The Great Empty

by Anita Melillo

  Simultaneously, his chin and forehead met the thick shield of oval glass, and he smiled with a new revelation. His seven days of glory weren’t behind him at all.., but lied just ahead.

  Chapter Three

  The Darwin International Airport was buzzing with an influx of people rushing from one terminal to the next. Some were clearly businessmen with the vast majority of them tourists, pressing against the flow of digression. But the most harrying ordeal of all was watching his parent’s losing it at Baggage Claim when the next flight to Melbourne had already been announced.

  Despite their efforts to speed the process even more, Donovan tried appealing to his mother one last time before the cord was broken for good.

  “Are you sure you can’t stay and let Father go alone?... Please don’t leave me,” he urged.

  “Now, Donovan,” she said hurriedly while grabbing for the tapestry cosmetic case that lumbered past. “I thought we went over this already. It’ll only be for a couple of days and then we’ll join you at your Uncle’s. Take care of your sister, and don’t give her such a hard time.”

  It wasn’t the assurance he was looking for, but he nodded anyway as he watched the revolving wheel make its rounds. He wished the machine would jam and send their luggage out into space somewhere, because he couldn’t imagine his mother getting too far without her prized possessions. But when his father hoisted the final piece of the ensemble over his shoulder, he realized he wouldn’t be having any such luck.

  A quick kiss and a pat on the head was all he got, while Viola lavished warm embraces, and the old man had a wad of cash shoved into his trembling hand. Then they were off.

  It was the shortest good-bye yet and the most distant. And as his parent’s disappeared into the vacuum of humanity, the ceiling and walls seemed to expand and it left him feeling very small from where he stood.

  “Just extra baggage,” he told his sister, “discarded and soon forgotten..,” all the while wondering where they were supposed to go from there. The rest was up to Preston.

  The first thing the Englishman did was to unfold the note and call the number written on it. It belonged to Yancey. He lived so remotely out in the bush that they would have to get a ride to another local airport, where he would be flying in to pick them up.

  It was pretty common for successful ranchers in those parts, anything to help ward off some of the dangers of traveling through the desert. And though it was unsettling to Preston, he didn’t know which part disturbed him most, natives in the city, or the necessity for hangars in the outback. Perhaps it was the later.

  Traveling in a small commuter plane over no-mans-land wouldn’t exactly put his mind at ease, but duty called. So he took the frail hand of the damsel clinging to his coat sleeve and followed the instructions given by the gruff voice on the other end of the telephone.

  A gusty surge of hot air rushed them on the sidewalk as a city bus sped past. The chill from the air conditioned airport had long since subsided as the ninety degree temperature consumed their pores, making them each acutely aware of how overdressed they were, especially compared to the laid back standards of those passing by.

  Loosening his tie at the collar and unbuttoning the stiff gray suit was a relief, but when the lad began to do the same correction was in order.

  “Keep it all on for now,” he gave a short nod.

  “Uncle Yancey probably doesn’t even own a suit,” Donovan instigated. “And according to the way Father talks about him—“

  “Well now.., it’s not for me to decide,” as he smugly shook a breeze into his trousers. “I just have to see to it that you get there looking presentable. And if you choose to run naked through the marshlands afterwards..,” he smirked with a little more freedom in his tone, “then albeit for me to give a hoot.”

  Donovan squinted squarely up at him, as though testing this new found authority. “And what if I take the liberty of doing so now?”

  It was then that the old man took immense pleasure in squeezing the chap’s neck firmly, ushering him toward the yellow car he had finally managed to flag down.

  “Incorrigible..,” he sighed. “Absolutely incorrigible.”

  Without giving the matter another thought, Donovan scooted across the gritty black seat in his patent loafers, tan slacks, and navy blue sports coat. He would be shedding those layers soon enough.

  Viola, on the other hand, sat down lady-like and primped into the compact she had taken from her floral purse, making sure the yellow ribbons were snug in her strawberry blonde twist. While she was only concerned with the image in the mirror, her brother was busy taking in the surroundings.

  Like the continent of Australia, Darwin was much different than Donovan had imagined, more tropical and bigger with tall hotels and colorful billboards. The further away they drove from the business district, the more it changed.

  The brown skinned people walking about went from professional attire to thrift store clothing and it was definitely a clash from what he was used to seeing in London. He had never guessed there were so many Asians living there, and some of the ones that saw him didn’t seem too friendly, as he looked into the hard pressed faces of the working middle class.

  Even the Aborigines didn’t appear to be anything like the ones in the book. They were dressed in regular street clothes, not leather skins, and blended in with the rest of the towns’ people.

  “Bummer,” he groaned, “I bet the kangaroos are probably extinct, too.”

  As his eyes continued to scan the unfamiliar scenery, his spirits suddenly lifted when he spotted an exotically painted green bus with a sign advertising tours to a Crocodile Farm.

  “Stop here,” he commanded the cabby.

  “Whatever do you mean, lad?” abhorred Preston.

  “Look there.., a tour to a real Crocodile Farm!” he eagerly explained while unclasping his seat belt.

  Viola objected at once. “I don’t want to go to a crocodile farm! I want to see Marcy!”

  Preston patted her on the hand, “Not to worry dear, there will be no tours today.”

  The driver swung his oversized arm around, exposing a wet hairy armpit and said, “What’s it gonna be, mate? I ain’t got all bloody day!”

  “Carry on,” Preston replied and they were moving with the flow of traffic again.

  Donovan sulked as he slid back into the seat. His suggestions were never taken seriously.

  A couple of blocks later they were pulling into the parking lot of a shoddy little airport, which was strictly used for small planes. As soon as they went inside, Preston made a comment about being tired, so he sat down to rest in one of the many orange plastic chairs that were welded into rows.

  Viola complained that she was hungry.

  “Very well then,” he stood wearily and reached deep into his trouser pockets. “Go wash up while I see if I have enough small change.”

  But Donovan had another idea. He wanted to ease his fascination before thinking about food, as he peered through the large streaked window towards town.

  Even though the glass was smeared with greasy fingerprints, he could still make out the sign for the Crocodile Farm, along with the line of tourists buying tickets. When he stood back, he could also see the outline of Preston slumped over in the chair with the gold cap extended halfway from his lapel. He was sound asleep.

  Remembering that the old man had said it would take at least another hour for his uncle to arrive, he reasoned that it would probably be his only chance to have any fun the whole trip.

  So while Viola was washing up, he obscurely slipped out the door.

  The odd line up of faces kept staring down at him sullenly and some were looking up. Two dirty young girls, with uncombed hair and bruised legs, sat against a brick building that was unusually well manicured for the area, snickering as he walked by.

  Donovan stopped, curious about what was so funny.

  “Banker’s boy..,” they turned to each other and laughed.<
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  Their skimpy tube-tops and cut-off jeans caught his attention right away. He overlooked their faces, as he glanced back at his own clothing and then read the sign directly above the storefront, The Merchant’s Bank.

  “Not on your life, ladies,” he replied astutely, as though there was some dignity behind his years.

  To make his point, he dropped his backpack in front of them. Then he pulled off his sports coat, tossed it over his arm, and with a swift twist, loosened his tie at the collar, before whipping it off also.

  More giggling ensued.

  “Ooh..,” one of the girls teased, “bet he’ll put ‘em back on when he gets inside.”

  “Oh yeah?” he replied with a quick shift in attitude. “What do you know anyway, dirty ol’ hags?”

  Suddenly, the glass doors swung open, and a brute of an Irishman stepped out with a blue check stub and a fistful of cash. He grabbed one of the girls with his free hand and kicked the other in the shins.

  “Get up from there, the both of ya!” he slurred. “Didn’t I tell ya to stay in the truck?!”

  “But Papa..,” one of them argued.

  He raised his hand to hit her.

  “Look, sir,” Donovan picked up his backpack and gestured nervously. “They weren’t causing any trouble. Really—“

  “And what do ya know about trouble, boy?” he laughed, releasing the wad of change into his shirt pocket and turning over the engine. “I’ll give ya some advice,” the old truck sputtered as he took a swig from a hot can of Brewster and shifted into drive. “If ya don’t want no trouble, then ya better not look at ‘em. Don’t speak to ‘em. And whatever ya do, don’t touch ‘em. They don’t wash out that easy.”

  “Yes, sir,” he nodded in agreement. “I’ll remember that.”

  At his response, the girls spun around and made gruesome faces at him as they merged in with the rest of the traffic. It was a lasting impression he had just as soon forget.

  “Women..,” he sighed. “Why do I even bother?”

  One glance at his watch was all he needed to bring reality back in check. Time was slipping away, and if he wasted any more of it—he hated to ponder.

  When it came right down to it though, he had to admit that those girls did him a favor. At least they had pointed him in the right direction, because a pocket full of pounds wouldn’t have gotten him very far. So he went inside the bank to make the exchange for Australian dollars.

  “What’s the holdup?” he complained under his breath, watching the line grow until it curved out the entrance. It was as if the place would be closing in a matter of minutes. He noticed the red hands on the large wooden clock beside the exotic bus, and knew that he would have to hurry to make the tour. So he weaseled his way closer into the next open slot.

  “Hey.., the kid broke!” someone shouted.

  Donovan paid no attention. Rather, he impatiently clicked his fingers against the counter which practically touched his chin, hardly believing how long it was taking the teller to figure from the conversion chart.

  “Please miss,” he urged. “My family’s already on the bus”

  Finally, she began counting dollars. “Sorry ‘bout the wait, sweetie,” she said. “It’s always a mad house before the holidays.”

  “That’s okay,” he politely answered. “We’ve all got some place else to be, I suppose.”

  “Too right!” she tiredly smiled and waved the next person forward. “I wouldn’t spend it all at once if I were you. There’s a lot to see ‘round here, if you know where to look.”

  “Oh, I do,” he smiled and pushed his way through the maze of customers.

  As he stepped outside, a man was leaning against the building, taking a long drag from a cigarette and eyeing him suspiciously. But Donovan didn’t notice, because he was busy inspecting his new cash.

  Then he sprinted down the sidewalk, until he met the stream of tourists boarding the bus. Blending in with the American family was easy, the rough shaven driver simply took his money without question.

  It was just like his father’s example, “Give the man a dollar and it will do the talking for you.”

  The bag of chips and the soda were waiting for Viola in one of the orange chairs when she returned from the restroom. She was sure that her guardian had seen better days, as the drool had formed a link between his chin and his shoulder. There was no need to wake him though, she could open the package herself.

  After the last chip had been devoured, she folded the bag into the smallest square possible. Then there was the question of what to do with it. The gold cap stemming from Preston’s lapel looked as though it could use some company, so she tucked it inside and patted the pocket with a sigh. Other that making sure her hair was in place, there was nothing else to do.

  She had already licked the crumbs from her fingers, which didn’t necessitate another trip to the latrine. So she removed the small compact from her purse and decided to take a rest too, leaning against the dead lump of weight beside her. And just as she had thought, everything appeared as it should.

  Actually, it was amazing what all could be seen with the mirror turned at just the right angle, projecting light into the fuzzy cavern of the old man’s nostrils. She studied her find for a moment, wondering where her brother was and anxious to give a demonstration that would have made him proud.

  Glancing around the room that reeked of grimy automotive parts, she fixed her eyes on the men’s restroom. And after milling over all of the options, she snapped the compact shut.

  “He must’ve fell in,” she concluded wearily. It was the only explanation.

  Chapter Four

  There was an empty seat at the back of the bus that practically had his name on it, and it was with much determination that Donovan beat a retired Italian couple to it. It wasn’t until they had settled down in the next row up and began speaking in their fluent tongue that he turned away from the window, all the while thinking that if they didn’t even speak English then they certainly couldn’t tell. Besides, it was the perfect location. With the other tourists ahead of him, he could spy and maybe catch some bits of useful information along the way.

  As each person piled on board, he noticed their sweaty backs and dripping foreheads, wishing that the bus would get going already. But as hot as it was and as strange as it seemed, it was a sweet odor to him—the smell of freedom and adventure just waiting to be had. That was until a huge Chinese family occupied the surrounding seats and put a damper on his plans. There were so many different dialects being spoken that he wouldn’t even be able to read lips.

  “Guess the road will be my teacher,” he mumbled, climbing upon the seat to hang his head out of the window. Then as the bus began to move, more than just the warm air hit him.

  It felt great breaking away from Preston and Viola for a while. He presumed that if his uncle was anything like his parents he would be late getting to the airport, especially if something more important came up. And for the moment, it was instant gratification for making him leave home against his will.

  “Independence..,” he smiled. “It’s Independence Day,” as he ingested a fly in the process.

  A deep voice sounded beside him, “Independence Day isn’t till tomorrow.”Donovan pulled his head in, as he pulled out a remaining wing and lurked around to see who was talking to him, and instantly wished he hadn’t.

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked the man sitting next to him, whose face was pitted with scars and deep lines of aging, and his nose and lips were blistered from the sun. He was wearing a worn brown hat with corks and lures hanging from it, and upturned from the seat was the butt end of a knife, secured to his belt by a leather pouch.

  It was a far cry from anything he would have seen in the Cotswolds, and despite his urge to pretend that he hadn’t heard the man correctly, his interest was stirred.

  “Out of place, aren’t ya kid?” the voice was clearly American with a hint of Australian mixed
in. And when he glanced down at Donovan, his gaze was a little darker than his complexion.

  “That’s funny,” Donovan smiled nervously, “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

  The man sneered, nothing about his demeanor was pleasant, “Oh, a pomme?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean?” Donovan was hesitant and somewhat confused.

  “Just another name for the English, that’s all. You can sit pretty. You pommes are good at that..,” pausing for a grin that revealed some half rotten teeth and sulfuric breath. “Aren’t ya?”

  Donovan slid closer to the metal wall. “I can hold my own,” he said adamantly.

  “I bet you can,” the man’s expression grew sinister.

  Even though Donovan must have teased his sister with a similar expression hundreds of times, he knew it was a peculiar thing to say. So rather than responding, he went with his gut feeling and turned back to face the window, pretending the swagman wasn’t there.