Inbetween Days

by Vikki Wakefield

  ‘Ease up, J. That’s vandalism.’

  ‘It’s some kind of felony,’ I agreed.

  ‘It’s abandoned,’ Jeremiah said, panting. ‘It doesn’t count.’

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ I offered. ‘Between us we could probably lift the Barbie car over the gate.’

  ‘Or we could go cross-country,’ Roly said. ‘Ram a couple of fence posts.’

  It took three kicks for Jeremiah to loosen a rotting fence post and pluck it out of the damp soil. He coiled the fence wire around it and set the post aside in a tidy roll. And that’s how we ended up driving Meredith Jolley’s miniature car down an embankment and up the other side, Jeremiah shoving the rear bumper like a draught horse and Roly steering the car through the gap in the fence. Once we were through, Jeremiah hopped back in and followed the driveway, dodging potholes and fallen branches.

  ‘All we need is beer and popcorn,’ I said, as we caught the first glimpse of the screen. In daylight, it was wide and grey, taller than I’d thought. The asphalt was crumbly, broken into a thousand puzzle pieces. Automatically, I began counting the robot speakers, but I had to start over each time somebody spoke.

  ‘I don’t think this is a good idea,’ Jeremiah said, as the car rocked over the destroyed asphalt. ‘I mean, in theory it was, but this place is a wreck. We’re going to split a tyre.’ He parked next to the decrepit brick building in the middle of the drive-in. ‘One hundred and twelve.’

  Roly got out first. ‘Hey, look at this!’

  ‘One hundred and twelve what?’ I asked.

  ‘Speakers.’ Jeremiah yanked on the handbrake. ‘I can see your mouth moving. One hundred and twelve speakers, if that’s what you’re counting. You can double-check, but I already did, twice.’

  I blushed and bit back something nasty he didn’t deserve. It’s not like he hadn’t witnessed my craziness before, and been a part of it, but acknowledging it so…offhandedly…made me cringe.

  ‘Are you getting out?’

  I did, ungracefully, with my chin in the air.

  ‘Check it out. Hey, J, come here.’ Roly had swept an arc of dirt from a high window. ‘Boost me,’ he said, and bent his leg.

  Jeremiah lifted him, one-handed.

  ‘You’ve got to see this!’

  Roly had always been excitable. In junior primary it was endearing, in high school, not so much. He had no boundaries. In an area school that big—over twelve hundred students—it was dangerous. Nobody could stand his habit of butting into conversations or venturing into areas of the school grounds that had been appropriated by a particular group. Eventually, people turned on him. He started walking behind Jeremiah Jolley, which spared him the brunt since Jeremiah was a far bigger target. He took the seat behind the school bus driver, which amounted to voluntary exile, and Jeremiah went with him. They’d seemed okay to me. They were always together, so it wasn’t dire. When Jeremiah left, Roly was on his own. He became reserved, but in an odd way, as if somebody had screwed his lid on too tight.

  Jeremiah hoisted me up next.

  I peered through the grime. I could just make out a few tattered boxes on the floor and a cobwebby contraption with spools and reels and levers.

  ‘You’re stuck here for a few more weeks, J,’ Roly said from below, ‘until your mum gets her head right. I’ve got nothing better to do. Jack’s been sacked…’

  Jeremiah lowered me down.

  I dusted off my hands. ‘I was let go. That’s different.’

  ‘Whatever you want to call it, you’ve got some time on your hands. You might as well spend it up here with me and J, watching porn on the big screen.’

  I didn’t answer right away. I was thinking about that screen and how it might look if it was white again.

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ I said. ‘I’ve got other things I should be doing.’ I needed another job. I had to figure out a way to pay Trudy back.

  Roly squinted through the rectangle he’d shaped with his fingers. Suddenly he let go and slapped his thigh. ‘Sorry. I forgot. You’ve probably got better things to do with the rest of summer than hang out with the bottom feeders. But then again, maybe things have changed now you need a driving instructor and a car.’

  ‘Bottom feeders? What does that even mean?’ I turned to Jeremiah for support but he seemed familiar with the sentiment behind Roly’s attack. He looked uncomfortable, not confused. ‘Tell me. I don’t get it.’ But I did. Kind of. I was starting to. Small towns have long memories, narrow shoulders and big chips on them. ‘Oh, wait. What, are we still in high school?’

  Roly stood up and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. ‘What do you think, J? How’s the water flowing under your bridge? ’

  Jeremiah wasn’t listening. He stared up at the screen.

  Roly jabbed a thumb in Jeremiah’s direction. ‘He doesn’t want to ruin his chances of spending time with a real live girl, especially one with tight jeans and big… you know.’ He stalked off with his hands in his pockets.

  ‘You don’t know me by how tight my jeans are!’ I yelled. I stopped myself from picking up a clump of asphalt and firing it at him.

  It would have been easy enough to walk back home. I didn’t need the drama. Roly half-turned, his lip curled. Jeremiah was having a staring contest with the screen, and I was suddenly hyper-conscious of everything: the monotonous beat of a Mobius summer, a beat I used to know and move to without thinking about the steps, the loneliness, the money worry, the hate, the dragging ache of loving somebody who didn’t love me back. I couldn’t stop waiting for Luke, because waiting was all I knew. I’d let my world shrink down to that. It was an addiction, and everyone knew the only way to kick a habit was to replace it with something else.

  I clapped my hands twice. ‘So, whoever gets the door open can choose the premiere.’

  Roly whooped and took a ten-metre run-up to give the door a flying kick, only to land on his back. Jeremiah took two sideways steps and nudged the door with one enormous foot. It disintegrated.

  Roly and Jeremiah bumped fists.

  ‘What do you think?’ Roly asked.

  Jeremiah considered the equipment and shook his head. ‘I think this could take a while,’ he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I flipped end over on the couch to let blood flow into my left side, which had gone numb. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the sore spot on my hip was the start of a bedsore. Christmas was in two weeks. I couldn’t have afforded a tree even if I’d wanted one. Astrid had set up a row of raggedy potted pines along the front of Bent Bowl Spoon. By the next morning they were all gone. Stolen. I could have told her it would happen and saved her the trouble, but it wasn’t my problem anymore. I was resigned to letting this Christmas slip away; it was just another day with too many rules and traditions.

  We’d spent last Christmas around Ma’s table. Trudy’s first Christmas home in years and we marked it as a family—not talking, barely eating, making volcanoes out of lumpy mashed potato and picking strings of pork from our teeth. I remembered Dad reaching for a newspaper and snapping it open. The crack sounded like a starter’s gun, except this was a challenge to see how long we could all keep the hair-trigger balance between rudeness and civility.

  After the table had been cleared I helped Ma with the dishes. Trudy was asleep, her feet up on the good couch. Ma slammed plates. She muttered to herself. She beseeched the ceiling and asked God what she had done to deserve such slovenly children, which, unfairly, included me. Ma was absurdly pleased that every complaint she’d ever made about Trudy was justified. Her fury built. The day ended with Trudy throwing the few things she’d unpacked back into her suitcase. This time she only made it down the road, and now here we were, supposedly living the dream.

  ‘Roll me ooo-ver in the clooo-ver, roll me over, lay me down and do it again,’ Trudy sang, as she wiped dust from the bookshelf.

  ‘Shut. Up,’ I called from the couch. There was a documentary on the TV about the migration of the Christmas Island crabs.
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  ‘Nobody’s gonna rain on my pa-raaade.’

  ‘I liked you more when you were mean,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Have you done anything about getting a job?’ she asked, leaning against the door frame. ‘Because I’m getting jack of paying your rent.’ She smirked. ‘Get it? But seriously, you might have to move back with Ma.’

  My heart bottomed out. ‘Serious?’

  ‘I’m just messing with you. As if I would send you back.’

  I laughed, but not too hard.

  ‘Max has given me a pay rise. He says I pull more on the TAB than the others combined. I’m a lucky charm. I read the horses’ names when they’re placing bets and tell them which ones I like. By the way, we got the gas bill. It’s on the fridge.’ She flicked a casual wave behind her. Her hair had fresh blonde streaks. ‘Thom’s taking me for Indian tonight. Hey, we should get a tree.’

  Trudy had started bookending unpleasant news with chitchat. I knew to look for the sly pinch in the middle, but it was her comment about a tree that stung more than the gas bill. Trees were cheerful. Trees were meant to have gifts put under them. Gifts were meant to be returned. To return a gift I needed money, and to receive one I needed friends. Or family. This was going to be the worst Christmas ever.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind Thom staying over so much. It’s too hard to spend time together when he has to drive all the way home to Burt. My hours are crazier than usual.’

  Lucky her, to have and to hold whenever she felt like it. I linked my fingers and twisted them until they hurt. We’d traded places, couldn’t she see?

  Ranger Thom had stayed over six nights in a row, ever since my forced entry into Trudy’s bedroom. He was tall and thin with legs so bandy you could see acres of daylight between them. His fair hair was close-shaved and he touched his forehead whenever he answered Trudy, as if he was tipping an invisible hat. He reminded me of Goose, from Top Gun, minus the shades. I was too embarrassed to get to know him better, though I was well acquainted with his arse.

  ‘You should put some clothes on. It’s after four. Thom will be here soon.’

  I gestured at my drawstring pyjama pants and tank top. ‘I’ve got clothes on.’ I tried to run my fingers through my snarly hair and they got stuck. ‘The female crabs release their eggs at the turn of high tide during the last quarter of the moon,’ I pronounced. ‘They all wait on the beach for just the right conditions.’

  ‘Fascinating. Clever crabs.’

  ‘The males cut and run after mating.’

  Trudy gave me a tender look. ‘I’m going to vacuum. Do you want me to do your room?’

  Don’t be nice, I thought. ‘I’ll do it later. Stay out of my room.’ I fixed my stare on the screen. As the crabs crossed a road, a truck was running over them. The documentary makers had set up a camera at ground level to film the carnage; I wondered whether they’d got the footage in one take or asked the driver to back up for a better angle. I tried to calculate how many crabs would be killed in four takes. Four seemed like a reasonable average. Four times several thousand crabs for seven seconds of footage illustrating real-time roadkill. Bastards.

  ‘They close the roads. You know, to protect the crabs during migration,’ Trudy said. ‘Oh, Ma wants us around there for Christmas dinner. We have to bring a dessert. So, anyway, they shut down the roads and the locals have to get around on foot. The crabs get right of way. I don’t know why they keep showing this bit,’ she finished, wrinkling her nose.

  I turned away from the screen and buried my face in a pillow. I moaned, ‘Tell me when it stops,’ and I didn’t mean the crabs.

  ‘Surely you have better things to do than traipse up and down this mountain every day,’ Pope said. He’d rolled his pants above the knee and torn the sleeves from his shirt. He was starting to bleed into the colours of the forest, or maybe he was disappearing. ‘You’ve got so much to look forward to. You’re young. And you’re pretty when you’re not scowling and kicking things.’

  ‘I am not. And I don’t.’ I kicked the base of a tree with my toe. ‘Surely you have better things to do?’ I countered. ‘You’ve been up here for weeks now. Don’t you have a real life somewhere?’ I dropped a brown paper bag just outside his tent flap. ‘Tofu salad,’ I said. ‘What are you hiding in here, anyway?’

  ‘Salad?’ He smiled and grabbed the bag. ‘You might have saved me from scurvy.’

  ‘You look happier,’ I said, backing away, watching him eat. ‘That’s good.’ I scowled.

  Pope stopped chewing and said, ‘I’m not gunning for happy. I’ll settle for peace.’

  ‘Yeah. Me, too.’ I sat on the ground, mindless of the dampness seeping through my shorts. ‘Pope?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What if there’s only a certain amount of everything—you know, like money, how it changes hands, or like water. There’s only so much of it and if you gain something it must be taken from someone else, and when you lose something, it means somebody else has gained.’

  ‘Forest philosophy,’ he groaned. ‘Lord help me.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘What are we talking about?’

  ‘I don’t know…love? Happiness? Good and evil?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, water and money are tangible. I don’t believe we can measure those other things.’

  ‘It just feels like we can’t all be winning at the same time. My sister is happy—and I hate it.’

  ‘If your theory is true—and I’m sceptical—it’s probably not a proximity thing. She’s not taking from your bucket just because she’s family.’

  ‘It feels like it.’

  ‘Maybe that just makes you a shitty person with a hole in your bucket,’ he said. ‘You should try being a decent human being sometime.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘That’s harsh.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m not even talking about you, really. Forget it.’ He stood. ‘Walk?’

  ‘I just walked two kays to get here.’

  ‘Come on. Clear your head.’ He set off without me.

  I watched him haul his body up the track, towards the ridge, as if his shoes were full of mud.

  ‘Do you like it up here?’ I asked, catching up.

  ‘God, no.’

  ‘Then why? Why do you stay?’

  ‘It’s something I have to do. Haven’t you ever done something because there’s no way around, so you have to go through?’ He looked back at me. ‘It’s awful up here at night. You have no idea—there are so many noises, and bugs, bugs everywhere. It’s…very unpleasant.’

  Only Pope would describe fear as ‘unpleasant’.

  I wondered where he came from. I imagined he had the kind of parents who lived in a house with hundred-year-old ivy growing on the outside walls and who slurped tea from fourth-generation heirloom teacups. But Pope wouldn’t care about those things. He was the rebel of the family—he would have dropped out of uni to teach English to refugees or save endangered marsupials, or campaign for human rights. His hoity-toity parents were disappointed in him but they loved him anyway; they funded his travels on the understanding that he come home for weddings and funerals. He’d loved a girl once, but she’d broken his heart. His beaten-up car had once belonged to a dear friend who’d left it to him in his will and he was sentimental about things like that. That was as far as I’d got with my theories, and none of them explained why he was in the forest, putting up with bugs in his sleeping bag and listening to the wind play through that solitary bottle.

  ‘Of course I have an idea. I live here,’ I said. ‘I know why I’m here. But what about you?’

  ‘Why are you still here, then?’ he asked, turning it back on me. ‘I grew up in a small town like this. I couldn’t wait to get out.’

  The edges of the life I’d dreamed up for him blurred and shifted. Scrap the ivy—the teacups could stay.

  ‘I guess I don’t know any different.’

  ‘Ignorance is bliss.’

  ‘Ignorance is boring,’ I said
. ‘But I’ll find out one day. I have plenty of time.’ I smiled but he only turned and started back down the hill.

  ‘I washed my clothes,’ he called. ‘You were right about that middle machine. It shredded my jacket.’

  ‘I warned you.’

  ‘I know. I was in a hurry so I loaded all three at once.’ He reached into his pocket. ‘I found this.’ He handed me a single pearl earring.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, recognising it. ‘I know where the other one is.’

  He seemed unsurprised. ‘Well. You’d better be off, then.’ He surveyed the patch of open sky above us. ‘It’ll be getting dark soon. Gosh, the nights are long here.’

  I nodded. I’d stopped being offended by him. ‘It’s the ridge. It blocks out the sun. You’re camped right in the armpit of hell. My dad says there’s nothing else to do but sleep in Mobius, which is why it suits drunks and narcoleptics.’

  ‘I think I’d like your dad,’ he said, chuckling. Then he seemed to remember he wasn’t supposed to laugh and asked, ‘You haven’t told anybody about me being up here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I appreciate it, and the visits. Like I said, you must have better things to do.’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s no big deal—I come up here all the time anyway. If someone asks I’ll tell them you’re communing with the ghosts.’ His expression changed again and I was worried I’d upset him. ‘I don’t sleep much these days,’ I added in a hurry. ‘And you’re my friend.’

  ‘I suppose I am,’ he said.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The next time, we took Roly’s ute. In the back we’d stashed some borrowed tools, a couple of paint-rollers and some cleaning supplies, plus a carton of beer. We were only missing white paint from our supply list. Since we couldn’t pool enough money or fuel to drive to the paint store, I volunteered to break into my dad’s shed.

  ‘Couldn’t she just ask?’ Roly said.

  ‘She doesn’t go in the house,’ Jeremiah said.