The Minnow

by Diana Sweeney

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ says Bill.

  I turn my face to the passenger window and watch the view speed past. Paul starts to say something, but thinks better of it and instead gives my shoulder the briefest of squeezes before slumping back in his seat. A minute later, the cabin is filled with cigarette smoke. No one speaks for the rest of the trip.

  Finally we turn onto Minbayon Falls Road. The gravel has recently been graded, promising a smooth, if dusty, ride. Bill tunes the radio and I fall asleep.

  I’m in someone’s house. It is beautifully furnished; everything looks like it belongs in a magazine. I am standing at the door to the lounge room and there is a woman, fast asleep, in bed. The bed is out of place among the sofas and lounge chairs. I wonder if the woman is ill.

  There are two other people in the room; an old woman and a young girl. The old woman is reading and the girl is playing with something on the floor. They ignore me. Maybe I’m invisible. I enter, close the door behind me, walk past the bed and across the room to the windows. Every step I take makes a squelching sound and when I look down at my feet I notice that the carpets are soaked. Water is seeping under the door.

  The woman wakes up and gets out of bed. She is dressed in elegant trousers and a soft wool cardigan. She walks away from me, to a desk on the other side of the room. I stand there, with my back to the window, waiting for someone to notice me.

  The sound of rushing water is deafening.

  ‘Wake up, buddy.’

  I’m vaguely aware of someone talking. I can hear the crashing roar of the falls, followed by a sudden blast of cold air on my face.

  ‘C’mon, sleepyhead,’ says Paul. I open my eyes to see him leaning against the door, lighting a cigarette. ‘Jacko and Bill are over at the railing, waiting for us.’

  I can’t see them, but the noise and the mist tell me we’ve parked really close. I unclip my seatbelt and Paul helps me down from the cab.

  ‘Sorry about before,’ he says, as we walk across the car park. ‘Sometimes I run off at the mouth without thinking. Next time, bloody kick me.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say.

  Paul stops to grind his cigarette under his boot, then picks the butt off the ground and stashes it in his shirt pocket. Nana says it’s an odd man who doesn’t mind polluting his body, but is adamant about saving the environment.

  ‘Piggyback?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure,’ he answers and bends down to let me climb aboard.

  Dad built Sarah and me a tree house in the magnolia. When the tree was flowering, the scent was almost overpowering. We had a rope ladder which was tied in three places to stop it swinging. I would have preferred it loose. What was the point of a rope ladder if it was fixed in three places? But Sarah got nervous if it swung around. Dad said that when she got older he’d untie the fastenings.

  I decided that if the tree house had survived the flood, I’d fix it up for the Minnow. I could untie the ladder and teach her to climb like me.

  ‘Would you come with me to the old place?’ I ask Jonah. Jonah and I are lying side by side on the small hospital bed.

  ‘You know your house got washed away.’

  ‘I know. But it’s over a year and I haven’t been back. Not even to check on the tree house.’

  ‘It’s still there,’ says Jonah. ‘I went with James.’

  ‘What do you mean, you went with James?’ I can feel myself getting angry and I’m not sure why.

  ‘Don’t get upset, Tom. I should’ve told you, but I didn’t think you cared about any of it.’

  ‘Jonah Whiting. Are you insane? Of course I care. You of all people should know that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

  We’re interrupted by a knock on the door.

  ‘Lover’s quarrel?’ says a nurse who has appeared in the doorway and is smiling at us approvingly. I have no idea how long she’s been there. ‘Stay put,’ she instructs Jonah as he makes a move to get up, ‘I’m just taking madam’s pulse and temperature. Be out of your hair in two minutes, tops.’

  Jonah and I turn slightly away from each other. I feel really uncomfortable and I know he does too. I wish he’d gotten off the bed while he had the chance. ‘Okay, all done,’ says Miss Efficiency. ‘Lunch will be about ten minutes. You staying?’ she asks, and looks enquiringly at Jonah.

  ‘Yes,’ I answer, as Jonah seems to have lost the power of speech. ‘Jonah is staying till three.’

  ‘Good,’ she says, ‘I’ll ask the kitchen to add an extra meal.’ Jonah and I watch as the nurse writes something on the clipboard and hangs it back on the end of the bed. She looks at both of us and smiles as she leaves the room.

  ‘Did you see that?’ whispers the Minnow. ‘She thinks you’re a couple.’

  ‘The Minnow’s awake,’ I say to Jonah, taking his hand and resting it on my belly. We sit like this for a few minutes. The Minnow obliges with a few summersaults. ‘Jonah,’ I say, ‘do you think the police want to talk to me because they know the Minnow is half Bill’s?’

  ‘No,’ answers Jonah. ‘Bill has done something. The police have been questioning Paul Bunter and Jacko Davis.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, lapsing back into silence. This is an unexpected turn of events. Maybe I’m off the hook. I’m about to ask Jonah how he knows what the police have been doing, when it dawns on me that he’s acting weird.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask. ‘You’re not being yourself.’

  Jonah shifts his body. He turns and looks at me, briefly, then refocuses on his feet. I realise I have no idea what’s going on.

  ‘Jonah, you’re freaking me out.’

  He clears his throat. I hold my tongue. He clears his throat for the second time.

  ‘I’ve got a crush on James,’ he says in a tiny voice. If we weren’t sitting side by side, I would have missed it.

  ‘A love crush?’ I ask, taking his hand away from the Minnow so I can turn and face him. ‘A love crush on James Wo?’ My voice has come out high and squeaky.

  ‘Just a crush, all right?’ He folds his arms defensively.

  ‘But he’s a teacher,’ I say, stating the obvious. ‘He could lose his job.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, Miss sleep-with-Bill-who’s-old-enough-to-be-your-father.’

  ‘Stop it,’ I say, a bit too loudly.

  ‘For god’s sake, Tom, you’ve only just had your birthday,’ meaning I was only fourteen when it happened, ‘so don’t you dare lecture me from your glasshouse.’

  And then Jonah turns to look at me, letting me have the full force of the Jonah-Whiting stare. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ he continues. His eyes are glistening as though tears are close. ‘It’s just a crush.’

  ‘But you took him to the tree house.’

  After four and a half weeks at the Mater Women’s Hospital in West Wrestler, the Minnow and I are allowed to go home. An orderly collects us and takes us to the ambulance in a wheelchair. I get a chance to check on the turtle while we wait for the lift.

  I told Papa about him. Papa said he sounded rather unusual. He said that all the turtles he had ever met were fairly solid characters.

  I notice that the tank faces the television in the nurses’ station. God knows what he’s been watching.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Can you not tell when I’m sleeping?’ he answers.

  I add liar to the list.

  ‘Papa says you’re unusual,’ I say, ignoring his rudeness, ‘and he doesn’t mean it in a good way.’

  ‘Whatever,’ says the little turtle, in a voice I recognise as lonely. He turns and slides off the rock into the water. I wish I hadn’t said anything.

  Eventually the lift dings, the doors open, and the orderly pushes me inside.

  Once on the ground floor, after a brief pause at the front desk, we’re wheeled to the ambulance bay. We pass Dr Patek talking to someone on her mobile. She makes elaborate hand signals to say she’ll catch up with me in a minute.

  The ambulance has a comfortable stretcher bu
t I want to look at the view. As soon as she arrives, I ask Dr Patek if it’s okay for me to sit up the front.

  She checks with the driver.

  ‘Not possible, I’m afraid,’ she tells me. ‘But there’s a seat in the back if you’d rather not lie on the stretcher.’

  ‘Damn,’ whispers the Minnow.

  The orderly manoeuvres me in to the ambulance.

  ‘You take care of that baby,’ says Dr Patek. ‘I don’t want to see either of you for another twelve weeks.’ She smiles and waves as the driver reverses the ambulance out of the emergency bay.

  ‘I like her the best,’ says the Minnow.

  ‘Me too,’ I say back.

  Home is Jonah’s house. He said he regretted saying that stuff about me having nowhere to go. He said I can think of his house as my home for as long as I want. We’ve made plans to visit the tree house, although I’m not allowed to do anything strenuous for the rest of the pregnancy.

  ‘Moderate exercise only,’ Dr Patek had said, removing her glasses and giving me her serious face. ‘How far is the letterbox?’

  I looked at Jonah. ‘About half a kilometre,’ he answered. ‘But it’s a flat gravel road.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Dr Patek. ‘I’ll check with Dr Frank each week and when he thinks you’re strong enough, you can walk to the letterbox. In the interim, stay close to the house. And get the phone on. I’ve spoken to Social Services. They’ve been apprised of your situation. They can start with the phone. Call my office and speak to Pamela if you have any problems.’

  I want to see Nana. The moderate exercise rule means that I can’t walk to the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly, so Jonathan Whiting collects me in his car. It seems everyone has been apprised of my situation. See the way I used ‘apprised’ just then? It’s a James Wo initiative. Whenever I hear someone use an unfamiliar word, I should, first, write it down, second, look it up in the dictionary, third, familiarise myself with the word by writing it into at least three sentences and, fourth, practise using it in a conversation.

  ‘Should I look it up in the thesaurus?’

  ‘If you like, but only after you’ve completed all four steps. That way you’ll have a more rounded comprehension of the word prior to seeking alternatives.’

  I’m beginning to understand Jonah’s crush.

  Jonathan Whiting’s car is an old Bentley, with cream duco and cream leather seats. Papa says it’s a tribute to creaminess. Jonathan Whiting’s favourite part of the car is the steering wheel. He tells me he had it custom made by the same people who make guitar plectrums. He said he asked for a shimmering mix of pearl, soft white and buttercup, and he is very pleased with the result. He runs his hands around the wheel while he tells me this, proudly admiring every facet. I hope he’s watching the road.

  ‘So, Tom, how long have you and Jonah been together?’

  ‘Oh, we’re not together,’ I answer. ‘Jonah’s just letting me stay.’

  ‘Well, he’s obviously taking his responsibilities seriously, which is the main thing.’

  ‘The Minnow isn’t half Jonah’s, if that’s what you mean.’

  Dad would’ve called that a conversation stopper. I prefer looking out the window, so I’m happy that Jonathan Whiting is lost for words. My hand is resting on my tummy and I can feel the Minnow’s tail-fin.

  Nana has missed me.

  ‘Let me look at you, darling,’ she says, squashing my face between her hands. I’ve missed her too. Lucky I had Papa with me, but I don’t tell her that. ‘What did the doctor say?’ she asks. ‘Does he think you ought to rest more?’

  ‘Dr Patek is a she,’ I reply.

  ‘Patek? What kind of name is that, dear?’

  ‘Indian, I think. She’s nice,’ I say, ‘and she’s organised stuff for me at home.’ But Nana is distracted.

  ‘Jonathan,’ she says, ‘what kind of doctor is a patek?’ Jonathan looks at me and smiles. I know that smile. It says welcome back. I feel so happy I could bust a gut. That’s a Nana saying, but you probably guessed.

  Nana has been knitting booties for the Minnow. She sent Jonathan to the wool shop, but (as it never gets very cold at The Crossing) he bought only one ball of wool in pale blue and eleven balls of cotton. Nana is knitting one bootie in each colour because she thinks matching pairs are boring. There is a line-up of completions on the card table.

  I’m not sure why I’m quiet, so I don’t know what to say when Nana asks. It’s probably because I’m being swept along with the Minnow and I’m not sure I wanted any of this in the first place.

  A counsellor talked to me at the hospital. She said all kinds of stuff about responsibility and preparation. I realised I’d only been thinking in small chunks. I told her I felt anxious whenever I thought about the future. The counsellor said it was an understandable reaction. She said this while staring at me and nodding her head which made me feel really uncomfortable. Papa, who was sitting beside me throughout the session, said, ‘Just stare back at her until she looks away.’ So I did. The counsellor flinched and looked down at her watch.

  ‘Round one to you,’ said Papa, elbowing me in the ribs.

  Round two was all about the big picture. Bill always said the big picture was for Hollywood. ‘Small chunks is all most folk can handle,’ he’d say. ‘Any more and you’re just asking for trouble.’ I realised I was starting to think of Bill in the past tense.

  ‘The big picture is all about imagining the future,’ said the counsellor, pausing and looking at me for a response.

  ‘Oh, right, here we go,’ sighed Papa, a little too loudly. I was glad only I could hear him.

  I said nothing, so she continued. ‘For example,’ she said, ‘I have a vegetable garden. At the moment I’m growing parsley and cauliflower, but I plan to add potatoes, beetroot and herbs. Maybe some spring onions.’

  Papa couldn’t help himself. ‘What does she want? A round of applause?’

  ‘You see,’ she went on, mistaking my silence for interest, ‘a garden is about planning and hard work, but I had to imagine it first, design it in my mind.’

  ‘Oh, Christ, this is tedious,’ said Papa.

  I love Papa, but I hate it when he does this. He knows I can’t react. If I tell him off in front of the counsellor, she’ll think I’m crazy. But I had to say something soon—I just couldn’t think of anything appropriate.

  ‘Do you see?’ she asked, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘Yes, sport,’ said Papa, standing behind the counsellor and leaning over her shoulder, smirking at me. ‘Tell the nice well-meaning shrink that you see just fine.’

  This was too much.

  ‘No!’ I said, almost shouting, ‘I don’t see.’

  Papa fell silent and the counsellor leaned forward. She stretched her arm towards me and I thought she was going to touch my knee, but then she changed her mind and settled back in her chair. She waited for me to say something else.

  ‘Before the flood, I used to think I’d be living at home with Mum and Dad and Sarah forever,’ I said, ‘or at least till I was old enough to leave school.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Papa. ‘It’s about time someone stopped fart-arsing around and cut to the chase.’ He was sitting next to me again. He took my hand and patted it gently. We both looked at the counsellor. She appeared distraught.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said. ‘This must all seem so irrelevant.’

  ‘No, really?’ said Papa, in his sarcastic voice.

  ‘Not really,’ I lied.

  The three of us sat in silence.

  I could hear the hum of the fish tank down the hall.

  ‘Don’t worry, sport,’ said Papa as we left the counsellor’s room. ‘No one is expected to predict the future.’

  ‘Then why, when you’re pregnant, does everyone assume there’s some kind of plan?’

  ‘A plan makes people feel comfortable, that’s all.’

  ‘Then why do I feel more comfortable without one?’

  ‘I d
on’t know, sport. You’ve always been something of a free spirit.’

  Dad had great plans. Mum said so all the time.

  ‘Papa,’ I say, watching Nana through the window as she walks across the terrace and down to the pond. She’s carrying a bag of stale bread to feed to the ducks and the magpies. ‘When you die, do you feel responsible?’

  Papa has a habit of scratching his ears when he is hiding something. Nana says he could never keep a secret, because the scratching always gave him away. He is doing it now, and I can’t for the life of me think why.

  There is a commotion outside. I love the word ‘commotion’. I have a notebook that I carry with me everywhere. I try to write a new word in it everyday. Commotion was Thursday’s word. Anyway, it seems Nana has caused the commotion by falling into the pond. Papa and I stay put. We both know she dived in. We have seen her do it more than once. There are nurses and orderlies running about and making a fuss. Nana will be lapping it up.

  ‘Hi, Tom,’ says Sergeant Griffin, startling me. He is alone. ‘Can we talk for a minute?’ he says, moving over towards the chair occupied by Papa.

  I used to feel dreadful when this happened. Sometimes I’d leap to my feet and offer my seat, or I’d say I felt like going outside; anything to avoid upsetting Papa. But we both know the score. So I watch and wait. At the last minute Papa moves and Sergeant Griffin sits down.

  ‘Your grandfather is quite the star around here,’ he says, nodding at the framed photo on the wall.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘Nana gets special deals on print runs over a hundred.’

  This is an in-house joke. Mike Spice started it after Nana refused his dinner invitation. It must have been hard for him, especially when one of Papa’s photos turned up in his room.

  ‘Last time we saw each other,’ Sergeant Griffin continues, ‘you were coming into the station. I just wondered what it was you wanted to talk about?’

  Bill always said Griffin was careful and considerate. And ultra smart.

  ‘I forget,’ I say. ‘So much has happened.’