Sign

by Colin Dray

  ‘You know—if you want, love,’ Jon inched forward again, gesturing through the windshield, ‘I can take a look at that noise for you.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Dettie said. ‘It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with.’

  He raised his hands. ‘Righto. But my old man was a mechanic,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t make me one, of course, but I helped out with plenty of repairs in his shop growing up. If you were interested.’

  Dettie was silent, shaking her head, but as the sound droned on, Sam could see she was thinking it over.

  37

  The car looked like it was yawning. Sam felt as familiar now with its boxy, angular face as he was with his own, and as it cooled off in the shade of the petrol station, its doors open and its bonnet propped up, to Sam it too seemed to be exhausted, yawning. The station had a garage for repairs, and Jon had somehow talked the heavy-set mechanic into lending him some tools. So while Dettie and Katie emptied out the rubbish from the back seat and refilled their water bottles, Sam watched Jon circle the engine and poke around inside. He had already checked the oil and the tyre pressure, and now he was calling Sam over to show him the inner workings of the machine.

  ‘What do you reckon, me mate?’ he was saying. ‘Think the fan is loose?’

  Sam shrugged. He was still standing back from the car, stretching up on his toes. Jon gestured for him to come closer and look.

  ‘Yeah. Not the exhaust,’ he said. ‘That would be up the back, wouldn’t it?’

  Sam shrugged again, but this time he felt surer of himself. He nodded.

  There was more plastic and rubber hosing inside than he had expected, a brightly coloured battery bigger than a lunchbox, and what appeared to be a fat plastic water bottle. He was surprised at how quickly Jon’s hands had turned black. The engine didn’t look all that dirty, and he hadn’t really seemed to have touched anything yet.

  ‘What about the belt, eh? The fan belt? You think that might give us a rattle?’

  Sam nodded, liking how even in the dry air the car’s heat still radiated up under his face.

  Jon leant in, taking what looked like a thin black strap between his fingers. ‘Does that look loose to you?’ He wiggled it.

  Sam had no idea, but he nodded.

  ‘I think you’re right, me mate. We might need to give that a tighten.’ Jon rose again, using his beard to scratch an itch on his arm. ‘Could you grab us a screwdriver and a wrench?’

  Sam hurried over to the toolbox and hunted through it. There were two kinds of screwdriver, a flat top and a cross, so he took one of each. The wrench was more of a problem. He didn’t know exactly what a wrench was, whether it was like a set of pliers, or one of the long-handled tools hanging from the lid, shaped like little metal bones.

  ‘Yep, that’s the one,’ he heard Jon saying, and realised he was holding an adjustable version of one of the bones in his hand. As he passed it over, Jon took the flat screwdriver and left the other for Sam to twirl about.

  The station mechanic wandered out from the garage to see how things were going, and to check whether they were misusing his tools. He lifted his cap, rubbing the sweat from his forehead, and as he turned to head back inside he spat into the grass, nodding to his dog, a mangy brown animal that was skulking along the edges of the shadows. Across the yard, past the petrol pumps, Dettie and Katie had left the toilets and walked into the store, flicking their hands dry. A truck sped by on the road, sweeping a cloud of dust behind it, and for the first time since he’d sprinted across a soccer field, long before his operation, Sam enjoyed the prickly combination of dirt and sweat on his skin.

  Jon was explaining to him all about the fan belt’s nut and the washers. He showed him what a pulley was, and told him about the sheaves. He even let him press on the belt to see if he thought it was tight enough, and Sam agreed, without having anything to judge it against. Sam forgot everything Jon told him straight away, much of it while he was still talking, but he liked being there, listening, able to agree and interact. And even though he suspected that Jon had known what the problem was all along, he liked feeling that he was somehow part of finding the solution.

  When the strap was tense enough, Jon wandered back to the toolbox and laid the things inside, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘What do you think?’ he said. ‘Should we start her up? See if that’s fixed it?’

  Sam nodded, stepping back from the car.

  ‘Wait a minute—where are you heading off to?’ Jon gestured towards the driver’s seat. ‘I need a driver,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to stay out here and listen. Who else is going to switch her on?’

  Sam shook his head, but Jon was already nudging him over to the door.

  ‘It’s simple,’ Jon was saying. ‘Look. The park brake is on. It’s not in gear. You just sit in the front there, and when I say go, you turn that on.’ He pointed at Dettie’s key chain, dangling in the ignition.

  Sam was panting through his vent, his eyes darting around, afraid his aunt would be watching. He couldn’t see her through the glare on the store window, and as Jon helped him into the front seat, he ducked his head out of view. He reached for the seatbelt.

  ‘Don’t worry about that, me mate. Just flick her on. We’ll have us a listen.’

  Sam felt dwarfed by the seat. It was set back further than the passenger seat, and if he laid his back flat against it, he could barely reach the steering wheel. It was strange to look over at the passenger’s seat, where he had been sitting most often lately, and see it empty. The doorhandle his knee was usually pressed against was so far away. When he looked in the side-view mirrors all he could see was the sky. Slowly, he stretched forward and took hold of the keys. Through the windscreen, Jon was giving him the thumbs up.

  Holding his breath, he turned the ignition.

  As the car sputtered the tiny St Christopher statue on the dashboard shook. The paddle-pop stick boomerang they had hung from the rear-vision mirror trembled and swayed. The engine coughed and died.

  ‘That’s okay. That’s all right, me mate,’ Jon was saying. ‘You’re half there. Almost. Next time just turn it all the way.’

  Sam looked over at the store, but Dettie hadn’t emerged. The large mechanic was still in his shed, and even his dog, where it was sniffing around a stack of wooden crates, barely lifted its head. No one was watching. No one cared. Sam lifted his arm again and took hold of the key.

  This time, the car growled to life, and he was aware, more than ever before, of the tremor that ran through his seat when the motor began. Every part of the car was in motion, though it remained in place. The radio aerial quivered slightly, Dettie’s cigarette packet shuddered from the dashboard and onto the floor, and he could even feel the keys still swinging between his fingers.

  ‘You did it. Good work!’ Jon was calling. He leant in towards the bonnet, his eyes shut. ‘And listen to that,’ he said. ‘No sound. I think we got it.’

  Sam laid his hands on the steering wheel. He could feel it pulse beneath his palms as the engine went on rumbling. It felt great. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt normal. When Jon spoke to Sam he didn’t seem to be secretly pitying him. He didn’t stare at his neck or ask stupid questions. He didn’t treat him like he was made of glass. Sam was actually happy for a moment, and as the car fidgeted around him, it seemed happy too. Finally, Jon unhooked the bonnet, and eased it back down.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We better go wash up, eh? Before your aunty sees what a mess we’ve made of ourselves.’ He waggled his blackened fingers in the air, and Sam smiled.

  ‘You just switch that off, and we’ll head over.’

  Sam turned the key the other way and the motor stopped, sputtering faintly before falling silent. And as he stepped out of the car he felt another rush of power pulling the keys from the ignition.

  ‘What’s going on out here?’ Dettie was wandering back with an armful of snacks, muesli bars, dried banana chips and drinks, her handbag still clenched tight beneath her e
lbow. ‘Could you see anything wrong?’

  ‘Just a fan belt, darlin’. Nothing too serious.’

  She harrumphed. ‘Well, don’t fiddle with it, then.’

  Katie was behind her, chewing on a musk stick, and as she saw the dog over by the shed, now lolling on its side and rubbing leaves into its matted coat, she slapped her knees, calling it to her. The dog perked up at the sound immediately, and ran over, leaping and circling her, its tail thrashing happily, licking her fingers.

  ‘It’s already taken care of, love,’ Jon was saying. ‘Quick tighten. That’s all.’

  ‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to get halfway down the road and have the thing blow up around us.’

  Jon chuckled, waving as he backed away towards the toilets. ‘Also, love, your numberplate was a little loose on the front there. I screwed that back on too.’

  Dettie stiffened. ‘Good. Fine,’ she said, tossing the food on the back seat.

  Sam turned and followed Jon’s scuffed footprints across the oil and dirt, but when he heard Dettie shouting, he stopped short.

  ‘Katie! That dog is disgusting! Get away from it!’

  He looked back to see his aunt kicking out at the animal and Katie yelling in protest. Dettie’s foot missed, but the dog fled, barking, to cower behind a tree.

  Suddenly, the mechanic stormed out of his garage, scowling at them all. Spotting the dog, he whistled. ‘Come on!’ he called. ‘Come on! Get away!’

  It scampered over, whipping through the garage door, its head lowered, its tail between its legs. The mechanic stooped to gather up his toolbox. He spat again, glaring at Dettie, and then disappeared back inside too.

  Katie was pouting as she watched the dog slink away. And while her aunt lectured her about diseases and rabies, she rolled her eyes and pulled out her handkerchief to wipe her hands.

  ‘Oh, don’t use that, girl. It’s filthy.’ Dettie reached towards her.

  ‘It’s Mummy’s.’ Katie clutched it tighter.

  ‘Yes. Well. Look at it. It’s filthy. Look how much you’ve wiped your nose on it.’

  ‘I don’t wipe my nose on it.’

  ‘Oh, really? That’s not what I’ve seen. Now come on, why don’t you give it to me? I can clean it up for you.’ Dettie pulled something from her handbag. ‘And in the meantime you can use these nice new ones I bought.’ She held the package, a small cube of colourful fabrics wrapped in cellophane, out in front of her. ‘Look at that one, it’s got rabbits on it.’

  The wrapper crackled a little beneath her thumb.

  Jon had already disappeared into the toilets, but Sam lingered, watching the moment play out: Katie, winding their mother’s handkerchief between her fingers; Dettie smiling, wiggling the fresh packet between them.

  Slowly, Katie pushed the handkerchief up her sleeve. ‘No.’

  Dettie sighed. ‘It needs a wash, darling. Just let me rinse it off.’

  Katie shook her head.

  Dettie chewed the inside of her cheek. ‘You’ll wash it?’

  ‘I’ll wash it.’

  Dettie slipped the packet back into her purse. ‘All right. If you’re going to do it, come on, let’s find a tap.’

  Katie was hesitant, but she followed their aunt over to a tap in the shade behind the garage. The tap spat, shuddering, and as Sam watched, together his sister and aunt ran the cloth under the hiss of water and wrung it out. Dettie directed Katie on what to do, pointing, but never reaching over to snatch the cloth away. And though he couldn’t hear what they were saying, as Dettie turned off the tap, Sam saw Katie smile.

  38

  The motor continued its healthy purr for a couple of hours, delighting Sam with every untroubled acceleration and gear shift. In the front seats, Katie and Dettie were chatting happily for once. Katie was imagining what kind of dog she would like her parents to buy when they got to Perth—small and fat with big floppy ears. In the back, Sam and Jon played Rock, Paper, Scissors, with Jon calling a silly commentary on every throw, pretending it was all a dynamic clash of sporting titans.

  They were well along the Eyre Highway, a long grey strip of road that appeared to float across the browned landscape before them, dissolving into a warbled haze up ahead. Only tufts of small green bushes and spindly sun-worn trees broke the endless breadth of flat earth and sprawling blue sky, and every kilometre or so a ghostly dirt track would lead off the highway into nothingness.

  When the battle was over—scissors vanquishing paper in a controversial counting delay that, it was said, would go down in history—Jon playfully toasted his defeat with a sip of water. As he replaced the water bottle by his feet he resurfaced with the scrunched copy of Sam’s Tales of Fear.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  Sam watched him flick through its pages, through the sprays of blood and stilted dialogue.

  Jon laughed. ‘Look at this mess,’ he said, turning the issue to show Tim’s face being peeled away. ‘Brilliant.’

  He skimmed through a few more scenes, far more amused than repulsed. ‘You like the scary ones?’

  Sam shrugged.

  ‘I like the pirate ones, me,’ Jon said. ‘Have you read any pirate ones? Or Batman. Do you like Batman?’

  Sam jerked, grinning wildly, pointing at himself.

  ‘Yeah? Batman? Bat car? Bat plane? Robin? Good stuff. Great stuff.’

  Sam didn’t like Robin so much, but he loved every bit of the rest. And he had a desperate urge to tell Jon why. Why Batman was the best.

  Because he didn’t have superpowers. Because he wasn’t the strongest, or the fastest, or the best. Because he was smart. And he worked hard. Superman got all his powers from the sun. Spider-Man was bitten by a spider. But Batman had to train. He had to learn. That was what made him the best.

  Jon was talking about the old sixties Batman show that Sam had only seen a couple of times in reruns. He kept describing how funny it all was, but Sam wasn’t listening.

  He looked down at his hands.

  Batman had to learn to be the best. He lost something and worked hard to make it mean something.

  Sam thought of Tracey again, and the therapy sessions he had refused to attend. His excitement dissolved. He felt a twinge of shame.

  Batman would never have given up.

  39

  A little further up the road they stopped so Jon could buy them a proper lunch. He wanted to get fast food, but there was nothing around. Dettie insisted on another roadside café so that the children wouldn’t be eating too much rubbish. Katie whined, but eventually they pulled up in a small town called Wudinna, in a place so close to the road that it trembled when trucks went past. The diner was small but almost empty, and the man who took their orders also cooked their food and cleared the tables. While they ate, he waited in the kitchen, hunched over his television set. Halfway through the meal a fire truck roared past the window and their cutlery rattled.

  ‘He’s in a bit of a hurry,’ Jon said, adjusting the serviette in his collar.

  ‘Fires up ahead,’ Dettie said. ‘Bad, apparently.’

  ‘Mm.’ Jon was chewing. ‘Weather wouldn’t help.’

  ‘Yes. Well, they could definitely do with some rain.’

  ‘And some cold,’ Katie said. She looked proudly around the table and then shoved a forkful of carrot in her mouth.

  Jon waved his knife, smiling. ‘Yep. Cold would be nice.’

  Dettie shook her head. ‘What on earth does it matter if it gets cold?’

  Looking up at her, Katie blinked a few times and swallowed. ‘Because when it’s cold,’ she said, ‘the fires go out.’

  ‘Oh, how ridiculous,’ Dettie sighed, carving into her slice of corned beef. ‘Temperature doesn’t have anything to do with fires.’

  ‘Yes, it does. When it’s cold—’

  ‘You mean when it’s raining.’

  ‘No.’

  Sam had lost his appetite. He pushed aside his half-finished meat pie and sat his chin on the edge of the table.
/>   ‘That’s why there aren’t as many fires in winter,’ Katie was saying, shepherding peas to the side of her plate. ‘Because this guy at school—’

  Sam could feel a vibration beneath his head, up through his jaw.

  ‘Goodness me, girl, you have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  Dettie slipped a chunk of meat, glistening like mother-of-pearl, into her mouth. Sam laid his head down flat. The table’s surface felt cool against his cheek.

  ‘I do so. A guy at school—’

  Around him, his aunt and sister kept squabbling, but Sam tried to block them out, listening instead to the sound of clinking forks and clattering porcelain beneath them—the rhythm they were making without realising. It was a dull, distant beat, but it filled his ear, magnified by the wood. And behind the clatter he heard a thrum, like the table itself was humming.

  ‘Katie,’ Dettie was sighing, ‘it’s just ridiculous to be arguing like this all the time.’

  Feeling the table move under him, Sam eased his eyes open and saw Jon laying his head down too. ‘Little quieter down here, is it?’ he whispered.

  Sam smiled and nodded.

  ‘Yep. I think you’ve got the right idea, me mate. Keep quiet. Keep to yourself. Let everyone else wear themselves out.’

  Sam closed his eyes again and they both stayed that way a moment, each with their ears pressed to the table, hearing the same clunks and hums through the heavy wood.

  40

  Back at the car, while everyone waited beside their locked doors for Dettie to tuck her handbag away into the boot, Katie snuck around behind her aunt and fished out a plastic bag.

  ‘Do you know how to eat a mango?’ she said, skipping back over to Jon and offering it up to him.

  He had been drumming his thumbs on the roof, staring at a small aircraft buzzing overhead, and for a moment he looked puzzled, a smile tickling his lips as he watched whatever it was that she was unwrapping. His face lit up and he chuckled. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘I actually can.’