Happy as Larry

by Scot Gardner

  ‘Sorry, Jemma, were you going out?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘You look . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You look different.’

  Jemma’s eyes rolled.

  ‘You look . . . lovely.’

  She smiled then, albeit briefly. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Nothing. I just . . . I hadn’t seen you for ages and I was wondering how you were.’

  ‘I’m good. Really good. You?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine. Did you want to go for a ride or a walk or something?’

  Jemma chuckled, and looked herself up and down. ‘Ah, no.’

  ‘Okay,’ Larry said, stung. ‘What have you been doing? You haven’t been to church for . . .’

  ‘I don’t go to church any more.’

  ‘Really? Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just got bored with it, and Mum said I was old enough to make my own choice now. I chose not to go. Hey, you want to see my new phone?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She vanished into her room and Larry noticed a shadow appear at the front door. A second later, knuckles were rapping on the glass.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Jemma yelled, but April was already in the hallway. She yanked open the door to reveal a tall, pimply boy with spiky blond hair.

  The boy smiled at April.

  ‘Jemma, it’s Mark. Mark’s here.’

  ‘I said I’d get it, April,’ Jemma snarled, and grabbed the open door from her sister. ‘Hi, Mark, come in. Larry, this is Mark. Mark, this is my friend Larry.’

  The boys shook hands. Mark’s hand was sweaty, and limp like a skewered toadfish.

  ‘Larry is—’ Jemma said.

  ‘Just leaving,’ Larry interrupted. He kissed Jemma’s perfumed cheek and stepped through the open door. ‘Nice to meet you, Mark. See you later, Jemma.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Byeeee.’

  She’d closed the door before he’d made it to his bike. He pedalled home as fast as his wheels would carry him, took his length of rope from the shed and banged on his neighbour’s front door. Larry could hear the faint sound of a hand sliding over wallpaper and he knew that Vince would be opening the door.

  ‘Feel like a run?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Run? How about a shuffle?’ Vince said with a smile. ‘I’ll just grab my shoes.’

  Larry ran hard that afternoon. Ran hard and talked even harder. He told Vince about Guillermo’s insensitivity towards Jemma, the change in Jemma, about her boyfriend, and the story of Mal’s youth.

  ‘My father sent a photo of me to his mother just after I was born, just like your daughter. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand any of it. Why doesn’t my dad want anything to do with his own mother? Yes, she hurt him, but how can you turn your back on your family?’

  Vince was quiet for twenty paces. ‘Some things are better left alone.’

  ‘That’s exactly what he said! I don’t believe it. That’s like saying house plants do better if you don’t water them, or pets are happiest if you don’t feed them.’

  Vince yanked on the rope.

  Larry stopped.

  Vince had his hands on his hips. He puffed and stared at the ground. ‘Things aren’t that simple, Larry.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t take a scientist to write a letter. You don’t have to go to university to work out how to say sorry. How much more simple does it need to be?’

  ‘Sorry won’t fix these things, Larry. They’ve grown over years. They have deep roots.’

  ‘Not straight away, no. Probably not, but it’s a good place to start.’

  ‘Hannah knows where we live. When she’s ready, she’ll come.’

  ‘What if you’re dead? What if she’s waiting for you and Muriel?’

  ‘I don’t know where she lives.’

  ‘Have you even looked?’

  Vince was smiling and shaking his head. ‘Larry Rainbow . . . saviour of the world.’

  Larry felt steam rising through his veins. Vince’s attitude needled him. For the first time in his life he could see through the piles of rubbish the adults had shoved into the corners of their lives, and for the first time he felt his opinion didn’t count.

  He was just a kid.

  He tugged the rope and Vince’s arm flopped. Vince opened and closed his mouth, his countenance suddenly sour. ‘I’m sorry if that offended you, Larry. One day you’ll understand.’

  They jogged home in silence and Vince thanked Larry but there was no colour in his voice.

  I’LL BE

  BLOWED

  THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY, when Denise was at film club, Larry and his father did the dishes. Again the conversation turned to Larry’s grandmother.

  ‘I know Mum’s mum died when she was little. I know her father died in a car accident, and your father did, too,’ Larry said.

  ‘It’s not going to happen, Larry.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not going to wake up one morning with a screaming desire to see my mother.’

  Larry squirmed inside. Hearing his father’s words, so black and white, made him feel powerful and a bit cruel. He’d found his father’s raw nerve and he’d unashamedly poked it.

  But it wasn’t really about Mal. When Larry asked about his grandmother, it was his own search for meaning. He was reading the subtitles of his life but not fast enough to fully understand what was going on, and he needed an explanation.

  ‘Sorry, Dad.’

  Mal sighed. ‘That’s okay, Larry. I’m sorry, too.’

  Mal drained the sink and stole the teatowel to dry his hands.

  ‘What was her name?’ Larry asked.

  Mal rolled his eyes. ‘Shorelle. Shorelle Rainbow.’

  And before his mother and father got home from work the following evening, he’d found her. Well, her telephone number, anyway. It really was as simple as an internet search of the White Pages. There were only three listings for Rainbow in South Australia and only one S. Rainbow, and the listing was in North Adelaide. He messed up dialling the number twice before finally getting his fingers, eyes and brain to co-operate.

  It rang.

  ‘Hello?’ croaked an elderly woman.

  ‘Hello, I . . . I was wondering if this was the right number for Shorelle Rainbow.’

  ‘Yes, this is the right number.’

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ Larry’s mind stalled.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It’s Larry.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mrs Rainbow passed away in February.’

  There was a gentle frankness to the woman’s voice, as if Larry had asked for a particular sweet and the shopkeeper had told him that they were out of stock.

  ‘Is there something I can help you with?’

  Larry was silent as understanding washed over him.

  ‘Hello?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Did you know her?’

  ‘Why, of course. We shared the same house for the best part of fifteen years. What did you say your name was? You’re not from the Department, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m Larry. Larry Rainbow. I’m her grandson.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  Larry thought he could hear the old woman smiling. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Malcolm’s boy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be blowed.’

  They talked then. They talked and talked until Larry ran out of questions and Amy Turner said she had to go. Less than a minute after he hung up, Denise came through the front door.

  Larry was watching the television with his shoeless feet up on the couch. His heart was racing.

  Denise looked at him suspiciously. ‘What are you smiling about?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m not smiling.’

  ‘What have you been up to?’

  Larry showed her the palms of his hands. ‘Nothing!’

  Unconvinced, Denise instructed him to peel the potatoes for dinner.

  There was nothing casual or coincidental about Larry’s conv
ersation with Vince after dinner that night.

  ‘You want to run now?’ Vince asked, and turned his face towards the sky. ‘It’s almost dark.’

  ‘What difference does that make to you?’

  Vince raised his eyebrows. ‘Okay, okay. Give me a minute.’

  There was nothing casual about it, but Larry couldn’t find the words until they were on the long, flat straight of the breakwater.

  ‘I found out about my grandmother tonight.’

  ‘Really? How did you do that?’

  ‘Just looked her up on the internet. Found her phone number in less than five minutes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  Vince tutted. ‘I’m sorry, Larry. I guess that wasn’t what you wanted to hear.’

  Larry shrugged in the darkness. ‘I don’t know. She only died in February. She had my picture in a frame in her lounge. She told her friend Amy that I was the reason she stopped drinking.’

  They jogged on, their shadows stretching and contracting under the streetlights.

  ‘Good for you,’ Vince eventually said.

  It startled Larry. The wind was howling in the trees and he’d moved on to thoughts about the hurricanes in America.

  KNELT

  BESIDE IT

  IT WAS NOVEMBER when Vince changed his mind. He clumped up the front steps early on a Saturday morning, way too early. Mal was up and making breakfast. He had to wake Larry.

  ‘Vince’s here. Are you up for a run?’

  Larry dressed in a blur and met the old man in the lounge.

  ‘Your shirt is on back to front,’ Mal said to the boy.

  Larry shrugged. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Vince?’

  Vince laughed aloud. ‘Not at all. You can wear a dress for all I care.’

  They’d barely made it out the gate before Vince was tugging at the rope. He felt Larry’s head and bent low to whisper. He was like a little kid with a secret. A secret he just had to tell. ‘I found my daughter.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Well, not me directly, one of the lasses at the library found her on the computer.’

  ‘She was on the computer?’

  ‘Don’t get smart,’ Vince said, grinning. ‘She’s living in Darwin.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And . . . that’s all. I have her address. I thought I might write her a letter.’

  Larry told Vince that a letter was a good idea, but the thought of waiting for mail to get to Darwin made him pull his own hair.

  ‘You could call her.’

  ‘I could,’ Vince said.

  But he didn’t.

  Frenzied knocking woke Mal before dawn on Christmas morning, 2004. Dressed in his underwear, with a frightened pulse in his temples, he opened the door to find a tearstained Muriel Hammersmith in her nightie.

  She couldn’t speak, but she didn’t have to.

  Mal knew.

  He hurdled the low fence between the two houses and found his way through the open front door into the Hammersmiths’ bedroom.

  The covers had been thrown back. One leg of the old man’s pyjamas had ridden over his calf.

  ‘Vince?’

  Mal smoothed the pyjama leg into place. Vince’s skin was cold and stiff. Mal thought momentarily about trying to revive him, rolling him on his back and giving him mouth-to-mouth, but then he realised there was no point. He drew the covers to Vince’s shoulder.

  Muriel stood in the doorway. Denise, wide-eyed and rumpled, appeared behind her in a dressing-gown.

  Mal shook his head.

  Muriel covered her face with her hand but made no sound until Denise touched her arm. They folded together in a disarmingly gentle embrace, and Muriel sobbed into her neighbour’s shoulder.

  Denise led Muriel into the kitchen. Mal found the phone in the hall and called the ambulance. He was still giving out details when Larry arrived. He wore his red silk boxer shorts and a white singlet. There was no expression on his face, but his eyes were bright with understanding. He looked at his father, then walked into the bedroom.

  ‘Larry? Larry!’

  Mal finished the call and found his son kneeling by the head of the bed, his fingers resting lightly on Vince’s cheek. His eyes were dry and they asked no questions.

  Larry knew death. He knew death and he knelt beside it, fearless. He didn’t say a thing to Vince’s body, just stroked his cheek until the ambulance arrived, then left.

  The funeral directors arrived just before ten. Muriel thanked Denise and sent her and Malcolm home. It wasn’t until they got home that they remembered it was Christmas Day. Larry sat on his bunk, dressed. With raw hearts, they exchanged gifts and struggled to find a gram of cheer among the loss.

  Vince was dead. Mal had surrendered to the bombshell and found himself numb and mute. He remembered the wounded clown and the magic he’d brought into their lives. Vince may have been old, but he was a gentle man and a gentleman, and he’d even managed to die with grace.

  It crept up on Larry. His father had bought him a petrol-powered radio-controlled car – in kit form – for Christmas, and after a sombre seafood lunch for a compact family of three, they retired to the garage for the distraction of assembling it. Just after 4 p.m., with his conscious mind focused like a laser on the task in front of him, Larry sighed.

  The thought just bubbled up from inside him. Soft images of the old man blended with memories of his own death at Pincher Point – that sense of tranquillity, the rolling curtains of colour and light, the ultimate release – and he knew: Vince was at peace. There was nothing spectacular about Vince’s death. There was no gunfire or fanfare, no mystique or hint of unresolved crime. It was as if Vince had quietly boarded a bus.

  Larry stopped what he was doing, just dropped the little spanner he’d been using and found the short length of rope they’d run with. He felt its weathered softness, smelled its faint but familiar road-tar tang and curled it in his hand. He stuffed it behind the boxes at the back of the garage; looped it with Gilligan’s collar and lead and bowl.

  It was then that the sadness swamped him. Tears fogged his vision and his limbs felt suddenly heavy. Mal, a spectator to this strange ritual of grief until this point, wrapped his arms around his son and held him gently. Larry hugged him back and they sobbed and sniffed together for a long moment. When they broke from their embrace, they wiped their eyes at the same time. Without a word, they picked up their tools and continued where they’d left off.

  While Larry and Mal worked and grieved in the garage, Denise sat alone at the kitchen table and remembered her friend: his kind and fearless eyes, his warmth, his mandarins and apricots. The memories filled her to overflowing. It came in a wave that washed through her, but it only lasted three tissues. She looked at the tissues adrift on the table and realised she had changed. Not that long ago, Vince’s death would have flattened her. Now, she felt the loss, plucked and sniffed, and then caught herself thinking about dinner. She screwed the tissues into a single tight ball and tossed them at the bin. Perfect shot.

  She smiled, and sighed. ‘Life goes on,’ she whispered at the walls.

  On Boxing Day, an earthquake deep in the Indian Ocean gave birth to a tsunami that crushed and drowned more than two hundred thousand souls in Asia.

  Denise watched the news footage open-mouthed, and felt poised as though she was about to sneeze pure grief. But the sneeze never came. She felt the raw horror in her joints, but didn’t shed a tear.

  Mal sipped beer and watched Denise watching the television. Inside, he had his arms extended again, ready to catch her as she fell. She was bound to fall. She put her fingers over her mouth and he knew she was teetering. He put his hand on her thigh just as she stood up.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, clear-eyed. ‘I have to phone Anita.’

  He watched the news but listened to his wife on the phone to her friend, and felt lost.

  Denise was no longer a wounded bird.

  Vince’s funeral was a work of ar
t. His wish was to be cremated, and the carpark at the crematorium was almost full. It was New Year’s Eve and smoke from distant bush-fi res had turned the afternoon sun in Villea an eerie red. The strange light slanted through the windows and coloured the vases of fragrant lilies in the chapel. The open lid of the silk-lined coffin seemed to glow and, to Larry, the dead man’s skin looked healthy.

  Denise had bought Larry a black suit and white shirt for the occasion.

  Guillermo wore a suit, too. It was dark grey and too big for him. The jacket sleeves hung past his wrists and the pant legs bunched on top of his school shoes.

  They hugged, cramped between the rows of seats.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Guillermo said, and nodded towards the coffin.

  ‘You hardly knew him,’ Larry whispered.

  Guillermo shrugged. ‘I’m here for you.’

  It was supposed to be Vince’s final chapter, but Larry knew enough of the story to feel it wasn’t over yet. He noticed the middle-aged woman standing with Muriel. He noticed her angular face, her tanned skin and her blue, blue eyes. She had broad shoulders and short hair. Larry knew – even before they sat together in the front pew, and before she took Muriel’s hand – that this was Hannah. This was Vince and Muriel’s daughter and, for the moment at least, their pain was in a box in front of them.

  Back at the Hammersmiths’ house after the service, Hannah introduced herself.

  ‘You must be Larry,’ she said, and shook his hand.

  Larry blinked. ‘That’s right. How did you . . .’

  ‘Mum told me all about your reading and running with Dad. You’re a special young man, Larry.’ She hugged him and he patted her back. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Larry felt proud but awkward. ‘What will your mum do now?’

  Hannah shrugged. ‘I suggested she could come back north with me. She’s still thinking about it.’

  Three days later, Larry saw them both piling into a taxi. Muriel had a smile on her face and offered Larry a three-fingered wave as they drove away.

  Vince’s letter had worked, but like Larry’s phone call to his grandmother, his timing was awry and there was no sunny Hollywood ending with laughter all round. This was the real world where happiness and sadness blurred and merged, and endings and beginnings weren’t defined by the cut of an editor’s knife.