Clara in Washington

by Penny Tangey

  My phone beeps with a text message. It’s from Mum: Sorry. Got held up at work. Get a taxi from the station. See you at home. Love Camille.

  At the station I can’t see any taxis and I don’t know the number to call, so I start walking home. My toes have gone uncomfortably numb. I hear a siren wailing and that reminds me of the throat-slitting incident.

  I start to run. Maybe this makes me more of a target because I look scared. But I don’t care. I want to get back to the apartment. It’s only 600 metres from the station but it seems impossibly far. I count the trees I pass. I promise myself that I’ll reach the apartment before I pass twenty trees. I’m breathing heavily and the cold air sears my lungs. After the twentieth tree I’m still a block away. I’ve started to sweat under my layers but my feet are still numb. I can see the lights of the entranceway to the apartment building. I slow down to a walk, pull off my gloves and feel around in my bag for my keys. I open the door and step inside.

  Relief and warmth flood around me and my knees are trembling. As I wait for the lift I am uncomfortably hot, my clothes sticky against my skin. I take off my beanie and scarf. I lean against the railing in the lift. I see myself in the mirror, and I’m a mess. My cheeks are bright red and my hair has gone mad with static electricity.

  As I put my key in the apartment door I hope Mum will be there, even though I know she won’t be. When I push open the door it’s immediately obvious that she’s not. The apartment is dark and silent.

  I turn on the lights, hang up my coat, hat and scarf, and lie on the couch. It only takes five minutes for my relief at being safe to devolve into a familiar numb boredom.

  I close my eyes and my body sinks deeper into the couch. I’m homesick, but not exactly for the house where I live with Dad in Coburg. Where would I choose, if I could be anywhere in the world? I know the answer. I wish I was at the beach house with Dad and the Maguires.

  At the beach house you can sit around and read a book all day, and no one cares. But if you feel like doing something there’s always someone else who’ll go with you. There are three kids in my family and four in the Maguires’, plus there are always a few extras hanging around.

  One time a group of us decided to ride bikes to the Otway fly from Apollo Bay. When we got there we paid and walked down to where the walkway goes up into the canopy of the rainforest. I remember feeling hot and sticky from the ride, but up on the walkway there was a refreshing breeze.

  I’d just finished Year Nine and was going through a poetry phase. I would memorise poems like it was a party trick, even though no one else was interested except my dad. On the walkway I held out my arms to feel the cool breeze and walked slowly along the platform with my eyes half shut. I recited a couple of verses of ‘The Lady of Shalott’ as I walked, feeling as if I was floating through the trees.

  I thought no one else could hear, but then Liam said quietly, ‘That was fantastic, Clara.’

  I didn’t have time to feel embarrassed about being caught out because we heard screaming up ahead. Damian was bouncing on one of the walkways while Anna stood on the viewing platform screaming like she was being stabbed.

  ‘Hey! Damian!’ called Liam. ‘That’ll do, mate. You know she’s scared of heights.’

  Damian reluctantly stopped. ‘It’s not like she can fall. You can’t break it,’ he yelled back.

  Anna then lay down spreadeagled on the viewing platform.

  ‘Come on, Anna, you’re okay,’ Liam called to her. He winked at me. ‘I’d better rescue her.’ Liam walked out to the end of the platform. He sat with Anna for ten minutes before she agreed to stand up. Then she managed to walk stooped over, grasping at the handrail, to the main walkway. Liam walked behind saying, ‘I’m here’ and ‘You’re okay’ every couple of steps.

  When we got back to the kiosk we bought icy poles and sat around talking about nothing in particular.

  I hear the key turning in the lock. Mum is home.

  On my second day serving breakfast at the centre I’m even more nervous than the first time. I don’t want to behave inappropriately again.

  Emily opens the door for me this time. ‘Hey there,’ she says.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘I’m setting up,’ she says as we walk through to the kitchen. She’s wearing a different headscarf today. It’s dark red, matches her shoes and contrasts with her dark grey suit. She looks professional but not boring. I notice that her pants are the right length too. I’ve never wanted a suit before, but I would like one if I could look like Emily.

  Emily puts on an apron in the kitchen, takes a stack of bowls off the trolley and places it next to the most enormous pot I have ever seen.

  ‘What’s in there?’ I ask.

  ‘Oatmeal,’ she says, taking off the lid with a flourish to reveal a gently heaving grey mess. Oatmeal appears to be porridge. I hate porridge, it’s like eating glue.

  Emily waves a spoon at me. ‘Can you serve this? Brad and I will do toast and condiments.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Where is Brad?’

  ‘He’s downstairs picking up the toast. He’ll be back in a minute.’

  Emily starts putting out the cutlery.

  ‘Do you think I offended Mary on Tuesday?’ I ask.

  Emily laughs. ‘Probably. Mary’s always offended.’

  ‘The thing is, I didn’t realise she was supposed to be cleaning the kitchen.’

  Emily looks confused.

  ‘I didn’t know about a cleaning roster,’ I explain. ‘So I told Mary not to help.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ says Emily. ‘You didn’t know.’

  Brad comes in with a trolley full of toast.

  ‘You only just made it,’ says Emily as Tiffany bounds into the room and opens the dining room doors for the women waiting outside.

  I pick up the ladle and a bowl, ready to serve.

  I ask the first woman in the queue if she would like porridge. She looks at me like I’m insane. ‘I mean oatmeal,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  I scoop some into the bowl and hand it to her. ‘Is that enough?’ The woman shakes her head and I give her another scoop.

  She moves down the line to get toast and condiments from Brad and Emily. I really wish I had the tongs this morning. The oatmeal is disgusting. Every time I scoop up a spoonful, a gluey strand extends from the pot to the ladle.

  I find the oatmeal nauseating but it is popular with everyone else so I’m busy. Emily and Brad are talking about their jobs as they dish up. From what I can gather, Emily is working on an important project involving a tunnel.

  I only have a quarter of a pot of oatmeal left. I turn to Emily. ‘I might need more oatmeal.’

  ‘There isn’t any more,’ says Emily.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘We could make more but it would take too long.’

  Emily peers into the pot, takes the ladle off me and starts to scrape at the bottom, lifting up the hard bits and stirring them through.

  ‘Maybe start doing smaller portions,’ she says.

  The next lady asks for more oatmeal after I hand her a bowl. I tell her we don’t have enough. She says, ‘Well why have the others got more than me?’

  I’m about to give in and scoop out some more but Emily jumps in. ‘You’ve got plenty, Belinda. You can have toast as well.’

  Belinda shrugs and gives in.

  From then on, I’m on tenterhooks, hoping the oatmeal will hold out. I should have realised we wouldn’t have enough and been more modest with my portions.

  Fortunately, like on Tuesday, the numbers drop off dramatically after eight o’clock. The last couple of bowls of oatmeal are heavily flecked with burnt bits from the bottom, but there is just enough for everyone.

  I help Brad and Emily load the dirty dishes onto the
trolleys.

  A large lady wearing a dress that appears to be an old, and now quite grubby, ball gown comes in and starts wiping the benches.

  ‘I’m sorry about the oatmeal,’ I say. ‘I didn’t realise we would run out.’

  ‘It wasn’t a problem,’ says Emily.

  ‘Yeah, but some people didn’t get as much as the others.’

  ‘It was fine,’ says Emily.

  ‘What are you doing today?’ Brad asks me.

  ‘I’m not sure. I might watch The Gilmore Girls marathon.’

  Emily laughs. She thinks I’m joking. ‘No, really. What are you up to?’ Clearly, Emily the successful tunnel engineer cannot imagine a day without purposeful action.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You should go to the International Spy Museum.’

  ‘We took my nephew last weekend,’ says Brad.

  ‘Is it just for kids?’ I ask.

  ‘No, it’s great for everyone,’ says Emily.

  Brad says, ‘Actually, it’s not great for everyone. The disability access is terrible.’

  ‘Don’t start again,’ says Emily. ‘Honestly, Clara, it was all he talked about for days.’

  ‘Well, they’re going to get sued,’ says Brad. ‘And it’s a pity because the building’s only six years old – they could have done it right.’

  It seems like he has more to say on the subject, but Emily gives him a look and he throws up his hands.

  The Spy Museum has timed entry, which I quite like because it’s organised. I kill time in the museum shop. I buy my sister Anna a code-cracking kit because it’s her birthday in January.

  At eleven I go into the museum. I know I could never handle being a spy, but the exhibitions do make it seem quite exciting.

  A boy in a wheelchair who must be about twelve years old is watching his younger sister crawl up into a tunnel space. The exhibit is supposed to imitate spies listening into conversations through the walls. It looks like fun. If I wasn’t wearing a skirt, I would have a go too.

  When the girl disappears the boy goes around to the other side of the tunnel and waits for her to come out. She appears and he says, ‘Good job, Karen!’

  I think about what Brad says as I walk through the rest of the exhibition. For lots of the interactive exhibits you need to be able to enter tight spaces and not everyone can do that. It’s not something I would usually have noticed.

  Chapter Six

  All governments are in equal measure good and evil. The best ideal is anarchy.

  Leo Tolstoy, Russian writer and anarchist

  I’m sitting on my bed staring at the flyer again as though this might help me make a decision. Unfortunately, all the flyer says is: DC Anarchist Collective Gathering. At the White Dog, 2pm, Saturday 20 December. And there’s an A in a circle over the top of a photo of the White House.

  I can’t decide if I should go. I’ll get my exam results tomorrow and it would be nice to have a good day today in case it’s awful news. Also, it would be nice to spend some time with Mum. She’s always working so I don’t see her much. We could go to the National Archives. I know it sounds boring, but the guidebook says it’s good. That would be a perfect plan, except for one thing: I want to see Campbell again.

  I flop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. For a moment I imagine I can see Campbell’s face in the swirly pattern in the plaster on the ceiling. He is smiling at me over his shoulder, just like he did at the cafe.

  The anarchist meeting might be horrible though. People might quiz me on my anarchist credentials, and I don’t have any. I know I’m not an anarchist because I checked: I looked up anarchism on Wikipedia. Anarchists believe that any government is not only unnecessary but bad. They think societies can work fine without any kind of authority. Whereas I think governments don’t always do the right thing, but the idea of not having any government terrifies me. What about hospitals and road rules? Compulsory seatbelts have saved a lot of lives.

  There’s a knock on my door. I quickly stuff the flyer under my pillow and sit up.

  Mum looks edgy but a little defiant, and I can tell what she’s going to say.

  ‘Pete called.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘My report’s been brought forward. We have to submit it on Monday. I’ll have to go into work today.’

  I let the pause extend long enough to be awkward, before I reply sarcastically, ‘Enjoy yourself then!’

  ‘Clara,’ she says pleadingly.

  ‘Off you trot!’ I wave angrily towards the door. Then I stand up and bang it behind her.

  I should never make plans that depend on her, she’ll only disappoint me. I tell myself this regularly, but somehow I always forget, giving her the opportunity to let me down again.

  I pull the crumpled flyer out from under my pillow. The decision is easy now. There’s no way I’m sitting around here all day on my own. I’ll have to go.

  I change my Facebook status to Attending my first Anarchist Collective meeting! My status update is a lot more interesting than Yingmei’s, which is Saw Slumdog Millionaire. It is the best film ever!!! Six people like this but, honestly, anyone can watch a film.

  Now I need to work out what to wear. I don’t have anything revolutionary but perhaps if I wear all black people will think I’m well-read.

  I’d heard Fourteenth Street was on the edge of the dangerous part of DC but it doesn’t seem so bad. There are quite a few young professional-looking couples walking around, and there are big, bright furniture shops selling chairs with five legs and very shiny light fittings. Also, I’ve passed two Starbucks since I got off the train. I’ve heard that as long as you can see a Starbucks, you’re in the safe part of DC.

  I had to catch the red line and then the yellow line train to get here. People say that the yellow line is the most dangerous. I spent the entire trip scanning for potential attackers. I left my iPod at home in case I was mugged, but when I was on the train I realised it would be better to have something to give them.

  In the bright afternoon outside I’m not too worried about being attacked, but I am worried about the anarchist meeting. I hope no one asks me to name my favourite anarchist books or to give an update on the latest actions out of Melbourne’s anarchist groups. Perhaps if I act aloof and casual, people will assume I’m across the whole thing and am having lots of private fantasies about living in a society without hierarchies.

  When I arrive I want to turn around and go home immediately. For some reason, I was expecting the White Dog to be a brightly lit cafe like where Campbell works, but this place is dirty and dark. It has grimy windows that I can barely see through. A security guard stands by the door. I have no idea whether he’ll let me in. Don’t you have to be twenty-one to go into bars in America? What if he decides to call the police because I’m underage? I could be deported.

  I stand outside the White Dog grappling with the same indecision I had this morning. Should I stay or should I go? The security guard is watching me. I stare intently at a poster on the window advertising a band playing tonight. Time slides by and I still can’t make a decision. I look at the posters without reading them. Several times I almost walk off down the street, or towards the door of the White Dog, but each time I change my mind before I move.

  ‘Clara?’ Campbell is poking his head out the door. ‘Good to see you made it. Are you coming in?’

  ‘Right, yes,’ I stammer. ‘I was looking at the posters.’ I approach the doorway.

  ‘Hold it!’ booms the security guard. ‘ID.’

  ‘What?’

  Campbell says, ‘You need to show ID.’

  My stomach turns over. ‘I’m not twenty-one,’ I say quickly. ‘I told you I just finished school,’ I remind Campbell.

  ‘That’s okay,’ says Campbell. ‘You can still come in.
You just won’t get a drinks stamp.’

  The security guard doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Can I come in?’ I ask quietly.

  ‘You may,’ he says.

  ‘We’re sitting over here,’ says Campbell, pointing to a group of chairs and couches. The room is very dark; all the lights are covered with thick, coloured glass shades that are almost opaque. There are about fifteen people in the group. As we get closer I recognise a couple of people from Reading Beyond Bars.

  I wave at the group and people smile wanly back. One of the lounge chairs is free so I flop down, trying to be cool and aloof as planned.

  Campbell stands beside me. ‘Hey! That was my seat.’

  I leap up. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I can sit on the floor.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I’m kidding,’ he says. ‘Sit down. Anyway, there’s room for two.’

  I don’t see how this is possibly true, but I sit down again, squeezing as far over to the left as I can. Campbell sits beside me. He just fits. The chair slopes into the middle and there’s no way to avoid being pressed into each other. Our legs are touching.

  Our armchair faces the doorway and the window onto the street. A man and woman walk past holding hands and laughing. It occurs to me that you can see people on the street really clearly. Campbell must have seen me hovering out there and decided to rescue me.

  It’s hot in here. I’m still wearing my coat and scarf and I’m sweating.

  Next to us, sitting on the floor, is hat-boy from Reading Beyond Bars, the dumpster-diving one. I can’t remember his name.

  Hat-boy-dumpster-diver is sitting right next to my feet, staring up at me. I can see some snot up his nose. Campbell isn’t paying any attention. He’s leaning back in the chair looking calm and detached. He might even be meditating.

  To break the silence I say, ‘I’m sorry, I’ve seen you at Reading Beyond Bars but I can’t remember your name.’

  ‘It’s Eric,’ he says. ‘I haven’t seen you here before.’ It sounds like an accusation. Maybe he’s worried that I’m trying to infiltrate the group. I know about that sort of thing since I went to the Spy Museum.