Happy as Larry

by Scot Gardner

  Larry felt Clinton’s golf ball whiz past his ear. It cracked into the power pole and ricocheted down Condon Street.

  Larry froze.

  Clinton laughed smugly and jogged after it.

  Mal ached.

  The baby had been too small for a name or a grave but it left a grief stain on its mother as big as a continent. She didn’t shed a tear or crack a smile. She stopped going to film club and couldn’t face church. The bombings of the Taliban government and Al Qaeda camps continued in Afghanistan, and for a while the world at large and Denise’s small world were both stuck, playing the same painful story day after day.

  The same violent footage from Afghanistan appeared on multiple channels, and the food on the Rainbows’ table seemed loveless and made in monochrome.

  Mal offered to cook but Denise refused his help. He brought her flowers and chocolate, massaged her feet and made cups of tea – all of which she thanked him for, but the flowers died and the tea grew cold.

  Early in December, Mal found an empty chocolate box in the bin and two tea-stained cups on the sink.

  ‘You have visitors today?’

  ‘Just Vince,’ she said.

  ‘How is he?’

  She shrugged and watched the news.

  Mal stared at the cups and felt his world shifting. She still drank tea with their neighbour. She ate chocolate with Vince. Did she talk with him, too? Did she laugh with him? Maybe the pain that kept them apart was less about the baby and more about his lack of faith? Perhaps it wasn’t grief that pinned her heart closed? Not grief, but unarticulated rage.

  That night the news told of the fall of the Taliban government in Afghanistan.

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ Denise told the screen. ‘It’s never that simple.’

  Mal looked at her. There was a glimmer of something in her eyes. Hope? Fight? Something other than the all-consuming shadow that had hung there since September.

  She caught him staring. ‘What?’

  He took her hand. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, and muted the ads.

  ‘You don’t have to do this alone, you know. There are doctors . . .’

  She snatched her hand away, her eyes all concrete and steel like a prison.

  ‘I know what’s wrong with me,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ Mal pleaded. ‘What is it?’

  He knew that if she said the words – it’s the baby, it’s my father, my mother, this marriage, this house, whatever – they’d both be lighter for it.

  Her eyes didn’t soften. She stared until he had to look away, then she left. Put herself to bed without saying a word.

  SANTA

  THE CHRISTMAS OF 2001 – Larry’s eleventh – was a turning point in his life. He discovered the true meaning of unhappiness.

  Clinton slew Santa.

  ‘I know what you’re getting for Christmas,’ he whispered. ‘What?’

  ‘A telescope.’

  ‘How can you know that?’

  Larry had already written to Father Christmas, as he’d done every year since he could write. He’d ignored the rumours that Santa wasn’t real, and many of his wishes had come true. That year he had asked for a telescope. It had been his father’s suggestion, and with it he knew he’d be able to discover amazing things, maybe even life on other planets.

  ‘I found it,’ Clinton hissed.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s hidden in your Dad’s shed. Under the bench with the red vice on it.’

  ‘How can you know that?’

  ‘I saw him bringing it home. I climbed the fence when nobody was there. I found it.’

  Santa died and Larry’s black-hearted mother decided to ruin his life.

  On the first Saturday of the school holidays, it was thirty-two degrees Celsius by lunchtime. Guillermo and Jemma arrived at the door all loud and drunk on a new summer, Guillermo naked from the waist up, with a trail of fine hair showing below his navel, and Jemma wearing shorts and a red bikini top that boasted she was more woman than girl. Denise answered the door, and by the time Larry got there the atmosphere was heavy and tense the way it was when his family sat around the dinner table. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Denise said.

  Larry stepped outside.

  ‘No!’ Denise snapped. ‘Larry, inside. Now.’

  Larry’s brow scrunched. ‘What?’

  ‘Inside. Now.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Now!’

  There was a brittle edge to her voice. It made the hair stand up on Larry’s arms. He stepped inside.

  Denise closed the door without another word.

  Larry waited for an explanation but his mother turned on her heel and marched into the kitchen.

  Larry followed.

  She busied herself at the sink.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked again.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then why can’t I go with my friends?’

  ‘They’re going to the weir.’

  ‘So? We’ve been there heaps of times.’

  ‘I don’t want you going up there unsupervised.’

  ‘We always look out for each other.’

  ‘Adequate adult supervision.’

  Larry’s toes clenched in his shoes. ‘How come?’

  She didn’t answer. She wiped the bench fiercely and didn’t say a word, but Larry had guessed. It was the magazine. It was Guillermo’s rubbish. Jemma wasn’t a little girl any more, and Guillermo was a teenager. It was all about sex.

  Nothing could have been further from Larry’s reality. Larry was the opposite of sex, whatever that was. If his mother realised how much the idea repulsed him, she’d have to let him go. If she could see how much he hated it when his friends flirted, she’d be packing him out the door.

  ‘Mum, I . . .’

  She held up her hand. When she looked up, her eyes were wet.

  ‘I’ve lost one child this year,’ she said. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  Larry left the kitchen at a trot before his feelings of injustice found hot words. It was all about sex but his mother blamed the dead child. He had no defence against her sadness. He could see that the whirlpool of sorrow around the dead baby was dragging down his own happiness, his freedom. The ghost of the baby was wrecking the family. He slammed the back door and stumbled down the stairs and into the shadows of his father’s shed. A hundred flies seeking shelter in the shade were put to flight as he approached. Gilligan, lying on his side on the cool concrete floor, lifted his head to inspect his visitor, then flopped down again, panting.

  Under the bench with the red vice Larry found a long box draped with an old towel.

  A telescope.

  He was still crouching there feeling cheated by the world when his father came through the gate. Gilligan barked once – a high-pitched yelp of greeting – then sprang to his feet to meet Mal.

  If the dog hadn’t cut his father off, Larry wouldn’t have had time to cover the box.

  ‘Oh! Hi, Larry. What are you up to?’

  Larry shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Are you okay? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m fine.’

  ‘Where’s your mum?’

  ‘Inside.’

  Mal nodded thoughtfully. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Same.’

  ‘Listen, Larry, your mother . . .’

  ‘Do you want to come with me to the weir?’ Larry interrupted. ‘Jemma and Guillermo went up there for a swim and I . . .’

  ‘I’ve got things to do.’

  Larry saw him glance towards the box under the bench.

  ‘You can go if you want. Be careful. Look out for each other.’

  Larry saw the door of his cell open. ‘Of course.’

  He grabbed his bike and skipped to the gate before his father had a chance to change his mind.

  ‘Larry?’

  Too late. ‘Yes?’

  Mal tapped his head.
r />   Larry’s laugh was more of a screech. He collected his helmet and pedalled like an Olympian along Condon Street.

  ‘Larry?’

  He looked around in fright, but it wasn’t his father or mother calling – it was worse than that.

  ‘Wait up!’ Clinton hollered.

  Larry pedalled harder.

  Clinton caught up with him at the railway crossing. ‘Where we going?’

  Larry sneered.

  ‘Did you see your present?’

  ‘No,’ Larry lied. ‘It wasn’t there.’

  ‘Yes, it was. Under the bench.’

  Larry shook his head.

  ‘Oh, well. It was a stupid cheap thing anyway. I’m getting a Game Boy Advance.’

  Larry blew air from his nose.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You have to be good.’

  ‘I am.’

  Larry rode his dad’s old bike hard but Clinton’s bike – rusted and squeaky as it was – had gears and he kept up with ease.

  Jemma and Guillermo’s bikes were propped against the handrail that led to the picnic area.

  Clinton jumped off his bike and let it plough into the bushes. He took the steps two at a time. Larry found him squatted behind a thicket of ferns, his eyes wide, finger to his lips. He was smiling, and Larry thought there was nothing in the world more repulsive than that broken boy’s smile.

  Larry hurried past him.

  In the plunge pool beneath the narrow summer stream of the overflow, Guillermo and Jemma were wrapped in a big movie kiss. Jemma’s eyes were shut, and the two of them seemed to be frozen together.

  ‘Ahh ha ha!’ Clinton brayed. He pushed through, scooped up a handful of river sand and pelted it at the lovers. It didn’t make the distance, but the commotion split their embrace. They broke apart, but their glowing faces were smiling. Proper smiles. Smiles of guilty pleasure.

  ‘You were kissing!’ Clinton sang. ‘Saw you.’

  ‘Shut up, Clinton,’ Larry said. ‘Leave them alone.’

  He walked by Clinton and kept walking. Shoes and all, he trudged knee-deep into the water, then dived. He swam to the bottom and stayed down until his lungs were burning and his clothes had been drowned. He breached and sucked air like a whale, to find his friends’ faces full of concern.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Jemma said.

  ‘No,’ Guillermo said. ‘I didn’t think you were coming back up.’

  It was Larry’s turn to smile. A loveless Clinton smile.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Jemma asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Larry said, and began paddling downstream to the rocky beach.

  Guillermo and Jemma followed in the water – a guilty distance apart – and Clinton kicked sand and stones as he moved along the riverbank.

  Larry came ashore on the shaded part where he’d learned to skim stones and sat with his knees tucked up to his chest.

  Jemma beached on her stomach like a dolphin. She stared hard at Larry. ‘What’s the matter?’ she mouthed.

  Larry shrugged. ‘Nothing. Everything.’

  He nodded at Clinton’s back.

  Jemma rolled her eyes.

  ‘Hey, Clinton?’ Guillermo said, treading water.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why don’t you come in? The water’s beautiful.’

  ‘I bet,’ Clinton grumbled. He lifted a rock with both hands. It was the size of a loaf of bread and he heaved it with all his might at Guillermo. It fell short, but Guillermo drew a breath and lifted an arm against the splash anyway.

  Clinton dusted his hands and laughed.

  Guillermo’s eyes narrowed and he surged at the shore.

  Clinton ran towards the bikes, and Guillermo let him go.

  A small rock cracked on the ground beside Larry, narrowly missing him as it skittered along the beach.

  In that moment, the source of Larry’s pain and confusion slid into focus. He lived in the middle of two triangles – one made of his mother, his father and him, the other made strong by Guillermo and Jemma. While Larry knew and trusted his father, his mother had been battered and marked like a lunch-box peach. She made them both weak and the triangle was fragile. He didn’t want to think about what life would be like if that triangle fell over.

  The closer Jemma and Guillermo got to each other, the further from Larry they both seemed. Their triangle was becoming more like railway tracks that merged in the distance.

  And Clinton? Clinton didn’t fit anywhere. He was garbage that couldn’t be dumped, an illness that had no cure. He was like Jesus’ cross, Larry thought.

  Jemma’s eyes were pleading. ‘What is it, Larry? I’ve never seen you like this.’

  ‘Do you believe in Father Christmas?’

  ‘I . . . we . . . Yes, I do,’ Guillermo said.

  ‘Can you explain how it is that he can visit every good child in the world on one night?’

  ‘He has helpers,’ Jemma offered.

  ‘Like my mum and dad?’ Larry asked.

  Guillermo smiled. ‘Exactly like your mum and dad.’

  ‘So your mum or dad buy the presents and wrap them up and put them under the tree?’

  ‘Yes,’ Guillermo said.

  ‘That’s just lying,’ Larry said. ‘Right in my face. Year after year.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ Guillermo said. ‘You could say they’re doing it to keep Santa . . . the spirit of Christmas . . . alive.’

  ‘Father Christmas is dead,’ Larry growled.

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Jemma said. ‘You won’t get any presents.’

  ‘FATHER CHRISTMAS IS DEAD!’ Larry screamed.

  Jemma sat up, her face tight. ‘What is wrong with you? You sound like Clinton.’

  ‘That’s because Clinton is my boyfriend,’ Larry spat as he got to his feet. ‘We normally go out in the middle of the river and kiss.’

  Jemma’s cheeks filled with blood. ‘I’m sorry, Larry. Larry?

  Where are you going?’

  ‘Home,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘I have to bury Santa.’

  Larry rode hard, breathing through his teeth and hating the world.

  He realised when he got home that he’d barely dipped a toe into the depths of his mother’s despair. She met him at the door, took one look at his damp clothes and flicked her head towards his room.

  She left him there for the rest of the afternoon. He didn’t mind. He stripped off his clothes and lay naked on his bunk.

  He wished he could un-see things. He wished he could un-know and undo things. He wished he could take his stinky art eraser and scrub things from his experience, redraw his life all loose and silly and bright like a cartoon. Page after page of oversized smiles and ‘ha ha ha’ balloons. He’d draw his mother’s mouth mended; the gaps between him and Guillermo and Jemma would be perfect again.

  He was dressed and sitting at his desk when his mother arrived to deliver his sentence. He covered the page he was drawing on with his arm.

  ‘You can’t play your father and me against each other,’ she said. Her voice was flat and menacing. ‘You can’t get one answer from me, then ask him in the hope he’ll say something different.’

  Larry nodded.

  ‘As a punishment, if you want to leave the property, you must have an adult with you at all times.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘What are you drawing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Show me,’ she said, and grabbed his arm.

  Three stick figures with big heads. One wore a frown. He attacked it with his eraser as she watched and replaced the frown with an ear-to-ear grin.

  She hurried from the room. She didn’t smile.

  Larry made his mother a jewellery box for Christmas. It didn’t come out as neat as he’d planned but he gave it to her anyway. He gave his father a golf club – a putter he’d found in the park – and a golf ball, also from the park. Santa brought Larry a telescope, and he faked his surprise and delight. It
must have been convincing – his father’s eyes misted and he wiped his smiling face on the sleeve of his pyjamas. Santa brought his mother a DVD player and a collection of films by Krzysztof Kieslowski – Three Colours: Blue, Three Colours: White, Three Colours: Red.

  ‘Okay?’ Mal whispered.

  Denise nodded and bared her teeth. It wasn’t convincing at all.

  While Christmas dinner was sombre and the surprises weren’t really surprises, parts of Christmas Day rocked Larry onto his heels.

  He didn’t have to wait until dark to enjoy his telescope. He set it up in the yard and got a fright when he looked in the eyepiece and saw a sparrow. Sharp, in vivid colour, and so much larger than life. He only saw it for a second before it flitted off, but it was enough to encourage him to focus on the flowers in the vegetable garden, the microwave tower on the hill behind the shopping centre, and finally, a pigeon. It sat on the Hammersmiths’ TV aerial and preened itself. The telescope turned a common pigeon doing its grooming into a fascinating and beautiful thing.

  There was a loud crack against the park fence and the pigeon flew off.

  ‘Told you,’ Clinton said. His fingers were hooked over the top of the palings. Larry could only see the crown of his head and his eyes. ‘I knew you were getting a telescope. Can I have a go?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve got a present for you.’

  Larry stared. ‘What sort of present?’

  ‘A Christmas present. Come over. Bring your telescope.’

  Larry smiled to himself. Clinton’s present was probably a handful of grass. ‘I’m not allowed.’

  ‘Not allowed in the park? Why not?’

  Larry shook his head. ‘I’m grounded.’

  ‘Ahh ha ha!’ Clinton bellowed. ‘Are your friends allowed over?’

  Larry thought he was talking about Jemma and Guillermo. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, and disappeared.

  Gilligan growled as Clinton unlocked the side gate.