Riggs Crossing

by Michelle Heeter

  I get off at Norton Street. I’m confident that no one’s following me, so I start to relax. Across the street, there’s a place selling gelato, so I go over and get a double scoop of Vanilla Bean. Walking while you’re eating is kind of tacky, but you see people doing it all the time, so it mustn’t really matter. I walk down Norton Street, eating my gelato and looking at the restaurants and bookstores and coffee shops.

  There’s a cinema where they’re having an Italian movie festival. Two very pretty dark-haired girls are talking to the ticket seller. ‘But we’re with our aunt!’ one of them says, protesting. A middle-aged woman in an expensive-looking dress and high-heeled shoes is standing behind them. She’s wearing sunglasses with heavy gold trim and carrying a Louis Vuitton handbag. Her hair doesn’t move – it’s been teased and sprayed.

  ‘All the films have R-ratings,’ a voice says from behind the Plexiglas.

  The girls turn back to their aunt in disappointment. ‘They won’t let us in ’cause we’re only sixteen.’ Their aunt murmurs something and the three of them walk off.

  I cross the street and look into the window of a shop that sells shoes imported from Spain. There are three pairs of black riding boots in the window.

  I’m walking away from the shop imagining myself in black tall boots, teamed with tan jodhpurs and a black velvet riding coat, when I see something wrong, someone out of place, someone who drags me back into my dreary everyday life. It’s Lyyssa, sitting at one of the outside tables at a café.

  Lyyssa has on a lightweight purple blazer with shoulder pads over a scoop-neck T-shirt. She’s pulled back her hair into an unsuccessful chignon that looks as if it might come loose at any moment. She’s sipping a cappuccino or something, darting her eyes from side to side, self-conscious at being alone in the midst of chic-looking couples. Then she very discreetly checks her watch. Looks like Lyyssa has been stood up by Dickhead Daniel.

  Fortunately, a waiter comes to Lyyssa’s table, blocking her view of the footpath. I pick up the pace and walk as fast as I can to Parramatta Road, and hop on the first bus that comes without looking to see where it’s bound.

  Parramatta Road is kind of weird. On the bus, an illogical stream of businesses flashes past. Bridal couture, kitchen supplies, pine furniture, fireplace grates, pole-dancing lessons, outdoor equipment, McDonald’s, car radios, more pine furniture. If you go far enough, you go past the morgue. I ride the bus for a few minutes, then get off at a servo near the Irregular Jeans Warehouse, one of the places Lyyssa or Major Heath takes us when we need new clothes.

  I cross the road to Australia Street. There’s a car lot on the corner with huge banners announcing the prices of cars: $39,990. Some people wouldn’t make that much in a year.

  It’s a long walk up Australia Street. Most of the houses are nice terraces that have been renovated, although a few have peeling paint or a front garden choked with weeds. About halfway to University Road, I see a little white car come to a stop and a very large redheaded lady struggle out. Her face is flushed and her mouth is tight with anger. ‘Ruby, get out of the car!’ she shouts.

  The door on the passenger side opens and a fat redheaded girl gets out. Her red hair is long, carrot-coloured and curly, not short and auburn like her mother’s. She looks a couple of years younger than me, but she’s crying like a baby, tears rolling down her chubby cheeks. ‘Muuummeee!’ Ruby wails. ‘You PROMISED to buy me tap shoes today! I’ll NEVER grow up to be a dancer if you won’t buy me tap shoes! Annhhh-hanh-hanh-hanh!’ she sobs.

  Tap shoes? Did I hear that right? How could that blimp of a kid tap dance? She’d look like a dancing hippo.

  A rush of angry embarrassment comes over me as I remember that a fortnight ago at Llewellyn’s, I was fantasising about being a ballet dancer in a Colette Dinnigan tutu. And that an hour ago I was fantasising about being a tall, elegant dressage competitor in jodhpurs and expensive boots. It isn’t fair that Fat Ruby has a better chance of getting the tap shoes she wants than I have of getting those riding boots. Or a Colette Dinnigan tutu.

  ‘We’re not buying anything today!’ her mother barks. She’s having trouble breathing. ‘Now come help me with these groceries!’

  ‘I’m not helping you do anything today!’ Ruby shrieks, loud enough for the whole street to hear her. She runs across the street and waits by the front door, blubbering angrily. It’s one of the houses on the street that hasn’t been renovated. They’ve got two garbage bins in their front garden, a letterbox painted a faded red, and a mountain of junk hiding the two front windows. There’s a broken pram, a broken desk, a broken chair, two broken lamps, a rusty child’s bicycle with flat tyres and a deflated basketball. There’s also some trash that passersby have thrown there – styrofoam coffee cups, Macca’s wrappers, junk mail – that they haven’t bothered to pick up.

  ‘Ruby!’ the woman yells, puffing for breath. ‘Come help me!’

  Ruby slides down the door and collapses onto the front step, her mouth open in a grotesque scream. ‘NOOO!’ she bawls.

  That kid needs a boot up the arse so hard, she doesn’t hit the ground till Armidale, I can hear Daddy say.

  Ruby’s mother mutters something under her breath, opens the little car’s back hatch, and lifts the plastic bags out. She waddles across the street, gasping for breath. ‘Ruby, at least use your key and open the door for me!’

  ‘I’m not doing anything for you because you’re so MEEEAN!’ Ruby screeches.

  I can’t watch any more of this real-life icky TV show without stopping and staring, so I keep walking. Is this the way ‘normal’ people live? Awful Ruby and her mother living in a house where the garden is filled with junk. Is there a Mr FatGuts? Does he have red hair, too?

  Ruby is still wailing and her mother is still yelling at her when I reach the corner, where three council workers have set up some orange witch’s hats around a big hole they’ve broken through the concrete. Two of the council workers are looking at Ruby’s mother.

  ‘Jeezuuus,’ one of them says. ‘How’d you like to have to climb aboard that?’

  Climb aboard. It takes me a minute to work out what he means. Going down the street, I start to notice the bright pink fliers stuffed into all the mailboxes. I know it’s illegal to look in someone else’s mailbox, but fortunately one of those pink flyers has been dropped on the footpath. I pick it up.

  LOSE TWENTY KILOS A MONTH!

  Tried fad diets?

  Tried exercise?

  Tried every weight loss pill on the market?

  Stop suffering and start living!

  Marcia Moore’s patented program combines

  sensible eating with light exercise and one delicious

  lo-cal shake per day.

  Results guaranteed! First week free!

  There’s a mobile and a landline phone number given.

  I look up and down the street. There are no bright pink flyers in the mailboxes on the opposite side of the street. It looks like whoever was stuffing these flyers into the mailboxes ran out or just got lazy. That means Ruby and her mother didn’t get one, which is really unfair. They probably need it more than anybody else on this street.

  I turn around and go back toward Ruby’s house. The construction workers have gone. If Ruby’s mother signs up for this diet program and it works, people will stop making nasty jokes about ‘climbing aboard’. And if it works for Ruby, nobody at school will rag on her for being a fat chick.

  I don’t think I’ll try it, though. It would cost too much money. Also, I’m not really fat, I’m a mesomorph. The physiotherapist said so.

  I cross the street to Ruby and her mother’s house, carefully fold the flyer in half, and slip it into the red mailbox. Feeling pleased with myself, I head back up the street. I don’t get as far as the corner before a shout stops me dead in my tracks.

  ‘HEY!’

  I slowly turn around. It’s Ruby’s mother, clutching the pink weight-loss flyer. Her face has turned the same shade of bright pink as th
e flyer.

  ‘YOU COME BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!’

  I can’t move.

  Ruby’s mother takes a deep breath and lowers her voice. ‘Would you please come here. I’d like to have a word with you.’ A tear rolls down the side of her face.

  I slowly walk toward her.

  Ruby’s mother and I stand looking at each other and now she’s really crying. ‘I won’t ask you inside,’ she says hoarsely. ‘A girl your age shouldn’t go into a stranger’s house. I’ve warned my daughter never to go off with someone she doesn’t know.’

  She motions me toward one of the two camp chairs that are sitting to one side of the pile of broken-down junk. We sit down. I have no idea what’s coming next.

  ‘I saw you watching us when Ruby and I came home,’ she says, a little calmer.

  I am so busted.

  ‘I suppose you’re the perfect daughter? You’ve never misbehaved, never given your parents any trouble?’

  Daddy would have booted me up the backside if I had. I shrug and look down.

  ‘Never been rude?’

  Rude. I don’t have an answer for that one.

  Ruby’s mother looks at the weight-loss flyer. ‘Putting this . . . thing in my mailbox was really rude. Why did you do it?’

  I mumble something about how her side of the street didn’t get any.

  Ruby’s mother crumples the flyer, throws it into the rubbish heap. It lands on the seat of the broken pram. Ruby’s mother sighs. ‘I’ve tried every weight-loss programme there is. The fact is, some people are born fat and there’s nothing they can do about it. My parents were both overweight. So were three of my grandparents. There wasn’t much chance of me or my daughter turning out like Kate Moss. And in any case, it’s none of your business. How would you like it if a girl at school was mean to you because she’s skinny and you’re not?’

  Mesomorph!

  My head has dropped so that I’m staring at my thunder thighs. ‘Two girls called me fat.’ It comes out almost as a whisper. ‘But I’m not fat. I’m a mesomorph.’

  Ruby’s mother gives a sad chuckle. ‘Pleased to meet you, mesomorph. I’d introduce myself according to my body type, but I think I’ve morphed right off the scale. I believe the clinical term is obese.’ Ruby’s mother is quiet for a few seconds. ‘But that really isn’t the point, is it?’

  ‘I guess not.’ My head has dropped a bit lower.

  Ruby’s mother clears her throat. ‘The point is that it is wrong to judge people on their appearance. It is also rude to tell someone that they ought to lose weight, and that’s what you did when you put that flyer in my letterbox.’

  ‘Mummy!’ a voice wails from upstairs. ‘Can I watch TV now?’

  Ruby’s mother looks up. ‘I sent Ruby to her room because she threw a tantrum.’ She struggles to her feet. ‘I don’t know what your parents are like, but I should think they’d be a bit worried about you. It will be getting dark soon.’ Ruby’s mother lumbers to the front door and goes inside.

  I sit there for a while, listening. Ruby says she’s sorry, then runs down the stairs. Someone turns the TV on. Pots and pans are clattering – probably Ruby’s mother is making dinner. Then the phone rings and Ruby’s mother calls out, ‘Ruby, it’s Vanessa!’ Then Ruby is chattering away on the phone. I get up and walk slowly down the street.

  It’s another ten minutes before I reach University Road, and another twenty before I get back to the Refuge. There was probably a quicker way to get home if I took some shortcuts, but I didn’t want to risk getting lost.

  I look up and down the street before going back into the Refuge. No sign of Terry, so I pull open the front door. A blast of warm air and the smell of roasting lamb washes over me.

  Lyyssa’s in the kitchen preparing dinner for us. ‘Hello Len,’ Lyyssa says. I’m surprised to see Lyyssa back at the Refuge so soon; then I remember that she has a car and the drive from Leichhardt wouldn’t have taken her ten minutes. She’s changed out of her purple blazer, released her hair from that silly chignon, and washed off her makeup. ‘What have you been up to?’

  Enough to fill up a month of therapy sessions, and nothing I can tell to Lyyssa. I push Terry’s mean face out of my thoughts, along with Ruby and her mother.

  ‘I went up to University Road and got an ice-cream,’ I reply, trying to sound casual. ‘What about you?’

  Lyyssa’s smile wobbles a fraction. ‘Oh, I had coffee in Leichhardt with a friend,’ she says brightly, and goes back to peeling the potatoes.

  Not exactly a lie. In fact, much less of a lie than what I said.

  Chapter 44

  It’s a week before I realise that ‘season finale’ means there aren’t going to be any more episodes of Clarissa Hobbs for three months. I watch the repeats, but watching repeats is sort of like drinking Diet Coke instead of regular Coke. It’s a diluted pleasure.

  January has blurred into February. Country New South Wales is having a drought. Sydney is hot and dry. The outer suburbs burn in bush fires, and the smoke turns the late afternoon sky a neon pink.

  The stables are full of bratty rich Pony Club bitches that don’t have anything else to do during school holidays. They hang around the club rooms at the different riding schools, bragging about the ski holidays they’re going to take in the winter and making nasty comments about other girls. One of them said ‘povvo’ in a loud voice when I walked past one day. I wanted to rub her face in a big pile of manure, but then I’d be banned from the stables and she’d have the last laugh.

  All the riding instructors are out of patience and short-tempered. I pity the horses, being worked in this heat. Ray looks tired all the time. He says even less than usual.

  I lie awake at night, afraid to go to sleep because I might have a dream about my father.

  Why should I be afraid of finding out what happened to Daddy? I might as well find out the truth and get it over with. But that’s not how I feel. At night, I feel my past catching up to me, spiralling out of control, mutating into something horrible. I want to escape it.

  That’s why I liked Clarissa Hobbs, Attorney at Law so much. There are problems in every episode, the show would be boring without problems, but Clarissa always manages to solve them, or at least deal with them.

  The thing that I’m trying not to fall asleep and dream about is the end of my past life’s episode. Something really bad happened to me, and to Daddy, and to my dog Reggie. There isn’t going to be any bright, upbeat ending to the story of my life before the Refuge. Whatever happened to us would make people want to turn off the TV and forget they ever saw the Len Russell show.

  I’m the sort of person that people want to forget about. They might feel sorry for me, but there’s nothing they can really to do help me, either. So they may as well just pretend I don’t exist. They’d rather watch a show about someone like Clarissa Hobbs, whose problems can all be solved.

  One afternoon, it’s so hot I can barely stay awake. I’m lying on my bed smelling bushfire smoke, listening to the sounds of traffic on Canterbury Road. Then I have an idea. I pull my notebook out from under the mattress, and start writing:

  Clarissa Hobbs: The Next Generation

  In the Next Generation episodes, I’m one of the junior lawyers working at Clarissa’s firm, helping her with the most important cases. In a later episode, it will be revealed that I’m really Clarissa’s long-lost daughter that she gave up for adoption.

  After a while, I look at what I’ve written. It’s not bad, but I can’t just write Clarissa Hobbs episodes all day during vacation. I look at the clock and realise that three hours have passed since I started writing that episode. I need some exercise.

  I go down the stairs intending to take a walk, then something occurs to me. Bindi didn’t take her skateboard with her, so Lyyssa put it in the storage closet with all her other things just in case she comes back. Yeah, right. Like Miss Junior High Class Hooker who’s probably making five hundred dollars an hour on her back would come back here just to
get a skateboard.

  The storage closet isn’t locked. I don’t have to look very hard before I find the skateboard, propped next to a cardboard box with ‘Bindi’s things’ written on it in black Texta. You touch my skateboard and I’ll kill you. Is that right, you stupid moll? This skateboard’s mine now.

  I close the front door behind me, set the skateboard on the footpath, and push off.

  I’ve never skateboarded before in my life, but it’s not that hard. You just have to watch out for uneven pavement. I’m whizzing along, feeling the wind in my hair and the sun on my face, just like I used to when Daddy would take me for a ride on his motorbike.

  ‘Hey! Watch –’

  Before I realise what’s happening, I crash into some guy and fall flat on my face. I’m so embarrassed I want to die. The guy helps me to my feet. ‘Are you all right?’

  I nod, and make myself look up. What I see makes me want to cry. Not only have I done something completely stupid in public, but I’ve done it in front of an utterly gorgeous guy. He’s about sixteen, with short blond hair, blue eyes and a deep tan. He’s wearing a Ripcurl T-shirt and board shorts, like a surfie. ‘You sure you’re okay?’ he says, looking really concerned.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I croak. ‘I’m sorry I ran into you.’

  He grins and pats me on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about it. Just be careful, eh?’ Then he walks off.

  I carry the skateboard back to the Refuge, throw it back in the storage closet, and write, ‘In my room – Do not disturb!’ on the whiteboard, then run up the stairs. I manage to get back to my room before I start to cry. Maybe I’d just better stay in my room and write Clarissa Hobbs episodes for the rest of my vacation.

  Chapter 45

  I calm down after a while and pull my notebook out. I put a line through each page of the Clarissa Hobbs episode I wrote. Only a little kid would fantasise about being a character on TV – I’m embarrassed that I penned it.

  I turn to a fresh page and start writing.