‘Billy is a boy. I want a girlfriend.’
‘Right. Have you talked to Mum about this?’
‘No. I was just thinking.’ He stared out the window.
Scott started buying clothes. They were his wages, so there was nothing Mum could do about it. He bought his own ticket, caught the train to the shopping centre, and returned with bags held triumphantly aloft. Everything he bought was deeply uncool: a sleeveless shirt with ‘hero’ emblazoned across the front, a black matching tracksuit set, and white sneakers he wouldn’t wear outside. One afternoon the bathroom sink was dirtied with black coils of hair that looked pubic. Scott showed me his nipples and their proudly trimmed halos of hair.
‘Looking good, Scotty,’ I said. ‘Who’s the lucky lady?’ Poor Scott. He didn’t have a chance. He’d asked me to buy him dirty magazines when he was fourteen, and I’d taught him to hide his porn in a special file named ‘m.exe.Scott.doc/’. That file was pretty full, if I recalled.
He dropped his shirt. ‘Not telling.’
We were driving back from his shift at Macca’s when he brought it up again. ‘One day, I’m going to get married,’ he said.
‘Course you will, buddy. And then you’ll have lots of kids.’ I pulled the car around a bend in a smooth arc and hit the accelerator.
‘Mum would love that.’ He stuck a sheaf of chips into his mouth and chewed.
‘Close your mouth, buddy.’
He ignored me. ‘I’m going to marry Lara.’
‘Nice one. Close your mouth.’
‘Yeah. I need your help, but.’
‘Right, bro. I don’t see what I can do.’
‘You can tell Mum we’re going to the movies and then you can take us home to watch The West Wing.’
I couldn’t stop the car right there, but I kept my eyes ahead and said very slowly, like I was measuring the length of each word, ‘Oh no. Remember what we said? It’s okay to have girl friends at school, but you can’t have them around, because it looks funny.’
‘Brendan. I want the funny business.’
‘I’m not sure you do. It isn’t as fun as it looks in those videos.’
‘Please, Brendan.’ He gave me the same limp, imploring look he gave Mum whenever he wanted something. The ‘help me, I’m retarded’ look.
‘No way, buddy. And anyway, you have to be in love to do what you’re talking about.’
‘She’s my girlfriend.’
‘Hold on. D’you mean – do you kiss her?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Of course. When no one’s watching.’
I’d have to have a word with Mrs McGrath about the centre’s supposedly close supervision of students. We drove in silence. It was that nice time of day, around seven o’clock, when the suburb was in shadow and shreds of light caught in the treetops. I pulled into our street and parked. Scott sat in the passenger seat and rubbed one hand over his nipple. There was no way of telling whether he wanted this like he wanted a new PlayStation controller, or if he felt it like a burning need. Maybe there wasn’t a difference.
‘Scott.’ He looked at me. ‘Even when you want things, there are some things you can’t have. It would mean lying. You don’t want to lie to Mum, do you?’
‘I guess not,’ he said.
The next morning was Saturday, and I mooched around the house avoiding my Criminal Law assignment. I ate a packet of salt-and-vinegar crackers and strained to remember what we’d learnt about diminished responsibility. I had to touch on the accused’s mental incapacity. But it wouldn’t be that simple. As our lecturer said, ‘There’s never a bright-line concept.’ She’d obviously had fun setting the assignment, because the schizophrenic plaintiff who’d drowned her children was called Medea. Ha.
I got myself a glass of milk and thought about the situation. Brendan, compos mentis, helps his seventeen-year-old retarded brother Scott inflict a sexual assault on a sixteen-year-old retarded girl. Brendan shows foresight and actively conspires to lure the girl away from her parents. He is fully aware of the consequences of his actions.
I went back to the study and started to search on Google. Retard. Retard. He was a fucking retard. It gave me an angry thrill to think the word, type it and see it glowing in the search bar, obscene. When I typed into the search bar, ‘Do retarded people,’ it pre-empted my questions with ‘Do retarded people have super strength?’ and ‘Do retarded people have retarded souls?’ I deleted my words and typed in, ‘Can I help my retard brother have retard sex?’ I posted the question on a bulletin board and I got a quick reply from Sputnik_65:
I am really offended that you would use the word ‘retard.’ My sister is mentally challenged and that is not the proper or nicest word to say about someone with challenges. Would you like to be called a retard if you had daily challenges? You make me sick.
Fuck you, Sputnik_65. Scott had it easy. He had one mode of being. I had to juggle talking to him like an adult and trying to stretch him with not letting him know there was a gaping chasm between him and other people. Mum glossed over everything with greasy platitudes, but I couldn’t. There was more to it. Like, did I owe Scott a duty of care? Where were his rights? Mum didn’t think beyond protecting Scott’s right not to have his body fiddled with. What about his right to share his body? I leaned back in my chair and pictured myself standing in shadows behind a naked Scott. Brendan, the vicarious deflowerer. The one who was to blame, who knew what he was doing. Just the action of picturing myself guilty was enough to make up my mind.
When I told Scott I’d help him he made a thrusting move with his hips, like he was fucking the air. We didn’t get a chance to put our plan into action for a good month, until Mum said she was going on a health retreat.
The weekend before she went away I asked Scott for his class list. There she was, right at the top: Lara Applebaum. Scott sat uncomfortably close to me while I dialled. When her dad picked up, I slipped into a reserved, parental tone. I was Scott’s older brother. Much older brother. Scott had mentioned that he and Lara were friends at school. Would Lara like to accompany Scott and me to a movie next weekend? I’d be chaperoning, of course.
There was concern in his voice. ‘I’ll have to talk to my wife.’ A muted background conversation followed. ‘Can I get back to you?’
When he called back he was hedging, but I knew how to play it. ‘They’re friends at school,’ I said. Then I dropped the bomb. ‘It’d be good for their social skills. You know, that’s what teenagers do. They hang out, boys and girls, as friends?’ That was it, refer to the program objectives.
‘Why don’t you two come around for dinner on, say, Tuesday night? Lara will be here, and we’d like to meet Scott first. If that’s okay with you.’
That Tuesday night, Scott insisted on wearing his new jacket, the one with the Superman ‘S’ in diamantés on the back. It was a girl’s jacket. ‘Looking good, bro,’ I said. ‘Mind if I borrow your hair gel?’ He opened the tub and scraped some onto my hand.
Oh God, her parents were nice, so nice. Mr Applebaum shook my hand. ‘This is my wife, Judy,’ he said. She took my hand, pressed once.
‘This is Scott,’ I said. He stepped forward and gave a bow. They laughed at that. I’d told Scott to keep his distance from Lara – you touch, you die – and when she came out, he looked at me. ‘Go on, then,’ I said. He gave her hand a shake, and let go. Lara curtsied.
Mrs Applebaum laughed. They were doing it! Socially interacting! ‘What polite children we have.’
Scott kept it coming. At dinner not only did he tuck in his napkin, but he also remembered to compliment Mrs Applebaum on her steak. ‘I really like it cooked like this,’ he said. ‘It’s much better than my mum’s.’ When Scott excused himself from the table to use the bathroom, Mr Applebaum grasped the inside of my arm. ‘Your brother is a real gentleman.’
He wants
to fuck your daughter. He wants to fuck your retard daughter. ‘Thanks. He tries very hard,’ I said. We kept the conversation on the surface so that Scott and Lara could chip in. Lara told us that she was going to start playing hockey.
‘Lara is very good at sport,’ said Scott.
‘Not,’ said Lara.
We all laughed. Poor Lara. She was all right looking, but she had these technicolour blue braces and there was a strand of chicken caught in them.
‘And what do you do, Brendan?’ asked Mrs Applebaum.
‘I’m studying law.’
‘That must take up a lot of your time.’
‘Yes, well, the readings do. But study load depends on how much you work. It’s like I tell Scott, you only get out what you put in.’
‘Absolutely. We take the same attitude with Lara.’
I looked at Mrs Applebaum. Maybe if I explained the whole situation, they’d agree that Lara should have sex. Why not, with a boy like Scott? Scott would make sweet love to their daughter. I’d grilled him on sexual etiquette for the past week. He even knew, theoretically, how to go down on a girl. He knew you spent half the time on her, half on you. Didn’t they want someone to go down on their daughter, sweetly, lovingly?
But I couldn’t shift the blanket of decorum that rested just above our cautious, moving forks. It was with a sick feeling that I cast the bait at the end of the night. They took it. Yes, Mr Applebaum said. Lara could see Hookwinked!
‘I promise to have her home by three,’ I said. ‘And don’t worry about the classification. It’s PG.’
Laugh, laugh. We shared a big laugh.
On the morning of, Scott got up at seven and made me breakfast. The sink was a waste of burnt egg and crumbs. ‘Great stuff, buddy,’ I said, hoeing into the stiff toast. ‘They’re teaching you some great stuff at that school.’
In the car we went over it all again. He kept saying I know. I know I have to go fifty-fifty. I know I won’t be selfish. I know I have to lick her vagina. Brendan, I’m wearing the watch, see? Yes, I promise I’ll look at it to make sure the timing is fifty-fifty.
We pulled up at the house, and there were the three Applebaums, clustered in the same spot on the corner of the veranda. Why did they have to look so vulnerable, so nice? Lara was wearing a red dress with flowers on it. Daisies. She had her hair out. Were her parents suspicious that she was making such an effort? They didn’t seem to be. They shook my hand, then Scott’s.
‘We’ll see you at three, Lara,’ said Mrs Applebaum. ‘Have fun! Oh and Brendan, I’ve given Lara money for her ticket and sweets, but she can only have one ice-cream and a small popcorn. No chippies or fast food. They make her mad.’
‘Of course,’ I said, and looked at Lara’s hand. Her wallet was attached to her wrist with a rainbow shoestring. ‘She won’t be losing that.’
We drove home in silence. Scott was on his best behaviour and kept his head forward. When we got in the house, I pointed to the couch, and the two of them shambled over and sat down. I picked up a PlayStation controller and tried not to tell Scott off for leaving it on the ground. I sank into the couch facing them.
‘All right, Lara. How are you?’
‘Good.’ She had her hands in her lap and kept rolling her shoulders. I had to scope her out. Maybe she wasn’t even his girlfriend and Scott had dreamed the whole thing up. Or maybe she thought sex was kissing, and in five minutes she’d run out of the room, screaming and bleeding.
‘I just need to run through some things. Now, Lara, you’re going to be left with Scott in his room for about two hours. Is that all right?’
She shrugged.
‘That’s how she says yes,’ said Scott.
I shushed him. ‘Now, is Scott your boyfriend?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you know what boyfriends and girlfriends do?’
‘Yes. They have babies,’ she said.
‘No. No they do not. They get close together and they have sex but they do not, under any circumstances, have babies. If you have babies your parents will be very upset. I’ve told Scott about using a condom. If you don’t use a condom I’ll be taking you straight home, and I will tell your parents everything, do you understand?’
‘Yes I understand.’ That didn’t mean anything. What if she thought she wanted it and then told her parents? I couldn’t believe anything she said, not because she was deceitful, but because she might not understand the question. Scott shifted his hand across the leather surface of the couch and gripped her hand.
‘Right. Now, how old are you?’
‘Sixteen and a half.’
‘Excellent. Wonderful. You have to use the condoms, and I’m going to inspect the condom at the end of it, so don’t try to be sneaky. And what is the safe word?’
‘Broccoli,’ they said.
‘Right, and the safe word is what you say when you don’t like what is happening. Say it loud and clear so I can hear it. You have to leave the door a bit open, and if you say broccoli I will come straight in. Do you both understand that?’ Neither of them moved. They knew if they played it right, I’d go away. ‘I’ve put a jug of water in there, and if you have sex – and you don’t have to, Lara, only if you want—’
‘I want.’
‘Well then afterwards you have to put this towel on and go and wee in the bathroom, otherwise you might get an infection in your wee. Do you understand? Say it back to me.’
‘When I have sex I have to come out in the towel and go wee.’
‘And the safe word is?’
‘Broccoli.’
I gave them a last look. They could be a couple. A slightly mad couple: Scott with his boy-woman face, Lara damaged but still pretty, maybe normal. I smiled at them. I hoped it wasn’t a terrible, sad smile.
They went into Scott’s room. I soon heard through the open door the sound of the R’n’B album Scott had played on loop for the past week. First up, ‘Ignition Remix.’
Thirty minutes in, Lara came out in the towel. She looked at me, spooked, and walked awkwardly to the bathroom. As she walked back past me I saw the rainbow wallet string.
‘Oh no, have you had this on?’ I got up and she surrendered her wrist, holding the towel tight to her breasts. I held my breath and tried not to smell her. My fingernails tore at the evil knot. ‘Your mum did a good job of this.’
‘It has my bus pass in it.’
I let the wallet go. ‘Just leave it, then.’
She went back to the bedroom.
There was nothing I could do, only sit and wait. It was a relief, that feeling of surrender. I could stare at the wall opposite me, at the still life of giant pomegranates Mum had bought years ago. They were obscene, really: two bulbous, fleshy globes, one cut to the core and weeping red seeds. At an hour to go I stopped waiting for ‘broccoli.’ I picked up my book and tried to read the first chapter, but it was hopeless. I couldn’t relax. Instead I ran over the schedule. It was one, and they’d be done by two. That left us half an hour to get ready to go, and twenty minutes to drive back. We’d be ten minutes early back to her place. Everything would be okay. Promise fulfilled: here’s your daughter. She’s fine.
After another half hour, they appeared, fully dressed. Scott’s face was red and his upper lip dotted with sweat.
‘That’s it? All done?’
‘Yup,’ said Scott.
‘Lara, you have to go to the toilet. No, wait.’ I looked at her hair, and the perspiration at her temples. They’d smell the sex on her. ‘You have to take a shower.’
What choice did I have? I had to get in the bathroom with her to make sure she didn’t just stand there and, I dunno, just run the water over her feet. I kept my face turned away while she undressed, and made sure the bathroom door was a bit open.
‘Okay, Lara. Get in the show
er,’ I said to the wall. ‘Wash everywhere.’
‘Brendan.’
‘Yes?’
I looked at her. She was holding her wallet out of the shower. I took the wallet and held it for her out the shower door, while she washed herself with one hand. Oh fuck. I had seen it, her entire body. I had perved on a retarded girl. Her nipples were like little cones that pointed outward, and her arse was flat. How could I not have noticed her huge bush? It spread from her pelvis onto her legs. It was luxuriant, extravagant.
‘Wash it,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Your vagina.’
I kept my eyes on the half-open door. Slowly, very slowly, it opened itself, and Scott’s face peeped through. He was on his hands and knees, smiling.
‘Fuck off, Scott!’
Lara had seen him, and started laughing. She gripped one of her boobs and shook it. Then they were both laughing: a dumb idiot laugh. I stood there, the bottom of my pants wet, holding a velcro wallet out of the shower door. I felt pissed off, then sick. What a bastard I was. They weren’t children. They had every right, and there I was, feeling mad.
‘Look at my girlfriend!’ said Scott.
‘Yep, what a girl! Good one, guys. Lara, just turn off the water – don’t get your hair wet! – yep, turn the hot off first, now quickly, the cold.’
I wanted them out of the house, and oh God, I’d almost got a whiff of freedom by the time we got in the car. That was until I saw the wallet, its waterproof surface flecked with droplets.
‘Oh fuck. Your change. Your mum’s change. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.’
I looked at my watch: thirty-five minutes. ‘We’re going to Macca’s drive-through,’ I said, and swung the car around.
They cheered.
At the drive-through we ordered two large quarter-pounder meals and a chocolate sundae. That came to twenty-one fifty: an acceptable price for a movie ticket and snacks. By the time we got the food we had twenty minutes to spare. I pulled into the car park so I could make sure they ate it all.
The Best Australian Stories 2012 Page 24