‘Pow!’ he laughs.
He licks a blackened finger and draws a smile on the dust-coated screen of a sad grey computer.
‘You’ll be late home,’ says a chainless bike.
‘They’ll be worried sick,’ says the broken beach umbrella.
‘It’s so unlike you,’ adds a cracked bathroom basin. ‘You’re always so punctual.’
* * *
When a neighbour’s car pulls up, he mutters something about a breakdown, and accepts a lift home.
He pauses in the driveway. A dismantled retaining wall rots slowly on the sodden soil. A gap-toothed rake lies grinning.
Through the window, his wife and children are shadow puppets, approaching and receding with the billowing curtain.
And it all looks the same as it does every evening.
Just a little darker.
Family Block
After the phone rings, Poppa tells him Mummy isn’t coming to get him tomorrow night and it’s Daddy who’s coming again. The sound on the telly gets loud with the ads, and Poppa grunts and turns it off.
‘Why not?’ he asks, but Poppa doesn’t hear. And anyway, he didn’t really mean to ask out loud.
Poppa puts his cup of tea down on the table too fast. Some of it spills on the coaster, but he doesn’t clean it up. He leaves it sitting there. Then he goes into his and Nanna’s bedroom and closes the door.
Nanna puts him to bed even though it’s still a bit light outside and he hasn’t had dessert. She pushes a strand of hair out of his eyes with her lavender finger and kisses his forehead.
‘Night, baby boy,’ says Nanna, but she doesn’t get up from the bed. Her chicken-foot hands are spread out on her thighs and they tap … tap … tap on her building-block knees. She sits and sits in the quiet with just the sound of her thinking. Through the terylene curtains the sky goes pink, then dark blue, then black. The people over the road turn on the telly in their front room and then close the blinds. And still Nanna sits in the dark.
When she’s finally done with thinking, she stands up and walks off without looking back, and pulls the door shut behind her.
Baby boy kicks off his blanket and turns away from the door.
‘Bad Mummy,’ he says and pushes his forehead hard against the wall till it aches.
* * *
Something in his dream wakes him up, but he can’t remember what it was. It’s hot and the new shortie pyjamas that Nanna bought him are sticking to his back. He gets up from the folding bed and walks as quiet as a mouse along the hallway. Nanna and Poppa are in the lounge room now watching the telly and it’s up really loud, so he doesn’t even have to sneak to get past the door. Nanna’s left the light on above the kitchen sink, so he finds the pantry door without bumping. He reaches up to the handle, pulls, and then closes the door softly behind him.
Thin strips of light from the sink squeeze through the slats and pick out slices of the labels lining the shelves: a bird with blue wings, a yellow aeroplane, a red coffee mug. He takes a deep breath and recognises Nanna’s cooking smells. On the left are garlic and onions that she cuts up for spaghetti sauce, and on the right are the spices in little bottles that she sprinkles on hot bread and butter pudding in winter.
He knows just where the chocolate block is hidden on the shelf. He saw Poppa slide it in behind the big tin of olive oil when he got back from the shops. It’s a family block and it’s for special time with Mummy when she picks him up and stays for dinner.
But now Daddy’s coming tomorrow and he doesn’t stay. He just picks up the bag and takes his hand and off they go. So the family block will stay there, and it won’t come out for weeks. And that’s not his fault. And Poppa said it would be this week. So why should he have to wait till it’s Mummy’s turn for picking up?
He climbs up on the bottom shelf where the big bag of rice and the dry dog food for Scampy live and tips his chin up so he can see over the third shelf, with the cans of tomatoes and creamed corn, to where the olive oil tin is stored. He holds on to the edge of the shelf tight with one hand and reaches behind the big cold tin that makes a wobbling sound when Nanna pours the oil. He clutches the slippery paper oblong, lowers it level with his chest, and holds it in place with his arm as he climbs back down from the shelf.
He’ll only eat his and Mummy’s share. Just one row. Then he’ll close the silver wrapping all neat and slide it back behind the gold metal tin.
He knows he should be sharing it with Mummy like they do on pick-up nights. They sit on the pouf in Nanna and Poppa’s lounge room facing each other with their knees touching. Then Mummy puts one end of the row in her mouth and he puts the other end in his, and then they let it melt square by square, and it’s only when the square is almost gone that they’re allowed to move forward to the next one. And at the end Mummy gives him a chocolatey kiss and sometimes she starts laughing and rolls off her pouf onto the carpet, and she rolls around and round and spit mixed with chocolate spurts out from the corner of her lips. Nanna and Poppa just look at her and then keep watching telly. Sometimes he jumps on her and gives her a chocolate kiss back and tells her he loves her this much, even if she did eat almost the whole row and he only got one square.
* * *
He sits on the cool pantry floor and carefully peels back the purple paper and silver foil to reveal the five squares of chocolate. He has to wedge the block tight between his knees to break off the top row. It’s hard. He needs both hands and even then he thinks it’s never going to break and then it suddenly snaps and his fingers hurt from the edges of the squares.
He sits cross-legged on the floor with his row in one hand and the rest of the block balanced on his thigh. He stiffens as he hears Nanna’s voice, all high and pointy, not like usual, in the kitchen, just the other side of the door. Then Poppa comes in too and he’s all low and grumpy. He turns on the kitchen tap and takes the kettle from the bench.
‘We have to give her one last chance,’ says Nanna.
Poppa laughs a little bit, but not like when he makes a joke.
‘One last chance.’ He turns off the tap. ‘How many last chances do you want, Marg?’
Through the slats of the pantry door, he peeks down at the floor. Their feet are right there, in their inside slippers, all wide and bumpy and facing each other.
Nanna’s voice is low like Poppa’s now.
‘You don’t give up on your kids.’ She takes two mugs from the wooden stand. They clink together.
‘I’m not saying we should give up on her.’ Poppa talks like the man on the news. ‘But it’s the little one we’ve got to think about. She certainly isn’t.’
The mugs bang down on the kitchen bench.
‘That’s not true.’
Poppa puts the kettle on the bench and clicks it on. ‘Sweetheart, she’s got to make the effort …’
‘It’s not a question of willpower, Graham.’
Poppa’s slippers move away from Nanna’s. He takes the lid off the teabag canister. ‘No, I know, but—’
Nanna opens the top drawer really quickly. The knives and forks and spoons bang about like jingle bells. ‘She’s not doing it on purpose.’ Nanna’s feet turn around and face the sink.
‘But she at least has to let us help her,’ says Poppa.
Nanna breathes in really deep. ‘She will when she’s ready. She’s got to be ready.’
Poppa’s voice gets louder again. ‘Fine. And in the meantime, the little one—’
‘Shhh,’ says Nanna.
‘What if he asks …?’
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ says Nanna.
‘Well, we might have to soon,’ says Poppa. ‘Michael’s going to lose patience and she’ll lose the overnight stays.’
Nanna’s slippers turn back around. ‘That can’t happen.’
‘It might,’ says Poppa. ‘It might, sweetheart.’
Nanna’s voice is all scratchy like Cookie Monster’s. ‘It’ll kill her,’ she says. ‘He’s all she’s
got.’
‘You wouldn’t know it,’ says Poppa.
‘It’d undo the little progress …’
Poppa’s slippers move up next to Nanna’s. There are no words now. Just a faraway siren leaving a faint urgent trail along the freeway. Its lights crack like fireworks through the kitchen window and splash the floor with red and blue.
‘Okay,’ says Poppa softly. ‘But they can’t leave him with her just for her sake. They’ve got to think of his welfare too.’
‘They will,’ says Nanna. ‘Of course they will.’
‘And that’s why she could lose him.’
Nanna’s voice is all small like a bird. ‘There’s no point worrying about that yet.’
Poppa sounds tired. ‘Yeah, well, we probably won’t have to worry about it at all. She’ll probably be dead before it’s decided.’
‘Graham!’
‘Well, I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. It’s the truth, Marg.’ His voice is softer now. ‘And I don’t want the little one to be there when it happens.’ He clears his throat. ‘Daughter or not, she’s not fit to have him.’
‘And is Michael?’
‘Yes, he is,’ says Poppa. ‘Yes, he is. Look, I’m not mad about him either, but you’ve got to admit that he takes decent care of him. He’s a better father than she is a mother. And I’m pretty sure the judge will see it that way.’
The kettle starts to whistle and gets louder and louder. Nanna’s voice gets real loud too. ‘And if they ask for your opinion?’
Poppa finally turns the kettle off. The whistle calms down and sighs and stops.
‘I’ll tell them that’s how I see it too.’
No one is talking now. Nanna’s toes are going up and down in her slippers.
‘I can’t believe …’
Poppa’s slippers move so close they’re touching. ‘I’m sorry, love. It’s alright. It’s alright. We’ll get there. We’ll get there.’
Nanna sounds like she’s got the hiccups.
‘It’s just—’
‘I know. I know,’ says Poppa.
He pours the water into the mugs. Nanna puts in the sugar and stirs. They pick up their mugs and their slippers move away from the door. The light above the sink goes out.
* * *
He stays perfectly still in the warm darkness. There’s no noise inside. Just the hum of his breathing. He can hear Nanna and Poppa talking in the lounge room, but he can’t hear what they’re saying. He wishes they’d just stop. He takes deep breaths but it feels like he’s got his blanket over his face. The floor is moist under his thighs and his pyjama bottoms are soggy. They cling to his bottom and make his thighs itch. He slides his free hand underneath and sniffs his damp palm. It smells like Mummy’s salty fingers when he bites the Cheezels off. His mouth fills with spit. It feels cool when he swallows it down. He’s thirsty and his lips are dry. The pantry smells are making his eyes water. A single drip of sweat makes its way over his forehead and along the curve of his nose. It tickles and hangs, but he doesn’t wipe it away. His hand is cool and tingly from holding the chocolate up and the squares have melted around the imprints of his fingers. The chocolate oozes between his knuckles and runs down his wrist. He brings his fist up to his mouth and scrapes away at the melted chocolate with his front teeth till his knuckles sting and taste like rust. The chocolate is all sweet and thick and sticks to the roof of his mouth. He pushes it around with his tongue till it forms a hard-edged ball. It weighs on his tongue and almost makes him gag. He keeps it there till his mouth fills with spit and then swallows it down. The ball sticks in his throat like an ice cube and hurts on the way down. He gulps more spit to push it through. When the last of it is gone and the taste is disappearing from his tongue, he wedges the family block between his legs. He clamps it tight with his knees. He tears off the paper wrapper and the silver foil. He clenches the next three rows with both hands, holds his breath and snaps them off clean.
Blur
Saminda’s uncle regrets waiting for the morning light. He’s sorry now and should have woken him earlier. And they should have got going sooner. But he’d heard the roads wouldn’t be safe in the dark. And his wife thought they should let the boy try to get some rest. Saminda pulls his t-shirt down over his stomach and looks up at his uncle.
‘I didn’t sleep,’ he says.
* * *
The Galle road is already crammed with traffic in both directions. Buses, ambulances and tuk-tuks lined up and patiently advancing, no horns, no weaving, as if in a funeral procession. His hands gripped tight on his uncle’s shirt, his eyes blur and slip shut. The noise of the motorcycle is familiar but distant. It sounds just like his dad’s.
Saminda pictures the four of them on it, coming back from the fish market with plastic bags snapping in the wind. His dad with his knotty hands clasping the handlebars, his little sister in front, her skinny thighs held tight in place, her ribs bouncing against the inside of his sinewy forearms, black eyes peering left and right. Saminda is wedged between his father and mother, his chest compressed against his father’s curved spine, his mother behind him, her breasts soft and damp against his bony back. The winds snatches thin wisps of hair out of her long plait and whips them forward about his cheeks.
* * *
Once past Moratuwa, where the road turns back down towards the coast, his uncle’s motorbike slows and stops. He opens his eyes and it’s like sleepwalking off an edge. Debris covers the road. Tall piles of it. Sections of roofs, splintered wooden planks, windows and doors popped out of their frames, looking stunned, asking, ‘How did I get here?’
The air is still and humid, coating everything in a sticky gleam. And perched atop the piles: buses, cars, tuk-tuks, fishing boats. The boy and his uncle sit on the motorcycle and pick through the landscape in silence. Little by little, fragments of the recognisable emerge from the mass of charcoal grey and muddy brown. A whole coast of soil and sand churned up and thrown down.
He makes a note in his mind of what is still there: a red plastic bowl, a pink doll’s head with pale orange hair, a silver-framed wedding photograph, an unopened green-and-yellow packet of biscuits.
* * *
‘Just two,’ his auntie decreed as she handed him the green-and-yellow packet of Hawaiian Cookies and closed the pantry door.
‘Thank you, Auntie,’ called Saminda, already back in front of the television.
‘And that’s another six. Two sixes in the one over.’ The commentator paused, as the camera jumped from the umpire’s raised arms to the batsman’s raised bat to the defeated bowler. ‘And Warne is not happy.’
‘Warne is not happy. Warne is not happy,’ he imitated, slapping his bony knees and bouncing on the plastic-covered seat of the sofa.
He scanned the Pakistani players cards laid out on the coffee table in front of him, snatched up the image of Youhana, the new captain, and danced it around the edge of the table till it was face to face with Shane Warne’s, taunting the bowler’s ruddy, zinc-smeared cheeks.
‘Murali is the King of Spin.’
‘Saminda, what are you doing?’ his aunt called from the kitchen.
‘Watching the cricket, Auntie,’ he replied, replacing the cards and sitting back down on the sofa.
‘Who is winning?’
‘It’s a Test match, Auntie. Can’t say who is winning.’
‘Stupid game,’ he heard her mumble from the kitchen, as she put away the breakfast dishes.
* * *
Soon after the tea break at the MCG, a news flash interrupted play. The reporter spoke of an earthquake near Indonesia. Early reports of a large wave hitting the coast of Sri Lanka. They called it a tsunami. He’d never heard this word. He called out to his auntie and she came and sat lightly beside him on the edge of the sofa.
‘Are Mummy and Daddy safe?’
‘Shhh! Listen, child!’
‘Could it have hit our house?’
His aunt didn’t respond. She just sat stiff and still, leaning towards th
e television screen, her mouth open, her lips pushed forward, as if inhaling the reporter’s words. Her nephew turned and raised himself up on his knees, his head twisted towards her, watching her face for a sign. The plastic sofa cover squeaked and sighed as he shifted his weight from one knee to the other. Then, as if someone had yelled ‘Action!’, she closed her mouth, turned her head towards the hallway and screamed out, ‘Raja! Come quickly!’
His uncle joined them and they all watched in silence. They sat and listened as reports started to come in from Trinco, then Batticaloa. There was news of a train overturned. On its way from Colombo to Galle. The same train they’d been going to take together the next morning. His uncle tried to call Saminda’s parents. The phone system wasn’t working. For an hour they waited for the newsreader to speak of Galle. Nothing. His uncle dialled his parents’ number again, then again five minutes later, then again two minutes later, then over and over, until suddenly he stopped and put the phone down on the coffee table. He looked at it, then stared at Saminda, before slowly turning his face back to the television, his eyes suddenly deep in their sockets.
The television reporters talked of massive destruction all along the coast. Thousands dead. People washed kilometres inland. Sucked out to sea. And each time the reporter said the word dead, Saminda saw his auntie’s left eyelid twitch.
* * *
By mid-afternoon his uncle had spoken to friends and neighbours. No trains or buses were getting through south along the coast. He called Saminda into the entrance hall and told him that they’d try to get back there on his motorcycle. It’d be slow, but it should be possible on the inland roads. It was too late to leave that afternoon. It would be dark before they got very far. The roads wouldn’t be safe. And his headlight wasn’t working. Best to wait till the next morning. Saminda nodded. His auntie called him to come have something to eat in the kitchen. Walking through the lounge room, he glanced at the television screen.
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