Riggs Crossing

by Michelle Heeter

  It’s just before Easter. Daddy has an old flyscreen door hanging in front of the fireplace. It’s hanging horizontally, like a table. From each corner, a wire runs up to one central hook drilled into the ceiling. Dope is spread out on the fly screen door, drying.

  Daddy is stripping the flowers away from the marijuana plant and putting them on the screen door to be dried. The leaf gets discarded. This is kind of funny. Most city dope smokers, the ones who want everyone to know that they use dope, adopt the marijuana leaf as their symbol. They have marijuana leaf T-shirts and wear silver marijuana leaf pendants strung on leather string necklaces. But it’s not the leaf that really gets you high, it’s the flower.

  When I was little, I used to help Daddy dry the crop, and Daddy thought that was cute. Then all of a sudden he didn’t want me to help, because he realised I was old enough to figure out what was going on. But I’d already figured out what he was doing, so banning me from the lounge room while he was stripping and drying didn’t change anything.

  ‘Why are you throwing the leaf away?’

  Daddy pretends he didn’t hear me. He runs his hand up the stalk, and pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, the flowers come off in his hand.

  ‘Some people smoke leaf,’ I persist. ‘Kevvie’s dad sells it.’ Daddy looks up with his ‘Don’t ask’ look.

  ‘Dad, I’m not exactly a kid anymore.’

  Daddy drops his eyes back to the stalks and works a little faster than he was before. Daddy knows I’m not a kid anymore – I got my first period a fortnight ago. I think Daddy was more shaken up about it than I was. He got all flustered, jumped in the truck and came back an hour later with a huge bag full of tampons, sanitary pads, and panty liners.

  ‘People who buy leaf are the kind of people who buy retreads instead of new tyres,’ Daddy says, at last. ‘They’re cheapskates. If they don’t want to pay for the good stuff, then I don’t wanna deal with ’em.’

  I’m starting to notice a certain evasiveness in Daddy’s explanations. What he just said would make sense if he were proud of growing dope and liked the people he sells it to. But he doesn’t even smoke dope, and he doesn’t have a lot of respect for people who do.

  ‘Daddy, why are you a cropper?’

  That word has never been said before in our house. Daddy looks up at me, hurt and disappointed. He thinks a while before he answers. ‘Remember that Neil Young song? The one that goes “The Devil fools with the best-laid plans”?’

  Daddy and I don’t have history lessons very often, but he used that song to teach me about the civil rights movement in America.

  Daddy sighs. ‘I left school at fifteen. Was an apprentice on the railway. Left home at sixteen ’cause I didn’t get along with my old man. Then the Vietnam War happened, and I joined up with the Merchant Navy so I wouldn’t have to fight. Came back after a few years and got a job as a sheet metal worker. It was good money, but I spent most of it on motorbikes and girls. At least I had enough sense to save enough to buy some property.’ Dad picks up another stalk and resumes working.

  ‘Then your mother caught my eye.’ Daddy smiles a little. ‘Before I knew it, I was a father. Your mother stayed up here and looked after you, and I worked in Sydney and came home on the weekends.’Daddy tosses aside a handful of leaf.

  ‘Then the arse fell out of the economy. The company I worked for went broke. Nobody could get a job. At least I owned the property outright, lots of people with mortgages lost their homes. But the dole didn’t pay enough to keep you in nappies and the car in petrol.’ Another stalk is stripped and tossed aside.

  ‘So when your mother said, “Hey, we’ve got prime, high-altitude land, what’s the sense of letting it go to waste?” I went along with it. Anita used to knock around with croppers, she knew what to do. I told myself it was only going to be for one season.’ Another handful of flowers is spread on the flyscreen door.

  ‘Then two seasons went by, and there still wasn’t much work around. Then your mother died, and I couldn’t be bothered looking for a proper job. Then five seasons had gone by, and any job agent I rang wanted to know why I hadn’t worked in five years.’ Daddy throws another stripped stalk on the pile to his left.

  ‘So you see, Poss? The Devil fools with the best-laid plans.’ Daddy suddenly gets up and leaves the room. I hear the back door bang shut.

  I go to my room and lie on my bed. The Devil fools with the best-laid plans? I didn’t think Daddy believed in the Devil. He always laughed at Holly because she’d freak if the Devil card came up when she was playing with her deck of tarot cards.

  I think I’ve earned a nap after writing that down. I put my notebook away.

  I wake up with my heart pounding. For a second I think I can smell the dope that Daddy’s drying. Then I realise that the smell is coming from down the hall.

  The clock next to my bed says 8 pm. I hear the TV downstairs and Lyyssa talking to a couple of new kids in the kitchen.

  I hear giggles coming from Bindi’s old room. For a minute I freeze, thinking that Bindi has come back. But the voices don’t belong to Bindi, or Cinnamon. It’s a sharp, bossy, nasal voice, and a duller, dumber, younger voice. It’s Karen and Allie. Allie has got hold of some dope and is sharing it with Karen. I think Allie wants to be caught, otherwise she wouldn’t be smoking it so early in the evening, with Lyyssa still up and about.

  Holly used tarot cards to read the future. I don’t reckon you need a deck of tarot cards in a place like the Inner West Youth Refuge.

  Allie’s future is obvious. At best, she’ll end up working as a barmaid in some grotty pub in Westieville. At worst, she’ll end up being the moll of some guy in a bikie gang. Or maybe the moll for all the guys in the bikie gang. And Karen? She’ll wait till she’s about eighteen or nineteen, then sleep with someone who’s too drunk or stoned to notice how fat and ugly she is. She’ll fall pregnant on purpose, so she can get the single parent’s pension and a Housing Commission flat. Then she’ll eat all the wrong things and neglect her health so that when the kid grows up, she can get the disability pension.

  What’s going to happen to me? At best? At worst? Which tarot card would come up for me? I don’t even have any best-laid plans for the Devil to fool with.

  I wish I could get the smell of Karen out of my nose. The smell of her urine, her dirtiness, and now, her drugs. I get out of bed and light one of my peppermint-scented candles. In a minute, my room smells pure and beautiful. Someday, I promise myself, I will own a house where all the ceilings are painted gold, where nobody smokes dope, and I will light candles every night.

  Allie and Karen have gone quiet. I turn off the overhead light and look at the glow of the candle. For the first time in months, I’m not afraid to go to sleep.

  Chapter 46

  The bushfires burn out, but Sydney stays hot and sticky through to March. It’s too hot to go outside much.

  Easter comes late in April.

  Even before the bunnies had been taken down at the stores, we got a huge box of leftover Easter candy from a grocery store – marshmallow rabbits and chocolate eggs. Lyyssa put the box on the kitchen table. I knew that Karen would scoff them all the first chance she had, so I took exactly my share and put them in my desk drawer. One chocolate a day won’t make me fat. I have only one every night, after I’ve finished my homework.

  When the evenings finally turn cool, Lyyssa brings some stale-smelling doonas and blankets from the storage closet for everyone to put on their beds. I see Lyyssa opening the closet and I get in first before the other kids, so I have first pick. I pick a goosedown comforter inside a white cover, which is embroidered with white butterflies. It looks almost new, except for a faded brownish stain on one side that someone has tried and failed to bleach out. The stain doesn’t matter. I can put it on the bed with that side facing down. I also get an off-white waffle-weave cotton blanket.

  Karen picks a vomity pink comforter with pictures of strawberries all over it. Then she finds a fluffy white chenille blanket, which I s
uppose to her represents the cream to go with the strawberries. She folds both of them and pulls them close to her chest, then realises that I’m blocking her way out of the storage closet. ‘Excuse me,’ she mumbles, and I step aside to let her pass. I feel guilty about bullying Karen that time, but at least she knows not to annoy me any more.

  Allie is looking enviously at my white comforter, but then she finds one that is still wrapped in the thick plastic department store packaging. It has a price tag on it that shows $120, which has been crossed out and replaced with a series of lower prices, ending at $29.95. ‘I found a new one,’ she says triumphantly. I just smile and nod. Why bother telling her that a purple poly/cotton comforter cover with Asian writing all over it is tacky, which is why no one would buy it and the store gave it to us? Then she’d only be plotting how to get her hands on my beautiful embroidered pure white cotton.

  I wonder what the writing says. Probably ‘Screw you, white trash’.

  Shane wants the dark-green Paddy Palin sleeping bag. It has a hood that you can zip up over your head, with only a tiny hole for air to come inside. I can see why that would appeal to Shane. I got a look inside his room once. He’s put up a barricade around his bed with milk crates and cardboard boxes. He still wears three shirts at a time, even in summer. At least he doesn’t have to be forced to take a shower anymore.

  The next day I take my doona outside to air. I throw it over the Hill’s Hoist, then pull an old banana lounge into a sunny spot and lie down. The smell of the air and the feeling of the autumn sun reminds me of another time and place.

  Easter. It was Eastertime last year that I was in the accident.

  Where Daddy and I lived, Easter always meant that money was just around the corner. Easter candy marked down to half-price meant it was just about time to harvest that crop and sell it in Sydney. But one Easter, something went wrong. There were no new clothes or new tyres for the truck. And we went on eating tinned soup like we had been coming up to harvest. I close my eyes and let myself remember.

  ‘They had a gun,’ Daddy says.

  Ernie shakes his head and looks at Daddy like he should have known better. ‘Mate, you always gotta hold something back.’

  ‘You got any left?’ Ernie says, concerned.

  ‘Every other patch I had’s been ripped,’ Daddy says bitterly.

  ‘So who were these clowns?’

  ‘The blokes I normally deal with couldn’t take it. I had to offload it to someone new.’

  ‘Maybe you need a gun,’ Ernie says. ‘I got a mate in Sydney, over in Burwood. He can get you a revolver.’

  ‘What good’s that?’ Daddy retorts. ‘Then I’d either be dead, or I’d be doing twenty years.’

  ‘Listen,’ Ernie says quietly. ‘You better watch your back. Terry still has it in for you, and now he’s all palsy-walsy with old mate Drury down the road. You know Drury had a patch ripped? Terry’s been putting it about it that you did it.’

  Daddy makes a disgusted noise. ‘The prick. He did it himself. And Drury believed that? Sounds like Drury’s been using a bit too much of his own product.’

  ‘Drury’s using that and just about anything else you can think of. He’s a freak. He’s got a houseful of firearms and the coppers in his pocket. And every day, his little mate Terry is whispering in his ear that you ripped him off. Now, are you sure about that revolver?’

  ‘Not interested.’

  ‘Let me know if you change your mind. Cost you six hundred bucks, but it’s got karma. Fifteen hundred for one that’s never done a job. You don’t want one that’s done a job. Ballistics.’

  Daddy says he’ll think about it. Ernie finishes his beer and leaves. Daddy is quiet for a long time.

  Daddy was selling what was left of his crop to a dealer in Sydney, but the dealer pulled a gun on him and stole Daddy’s dope.

  Daddy has a rifle, like everyone around here. But Ernie thinks Daddy needs a smaller gun. One you can hide in your jacket. Ernie also thinks Daddy should pay more money to get a gun that has never been used in a crime. That way, the cops can’t ever land him for crimes that someone else did with that gun.

  I don’t know Drury. He’s new in town, he bought the old Fruin place only a couple of years ago. Daddy and I never stop at his place. Sometimes we see his four-wheel drive in town outside the Commercial Hotel, with two mean pig dogs sitting inside. Daddy told me never to touch a pig dog. A pig dog will rip you to pieces.

  Something has changed in Riggs Crossing. It used to be that everybody’s cropping was an open secret, and nobody stole anybody else’s crop. As long as you didn’t advertise what you were up to, the locals didn’t care and the police would take money to turn a blind eye. Now we hear there are undercover police around. But nobody knows who they are. And we know that some locals are paid police informants. But which ones? And now, everybody who’s cropping is being stolen from. But who’s doing the ripping? The whole town has turned suspicious and nasty. I’m not sure Daddy trusts anybody but Ernie anymore.

  I open my eyes and look at the sky. Riggs Crossing. Daddy and I lived in Riggs Crossing. Is anything of mine still in Riggs `Crossing? Do I still have a room there, with my own bed and a comforter that never belonged to anyone else? Or has everything I ever loved been taken to the tip?

  I feel something in my chest, a sharp, twisting pain. I get up quickly and give the comforter a good fluffing, then carry it upstairs and make the bed. I grab a rag from the storage closet, get some spray cleanser from the kitchen, and wipe the skirting boards in my room until the pain in my chest goes away.

  Chapter 47

  ‘Easter Eggs?’ Miss Dunn repeats, frowning.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Why do they sell chocolate eggs at Easter?’

  Miss Dunn puts her pencil down on her desk and waits a few seconds before she says anything. ‘Len, we are in the middle of an English lesson. I am teaching you how to write an essay. This is the third time you have asked a question that is totally irrelevant to the task at hand. Now, would you like to tell me what the problem is?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble, and look down.

  Again, Miss Dunn looks at me for a moment before replying. I think she knows that I don’t really know what the problem is, and that I probably wouldn’t tell her even if I did. Finally, she sighs and closes the textbook.

  ‘Okay, let’s save the rest of that English lesson for next time. You’ve mastered the basics.’ Miss Dunn picks up her pencil again and taps it against the top of the desk. ‘Easter eggs. Do you know much about Christianity? Were you taken to church when you were a kid?’

  After Daddy’s fight with Holly, we get up very early one morning and drive to a big church far away from Riggs Crossing. Daddy sits next to me on a long wooden bench. He teaches me how to cross myself, when to kneel. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . .

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right. Well, Christians believe that Jesus was the son of God and arose from the dead after being crucified. Jesus rising from the dead is called the Resurrection. The Christian holiday that marks the Resurrection is now called Easter. But when Christianity started, most people were pagans and didn’t want to give up certain rituals that they liked. One of these rituals was a lunar festival called Easter. LEN, ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Miss Dunn calms down. ‘Good. Now, this pagan festival Easter took place during the full moon. It celebrated fertility. That’s why we have Easter bunnies, because rabbits produce lots of offspring. And we have Easter eggs because eggs represented fertility to pagans. Pagans refused to stop being pagans and start being Christians because they didn’t want to stop having fertility celebrations. So, the early Christian fathers invented the story that Jesus was resurrected during Easter time, and told the pagans that it was okay to have a festival every year. But they had to say that the festival was to celebrate Christ being resurrected. Oh, and the word “Easter” has the same origin as the word “oestrus”. Female animals can fall pregna
nt when they’re in oestrus.’

  Holly dancing naked under the full moon. Daddy watching her, standing to one side of the window so she can’t see him watching, smiling a little.

  ‘Does that make any sense to you?’

  Daddy closes the curtains. ‘Off to bed, Poss.’

  ‘Not exactly. I mean, sort of.’

  Miss Dunn sighs. ‘Well, I probably didn’t explain it very clearly, and what I said might not be entirely accurate. I’m not a walking encyclopaedia.’ Miss Dunn scribbles something on a piece of paper and hands it to me. ‘This is your English assignment for next week. Write a five hundred-word essay on the origins of Easter. Major Heath may be able to help you.’

  Miss Dunn doesn’t offer me tea at the end of the lesson.

  Walking back to the Refuge, I turn down the street with the Nohant house. After all, the lady who owns that house has no right to intimidate me. I’m allowed to walk down that street, or any other street, if I want to. And why does she bother having a house and garden like you’d see in a magazine if she doesn’t want people to admire them?

  I’m almost at Nohant when I realise a car is coming up behind me. I turn my head to look. It’s one of those cars that Westie boys like, with a V8 engine, blackened windows and a stereo you can hear in the next suburb. But this car is being driven very slowly and quietly, its engine pulsing at a low throb.

  Then the car roars into high gear onto the footpath, hurtling straight toward me. I scramble over the picket fence and run across Nohant’s garden, tripping over stones and lanterns and clumps of black mondo grass. The car ploughs straight through the fence – I can hear the wood cracking and splintering as I sprint around the side of the house. The car stops a moment in the middle of the garden, then whoever’s driving guns the engine, demolishing what’s left of the garden and smashing the other side of the fence to get back on the street.