by Kirsty Logan
Looking back, he must have said something. There’s no way I would have done what I did with a man who had only said a few sentences. But I’ve played it over in my head, and the only words I remember hearing were my own.
I need smokes, I said.
The man from the circus nodded, and the road wasn’t there anymore. I must have drifted off, because there was the petrol station, lit up like the Titanic in the middle of the night.
The man’s long fingers touched everything in the garage. He couldn’t just look with his eyes; he needed to touch things to get a sense of them. He touched the packets of crisps and magazines and bottles of windscreen cleaner. He flipped through the air fresheners – even though they were all the same – and placed one carefully on the counter.
Twenty Lambert and Butler, I said to the slack-eyed boy behind the counter. Maybe he was sour-faced because he had to miss the circus. I wanted to tell him that he hadn’t missed much, but that wasn’t really true.
The man from the circus pulled a note from his pocket and placed it carefully on the counter, then walked away. His long legs had carried him back to the car before the boy had even opened the cash register. I’d expected his money to be unusual somehow: folded into an origami swan, or scrawled with magic symbols. I scooped up the change, cigarettes and cardboard tree.
Back in the car, I held out my handful of coins. The man spread his hands.
I have nowhere to keep that.
I saw that his trousers were a smooth length of fabric – no pockets, no seams, not even the zip of a fly. Maybe they were special circus trousers, ones he could change by folding bits in and pulling cords. I stuffed the coins in my pocket and handed him the Magic Tree.
Do you always buy gifts for the people whose cars you steal? I said, peeling the cellophane off my cigarettes.
I never steal. He smiled with one corner of his mouth, like it was caught on a fish hook. I borrow.
He jiggled something under the steering wheel and the car lit up. He tied the Magic Tree to the rear-view mirror and flicked it with his fingernail. We watched it spin, the yellow cardboard bleached white in the floodlights. The man grinned as wide as a skull.
Ready to go? he said.
I looked at the world lit up by the garage’s lights: the black fields, the black sky, the black hills. The car idled, the engine ticking like a horse pawing the ground.
You must say, he said. Say you want to go with me.
I thought about the hush of the wind in the trees, the smell of the fishing boats, cattle grids on the radio. I thought about seeing more sheep than people. I thought about the eyes of the boy in the petrol station.
I want to go.
2
The harsh sweet smell of fresh sawdust, the hot salt of roasting peanuts, the bitter reek of the horse’s box. The raucous symphony of the musicians tuning up, the one-two-three of technicians testing microphones. Faces half-painted: a paper-white forehead and glitter-drenched hair above pale lips and blotchy cheeks. The air thick with shreds of marabou feathers, the chatter of the strangers, spotlights reflecting glitter.
And me, watching the world lit by the border of bulbs around my mirror. This pre-performance is as familiar to me as Luka’s face. It’ll be an hour yet before I see him – like a superstitious bride, he hides away so I don’t see him until we’re up there, tense and sparkling above the flimsy nets.
I was not the first girl Luka stole away, but I was the last. After me, he said he didn’t need to try again. He’d found what he was looking for. So now, every night for ten years, I have thrown myself off a trapeze and trusted him to catch me. Every night, he has.
It’s not that Luka didn’t provide what he promised; after all, he hadn’t promised anything. The circus has everything I’d dreamed of: sparkling under spotlights, flying across a stage on the applause of strangers, waking up in a different town every day. Of course, it’s not always a new town: Britain just isn’t that big. But none of the places I’ve visited have had cattle-grid competitions on the radio.
Painted and smiling, I balance on my trapeze. Luka is poised ten metres away, his muscles shining under the lights. The wooden circles in his earlobes twitch as his jaw clenches, unclenches, clenches.
The ringmaster, his moustache oiled to needle-sharp points, announces glory and wonder on the death-defying trapeze. I pull dusty air into my lungs and start to swing. As I build up my momentum, I smile down at the crowd stacked up in the tent. Blinded by the lights, all I see is a mass of teeth and eyes and restless limbs.
From the corner of my eye I see Luka, hanging from his knees, patting his hands together so the talc can absorb the sweat of his palms. I wait for the twitch of his thumbs that lets me know he’s ready.
I curl my toes around the painted bar, spread my arms like wings, and let go.
For two seconds I’m weightless, helpless as a newborn with its cord cut.
Then Luka’s hands are on my wrists, calloused and hot, swinging me round. Below me the crowd gasps, claps, cheers. I count the seconds until he lets me go, until I will soar back to my own bar, until I will clamber to my feet and bow for the crowd.
I count, but he does not let go. His hands tighten on my wrists. I climb his arms and pull myself up onto his bar. He climbs up beside me and we wrap our toes around the bar. The crowd is silent, breathless, waiting to see what we will do next.
Come with me, Luka says into my ear.
I look down at our toes, lined up along the bar, miles above the mess of nets and shed glitter and eyes of the crowd. Where? There’s nowhere to go.
Let’s go away from this island. To the other side of the world. An adventure, just us.
I clutch the rope with one hand and reach out with the other, my fingertips sliding round the shell of Luka’s ear. He takes my hand in his and presses our palms together, like we’re praying.
I look at the world below us: the restless crowd, the glare of lights, the motes of sawdust in the air.
Say you want to go, he says.
I think of babies and gardens and road trips. I think of staying up late to watch a midnight movie. I think not of running away, but running towards.
Then I let go.
Feeding
Before moving to the Outback, I had no concept of darkness. I thought I did, sure: weekends spent in Shoalhaven were pitch-black and silent compared to the eternal neon of Sydney. But Shoalhaven had street lights, house security lights, the odd car on a midnight errand. Out here, we’re the only lights for miles.
We’re in bed by 10pm. We don’t have jobs and can go to bed whenever we like, but it makes more sense to get up with the light.
I reach out for Shelly. The room is so dark that white spots dance in front of my eyes. All I can feel is a mass of fabric. She used to sleep in just my boxer shorts, her breasts soft and heavy against my chest. Now it’s full pyjamas in all weather. I wiggle my hand between the layers of fabric, trying to find flesh. I haven’t even located a button when she elbows me in the chest.
I wake suddenly, feeling like something has just gone down my throat. In a lifetime, the average person swallows eight spiders in their sleep. At that thought, I’m scrabbling for the lamp, blinking in the glare. Shelly’s side of the bed is empty, the sheets crumpled back. Her pyjamas lie in a heap on the floor.
I try to shout, but my throat is sleep-dry. I cough, choke.
Shelly! My voice echoes in the empty room. Aside from a bed and lamp, we haven’t furnished this room yet.
Shelly!
I hear a tapping outside the window. In the spotlight of the lamp, the room looks like a movie set. I take the stairs three at a time, the rough wood splintering my soles. I flip on the kitchen light. The back door is wide open, hanging motionless in the heavy night. I feel stupid, standing by the kitchen table in nothing but my underwear. I scrabble through a drawer, my hand searc
hing for the biggest kitchen knife. I grip the handle in my sweaty fist, square my shoulders, and walk outside.
Shelly is crouched in the vegetable garden. Her skin glows white against the naked stumps of tomato plants.
Shelly. It comes out as a whisper. She doesn’t react. I take a step closer, dropping the knife onto the doorstep.
Shelly. She turns. She’s wearing her green gardening gloves, a trowel in one hand.
Peter. She smiles. Could you pass me the compost bag?
It’s the middle of the night! What the hell are you doing? I thought you’d been . . . I thought something had happened.
She shrugs. I can’t help noticing the way the movement makes her breasts bounce.
I just thought the tomatoes would be hungry. She stands, leans, grabs the bag of compost. She thrusts a glove into the bag and throws a dark handful over the tomato plants.
But why now? I ask.
The plants needed it. Shelly pulls off her gloves and straightens, her body spread out under the sky. She stretches her arms up above her head and I can see the hollows of her armpits, the ridges of her ribs, the skin tight across her hip bones. She walks over to me, her movements sliding like water from a gutter. She pushes me to the ground and straddles my hips. The ground is dry, the cracks in the mud large enough to fit a fingertip.
They need it, she says.
We make love in the glow from the open kitchen door. The sky is flat, a vast nothing above us. I dig my fingers into the cracked earth so I don’t fall up into the empty sky. Shelly tries to pull me on top, but I stop her. I don’t want her to touch the starving ground.
I spend the next fortnight in the second bedroom. If we’d moved here a year ago, this would have been Jeremy’s room. Shelly and I call this room the study, the library, the guest bedroom: everything except the nursery. Even so, I’ve painted the walls butter-yellow so that they’ll work for a boy or a girl.
Shelly spends every minute of daylight in the garden. Grass has not grown. Dandelions have not grown. She has planted carrots, cucumber, peas, lettuce, courgette: they have not grown. In our month here, it has rained once. I stay in the second bedroom, painting the walls with sunlight.
On this day I’ve been working since it was light enough to see, losing track of the hours in the rhythm of the paintbrush hairs splaying against the walls, the burn of turpentine in my nostrils. My stomach informs me that it’s past lunchtime. I put my paintbrush down, wipe my hands on newspaper. I slide the window up, wedging it open with an old jam jar. I lean out of the window and my hand slips off the sill.
There’s a small child in the garden. She wears her mother’s sunhat and a white dress three sizes too big. I open my mouth to shout, and realise the little girl is Shelly. Barefoot among the naked trees, she looks like Thumbelina.
I go downstairs and into the kitchen. From the doorway Shelly looks human-sized. She feels my gaze and looks up. The sunhat casts shadows under her cheekbones.
Hungry? I ask.
She shakes her head, rams her trowel into the ground.
I crack ice from the freezer, pour milk into mugs. The heat outside is choking, thick at the back of my throat. I shield my eyes with one arm, trying to hold the mugs steady. Ice cubes clunk against the thick china. I stand next to Shelly, making sure my shadow covers her exposed skin.
I hand her the only mug that still has the handle attached. She stands, looks up at me.
Thanks, she says. We grip our mugs and survey the graveyard of twigs.
What are you planting? I ask.
Whatever will grow.
I think: nothing will grow.
I say: Something will. When it rains, all this will sprout up.
I gulp my milk. The ice cubes leave a drop at the tip of my nose; Shelly laughs and dabs it with the hem of her voluminous dress. With a jolt I realise it’s one of her maternity dresses. The white lace hem is dusted brown where she’s been kneeling on it.
I love you. She stands on tiptoe and presses her mouth to mine.
I love you too, I say.
I finish my milk, kiss her freckled shoulder, and go upstairs to start sanding the window frame. With the window up I can hear the earth outside cracking in the heat.
Later, I go out to the garden. The only mug with a handle sits on the doorstep. The ice has melted, the milk turned yellow and curdled in the sun. I tip it into the sink.
I lie in bed, listening to the crunch of trowel against hard earth. The light faded hours ago, and the room’s edges are barely visible. I ball up the bed sheets and kick them to the floor. I fumble to the window and lean out.
Shelly, I call into the black.
The crunch of a trowel, then –
Yes.
Are you coming to bed?
Yes. The steady crunch.
Can’t you do that tomorrow? You’ve been in that garden all day.
The plants need it.
She digs; I wait.
Shelly. Please.
She stops. The clatter of a trowel thrown aside.
You’re right, Peter. I’ll come up to bed now.
I crawl back into bed and drag the sheets over my legs. In the pitch-black silence, sleep comes quickly. In my dreams, the crunch of a trowel.
I make dinner: boiled chicken, mashed potatoes, peas. If I make the food plain, maybe Shelly will manage to eat some.
She prods at her mashed potato, piling it up at the side of her plate until the tower falls and scatters her peas. She cuts her chicken into thumb-sized bits, then carefully shreds it with the tines of her fork. After twenty minutes, I get sick of looking at my empty plate.
Is the chook undercooked?
No.
So why aren’t you eating it?
She shrugs. Her fingers look as hard and thin as the cutlery. I look at her until she meets my eyes. She picks up a pea between forefinger and thumb, and places it on her tongue. She swallows.
Happy?
Her cheeks are so sunken that I can see the pea where she’s tucked it. I wonder how long she can keep it there before spitting it out. She stands, catching her chair legs on the torn linoleum.
I’ll wash-up. She puts her full plate on my empty one and takes them to the sink. I leave the room before she goes into the garden to spit out the pea.
The house is so quiet that I can hear myself breathing. I gave up on painting hours ago to stand, breathing paint fumes and looking at the window. I’ve repainted the room five times, but it’s still not good enough. The sun is falling behind the back of the world, dying the ground. It looks like a battlefield, red and scattered with the bones of trees.
The crunch of Shelly’s trowel had become so constant, like a ticking clock, that I don’t immediately notice its absence. I lean out of the window, paint flakes digging into my palms, and scan the garden. Naked plants cower in the bloody soil, Shelly’s trowel and gloves sit neatly on the doorstep. In the sun’s last light, a pale glow among the roots.
I tiptoe downstairs, unaware I’m holding my breath. The dinner plates sit by the sink, bone-dry. I step over the gardening gloves and into the garden. I can feel the cracks in the soil with my soles. The tomato plants seem to bend towards me as I approach, their twigs rubbing together like insect legs. I blink hard, watching the inside of my lids: the sun’s afterglow leaves fat orange tomatoes on the empty vines.
The light has gone. I rub my hands in the soil, feeling for the pale glow. I feel the slick jelly of gristle and snatch my hands back.
Chicken bones.
I’m onto my last useable paintbrush and Shelly has snapped the handle off her trowel. We’ve run out of milk, bread and toilet paper. It’s time for a trip into town.
This is a larger undertaking than it sounds, as the nearest town is 200 kilometres away. Our jeep has no air-con, and if driven for more than an hour solid, thick wh
ite steam leaks out from the bonnet.
Shelly hasn’t worn shoes for a month, and complains when she has to squeeze her dusty toes into her sneakers. Shoes don’t bother me, but the jeep does. It has been sitting in the sun all morning, and the red vinyl seats are almost bubbling. We sit on folded towels, but the heat still seeps through. I try to hold the steering wheel with my fingertips.
Once we build up some speed, the heat isn’t so bad. The driver’s window only opens halfway, but we still get a good breeze. Shelly presses the radio buttons. The music is full of static, but it is music. She taps her fingers on her knees, ochre with ingrained dirt. I haven’t seen her wear those cut-off shorts since we were teenagers; I didn’t know she still had them. Her bare legs look like daisy stems, the same width from ankle to thigh. She starts to sway in her seat. From the corner of my eye I see her mouth sneer up at one corner. Then –
It’s a nice day for a – she cocks a finger at me – white wedding.
She pushes her ponytail so that the front of her hair raises up into a quiff.
It’s a nice day to –
Start agaaaaain. We draw out the syllables, wailing in chorus. I turn to look at Shelly – her hair quiffed up, her lip in an Idol sneer. Laughing, I look back at the windscreen.
There is a rabbit in the road.
I slam on the brakes, the seatbelt pressing out my shout. Shelly’s hands grip her knees, her knuckles tight. The car is still. A ticking noise comes from the bonnet.
Is it . . . ?
I shake my head: it was too close. I thunk open the door and walk around to the fender. The rabbit lies a few yards behind the car. Its head is perfect: brown and fluffy, with long ears and limpid eyes. The rest of its body is a flat red oval, leaking onto the tarmac.
Stay in the car, Shelly.
I hear her door open, then click shut. She stares at me through the windscreen, her face expressionless. She leans forward and switches off the radio.