite bank. Gutters of water trickled through the grass into the river. A small breeze blew off the water. Max and Mai smiled as though their hearts would break, as though they would not, could not, stop smiling.

  Turning the bend, they heard the faint roar of the Falls before they saw the silver curtain of water flowing into the pond of froth and foam and stopper that rose back on itself like a dragon devouring its own tail. They jumped across the rocks and ledges until they reached the side of the small waterfall. Standing on a flat-topped rock, they watched broken branches, plastic cups, twigs and leaves give one last swirl, before being dashed on the rocks below.

  Max leaned towards Mai. He had to yell to make himself heard. ‘See how the water falls then rises and kicks back? There’s a ledge of some kind under the water at the base. Does weird things to the water. It’s only a small waterfall but it’s got a nasty kick.’

  He realised how close he was to Mai, who was mesmerised by the turbulence. Her ear, her cheek, her eyes, her mouth – all so close to him and his beating heart. Mai slowly turned her face to his, placed her hand on the back of his neck and kissed him.

  Later, they stood outside the grocery. Mai’s mother was near the door, working at the check-out.

  ‘Did you finish your work?’ she called.

  ‘The library’s just closed. Yes, Mum. Max helped me. Mum – This is Max.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she replied, placing groceries in a bag. ‘Is she a good student?’

  Max smiled. He could still feel Mai on his mouth. ‘Oh yes. She’s an “A” student.’ He turned to Mai, barely sup-pressing a grin. ‘Don’t you talk in Vietnamese?’

  Mai whispered, ‘All the time. But if I’d said it in Vietnamese you wouldn’t have known what I said. Thought you should know the lies I tell.’

  He raised his eyebrows. Looked over at the mother and said goodbye-nice-to-meet-you. Then to Mai he said, ‘You want to come paddling? I could take you up the river – you could meet Nick. Yeah, you could meet this old guy I know. Sometimes he’s a bit grumpy. Interested?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Mai. ‘I don’t know how good I’ll be, though. I might tip us over.’

  ‘That’s OK. You can always swim, can’t you?’

  14

  MAX TIDIED HIS ROOM. Washed the dishes, dried them and put them away. He moved onto the lounge-room, picking up the papers, toys, mugs of cold coffee dregs, Dave’s bottle of whisky, a couple of jumpers, books and Woody’s ant farm.

  He was doing his homework when Dave came home with Woody, who had been playing at a mate’s place. They were peculiarly quiet as they walked up the front steps. Normally you could hear them laughing or Dave listening to Woody say something like: ‘You know when you’re thinking something in your head and you think about it for so long that you’re not sure whether you’ve been saying it out loud, so everybody can hear.’ The kid was either mad or a mystic or both.

  The key turned in the lock. Max kept his eyes on the books in front of him. Woody said a quiet hello, then headed straight for the television. He heard his father pouring himself a whisky. The fridge door shutting. The TV softer than usual. Dave’s footsteps treading up the hall to Max’s bedroom.

  ‘Thanks for the clean-up, Max.’ Dave sat down on the end of the bed, swirling his ice blocks, looking for something in the depths of his glass. ‘Really, mate, what in God’s name have you been up to?’

  Max half-turned, looking vacantly through his doorway at an Indian wall hanging that covered a few gaping cracks in the plaster.

  ‘I get two calls today – at work! One I took straight away, because I thought something might have happened to you. I’d just been involved with a particularly difficult birth, and I pick up the phone and it’s your principal ringing me at work to tell me our phone’s out of order! Then he tells me about some assault on a railway policeman and about your ID card being found near where it all took place. Then the cops ring to say they wanted to check with me on your alibi. Your alibi? And, Max, when did you lose your bag? I didn’t know anything about that.’

  Max stared at the rug on the floor. Dave stared at Max.

  ‘You come home with a gash under your eye. Davidson tells me you’ve been walking around school like a zombie. And tell me, Max.’ Dave gulped down the rest of his drink. ‘What in God’s name – I can’t believe you did this: “Autumn leaves and ants. The tunnel waits for us all. Good luck’. What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I told them I didn’t do that.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter what you told them, mate. It’s what you tell me that matters at the moment. I’m worried. What should I do? You’re too old to be grounded. You’ve obviously invented some cock and bull story. The principal should be OK. But the detective...’

  ‘Gillespie. Detective Gillespie’.

  Ma
x rested his head in his hands. How could things turn so quickly? For the first time in weeks he’d felt good. Felt as though he was worth something. As though life was worth something. Now here he was, hearing a list of his crimes and feeling like jumping off a cliff.

  ‘I must say I didn’t like his attitude very much. He was as angry as a bee in a bottle by the sound of him. I heard it in his voice. So I backed up your story about babysitting Woody, whatever night they were asking me about. He just about exploded over the phone.’ He held his glass out to Max. ‘Here. Go and get me another drink. I’m the one who should be holding his head in his hands.’

  When Max returned, Dave sipped and then held the glass up to the light. ‘What’d you do, Max? Put half a bottle in here? Figured you’d get me a bit mellow and stop hassling you?’

  Max allowed himself to smile.

  ‘Well, mate,’ his father went on, ‘can we let things settle down a bit? Can you calm down? I know all this has to do with Lou, but God Almighty – you can’t just throw everything to the wind.’ He stood up and faced Max. ‘I’ll tell you, mate. All this graffiti – and don’t tell me you didn’t do it. Getting into trouble. The cops. It all has to stop!’

  The last words bellowed around the room. In the next room, Woody hugged an old stuffed rabbit to his chest. ‘I mean it, Max. I’m serious this time. I don’t know what to do with you. Maybe your mother might know – in fact, if there’s any more crap, that’s where I’m sending you. I’ll be ringing her tonight. You should talk to her at any rate. You haven’t spoken to her for ages.’

  Mum. Up there at Brown’s Beach, full of oceans and rivers and eagles. All her wacky alternative friends with mud-brick houses, yoga on the beach and tarot readings. At times, the idea of moving up there appealed to Max. But he hadn’t thought about it for ages and now there was Mai to keep him in the city. Not to mention this stuff in his head called Lou.