Almost a Mirror

by Kirsten Krauth

  The facts come out.

  The place is a seething mass of dogs. They keep having pups in her wardrobe. While she insists they die of natural causes she struggles to feed them or offer them fresh water. They fight and bark around her.

  She is a chain smoker and sets the house on fire twice.

  She’s put under guardianship and admitted as an involuntary patient to a psychiatric hospital where she has electroconvulsive therapy.

  While she’s gone, the department removes all her belongings and pulls up the floor coverings. They take away all her dogs.

  She comes home to a house stripped bare.

  She never lets anyone into her house again.

  And somewhere, in all of that, Jimmy is buried.

  Golden Point Road. Even the name’s sunny with memories. The sun’s out today but not in the car. Jimmy’s in the back with Mona’s walkman on.

  But he didn’t want to bring Mona.

  The Res is quiet. Just one old station wagon with a rope on the roof.

  When she gets out of the car, Kaz stops to look at the monument to Major Mitchell. A pyramid of bluestone blocks. Not as big as the one to Robert Burke in town. A colossus of failure. The first expedition. The first crossing. The first discovery.

  It’s hard to explain it to kids, how these aren’t firsts at all, when they are set in stone.

  The Res is darker than the trees edging up to it. Where dirt meets water, a sudden drop-off. Jimmy stands behind Kaz as if the water is going to bite him.

  His thin fragile frame is so different from Mona’s, but the same pale skin. If Mona was here she’d be in the middle of the reservoir by now.

  As Kaz hears the familiar frogs she can see the changing shape of Mona like an animated sequence. The toddler, held tight. The small girl learning to swim. The kid giggling behind hands with friends.

  Nowadays Mona disappears around the corner with Jimmy on a hot day. They come here in summer instead of the pool.

  It’s Kaz’s job to sit on a rock keeping an eye out for snakes, their steady line across the top of the water, like she does now. Or protecting Mona from leeches.

  Leeches are the only thing that can make Mona scream.

  In summer she keeps track of her daughter, breaststroking and serene, as Mona’s flare of orange halo becomes a fainter outline. Mona doesn’t like putting her head under when it’s murky.

  The serrated grasses frame the water, the cream reeds a concentric circle, nodding in one direction. Soft fronds and then sharp fringe.

  Birds chase each other across the water, scrambling, clouds of white spray following them like smoke.

  It was the Res that convinced Kaz to move to Castlemaine. The feeling of the earth, ancient. She can’t believe they can still be alone in such a place.

  Kaz searches for a smooth rock.

  How good are you at skipping stones?

  Jimmy doesn’t answer but watches as Kaz’s arm flicks back, deft. The stone skips, two, three times.

  Out of practice. She can do better.

  She hands Jimmy a stone.

  It arcs through the air and plonks with a heavy sound.

  Jimmy screws up his nose.

  Kaz heads back to the car and the urn is light in her hands. Jimmy won’t touch it.

  The water-level markers heading up the bank recall floods. Jimmy points.

  It’s two metres deep now, Jimmy says.

  The markers are coloured white and red as the measurements get higher. Jimmy stands up against one to see how tall he is.

  Four metres! Did it ever get this high? Jimmy asks.

  I’d say so. That’s why they’ve put the markers in higher up the bank.

  An elevated path cuts around the Res, bush on one side, water on the other. The wind’s starting to pick up.

  They can hear sounds hidden in the sedges. Birds, frogs.

  Keep your eyes peeled – you might see a swamp wallaby, Kaz says.

  Can they swim?

  I’ve never seen a kangaroo hopping in water.

  Look!

  Jimmy rushes to the water’s edge and points to a large fish. The colour of Mona’s hair.

  It’s huge! There’s a black one too! Kaz points it out.

  The fish fossick in the shallow muddy water. Sometimes they lie still in the sun with the occasional flap of their fins. As she walks, Kaz can hear them flicking and shaking themselves.

  They’re noisy! Jimmy says.

  And when Kaz looks again they are everywhere, wriggling through the reeds that form a natural pool.

  Jimmy picks things up as he walks. A tiny soft white feather. A pink wildflower climbing out of a rock crevice. He holds them like a bouquet.

  A family of galahs sit in a triangle on the dead branches of a eucalypt above them. A symmetry of silence for once.

  They round the bend and Jimmy lies down on the massive exposed roots of an old pine.

  How about here? Kaz asks.

  The water slaps against the old stumps.

  Jimmy searches the ground for a stone to throw.

  As Kaz sits next to him and looks out across the reservoir, she imagines Jimmy’s thin body on the other side. Swinging from the high rope into the water and jumping in, daring Mona to do it next.

  Jimmy picks up the urn and turns it upside down.

  How do you open it?

  Kaz tries to unscrew the lid. It’s wedged tight.

  Shit!

  She tries again and it won’t budge.

  She searches for a heavy rock and pounds the edge of the lid. It works for marmalade jars.

  The lid comes off. Kaz leans over and shakes a few ashes into the water.

  The ashes float on top and then quickly disperse.

  Do you want a turn?

  Jimmy shakes a bit harder and the wind flicks the ashes into his face. He jumps back and spits them out.

  It’s okay, you can do it, Jimmy says.

  He closes his eyes as Kaz dusts his face off.

  Sometimes people like to say something to remember the person, Kaz says.

  Jimmy watches the ashes drift towards the reeds and the fish.

  The light on the water looks like diamonds. Mum always said that diamonds are a girl’s best friend.

  Jimmy looks at Kaz and reaches up and touches her cheek.

  It occurs to Kaz that maybe he’s never seen an adult cry.

  Sometimes when you’re scattering the ashes it makes you sad because you remember the other people you love who have died too and you miss them, she says.

  Jimmy reaches into his pocket and hands Kaz the feather and the flower.

  I miss Mum sometimes but she’s happy now.

  Jimmy tips the rest of the ashes in the water in a rush and hugs the urn.

  Kaz nods.

  I didn’t know your mum but she must have been wonderful to produce someone like you.

  KISS OFF

  Melbourne, 1987

  The smell of the flowers is eating Jimmy. Strangling with its sweetness. He looks for the birthday girl and tilts, trying to not fall. His Queen of the Night.

  His patent leather shoes are pocked with ash.

  Dodge starts rolling a cigarette and licks the paper. He puts the cigarette in Jimmy’s mouth. Jimmy tastes Dodge’s rough camera hands.

  He wants to gag.

  Jimmy searches pockets for a lighter. Can’t remember if he has one.

  Dodge brings out a small packet of aluminium foil. Jimmy tries to open it. White powder starts to slide off his fingers. Dodge grabs it back.

  Jimmy lies down in a dark corner and curls up on the cushions. His toes drag on the ground.

  Nah. I can’t.

  Dodge leans over and touches his spiky hair, whispers.

  Not even a taste?

  Jimmy closes his eyes. Dodge starts stroking his hair. Flattening, fingers gliding, through the rough of the undercut.

  Jimmy tries to think about moving away.

  But Dodge has a hand on his back. Dodge starts
to kiss him on the neck. He traces the soft boy’s belly with his fingers. A slow dance. The swell of noise.

  The Communards beat.

  Jimmy’s arms flop as Dodge moves them around his neck.

  Dodge rolls Jimmy over as the cigarette falls out of his mouth.

  Dodge puts the powder on his finger. The cat piss smell of it. Dodge reaches down until they are both unbuckled.

  Dodge turns away from Jimmy into the velvet darkness. Dodge rubs the powder on the tip of his own penis. A whirlpool of speed.

  Jimmy brings his knees up. A cradle. A barrier.

  But it’s too late now.

  Dodge’s rhythm pushes his face into the ground, a mouthful of dirt.

  Their bodies and the drugs joining forces.

  Someone turns the music loud.

  Sigue Sigue Sputnik fire their missiles of love.

  A bullet-ridden beat comes.

  Jimmy looks and sees her then. Mona dancing as if she’s blooming out of her skin. She has her head down. Pogo-ing. Her feet land hard on the ground.

  He can hear her laugh bouncing into the air.

  The crowd is moving too. He can see their faces in the flowers. Climbing the walls and leaning in. Their soft wilted necks.

  Jimmy rises up with them, celebrating.

  The way his land is laid out beneath him.

  He can remake himself. He can.

  He can fuck God. Even that.

  His hands reach out to make spiders in the air. Playing hide-and-seek. With the answers as they are conjured.

  He holds them tight in his fists.

  He can transform.

  Along with the crowd he becomes white noise.

  A flash in the darkness. The moon face of Mona and the whir of a close-up.

  And out of time he can hear her.

  A dark song, a woman’s voice.

  So rich he turns his face to the flowers. Brighter than dead stars.

  He lies still, waiting.

  Waiting for the song to leave his body.

  THE BOY WITH THE THORN IN HIS SIDE

  Sydney, 2010

  Dear Mona,

  I started to make this tape the day you turned fifteen. I wanted to give it to you as a birthday present but I never quite finished it. Are you rolling your eyes now?

  Sorting out my stuff, I found the old tape recorder and listened to the tape. It brought back so much. How you made me laugh, cry, turned me on. I wanted to be with you every second of the day. I could quote the Hoodoo Gurus. I love the way you … You know the words.

  Remember how we used to play these songs as we fell asleep in your bungalow, how we kissed and talked? It was the pop music you loved, though. Remember how I used to call the bands ‘pretty boys’ and you’d get upset?

  I tried to introduce you to The Birthday Party and The Cramps and alternative stuff, and you were always stubborn but sometimes you gave in, if it was something you could dance to.

  I started to make this tape as a mix of yours and mine, pop and punk, something we could play in the car on the long drives in and out of town, for when I got my licence.

  But it never worked out that way, as you know.

  No matter what I do, I come back to it.

  I don’t know what to think and I don’t know how to act. I can never sleep and I’m tired of trying so hard. I’m not ready now and I know now I’ll never be ready.

  You used to love that Ben Folds Five song even though it always made you sad and remember sad things. I can see it now. I’m the brick.

  I can’t do it to you anymore.

  I finished the tape for you and here it is. It’s looking fragile so I hope it plays.

  It’s not much but it’s one thing, at least. I’ve always loved you and that hasn’t changed. I hope one day you can play it and remember that.

  I’m sorry,

  Jimmy

  FADE TO GREY

  Blue Mountains, 2010

  The light feels heavy.

  Jimmy follows the GPS to Springwood, to Singles Ridge Road. The cool voice of his guide deflects the devastation around him.

  He gets out of the car and tries to walk around like a local.

  Down the street in the ash and black forest, families try to get back to their houses as police roadblock them out.

  Asbestos seeps into the walls and the soil.

  Nanna’s house is still standing. But it’s completely dilapidated.

  The people wander, transparent, bodies in two places at once.

  He looks at houses in ruins.

  A woman crumbles on the road in front of him, holding a red colander as if it is a crown. She smiles.

  Jimmy thinks he should touch her, somehow, but it is not a smile that moves her face or invites him to join in.

  He knows she can see right through him to his heart that’s stopped.

  Jimmy heads back to the car and sits for a long time, windows up against the haze.

  Looking in the rear-view, he sees dark hair flecked with ash, patches of light like the remaining gums still standing, distant friends, around his car.

  Looking in the mirror, he sees other grey heads reflected: his mother sleeping, Kaz reading, Dodge turning away.

  He buzzes down the window and lights a cigarette, flicking out the ash, before he even thinks about it.

  It’s mid-afternoon when Jimmy gets to Echo Point. The buses have gone, along with the view, a few drifters hoping for the sky to lift.

  An ad for the Live Aboriginal Show fades into the wall of the bar, digi-didgeridoo blasting out of the souvenir shop, while men and women decked out in ochre hang out the front, smoking. They smile and half-heartedly call him in.

  The valley is obscured by fog, remnants of fire, the Three Sisters evasive, as they always have been. The disappointment of being taken there as a kid and standing for hours when the fog didn’t lift, and having to go home without seeing them.

  The faint taste lingering when he returned as a teenager with Kaz and Mona and finally got a glimpse.

  Three sheer cliffs reaching down forever. They didn’t match the story. They didn’t look like girls at all.

  But he’d liked the story anyway, and how his nanna told it.

  Beautiful Aboriginal maidens, frozen in time by the witchdoctor, protected from rival tribal warriors and safe under a spell.

  A story crumbling now like the sandstone monoliths themselves.

  Jimmy knows that if he hangs around the view might change and so he walks down to the second platform.

  He leans over the edge to feel the shroud of white fog.

  Jimmy’s T-shirt is wet as the fog leaves traces on him.

  As he walks past the kiosk, he stops. The four men, easily seventy, do a quiet dance on bendy legs on wet grass. They follow their leader, the oldest, long hair nicotine yellow and bare feet, taking them through the calm and methodical pushpull of tai chi. He watches, the beauty and grace at odds with the men’s bodies, their overhanging bellies and sunburned shoulders, and floats with them for a while. They don’t seem to notice.

  He heads up through little Aladdin’s caves of emerald-mossed boulders, rustic steps, to an alcove with wooden seats and a view through a chained fence.

  The clouds lift for a second and the sinuous thread of cable tugs its suspended car into the valley. By the time it reaches the middle it’s disappeared into the fog and it stops, swinging.

  He wonders what the passengers can see, down past their feet through a glass-bottomed boat, floating on a sea of cloud.

  He takes off his T-shirt and wipes the seat before sitting down. He hangs it on the back to dry. An accumulation of decades of graffiti: enjoy this little piece of untouched beauty in this messed-up world with permanent black marker.

  In the time it takes to scratch out Jimmy Was Here the sun shines as if apologising and reveals the soft jagged horizon of Mount Solitary.

  Orphan Rock comes into the right of frame like a child runaway, the rock suspended, breaking free and refusing to ho
ld hands with the cliff that towers beside it. The rock’s soft head is covered in closely cropped vegetation and he can just make out disintegrating metal railings weaving in and out at the top.

  In another minute the view clouds over again and he grabs the railing and heads down.

  A lyrebird scratches around in the dirt near the track and he expects it to scuttle as he walks past but it doesn’t. He hopes for a sound, a mimic.

  The rain is drifting through the trees. He wishes he had a jacket.

  As Jimmy balances along the edge of the steps, avoiding the worst of the mud, he checks his shoes for leeches and thinks for the first time about finding cover.

  He rounds the corner to the slight slick of a waterfall and as he glances off to one side there’s the pink fluorescent flash of a parka, two dark heads, cocooned under an overhang, a small cave.

  Smooth faces, leaning in for a kiss, as if it’s the first time.

  Japanese tourists.

  They laugh and hide their faces under furry hoods.

  Sprung.

  He says the word over his shoulder as he keeps walking, looking up to the sky to get his bearings.

  They won’t know what it means, anyway.

  The man calls back to him.

  Do you need directions, mate?

  When Jimmy finds it at last the track is overgrown and it’s heavy going in the wet. Someone has left small signs on trees with arrows pointing in the right direction. He can hear the Scenic Railway climbing nearby.

  A guard calls.

  Last ride!

  The high mesh gate is not locked and swings, the Danger, Area Closed sign attached as if an afterthought. A graphic of a man bubbled in a circle, the red cross struck through him.

  As Jimmy climbs, crevasses dissect the rock, slivers like shards of mirrors, letting light in from the other side.

  Gaps big enough for the cable car to fall through.

  A small rock bridge, just wider than his feet standing together. Hundreds of metres down. He steps across, fighting the urge to get onto his hands and knees. In the distance, he can see the cable car coming.

  The fog blends in around his body.

  Short sections of staircase are carved directly out of the sandstone. Steep and spiral, the snail-shell steps inside Gaudi’s cathedral.