The Boy from the Mish

by Gary Lonesborough

  I almost stop in my tracks, but Tomas keeps me walking. Jarny keeps his stare on us as we pass.

  ‘I thought we were brothers,’ he shouts. The rain is loud as it hits the umbrella and the road. It’s hard to make out his words clearly.

  I stop and turn to him. ‘What?’

  ‘I said I thought we were brothers. Why didn’t you ever tell me you’re a poofter?’

  He stands there, staring and judging. I can hardly make out his face in the rain, but I know he isn’t smiling. Owen stands beside the car, and I know he’s hearing all of this as he stares at me too.

  ‘What did you call me?’ I ask, knowing full well what he called me. I step out from under the umbrella.

  ‘A poofter,’ Jarny says, and he cuts through my whole body with the word. ‘That’s what you are, right? A poofter? Or do you prefer faggot? Or maybe just homo?’

  I’m not a person anymore. I’m just a ball of fire, of raging lava. I’m a flaming comet of rage, moving towards Jarny. Owen races to stop me, but I land a punch on Jarny’s cheek. He falls back against the car with a bang. He slides down and collapses onto the road, where the rain pounds down on him.

  Owen steps in front of me and pushes me back. I puff out my chest as I take my eyes from Jarny to Owen. I’m ready to punch him too.

  ‘Walk away,’ Owen says.

  I stand tall, still as a rock, my whole body filled with anger and hate and absolute adrenalin.

  ‘Walk away,’ he repeats. Another shove against my chest.

  I look back down to Jarny. His arm flails as his hand tries to find his face. I see the red growing on his cheek as the rain hits him like a firehose. I look back to Owen and see his eyes. They’re not filled with hate; they are sad and worried and just wanting me to leave. Kalyn’s front door slams. I see him racing from the lawn into the rain.

  I turn away, walk back to Tomas, whose fists are clenched at his sides. I take his hand and we walk on along the main street of the Mish. His fist releases its clench in my palm, then he guides his fingers between mine. My other hand is starting to burn. There’s an aching rock hardening under the skin, against the bones. I bring it up to my eyes. It’s wet and red and purple, and growing bigger by the second.

  22

  Tomas drops the umbrella to the grass and I burst through the front door of my house, still holding his hand, dragging him behind me. The boys all turn to look at us from the couch and mattresses. I lead Tomas up the stairs and into my bedroom.

  I sit at the foot of my bed with Tomas, and the pain suddenly explodes in my hand. Tomas takes it and holds it with both of his, examining it. Among all the red and purple, there’s a small cut on my central knuckle, spilling a small amount of blood.

  ‘Might be broken,’ Tomas says.

  His hair is all wet. So is mine. I feel the water trailing from my forehead down my face. I look at his face, the damp mop of hair draping over his ears and forehead and the back of his neck.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ I whisper.

  The smell of roasting chicken has made its way upstairs, and darkness is falling outside my window. Tomas follows me across the hallway to the bathroom and I run cold water over my swollen hand.

  ‘I reckon you should probably go to the hospital,’ Tomas says.

  ‘Nah. I’ll deal with it after you leave tomorrow,’ I say.

  Back in my bedroom, I take my singlet from the ground and realise there is dried mud and dirt all over my carpet. Our feet and legs are still dirty.

  I picture Jarny: the image of him on the road as the rain fell on him, his arm flailing about. I worry I might have killed him.

  Maybe he’s just confused and angry. Maybe he hates himself, for not being approachable enough for me to be able to tell him before now. Maybe he just doesn’t want to lose me, thinking I’ll change and move to the city and hang out with all my gay friends and go to gay nightclubs and pierce my ears and tattoo a rainbow on my wrist. Maybe he thinks I’ll start talking gay and acting gay and that I won’t be the same person he’s known all these years. And maybe I will change. Maybe just a little bit. Maybe that would be okay.

  I take my towel to the shower, let the hot water fall over me and just stand there. When I come back, Tomas rolls over on his mattress to look up at me and I drop my towel and reach my good hand down to him. He takes it and I lift him from the floor. I flick off the bedroom light with my bad hand, and the act stings it like fire.

  Under the moonlight, we crawl onto my bed. Tomas places his pillow next to mine. I kiss him for so long, then we stare into each other’s eyes. It’s dark, but I can see his eyes glistening. We don’t speak, only stare, and I try not to blink. I pull the blanket over us. I tuck my arm under his head, and he rests his head on my chest. I hold him and feel him warm against me. I think he’s listening to my heartbeat. I can feel it beating under his ear, and it’s slow. I am so calm with him now. It’s the best feeling in the world.

  I don’t want to open my eyes as the morning sun falls over us. I do, though, and I gaze upon Tomas’ sleeping face and listen to his slow breathing; to the snores threatening to become louder. Sadness comes to my stomach again as I watch him sleep with his head on the pillow beside mine.

  I move my thumb to his cheek and brush his skin. I’m gentle, because I don’t want to wake him. He’s beautiful when he dreams. Maybe he’s dreaming of another life – one where we aren’t separated, where we can spend every second staring into each other’s eyes and kissing and holding each other, and where we’re both ready to have sex and that’s all we do all night, every night.

  ‘Breakfast!’ Mum shouts up the stairs.

  Tomas wakes at the sound of her voice. He opens his eyes slowly, like a newborn kitten forcing its eyelids open to the light. It’s not long before he wears on his face the same sadness I am feeling, because today is the day he leaves.

  He sits up and dangles his legs over the edge of the bed. I crawl to meet him there. I place my feet on the floor beside his and plant a kiss on his bare shoulder and he turns to me with a small smile. I smile back.

  ‘I can always call you at Aunty Pam’s house,’ I say. ‘And she has my number, so you can call anytime.’

  Tomas just gives me that same smile, which shows sadness but also relief. Maybe I’m relieved too, because once he’s gone I won’t have to sneak around anymore or feel like everyone is watching us.

  Tomas stands from the bed and puts on his shirt and football shorts from the floor. I get dressed into a singlet and a pair of boxers.

  We meet at the bedroom door. We stand still there, gazing into each other’s eyes. I take his hand, hold it for a moment, then pull him against me. I kiss him and he kisses me back. The sadness has awoken again in my stomach, climbing its way to my throat. But Tomas’ warmth is stronger – his care, his kindness, his compassion, which he gives to me through his lips. He wraps his arms around me and holds me tight.

  When he pulls his lips away we stay there holding each other, and I run my fingers over his cheek, through his hair. I want to savour every strength he gives me, as he tightens his grip. I want to savour the smell of his skin, the feeling of the sharp hairs of his chin as he rests it on my shoulder, the feeling of his heart beating against my body.

  I kiss him again. I want to savour the taste of his lips, his tongue. A tear rolls down his cheek. I wipe it away with my thumb, take his hand and rest it against my cheek. I want to savour the feeling of his fingers on my face, his gentle touch, the warmth of his palm.

  Let us stay here holding each other for as long as it takes to be ready to walk out that door.

  I release Tomas and we rest our foreheads together. Our noses brush. I reach for the doorknob and plant my hand on it. I take a breath, then open the door.

  We walk downstairs and are greeted by eggs, sausages and bacon. All the kids are spread around the table. We join them and eat, and it’s the best meal I’ve ever tasted. The kids throw their food at each other. Me and Tomas join in and Mum and Aunty P
am yell at all of us, but we just laugh.

  After breakfast, Mum and Aunty Pam gather everyone in the backyard.

  ‘We finally finished,’ Aunty Pam says.

  Resting on the grass is their big canvas painting. It’s at least three metres long and it stretches wide, from the back shed to the clothesline. They’ve glued smaller square canvases together at their edges to make this big thing. The colours catch me first: a dark-blue overall, with red circles and symbols, interlaced with black symbols and yellow dots. It is quite magical to look at. I thought that I’d seen it before, but now that it’s done, it might as well be a whole new painting that they’ve put together.

  ‘The river flows through the middle,’ Mum says, kneeling down and hovering her hand over the wavy white lines, like she’s surfing her hand in the wind outside a car window. Their river is white and blue, and its waves flow from one side of the artwork to the other. On one side of the flowing river are painted black outlines of bodies, each with two white eyes.

  ‘These are the mothers,’ Mum says, then she moves her guiding hand from their bodies to the other side of the river, where there are smaller painted black figures, which almost resemble peanuts. They each have two smaller white eyes. ‘And these are the children.’

  At the very centre of the painting is a series of circles within circles, with yellow lines branching out and fading into either side of the river. If I got on my knees and looked closer, I’m sure I would see these lines reaching to each of the mothers and each of the children.

  ‘This is the culture that reaches out to them, connects them, so that they might find each other again one day,’ Mum says, pointing at the circles.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Aunt,’ Tomas says.

  And it really is beautiful. Mum has been really surprising recently. I knew she was an artist, but this is more than just a work or a project. This is feeling. This is spirit. This is something deeper, something that is hard to visualise until you see it right in front of you and let it sink inside you.

  I gaze over the footprints, the kangaroo tracks, all painted in black on the background. They are almost hidden in the dark blue.

  Aunty Pam stops behind Mum, whose fingernails are still stained with paint. Mum stands up and gazes over her masterpiece, her hard work. I feel I have never been prouder to be her son. I want to go and hug her for the longest time. But I won’t. I’ll just stand here and admire what she and Aunty Pam have done.

  ‘Where you gonna put it?’ I ask.

  ‘I reckon we’ll put it up in the lounge room. It should cover the whole side wall.’

  We head back inside. I help Mum plant the painting on hooks in the lounge room. It’s almost a perfect fit, and I realise it’s actually slightly smaller than I’d thought it was, once I see it up there on the wall.

  Tomas and all the kids take turns showering and get dressed. The bags are all packed, and Aunty Pam orders me to help her load the luggage into the back of the station wagon while Tomas gets his stuff from my bedroom.

  Mum shares a hug and a laugh with Aunty Pam as all the kids exchange hugs with Henry. Then they all climb into their seats and fasten their seatbelts. Tears roll down Henry’s cheeks, and he complains that he wants his cousins to stay longer.

  ‘Me too, bro,’ I say as I rub his shoulder. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Where’s Tomas?’ Aunty Pam asks.

  I walk back inside and stop at the bottom of the staircase. Tomas is there, standing at the top of the stairs with his bags in hand. Our eyes meet. We know this is it. I just keep reminding myself that he will only be a phone call away. Tomas takes a breath then starts a slow walk down the stairs, and I lead him out the front, where he loads his bags into the back of the station wagon, squeezing them past the blankets and pillows, and closes the door.

  Tomas gives Mum a kiss on the cheek and thanks her for having him, then walks back to me as Aunty Pam climbs in the driver’s seat. I can see in his eyes that he wants to hold me, kiss me again. I want the same. I want to kiss those lips and hold him tight, dig my fingers into his back and trap him here. Instead, I offer him a handshake with my good hand. His grip is tight as he shakes it back, and I hold his hand tightly as well. We release our grip and just hold our palms against each other for a moment. He’s so warm.

  ‘I’ll call you soon,’ he says. ‘Or you can call me.’

  I just nod and smile. ‘Happy new year,’ I mutter, with a breaking voice.

  Aunty Pam starts the car as Tomas climbs into the passenger’s seat beside her. He fastens his seatbelt and looks to me through the windscreen, and I walk across the lawn and follow the car as Aunty Pam reverses. Henry follows me. We stop at the front gate, and Tomas offers me a wave as they sit still there for a moment. I wave back and smile, then Aunty Pam puts the car into drive.

  I watch the station wagon as it travels along the main street of the Mish and disappears around the corner. The tears threaten to come, and my legs begin to shake at the knees, but I just take a deep breath. In and out.

  Back inside, I vacuum the floor in the lounge room while Mum shoves all the mattresses back into storage. My hand aches, but I let it ache. I think about the pain, focus on it – the staleness of my bones and the fire that burns around it.

  Henry cries for a bit, but then he settles, and he and Mum start a kids’ movie on the couch together. I go upstairs to my room and close the door. Tomas’ mattress is still on the floor. I fall onto the sheets and the pillow. It all still smells like him. I close my eyes. I could use a good sleep.

  ‘Jackson!’ I hear Mum shout.

  I open my bedroom door and peek my head out. ‘What?’ My voice croaks.

  ‘You got visitors.’

  I drag myself up and see Kalyn coming up the stairs, treading slowly. Then I see Jarny behind him. Jarny glances at me then back to his feet. His cheek is swollen and black. My heart begins to race at the sight of him, and the anger comes back to my stomach as I hear him again saying: poofter. I hear all the words he could have called me.

  ‘What’s he doin’ ’ere?’ I ask.

  ‘Let us come in,’ Kalyn says. ‘Jarny wants to talk to ya.’

  I’m tempted to just shut the door in Kalyn’s face, but I step back and walk to my window. The door closes and I turn around to see them both standing at the foot of my bed. I lean back against the windowsill, and Kalyn takes a few steps closer to me.

  ‘Did everyone leave? Tommy too?’ he asks.

  ‘Left today.’

  ‘Right. Well, we just wanted to come see ya. Jarny has something he wants to say.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jarny says. He walks around and sits on the side of my bed. ‘I don’t know why I’m such a prick. I was just . . . angry . . .’

  ‘Angry about what?’ I ask. I’m frowning with such effort as I try to understand him.

  ‘I don’t know. Because you never told us. I thought I had a right to know that. And because of Tomas. It was like he just came in and changed you.’ Jarny keeps his eyes on his shoes, hood over his head.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Like, you were this whole other person. I was angry you were gone. And then I was angry because I know he didn’t just change you – it was that you couldn’t be yourself . . . because of us. But I’m not angry anymore, because I’m just sorry. I’m sorry for what I said. I know now it isn’t my right to know these things, not unless you want me to.’

  ‘I’m not gone. I’m still me.’

  ‘But you’re gay now.’

  ‘I didn’t just turn gay.’ I’m almost laughing. ‘I don’t even know if gay is the right word for me, but whatever it is, I’m still me. It’s not a big deal.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that . . . It’s just the Mish, though,’ Jarny says, finally looking at me. ‘There’re people here who’ll say worse shit to you than I did.’

  ‘I know. I’m still figuring it out, you know? I always thought it was just a phase. But it’s not.’

  Kalyn clears his throat l
ouder than anyone has ever cleared their throat before.

  ‘I think what Jarny is really trying to say is that we don’t care if you’re not straight, or if you like boys or whatever, because we love you. You’re our brother. It’ll be a bit tough here, probably. But we’ll be here. And if anyone says any stupid shit to you, they’ll have to deal with us as well. Right, Jarny?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly,’ Jarny says, nodding his head.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I can hardly believe we are having this conversation. ‘You know, if shit does go down,’ I say, ‘or someone says something about me, you don’t have to defend me or anything.’

  ‘Of course we do,’ Kalyn says. ‘We will.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jarny says, nodding his head.

  A smile comes to my face like it was shot on there by a gun. The smile brings the tears with it, and Kalyn and Jarny both hug me.

  ‘Sorry about your face,’ I say to Jarny.

  ‘Sorry ’bout your hand,’ Jarny replies.

  I look at it, still swollen and red and purple. ‘Should probably get it checked out, eh?’

  Jarny rolls himself a cigarette. He offers me one, but I decline. He only smokes half of it, out my window, then we all go for a walk. We walk along the main street of the Mish, past Kalyn’s house and then down the narrow track around the mountain. We pass the farmland and cross the bridge over the river and into town.

  We arrive at the medical centre. Kalyn and Jarny sit with me while we wait for forty minutes on the seats by the reception desk. The doctor calls me in and inspects my hand. After an X-ray, he tells me I’ve broken the ‘metacarpal neck’ and calls it a boxer’s fracture. He places a cast on my hand, which goes up to my wrist.

  I go with Jarny and Kalyn for a feed of fish and chips, then we head back to the Mish. Kalyn invites me to come in and have a beer with him and Jarny at his place. I decline, but as I watch them walk into the yard, I feel an overwhelming gratitude for them. I couldn’t explain it to them if I tried.