by Jane Abbott
‘Answer the question.’
Cait rested her head against the door, and when she finally spoke he had to lean across to hear her words. ‘She’s a character in a story. A very old story.’
‘If it’s just a story, why do I get the feeling she’s important? Because she is, isn’t she?’
‘Not any more, Michael,’ Cait said, turning back to him. ‘Some say Romeo and Juliet was based on Thisbe’s tale. Maybe Whittaker mentioned it. Perhaps that’s how you heard about it.’
But it wasn’t. Whittaker had never said that name. Michael would have remembered that much. He looked across at her, but she’d retreated again and was staring ahead, wrapped in her own thoughts. She seemed so alone, and it was her dismissal of him that hurt, as though he was too much for her to bear. Suddenly, he wanted to feel her hand on his again, soothing and cool to banish the heat of his anger.
‘Michael, look out!’
The kangaroo hit the bar with a sickening thud before being thrown back onto the track and bouncing a few metres. Michael braked and the trailer behind skewed dangerously; dust swirled thick in the headlights.
Michael reached for Cait. ‘You okay?’
She nodded, peering at the animal thrashing on the ground up ahead. ‘Poor thing,’ she said and, to Michael’s surprise, started to cry.
He hadn’t cried about an animal since he was seven, when he’d shot his first rabbit. He’d bawled, filled with guilt, and Jim had made him skin and gut it then and there. ‘No sense crying over a dead animal, boy,’ he’d said. Michael had learned his lesson. They all had. A farm was no place for sentiment.
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered, and switched off the ignition. Using the smallest key on the ring, he unlocked the box behind the seat and took out Jim’s rifle; it was old and heavy and reeked richly of oil. Michael opened the chamber and loaded it. ‘Stay here,’ he told Cait. She just nodded.
He approached the roo with caution. He’d seen one dog drowned by a boomer, another gutted with a single kick, sliced open from chest to tail. Even damaged and frightened, a roo could pack a punch if you got too close. But this was a fairly young one and he could see the twisted leg and the blood seeping from its nose. It fixed one eye on him and struggled to rise, fear driving it to escape, before it fell back again, defeated.
Lifting the rifle, nestling the butt into his shoulder, Michael took aim, not wanting to waste the shot, but all he could see was Cait’s crumpled face and the silver of tears on her cheeks. Slowly, he lowered the weapon.
‘Michael?’ She was out of the car now, behind him.
He passed the gun to her. ‘Here, hold this. I want to try something.’
‘What are you doing?’ she hissed.
‘Shh. Give me a minute.’
He crouched beside the injured animal. It didn’t struggle; it was too weak and the added fear was straining an already labouring heart. Focusing his gaze on its bloodied nose, he was drawn deeper inside with each shallow breath until he could see the ruptured vessels; thick warm liquid pooled around organs, drowning the creature from within. As he had that first time with Casey, he saw the broken bones in its leg, white, not grey, and pink flesh that was wholesome. There was an overwhelming pain washing over him like an incoming tide, red-hot with each weak pulse. And there, in the very centre, at its core, a small flame flickered and danced. As he watched, shadows gathered and thickened and cupped the light, before closing on it, snuffing it out, and the roo sucked its last breath. And the pain stopped.
He was too late.
Except he knew he wasn’t. He could heal that bone and seal the vessels. He could make the animal whole again. He could bring it back. He knew he could. And he could stop Cait’s tears. Right now, that was all that mattered. He reached out to the dead roo, ignoring Cait’s whimper behind him.
‘Michael, don’t do this. Please!’
As he burrowed his hand into its grey fur, for a second, maybe less, he was the kangaroo. He saw endless plains of grass, smelled the eucalypts, felt the give of the ground beneath his legs as he bounded across it, strong and graceful. He knew the kinship of the mob, the fear of the gun, the safety of the bush. And he spoke. There was the faintest growl as the shadows unclenched and lifted, but where the flame had danced, there was only darkness.
Michael pulled away and stepped back, giving the kangaroo space. It lay still, one ear flicking, as though unsure, not trusting this second chance. He watched it gather strength with each breath, saw its muscles bunch, tensed for flight, and there was a swelling warmth inside him, triumphant and joyous.
As it lifted its head and squirmed to rise, Cait was beside him, her voice flat and hard. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Michael.’
The shot rang out, deafening. He jumped, but the kangaroo barely twitched, so accurate was her aim. She lowered the rifle and he stared at her, too shocked to speak.
‘Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should,’ she said. ‘You had no right, Michael. No right.’
He sat in the dust with the kangaroo for a long time. He didn’t feel the first drops of rain, or mind when they thickened to a downpour, soaking them both and turning the ground to mud. Cait waited alone in the car, dry-eyed, while heaven and Michael wept.
He walked a dark path beside a long, slow river, empty except for a barge floating downstream. As it passed, a dozen cadaverous heads turned and hailed him with one voice – Orpheus! He plucked his lyre in answer, retiring them with sweet music, but didn’t turn to watch as they were carried into blackness. He dared not turn at all, not even to check that she followed, mute and fearful. There was only the gentle murmur of the water and the shuffle of his shoes on the stony ground that chanted with each step, you have no right, no right, no right, drowning out the echo of her footfalls and the whisper of her breath behind him, as he led and she trailed. No right, no right, no right.
At last they neared a wall, immeasurably high. It was from here the river flowed, and set above its mouth was a door he knew, opening at his touch and flooding the entrance with light. He stepped out, casting a shadow that grew and swelled with doubt until, at the last, before she could cross the threshold, he turned to make sure she was there and, for just an instant, he saw her face, pale and lovely in the light. Then a sudden wind howled, mingling with her cry and his shout, and she fell back into the darkness of the water and the door blew shut, sealing itself to the stone.
Michael woke to his own screams, but this time Cait wasn’t there to comfort him. There was only a voice that mocked, cold and forbidding: Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.
ii
After school, Jenny walked the few blocks alone and let herself into the house. Her parents were still at work, and Chris was at Jason’s, as he was most Friday afternoons. Better there than here, she thought. At least she had the place to herself.
Opening the fridge door wide, she embraced the cold air, grateful her mother wasn’t there to tell her to shut it again. The heat was so oppressive; the old house, with its high ceilings and thick walls that usually ensured an even temperature, had become a kiln. Jenny grabbed a handful of ice cubes from the freezer and ran them over her neck, her face, her arms.
A shower, she decided, but twenty minutes after getting out she was wet again with sweat. Stripping down to her underwear, she threw herself on her bed and stared at the ceiling. Friday afternoon, she thought, and here she was, alone, with nowhere to go and nothing to do. If she could have borne the stares she’d have gone to the pool, but she knew the other girls would be there – Kylie, Sophie, Clare and the rest – and she wasn’t up to facing them. It was bad enough she had to see them at school. If she was still in Melbourne, she’d be at Bella’s right now; maybe Maddie would be there too, the three of them swimming or just lounging in air-conditioned comfort. Bella had the best house. The best home.
Jenny checked her phone for messages. There weren’t any. It’d been weeks since she’d heard from anyone and even her
Facebook chat had dwindled to a trickle. But it was her fault too; so caught up with Michael, she’d neglected her old life. She tapped a name, heard the dial tone, counted every ring, sighed when she got the recorded message – Bella’s voice telling her to ‘say it straight and make it short’. She didn’t.
‘Jenny?’ her mother called.
Fighting her irritation, Jenny glanced at the bedside clock. The staff meeting must’ve ended early. ‘In here,’ she yelled, louder than she’d meant to.
Her mother opened the door, leaned on the jamb. She looked as bad as Jenny felt: hot and pink and exhausted. Even so, it didn’t stop her from giving the room a quick clean-sweep glance before frowning, and Jenny knew she was longing to tell her to tidy the mess. She refrained; her mother was trying.
‘I’m going to have a shower and then run a few errands,’ she said. ‘How was school?’
‘Fine,’ Jenny lied. ‘Boring.’ Not a lie. Then she added, ‘You?’ Because she was trying too.
Her mother sighed. ‘The aircon broke down, so we cut the meeting short.’
Jenny nodded and sat up. ‘If you’re going out, can you drop me at the library?’ She could’ve walked – it was only a few blocks – but even the thought of it exhausted her.
Her mother’s frown deepened. She was searching for an excuse, and her face cleared when she found one. ‘I need you to be here for Chris.’
‘After, then? I’ve got an essay due next week and it’s too hot to work here.’ Jenny couldn’t help but add, ‘If you’re worried, you can always come with me.’
There was an uncomfortable silence as they fought for trust. Her mother gave in. ‘You know what? I might. I need to return some books, anyway.’
Jenny didn’t point out that she could do that for her and she didn’t ask what kind of trouble her mother imagined she might get into at the local library. It simply wasn’t worth it. Stop making this all about you. Would Gabe have approved? She sighed. What did it matter? He wasn’t here, and this wasn’t his problem.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I can do dinner if you want.’
Her mother smiled at the offer. ‘I think we’ll get takeaway tonight. I’ll pick up something while I’m out.’ She closed the door again, and Jenny listened to her potter about, heard the bathroom door shut and the clunk of old pipes protesting the rush of water.
It was close to six before they left, her mother a little cranky, both of them sticky and irritable. Her father was in his study, Chris content in front of the TV, a plate of barbecued chicken and chips on his lap, and Jenny closed the door on what might’ve been an average family home.
Her mother started the car and turned the air conditioner to full so the interior could cool wastefully for the three-block drive. Jenny was glad it was only three – any longer and they’d run out of things to talk about. Now the issue had been aired it was hard to know what to say, and when they spoke it was about anything except what was really troubling them. She wondered if her mother was embarrassed, or maybe she was worried Jenny would side with her father. Perhaps this wasn’t something she’d ever imagined she’d discuss with her teenaged daughter. Perhaps it was all that and more. But, as Gabe would’ve said, what gave Jenny the right to judge? So she tried not to.
The library wasn’t busy, which wasn’t surprising for a Friday. Her mother dropped her books into the chute and wandered off to find more. Jenny settled herself at one of the tables and unloaded her bag.
She smelled the gum long before she lifted her head to see Sophie, on the other side of the table, staring at her and chewing noisily.
‘What?’ Jenny said. But what she really wanted to do was tell Sophie to close her mouth and get her stinking gum out of her face.
‘Nothing,’ Sophie replied, and pulled out a chair.
Jenny sighed. ‘I’m trying to work.’
‘No one works on a Friday night.’
‘Why are you here then?’
Sophie held up a book. ‘Picking this up for my granddad. He’s had it on order for weeks.’
‘Whatever.’ Jenny started writing again, but she could still feel Sophie staring. ‘What?’
‘You know, if you were nicer you wouldn’t have to sit here by yourself on a Friday night. Stop thinking you’re better than everyone else.’
‘I don’t. I never did.’ But Jenny knew that wasn’t true.
Sophie blew a green bubble until it popped in a fruity burst. ‘Heard you and Michael broke up. Bummer, huh?’ She didn’t seem too upset. Or overly sympathetic. Jenny bent her head again so Sophie wouldn’t see the hurt. ‘We told you he was weird. I guess now you know.’
Yes, Jenny thought. She knew. Way more than Sophie did.
A deep laugh rumbled behind her, and she looked up, recognising it. Sophie glanced over and Jenny turned, surprised. Gabe was at the front desk. He’d changed out of his school clothes and wore old jeans, a faded shirt and a pair of dusty boots. He looked completely out of place, older than his eighteen years and too earthy against the orderly backdrop. But he also looked at ease, chatting to the librarian, who was leaning over the counter, ample breasts squeezed between her arms, as though they were on offer. Probably were, Jenny thought spitefully.
‘God, he’s gorgeous,’ Sophie said, watching Jenny.
‘I s’pose.’ It was a careful reply, maybe a little guarded, but Jenny knew the score now. If she agreed, she’d be accused of wanting him; if she didn’t, she’d be accused of hiding the fact that she wanted him. There was safety in neutrality.
Sophie seemed satisfied. ‘So, got any plans for the holidays?’
‘No.’ Only one more week of school – a short one too, just four days. She should’ve been glad, but the two-week Easter break stretched ahead, interminable.
Another pop, another waft, and Jenny wanted to gag. Sophie hunched forwards. ‘Okay. I shouldn’t do this, because I really don’t think you deserve it, but we’re having this party on Sunday. I mean, I’m not. It’s at Paul’s place, a kind of an end-of-term thing. You should come.’
This time it was Jenny’s turn to stare. ‘Why?’
‘Jesus, Jenny, lighten up.’ Sophie stood, scraping the chair across the floor. ‘Your choice. If you wanna come, great. If you don’t, no loss.’
Jenny wanted to explain that she couldn’t go, that she’d been grounded until the holidays, maybe even beyond, her mother ruining any chance she might’ve had of recouping a social life. But she didn’t need to. Sophie was already looking over her head and smiling.
‘Hi, Mrs Lawson.’
‘Hi, Sophie. How’s your mum? I really should give her a call.’ She probably should, but Jenny knew she wouldn’t. There was embarrassment there too, the worry that family news had already become town news.
Sophie nodded. ‘She’s fine.’ Then, turning to Jenny, she said, ‘I’ll text you the address, okay?’
‘What address?’ Jenny’s mother asked, and even Sophie looked puzzled by her tone.
‘Uh, Paul’s party. Just a get-together, really. Sunday arvo. I told Jenny she should come. Good way to finish the term, you know?’
They were talking over her head, like she was a child again, and Jenny looked up at Sophie, needing to end the awkwardness. ‘Text me, but I think I might be busy Sunday.’
A quick glance at her mother, and Sophie nodded. ‘Whatever. See ya.’
She left, and the air cleared. Jenny turned in her chair. Her mother wasn’t happy, her mouth stretched to a thin line.
‘It’s just a party. In town.’ Jenny had no idea why she was being so defensive; she didn’t even want to go.
‘We’ll talk about it later.’ Translated: we’ll argue at home. ‘How much longer are you going to be?’
Jenny gestured at the table. ‘I don’t know. A couple of hours. I can walk back if you want to leave.’
And she did, Jenny could see that. The mouth tightened some more. ‘I’d rather you weren’t walking home in the dark. I’ll come back and pick you up.’
‘I can drop her back.’
Jenny cringed. She’d been praying he wouldn’t see her, but either she’d sent out the wrong signals or Gabe was just oblivious, because he was suddenly there, beside her, arms loaded with books.
‘And who are you?’ Her mother bristled, all spiky and sharp-eyed.
Gabe dropped the books on the table and, smiling, held out his hand. ‘Gabe Webster. Nice to meet you, Mrs Lawson.’ Clearly, she didn’t feel the same way; the name had alerted her. Gabe lowered his hand.
‘Thank you, that won’t be necessary,’ she said. ‘Eight-thirty, Jenny. Out the front.’
‘There’s really no need,’ Gabe said, and Jenny wanted to kick him. ‘I’ve got the ute and I’ll be here for a while.’
Glancing at her mother, Jenny tensed. Please don’t make a scene. Please, please, please. She knew her mother was waiting for Jenny to step in, as she had with Sophie, but suddenly Jenny didn’t want to. Instead, she managed a weak smile. ‘Thanks, Gabe. That’d be great.’ Though she wasn’t so brave that she didn’t concede some authority. ‘Please, Mum? It’s Friday.’
‘Honest. I’m happy to do it,’ Gabe insisted, looking at Jenny’s mother, direct and open, as though holding her in some kind of spell.
It took an age for her mother to reply. ‘Fine. By eight-thirty. No later.’
‘No problem,’ Gabe said. ‘I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’
Her mother didn’t ask why, and Jenny didn’t dare push it. She knew there’d be words said when she got back to the house, but she was getting used to that.
‘Can I join you?’ Gabe asked, when they were finally alone. Jenny nodded, and he sat where Sophie had. ‘I see what you mean about your mum.’
‘You have no idea,’ Jenny muttered.
‘Has she always been that tough?’
Jenny shook her head. ‘I don’t know how you pulled that off, but thanks.’
He smiled. ‘You’re welcome. Saw you with Sophie and figured you deserved the break.’ When she didn’t reply, he asked, ‘Everything all right?’
‘Fine. She just invited me to a party on Sunday. At Paul’s?’