10
Paula was surprised to see the enormous dunes in the distance, shining mountains of white dominating the shoreline. They simply hadn’t been visible when they’d arrived at the Eucla Caravan Park the evening before, their tenth night on the road since Marcelo had joined them.
With the Brazilian still in the amenities block, Paula turned to her father. ‘Everything’s going okay with Marcelo, isn’t it, Dad?’
It all felt utterly seamless to her.
‘Sure,’ he replied, looking up from the map. ‘It’s all good, don’t you reckon, kids?’
Paula smiled to hear him adopt their lingo.
Lachie grunted in a blasé way from the rear, still scrolling through his playlist. Caitlin said nothing, but when Paula turned to look at her, she noticed her daughter was slightly flushed.
‘Turn up the AC please, Mum?’
As Paula twisted the dial to its coldest setting, her phone beeped in the glove box. She glanced furtively at the children before retrieving it, conscious she was transgressing her own rules yet again.
It was a message from Jamie.
Just met Doggo at your house collecting mail for Hamish. I knew he’d gone away! Doggo didn’t tell me where.
Paula wasn’t surprised. For as long as she’d known Hamish, he’d never enjoyed his own company. She tried to guess where he’d go to lick his wounds; he had mates all over the eastern seaboard. Or perhaps to Mallacoota to visit his mother?
Thanks for letting me know, Paula typed back. At least you don’t have to look in on him now!
As she shoved the phone back into the glove box, Marcelo returned.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, climbing in next to Lachie and wiping a hand over his forehead. ‘It’s so hot already.’
‘That’s the Aussie desert for you, matey,’ said Sid.
A minute later Paula steered their vehicle onto the highway again.
Within a kilometre, Lachie pointed at a bloodied mass of feathers on the road, surrounded by carrion birds. ‘Euw, look at that eagle.’
Marcelo peered out the window. ‘How can the king of birds die like that?’
‘I’ll tell you how,’ answered Sid. ‘They fly down to the road at night to feed on road kill—kangaroos and the like—then suddenly a road train comes along. They’re too slow to take off because they’ve eaten so much and bam! They become road kill too.’
Paula shuddered.
‘Don’t get many wedgies in Glen Waverley, do we?’ asked Sid jovially.
No, she mused, applying more pressure to the pedal. No wedge-tailed eagles, no cold showers, no Brazilian backpackers, no fun.
She smiled, marvelling at how her usually hectic suburban routine had been so radically transformed. At this time on a normal weekday morning, she’d be ordering the kids into their school uniforms and out the front door. But these days, her mornings were different. She no longer woke to the jarring electronic bleating of an alarm clock, but to the whimsical sounds of nature at dawn.
Most mornings, she’d creep past the sleeping forms of her children before sunrise and open the caravan door, inhaling the fresh air and admiring the sky’s changing colours. No sooner had she opened the flyscreen than her father would unzip his tent and crawl out on all fours, standing up slowly, groaning as he clutched his lower back. Then he’d greet her with the same words each morning. ‘Marcelo’s beaten me to it again. Ready for a dingo’s breakfast, Paula?’
At first, she’d sought an explanation.
‘You don’t know what a dingo’s breakfast is?’ he’d asked, pulling a face. ‘And you call yourself an Aussie? It’s a piss, a drink and a look around.’
Their own ‘dingo’s breakfast’ always involved a ramble around the camp site in which they found themselves, along sandy tracks to the beach, up wooded trails to bush lookouts, or along the wide roads of sleepy town centres. Sometimes they’d happen upon a local bakery, a lucky find in an otherwise deserted street, and buy still-warm loaves to bring back to the camp site. It hadn’t taken long for Paula’s ‘Weet-bix only’ breakfast policy to fall by the wayside.
After their walk, they would sit together on foldaway chairs near the caravan, cradling steaming mugs of hot tea between their palms, waving away the blowflies—early risers too—and chat about the route for the coming day. Sometimes they’d watch Marcelo at a distance, doing his callisthenic routine, or reminisce about Paula’s childhood; their Christmas holiday road trips, the butchery, her mother. Then her father’s eyes would mist over as he talked about ‘his Jeanie’.
When the conversation lulled, they would simply sit in comfortable silence, sipping their tea and listening to the sounds of the camp site awakening. Caravan doors opening, footsteps on gravel paths, showers running, bacon frying. Until Caitlin and Lachie burst out of the caravan, looking for fresh bread and jam, a stretch or a swim, eager for another day on the road.
And then Marcelo would return from his morning exercise, all glistening with sweat and gushing about some piece of Australiana. A banksia, a snake skin, a seed pod. A king tide swamping the beach, a kangaroo with a joey in her pouch, a peach-faced parrot that had eaten breadcrumbs from his palm. It was a real delight for Paula, seeing her country through the eyes of a foreigner.
Would Hamish have savoured that too?
Paula couldn’t erase her husband from her mind, despite the many distractions of the road. She wondered daily how he was faring with his injury, whether he was coping by himself. Regretting what she’d done to his laptop and telephone, so violently cutting his ties with the world. Her behaviour then—it seemed to her now—had been bitter and borderline maniacal. But how could she ever have realised that if she hadn’t embarked on this road trip?
The kids were in regular communication with Hamish, who seemed to be using a new phone. She’d received a few messages herself, the latest one being: Paula, I’m sorry, hope you’re having a nice time.
She was still too angry to respond, but once or twice, usually after her second cider at Drinkypoos, she’d toyed with the idea of calling him—just to check if he was okay—before stopping short.
Seventeen years of marriage, she told herself, squandered with a seventeen-year-old girl.
There was no need to contact him.
‘Hey, Mum!’ Catie’s voice jolted Paula out of her reverie.
She snapped to attention, refocusing on the highway. How is it possible to drive so fast without really concentrating?
‘Can you switch off Lachie’s music? It’s my turn.’
‘No it’s not,’ objected Lachie. ‘We played yours yesterday.’
‘What about mine?’ asked Marcelo, leaning forward and passing an iPod to Sid. ‘I think we need some João Gilberto and Chico Buarque. Maybe a little Marisa Monte.’
The names sounded glamorous.
‘Great idea!’ said Sid, plugging in the iPod.
As they drove further west to the sounds of Brazil, Paula kept catching Marcelo’s eye in the rear-view mirror. It was a habit born of years of driving, but after a while, she began to feel embarrassed about it. She trained herself to look at Lachie instead, who was perched in the middle of the rear seat.
Her son didn’t seem to mind being marooned between Caitlin and Marcelo. He’d become quite helpful to Paula, scanning either side of the highway like an aircraft navigator, calling out waypoints and landmarks. He was especially adept at spotting wildlife—lizards, birds and even a pack of emus running too close to the road—or the rare roadhouses that suddenly sprang out of the sandy flat like mirages. Mundrabilla, Cocklebiddy, Balladonia. Lachie announced each road stop like a tram conductor.
After hours of driving, Paula’s right foot began cramping up over the accelerator, which she attributed to all the jogging she’d been doing. She’d managed six mornings in a row at Cactus Beach, a personal best for her, and her legs felt stronger for it. But her eyelids became heavier too, as they traversed mile after mile of unchanging landscape. Driving in the desert was disorie
nting; distances were deceiving, and landmarks appeared much closer than they were. The road seemed to curve in the heat, only to straighten again as they drove.
‘Want me to take over now?’ Sid asked suddenly.
‘Yes, please,’ she said, apologetic. ‘I’ve hit the wall.’
She swapped positions with her father and for the remaining half-hour of their journey, Paula let her mind wander again across her primary preoccupations: her teenage children and their relationship with technology, her husband and his online infidelity and, inevitably, Marcelo. Something was transpiring between them, but she wasn’t sure exactly what.
Physical attraction, yes. She was flattered by his attentions. But did they have a long-term future? She doubted it. He was only a temporary visitor to Australia; Brazil was in his blood. It oozed out of him as he described the beauty of his country, sang its songs by night, or trained her children in the art of Brazilian jiu-jitsu. He loved Brazil too much; he would never choose to make Australia his home. And even if he did, the seven-year age-gap between them was significant. One day he was sure to make a younger Brazilian woman exquisitely happy.
Yet in the dawn light at Cactus Beach, they’d almost kissed through the caravan window.
Why? she found herself wondering.
Why would a breathtaking Brazilian male want to kiss a cuddly Australian housewife?
My husband doesn’t even kiss me anymore.
In the absence of an obvious answer, Paula found herself upending the question.
Why not?
After driving more than seven hundred kilometres from Eucla, they finally pulled into the grounds of the Norseman hotel. Beyond it lay an empty caravan park where they planned to spend the night. The broad, shaded veranda of the hotel was a welcome refuge from the merciless heat.
‘I’m havin’ a beer before we pitch camp, fellas, I’m parched,’ said Sid, collapsing into a chair near several pot plants.
‘You think you’re thirsty,’ said Caitlin, lying down on the faded cedar floorboards and closing her eyes. ‘Lachie and I did fifty burpees yesterday. After the three-kilometre run.’ She jerked a thumb at Marcelo, who grinned at her.
‘What’s a burpee?’ Sid asked.
Lachie immediately lunged face-first towards the floor, thrust his legs out behind him, did a low push-up, then jumped back into a standing position.
‘Wow.’ Paula had never seen her son look so athletic. ‘You’re like a marine.’
‘Good technique, Lachie.’ Marcelo turned to Paula. ‘Burpees are part of jiu-jitsu training. No equipment necessary and you can do them anywhere. I can teach you, if you like?’ He smiled at her.
For a moment she imagined Marcelo’s body pressing down against hers.
Yes, I like.
‘I’m in,’ said Sid suddenly. ‘I might be an old bugger, but there’s life in me yet.’ He nodded at Marcelo. ‘We’ve got a special trainer with us and time up our sleeve. Why don’t we all get fit? I mean, really fit?’
Marcelo laughed. ‘You are very interesting, Sid. Not all people your age have such—’
‘Disregard for medical opinion?’ Paula interjected. ‘I mean, you’ve got to be careful, Dad. Dr Cassin said you shouldn’t exert yourself, not with your heart murmur.’
Her father looked crestfallen.
Paula cast around the table for support, but no one said a word. Marcelo sat fiddling with a sugar sachet. Lachie leaned against the side of the veranda and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Caitlin lay rigid on the floor, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
‘I was going to say alegria de viver,’ said Marcelo, his voice soft. ‘Joy for life. You have it, Sid.’
The sugar sachet Marcelo was fingering suddenly split open and tiny white granules cascaded across the table. ‘It’s an unusual quality. So many people do not appreciate life, even when they still have it.’ Marcelo stood up from the table. ‘I think I will take a walk now.’
Paula’s stomach plummeted as she watched Marcelo stride away.
‘Good one, Mum.’ Lachie looked at her reproachfully.
Caitlin’s gaze remained focused on the wooden struts above her.
A metallic creak sounded as saloon-style doors were pushed open from within. An older woman with blonde pigtails and bright red lipstick appeared at their table.
‘Hope I haven’t kept ya waiting too long.’ She smiled as she pulled a spiral-bound notebook from the pocket of her apron and a biro from behind her ear. ‘Whaddya want?’
Any humble pie on the menu? Paula thought.
‘I’ll have a beer,’ said Sid, sitting straighter in his chair. ‘Not too early, is it?’
‘Ya kidding, aren’t ya?’ The woman’s laugh was deep and throaty, redolent of desert nights, hard liquor and too many cigarettes. ‘Never too early for a coldie, love.’
‘Alrighty, then.’ Sid grinned at the woman. ‘I’ll have a schooner of your best. Two soda waters for the kids. You want one too, Paula?’
He looked at Paula as if there was no tension between them. It was a trait she’d always appreciated in her father: he never bore a grudge.
Paula nodded. ‘Yes, thanks. We’ve got a friend coming back shortly too.’ She gestured out into the shimmering heat.
‘Is he a mad-dog Englishman?’ the woman asked. ‘Only the Brits go wandering around in the midday sun. And the Germans, come to think of it.’
‘Brazilian,’ said Caitlin.
‘Oooh,’ said the woman, laughing again. ‘I had one of those once.’ She leaned towards Paula. ‘A bit ouchy on ya pink bits, eh?’
Paula was speechless. One minute they’d been ordering drinks, the next they were discussing intimate hair removal.
‘He’ll have a soda water too, please,’ she mumbled.
‘Right you are.’ The waitress walked back towards the saloon, her hips swaying in too-tight jeans, before turning.
‘Ya gonna stay tonight?’ She pointed to a notice pinned on a nearby wall. ‘Monthly karaoke night. Everyone comes from around the traps.’
‘That settles it,’ said Sid. ‘We’re going to need a powered site for our van out yonder, uh . . . ?’ He leaned forward, squinting at the woman’s name tag.
‘Rhonda.’ She pushed her chest out, as if that might help Sid’s eyesight. ‘The name’s Rhonda.’
‘Ah.’ Sid smiled, eyeing her cleavage. ‘I love the Beach Boys.’
Rhonda cackled, as if it was the first time in her life anyone had made that connection.
‘Ya gonna love our karaoke night then,’ she said, batting her eyelids. Paula looked at her father, incredulous. He was notching up a few too many liaisons on this journey for her liking. There’d been Brenda in Lorne, Linda in Ceduna, and now Rhonda was shaping up as Ms Norseman. They all looked the same—short, big-chested, bigger smiles. Even their names were similar, like a flock of aged groupies, all swarming around her father.
She stood up from the table. ‘I’ll go park the caravan.’
‘Choose any site ya like,’ called Rhonda.
Paula stomped away towards the empty car park. She could feel her father’s eyes burrowing into her back. Wondering what was wrong with her, she guessed, why she was so . . . tetchy.
Why am I so tetchy? she asked herself as she climbed behind the wheel of the ute.
As she turned the key in the ignition, hot air blasted out of the air-conditioning vents. She crumpled forward against the steering wheel, shoulders sagging, inhaling the pungent smell of overheated plastic.
I need to talk to Jamie.
She reached into the glove box, removed her telephone and dialled her sister’s number.
It rang out.
Of course, Paula thought, she’s at work. Where most normal people are on a weekday. The tears began to trickle out of the corners of Paula’s eyes.
A sharp knocking near her ear made her jump.
Marcelo’s face was hovering near the window. He tapped his knuckle against the glass again.
She opened it
.
‘Did I scare you?’
She shook her head.
They looked at each other for a moment, then he opened the door for her. ‘Come,’ he said softly. ‘I have something to show you.’
She wanted nothing more than to follow him.
As she got out of the car, he caught her hand in his.
Their shoes slipped over the sand as they walked beyond the northern reaches of the caravan park. Moving across the desert flat, skirting around scrub and stones until they reached a large, spiny cactus, its needles shooting skywards. Marcelo pointed to an orange mound behind the plant.
‘Look, Pow-la, an ant hill.’
Didn’t they have them in his country?
She wouldn’t know; he was the first Brazilian she’d ever met. Unlike Rhonda, she’d never had a wax of the same name either. Her perceptions of Brazilian males were informed exclusively by media snippets: random images of soccer players, drug dealers, tree fellers and kidnappers. Usually unkempt, overconfident and a tad sleazy. Not quietly self-assured, yet vulnerable. Or agonisingly handsome, with eyes like liquid pools. The singing surfer, the philosopher cowboy, the gentle combatant.
They squatted down together, watching the orderly lines of ants marching in and out of the ant hill.
The sun was hot on Paula’s neck, she could feel the sweat inching down her chest and into the padding of her bra. Always padded bras, frequently push-up too. She envied women with natural cleavage.
Marcelo swayed a little on his haunches, then looked up into her face.
‘They seem so simple, don’t they?’ he said. ‘This small hill, very plain. But so much is going on under the surface. Not many people know it, but these structures are strong enough to survive hurricanes.’
His eyes met hers.
‘You are like that, Pow-la. I see it. Very strong on the outside, but complicated underneath.’ He took her right hand and pressed it against his chest. ‘Always doing things for others, never for yourself.’ She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She could feel the firm muscle beneath his t-shirt.
She tried to stand up.
‘Don’t go,’ he said, pulling her back down. ‘Don’t you see your own beauty?’ He reached out and ran the back of his hand down the side of her face. ‘Beauty inside, and out.’
Wife on the Run Page 20