Riggs Crossing

by Michelle Heeter

  When the road forks we turn to the right, drive for ten minutes, and stop at the third shack. It’s the kind of place Daddy hates, the kind of place I’m not allowed to go if there’s a sleepover. They’re tree-worshippers and haven’t cleared the land around the house, which makes it dangerous if there’s a bushfire. They’ve also left sacks of fertiliser lying around, which means they’re too stupid to hide the fact that they’re growing dope. And a bag of garbage torn open by a dog or possum hasn’t been cleaned up, showing that they don’t have any house pride.

  We park and a girl opens the front door. She smiles, hugs Avril, and yells over the music for us to come in. ‘My mum came off her horse,’ the girl shouts. ‘She’ll be in hospital two nights, how cool is that?’

  The girl starts introducing us around, but it’s hard to hear and I get confused and start forgetting names after the fifth person I’ve met. The girl and Avril push ahead into the kitchen, but Kevvie steers me onto a couch.

  ‘You like the music?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I do. I’ve never heard the song that’s playing before.

  The CD case is on the side table. Kevvie shows it to me.

  ‘That song,’ I say. ‘It sounds like “Spirit in the Sky”.’

  Kevvie laughs. ‘Your dad’s still into hippie music. Just like mine.’

  The girl comes back. ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘Um . . .’

  ‘A couple of Breezers would be good,’ Kevvie tells her. ‘So, what’s been happening at your place?’

  I tell him about the goat. A mate of Daddy’s had some business down in Sydney, so he left his pet goat and her kid with us. He chained them to stakes in the yard, but their chains kept getting twisted together. So Daddy built a little A-frame shelter for each of them, just far enough away from each other so the kid, at the end of his chain, could nurse from his mother at the end of her chain.

  But Reggie got it into his head that the kid belonged under his shelter. Every time the kid went to nurse, Reggie would drag the kid back under the shelter. Daddy didn’t figure out what was going on until he found pink dog teeth marks in the kid’s neck. The skin wasn’t broken, Reggie was being very careful with the kid. Daddy stood on the verandah very quietly and waited. Reggie was hiding under the house. He came shooting out like a rocket every time the kid poked his face out from underneath his little shelter and bleated.

  Not a smack on the nose or a boot in the ribs would stop Reggie from keeping the kid safe where he belonged in his little shelter. Daddy gave up and chained Reggie up out the back, grumbling that he’d paid for a staffie, not a goddam border collie.

  ‘Pretty funny,’ Kevvie says.

  The girl brings us two Breezers.

  I can’t think of anything to say and neither can Kevvie. So we drink.

  ‘Hey!’Megan’s shaking me. ‘We have to get back.’

  I sit up but I feel ratshit. My mouth tastes awful and every heartbeat sends a flash of pain through my head.

  Megan’s across the room trying to wake up Avril, but she’s in even worse shape than I am. I reach for my necklace to make a wish on my unicorn but he’s not there. My necklace is gone.

  ‘Megs, owww,’ Avril groans, turning over on the couch. She looks even worse than I feel.

  Megan’s mouth is trembling as she looks around the room. The party has got larger all of a sudden. It’s full of people we don’t know, older kids dressed like they’re from Sydney. I feel young and stupid as I stumble across the room, bumping into people.

  ‘Are you all right?’ one girl asks.

  ‘Fresh off the farm,’ another girl laughs.

  ‘Megan, my necklace is gone.’

  ‘Look, we’ve gotta find someone to drive us back, now.’

  ‘But my necklace . . .’

  ‘Forget your necklace, my dad’s gonna kill me.’ Megan pushes through the crowd and I follow her, trying not to cry and looking at every girl’s neck. I know it didn’t just fall off. Someone took it, and that makes it worse.

  We pass the bathroom and I duck in, grab some toothpaste and run it around my mouth with my index finger, then rinse my mouth out. Someone giggles – there’s a couple in the bathtub behind the shower curtain. Screw you, I think angrily, open the medicine cabinet and find the Panadeine Fortes. I take two for my head, wipe my mouth on my T-shirt and go to find Megan. She’s standing in the front room next to Kevvie.

  ‘Come on!’ she hisses at me, and we head out the door.

  Kevvie drives us back in someone else’s car, even though he won’t have his L plates for another two years. It’s late, we haven’t got Buckley’s of Mr Wilson still being at the pub. Megan’s in the back seat, trying frantically to text on her mobile. Of course all her messages fail – there are only three or four places on the mountain where you get reception. She was so proud of that phone when she got it for her birthday, even though there’s practically no place in Riggs Crossing where she can use it.

  The lights are on in the lounge room and Mr Wilson’s squinting out the front window into the darkness. And Daddy’s truck is there.

  Megan gets out of the car first. She slams the rear door and walks quickly toward the house, her hands balled up into fists.

  ‘Thanks for getting us back,’ I say to Kevvie. I move to get out of the car, but my seatbelt holds me in. I didn’t even know I had it fastened. It’s totally uncool to wear a seatbelt. Nobody in Riggs Crossing bothers with seat belts, except little kids whose parents make them. My face burns as I fumble with the belt. The strap is twisted around.

  ‘Here.’ Kevvie leans forward, then pulls me to him and presses his mouth on mine, pushes his tongue into my mouth. Then he releases the seatbelt. I can’t look back as I stumble out of the car and run toward the house.

  Kevvie drives away and Mr Wilson opens the door. ‘Go to your room,’ he says to Megan. Megan runs up the stairs, her head down. Mr Wilson turns to me. ‘Your father’s in the lounge room.’

  Kevvie’s kiss is still burning on my mouth. Daddy’s sitting in a chair, leaning forward with his hands clasped and his elbows resting on his knees. He gives me a long, steady look and slowly rises to his feet. He and Mr Wilson shake hands, then we go out to the truck.

  I don’t know what’s going to happen next.

  Daddy starts the truck and stares at the steering wheel while the engine idles. ‘I can’t keep moving farther up the mountain to keep you safe.’

  ‘Someone stole Aleta’s necklace.’ My eyes start to burn. ‘The one with my lucky unicorn.’

  ‘It won’t be lucky for whoever stole it,’ Daddy says, and throws the truck into gear.

  I reach to my neck, feel my collarbone. I haven’t worn a necklace since Aleta’s was stolen from me. That’s what my world feels like, with Cinnamon gone. Like I’m missing a necklace.

  Kevvie. Megan. Ernie. Daddy. Was I stolen from them, or were they stolen from me? I stare at the carpet, my chest tightening.

  I hear the van pull up, then the sound of Lyyssa’s key in the lock. I turn on the TV and pretend I’m watching.

  Chapter 42

  The past couple of weeks have been pretty depressing here at the Inner West Youth Refuge. It seems like the whole world is getting ready to celebrate Christmas and New Year, except us. Lyyssa will probably engineer some sort of carefully non-religious celebration, which will just end up making us feel even worse about not having families, or having families that can’t or won’t take care of us.

  Fortunately, Lyyssa hasn’t been paying too much attention to me lately. She’s had to deal with four new kids in the past month, none of whom lasted more than a week. Either they acted up and got sent to kiddie gaol, or whatever was going on with their families resolved or they went home.

  Lyyssa and Major Heath did ask me what I wanted for Christmas, and I told them I wanted to paint the ceiling in my room gold. They both looked surprised and said they weren’t sure I could do that, and asked me to think about other things I might like instead. But a
few days later, a professional painter came and painted the ceiling for me. He showed me some pieces of cardboard on them with different shades of gold, and let me pick the one I liked. I think he belongs to the Salvation Army church and did the work for free. Probably someone gave him the money for the paint.

  Aside from looking at my new gold ceiling, about the only thing I have to look forward to in the holidays is the season finale of Clarissa Hobbs, Attorney at Law.

  Tonight is the Christmas episode, even though we have a few more days left before Christmas. A few minutes before nine, I go to the kitchen to make some popcorn.

  Down the hall, I can hear Lyyssa in her office, working on her computer. I can hear the sound of the keys clicking on the keyboard. That’s the way I like Lyyssa the best – out of sight, out of my face, but there if I need her.

  We have an oil popper, but I always use the air popper. At the community centre, I picked up some leaflets about nutrition. Fats and oils should be used sparingly. As the popcorn is popping, I melt one teaspoon of butter and get the salt shaker out. Then I carefully drizzle the melted butter over the popped corn.

  ‘That looks good.’ I look up, annoyed. It’s Karen. The noise of the popcorn popper masked the sound of her clomping down the hall, so I didn’t hear her coming.

  I don’t bother to reply. I put just three shakes of salt onto the popcorn and put the salt away. Salt makes you retain water.

  Karen stands there watching, like the sight of me making popcorn is the most interesting thing she’s ever seen. ‘My mum makes popcorn in a pot. With oil and lots of butter. Sometimes she puts cheese on top.’

  No wonder you’re so fat, I think. ‘Air popping is low-fat,’ I say pointedly.

  Karen inches closer. ‘Can I have some?’ Then, without waiting for me to answer, she reaches her chubby, grubby, pee-smelling hand toward the popcorn bowl.

  I grab her hand, twist it behind her back, and push her out into the hall.

  ‘You know what this is, you stinky fatso?’ I press my thumb into the place on Karen’s forearm where Bindi hurt me. ‘This is a pressure point,’ I hiss into Karen’s ear. Karen whimpers. ‘My dad taught me how to kill people. I can kill you if I want.’ I let Karen go and she goes wailing down the hall, crashing across the floorboards on her size eleven feet, then locks herself in her room. I can’t make myself feel sorry for her. I’ve tried to let her know often enough that I want her to leave me alone, but she never takes the hint.

  I listen for the sound of Lyyssa coming down the hall to see what the fuss is about, but there isn’t a break in her typing. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap . . . tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. I feel a little put out that Lyyssa hasn’t come to check on us, but at least I’m spared the trouble of making up a story.

  Thanks to Karen interrupting, I miss the first five minutes of the show. When I finally make it to the lounge room, turn on the TV, and settle into Clementine with my bowl of popcorn, Clarissa is driving to her daughter Jenny’s house for Christmas dinner.

  Jenny lives in a nice suburb, but it’s nothing like the posh neighbourhood that Clarissa lives in. You can tell by the way Clarissa is looking out the window that she’s not impressed, and not looking forward to Christmas with her daughter. Clarissa parks in front of the house, takes a bagful of packages from the boot of the car and carries them to the front door, then pastes a smile on her face and rings the doorbell.

  Then the action jumps forward an hour or so. Clarissa is angrily striding out the front door of Jenny’s house. Jenny, who’s fat and wearing an apron with reindeers on it, is screeching after her that Clarissa is the worst mother in the world. ‘Nothing I did was ever, ever good enough for you!’ Jenny shrieks from the doorway, tears running down her red, puffy face.

  Clarissa turns, stares at her daughter coldly for a moment, then gets into her Mercedes and locks the door. She drives off, stopping at a liquor store and getting a bottle of their best champagne. The clerk is wearing a Santa Claus hat. ‘On your way to Christmas dinner with the family?’ he asks her, smiling.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Clarissa says, blinking back tears. She drives to the ocean and parks her car. Then she opens the boot, removes one wine glass from a wicker hamper, and walks down to the water. She drinks champagne and stares at the ocean for a while, then lies on her back and gazes at the night sky. ‘Momma and Daddy,’ she says, ‘I know you’re out there somewhere. I’ve done my best. I hope you’re proud of me. Merry Christmas.’ Then the credits start to roll.

  So rich, beautiful Clarissa Hobbs is having a crap Christmas, too. That wasn’t the sort of Christmas episode I was expecting. I switch off the TV, take the popcorn bowl back to the kitchen, wash it and put it back where it belongs, then climb the stairs. No noise coming from any of the junior dickheads’ rooms. I don’t even want to think about what Christmas was like with any of their families.

  I lie on my bed and look at my gold ceiling. I’m not tired of it yet.

  There’s a box on the floor wrapped in red and green paper. Something’s inside it, scratching and whimpering.

  ‘Open the box, Poss,’Daddy says.

  I lift the top off the box and a puppy jumps out, wagging his tail and licking my face like he loves me more than anybody in the world. He has a red bow tied around his neck. Daddy lifts me and the puppy onto the couch. The puppy squirms all over the place, pawing the front of my T-shirt because he’s so excited.

  Daddy kisses me on top of my head. ‘Merry Christmas, Poss. His name’s Reggie.’

  I turn onto my side and stare at my schoolbooks lined up on my desk. Christmas.

  I wish it would just be over.

  Chapter 43

  I get a break from my lessons the same time as school holidays.

  Miss Dunn went to Melbourne to visit her family. She sent me a postcard with a picture of a tram on it.

  I’m lying in bed trying to figure out what to do with myself. I look at the clock radio. Nine-thirty and I can already tell it’s going to be a stinking hot day. I can hear the cleaners downstairs; I’d better take a shower before they want to start on the bathroom. I grab my robe and bag with all my toiletries and head down the hall.

  Once I get back to my room, I throw some clothes on and pack an extra T-shirt in my backpack, because I know I’ll sweat through the first one. I don’t like walking around feeling sweaty and stinky. Before I learned to keep my mouth shut, I mentioned this to Lyyssa in a counselling session. She got all excited and started talking about obsessive-compulsive disorder. What’s obsessive or compulsive about not wanting to smell bad?

  I decide to go up to University Road and have a look through that huge bookstore, then maybe catch a bus into the city and see the Opera House, or even go over the Harbour Bridge. I know there are posh neighbourhoods on the north side of the bridge, but aside from that, I don’t really know much about what’s on the other side of the harbour, except for the zoo.

  I stop into the kitchen for a quick glass of orange juice. Major Heath is in the lounge room, reading a story to Karen and Shane. Lyyssa is on the phone, so I write ‘going for a walk – back before dinner’ on the whiteboard and scoot out the door.

  Our street is shaded by trees, so the heat isn’t so bad until I come to Canterbury Road, where I have to walk with the sun burning a hole in the top of my head. I won’t wear a hat – not after that day at the zoo. I put on sunscreen before I left the Refuge. When I reach Enmore Road, it’s not so bad, because there are shops with awnings that block out the sun.

  Once again, I’ve managed to get myself onto University Road without a bottle of water. That means that I have to buy one, for sixty cents more than I normally pay, at the 7-Eleven.

  I’ve just about made it to the refrigerators at the back of the store when that shrill beep announces that someone has come through the door. ‘Packet’a Winnie Reds, thanks.’

  Small bottle of Johnny Walker Red, thanks.

  Daddy isn’t here to tell me to stay where I am and not move. I turn and walk back to
ward that voice that I remember.

  He’s still got a blond mullet, and still wears acid-wash jeans. It’s hot, so he’s wearing a singlet, not a flannelette shirt like he was the day Daddy gave him a hiding in the bottle shop. Terry.

  I feel kind of numb and sick, so I’m not really looking where I’m going. I bump against a rack stocked with potato chips, and one of the bags makes a crunching, crackly sound. Hey, mind the stock!

  Terry looks toward the noise and sees me. He’s reaching for his wallet, and stops, his hand frozen an inch away from his back pocket. His usual facial expression used to reflect a weird combination of slyness and stupidity. Not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but cunning as a rat, was how Daddy described him. Now, Terry’s face is leaner, harder, meaner.

  ‘Your pack-et of Win-fields, sir,’ the Indian clerk says, sounding slightly alarmed. God knows why. Terry’s just standing there, staring at me. Surely the Indian clerk sees far weirder behaviour like that, running a shop on University Road. Once, I saw a man shuffling down University Road with no pants on, not even any underpants.

  Terry stares at me for a fraction of a second more, then snaps out of it. ‘Yeah, thanks.’ He pushes a twenty across the counter, takes the smokes and his change, and walks out of the store too fast. He’s itching to look at me again, but doesn’t.

  I turn around and get my bottle of Mount Franklin, then take my time pretending to scan the covers of the magazines before going to pay. ‘And how are you to-day, miss?’ the Indian clerk beams. He obviously hasn’t made any connection between me and Terry. I tell him I’m fine, we talk a little about the weather, then I leave the store. I look up and down the street, but see no trace of Terry. Just to be on the safe side, I cross the street and hop on a bus bound for Leichhardt, to throw Terry off my trail just in case he’s watching me from someplace I can’t see.