The Best Australian Stories

by Black Inc.

  She opens her blouse and rubs her hands across herself, across the soft, brown skin which Angelo can’t help but look at. He watches as she pushes herself towards him.

  ‘Come, my baby. You’re just a baby, aren’t you? Come, my darling angel boy.’ And she laughs again, pulling him onto the bed with her.

  She pushes his lips to her nipple and Angelo does what he is told. He feels her fondling his groin, rubbing her hand along the inside of his leg.

  ‘You’re just like your daddy, Angelo,’ she says. ‘Just the same. Has he shown you one of these?’ She pulls a plastic envelope from the pocket of her skirt. ‘Has he shown you how to use it?’

  Angelo watches her draw the rubber thing from it and feels himself being rolled onto his back. She sits astride him and fumbles with his zip.

  ‘Lena can show you, angel. Lena can show you lots of things.’ He feels the soft touch of her fingers as she slides the condom over him. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You’re just like your father. Just the same.’ And she slips back off the bed, crying with laughter as she does her buttons up. ‘Look at you,’ she giggles. ‘All dressed up. All dressed up and nowhere to go.’

  She closes the door behind her and Angelo hears her laughing all the way back to reception. He lies on the bed with his trousers down, convinced that he’s in love.

  *

  Each day, he watches her walk across the highway to the beach. He waits for her to return, wondering what she’s doing there, imagining her brown limbs sliding through the water. He remembers her touch and thinks of following her down, past the monument, just to watch her swim. Through the winter months she wraps herself in heavy clothes and folds the towel across her arm. He can’t see the shape of her body as she jogs across the carpark and he imagines her taking the clothes off, layer by layer on the cold beach.

  When summer comes again, he’s surprised to see how her shape has changed. Her stomach has swelled and the bathers stretch tight across it. She walks with her back bowed against a weight which wasn’t part of her before. When she comes to his room to make the bed, he sees how awkwardly she smooths the sheets, leaning across to tuck the corners in. When she’s finished she seems to glow. Her face is flushed as she sits on the couch to catch her breath.

  ‘Do you like me, Angelo?’ she says. ‘Do you like the shape of me?’ She stretches her dress across her swollen belly and splays her legs. ‘Is it attractive to you, Angelo?’

  Angelo doesn’t answer. He walks away from her and turns the television on.

  ‘No. Your father doesn’t think so either. He doesn’t want to know.’ He pours her a glass of water from the fridge and hands it to her. ‘You’re good to me, Angelo. You’re better than the others.’

  He’s noticed how his father’s visits have become less frequent. Sometimes a whole month passes without the sound of his wheels on the carpark stones. And he’s noticed how few cars pull up outside reception. Only Victor has a constant stream of visitors.

  Lena continues to swim. ‘It’s good for the stomach muscles,’ she tells him. ‘I don’t want flab.’ He watches her struggle with the laundry then wrap her towel around her for the walk.

  One day, he follows her down. He waits till she’s out of sight then closes his door and walks into the heat. He can hear the television from Victor’s room and hurries past his door. The monument towers above him as he crosses the highway and makes his slow way towards the shining water. Lena is almost at the bottom of the hill. He passes the old convent with its driveway over-run with weeds and hears the piercing whistle of cicadas in the trees. By the time he reaches the beach, Lena is already standing by the water.

  All along the beach he can see the naked bodies of men and women lying in the sun or standing at the water’s edge. Most of them are elderly. He sees them ease their withered bodies into the water, as though waiting for miracles to happen. Lena’s bathers are draped across the towel behind her on the sand. He sees her swollen breasts and the brown skin of her stomach as she slowly immerses herself and swims away from shore. Fifty metres out she stops and rolls onto her back. Her distended abdomen rises from the water and he sees her floating, absolutely still in the warm water.

  When she strokes back into shore, he turns and hurries up the hill again. Victor is standing by the door of seventeen, smoking.

  ‘Been for a perv,’ he says. ‘Not much worth looking at down there.’

  Angelo ignores him and closes the door of his own room, knowing that Lena will soon be back. When she comes to him it’s late. He knows she’s been with Victor and waits for the teasing to begin. She puts the tray on the television and lies across his bed. Her dress lifts and he can see the white triangle of her pants beneath it.

  ‘Whose do you think it is?’ she says. ‘Whose baby do you think is in there?’ She pulls the dress up to reveal her stomach and rubs her hands across it. ‘Do you think it might be Victor’s? Victor doesn’t think so. Perhaps it’s your father’s, Angelo. Or yours.’ She reaches out for his hand. ‘Perhaps it’s yours. The Immaculate Conception. My Angel Gabriel. Did you do this to me, my angel?’

  She puts his hand against her belly and Angelo can feel something hard beneath the skin. ‘Feel it. Feel your baby, Angelo.’ He can feel the wriggling limbs inside her and the soft skin around her navel. ‘Come and listen to its heart.’ She pushes his head down against her and he can see the mound of pubic hair beneath her pants. ‘Listen to it Angelo. It’s alive. It’s like a miracle.’

  He pulls away from her and takes the tray from the top of the television. Next to the plate of food there are two white tablets and a glass of water.

  ‘Don’t forget your medication,’ she says. ‘Take it before you eat.’ But the tablets are not like the Panadol she usually brings. ‘You have to take your medication.’ She gets up from the bed and takes the tablets in her hand. ‘It will make you more relaxed.’ She rubs her index finger around his lips and when they part, she pushes the tablets in. ‘That’s a good boy,’ she says. ‘Now eat your tea.’

  *

  That night, he wakes to the sweep of headlights across his room and the familiar thrum of his father’s car. He hears a slamming door and the motor left idling in the driveway by reception. The digital clock tells him it’s 10.15 a.m. It could be any time at all. It’s dark outside. He doesn’t know how long he’s slept. An hour? The best part of the night? It could be early morning with the sun about to rise, except that his father is here. He hears his voice over the thrumming of the car – urgent, angry – and drifts back into something close to sleep. When he wakes again to the bang of Victor’s door, the car is still running and he hears Lena’s voice arguing with his father, then Victor’s footsteps hurrying across the stones. There is shouting; another slamming door. 10.35 a.m. He feels he’s slept for hours.

  The muffled voices keep him half-awake – drifting – then his father is there, standing in his doorway, switching on the light.

  ‘Angelo,’ he says. ‘Get up.’

  There is no one else. His father takes Angelo’s suitcase from the wardrobe and packs his belongings into it. He takes the shirts from their plastic hangers and folds them roughly into squares. He empties each of the drawers.

  ‘Put these on,’ he says. ‘We’re leaving.’

  He tosses Angelo’s trackpants to the end of the bed. A T-shirt, a pair of socks. Then he’s in the bathroom, scooping his tablets and toothbrush into a plastic bag.

  Angelo’s head feels thick and heavy. His eyes won’t adjust to the fluorescent light. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls the track-pants over his pyjamas.

  ‘What time is it?’ he says. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Away.’

  His father zips the suitcase and carries it to the car. The motor is still running; the headlights flare across the forecourt towards Lena’s room. Angelo follows him out, carrying his shoes. The door of his own room is left ajar.

  ‘Lena,’ he says. ‘What about Lena?

  ‘Lena’s finished,’
his father says. He slides into the driver’s seat and shuts the door. ‘Get in.’

  As he swings the car back out towards the highway, Angelo looks back to see Lena standing by reception. Her body is full and heavy, bathed in light from the open door.

  ‘Don’t look back,’ his father says.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘A new home, somewhere decent.’

  Angelo lifts his hand to wave but Lena doesn’t move.

  ‘Don’t look back. We’re gone from here.’

  Everything outside the car is dark except for Lena. She is ablaze with light, shining brighter and clearer than he’s ever seen before, and as the car accelerates away she seems to float toward him, beckoning, holding out her arms. The headlights scan across the empty column.

  Angelo knows that soon – tonight perhaps – the baby will be born. He knows it is his father’s child. All of his memories start and end with her. Angelo knows he has been here before.

  Any Dog

  Sonya Hartnett

  They’re saying something about a dog. But there wasn’t any dog.

  Unless they mean old Taf. But Taf has been dead for years. There’s no good reason to speak so loudly of Taf.

  —The son kept mentioning this dog.

  —The family’s here?

  —No, they’re coming. I spoke to the son on the phone. He lives with the son’s family, apparently.

  —Did you tell them to hurry?

  —I assume they’re hurrying.

  The boy in blue creases his nose. He shakes his head like a pony. He is a nervy and restless boy. His lungs must be like bellows, that big body full of air. God it’s hot.

  —The hottest day on record, they’re saying on the radio.

  —Yeah, well, it feels it.

  Words roll from me before I can stop them. They flow down my chin like lava. It’s not hot, I say. The men in blue both look at me. They are surprised. I’ve kept silent thus far. I remember hotter days when I was a boy.

  —Well, I don’t know, Mr Collier. They’re saying it’s the hottest day on record. It’s forty-four degrees Celsius out there.

  —Forty-four! The boy clutches his head. Jesus Almighty! Forty-four?

  The older one shifts closer. Mr Collier, your son said something about a dog. A golden retriever. Did you have a dog with you? Do you remember a dog?

  He’s staring at me earnestly. I gaze mildly back at him. Sweat is unpleasant on my skin, on my neck. The room which holds myself and the gentlemen is square and small and white. The furniture is cheap and itches. There is a NO SMOKING sign on the wall. Also a sign that says WHO IS WATCHING?

  I’ve shut my mouth, I’m feigning ignorance, I’m saying no more. They’re speaking of Taf, and Taf’s not their business. Taf sleeps in my heart like a secret. Nobody knows he is there. I will not discuss him, disturb his peace. I will not let them put their thoughtless paws upon him. My memories are antiques, china-delicate: even I handle them only rarely, and then with utmost care.

  It was a hot day, like this, the day I found him. I remember a sky like blue cream, free of clouds. I can, in fact, recall everything about that day, just as if I’m walking through it again. I’m twelve. It’s a flea-market. There’s grass underfoot. I am there.

  The younger sighs heavily. We can’t wait all day.

  —It won’t be all day. The son said he’d be here. Besides, would you rather be outside? It’s a hundred times hotter out there than in here.

  The young one’s collar is an eel at his throat; he wrestles with it. Anyone’s got the energy to break the law on a day like today, I admire them. Wouldn’t you, Mr Collier?

  —Mr Collier, can we get you anything? Something to eat, maybe?

  My nostrils flare. I smell toffee. It’s a thick sweet smell, a tooth-rot smell, making syrup out of the air. I see a crowd of faces, some grubby and leering, others church-white and mean. Music is playing, something cranked out of a box, four or five notes that trip over themselves like a hiccuping drunk on a road.

  The younger one has his feet up on the seat. I have never sat in such a way. He is big as a colt, and impolite. He has the habit of thinking his own concerns are paramount. He’s bored, he’s hungry, he’s hot, he’s tired. He’s not yet learned that nobody cares.

  —What did the doctor say, anyway?

  —He’s a bit dehydrated. A bit sunburned. He’s in pretty good shape, considering.

  —Then he can’t have been outside very long.

  —Who knows.

  —Well, he can’t have been. Simple fact. I mean, it’s hot. I mean, this is killing weather. Walk around out there too long – especially wearing your Sunday get-up like he is – and you’re going to die. Simple fact.

  —Drink your water, Mr Collier.

  I’m at the flea-market and the sun is on my head like honey, drizzling into my shoes. I’m wearing shoes and socks. Most boys wear bare feet. My mother says that I am not a ruffian and I will not appear as one. She has said DON’T GET INTO MISCHIEF, as if this is something I occasionally do. She’s given me a handful of pennies. She stands behind the table of the parish cake stall. BE BACK BY LUNCHTIME, KEVIN.

  I take a sip of water. It comes in a paper cup. The gentlemen are watching with proud, doting smiles. The older one should have his thyroid checked.

  At the market the junk stalls face each other with a wide aisle in between. The aisles head north, south, east, west, they are tidy and angular as hedgerows – yet they also tangle like rambling roses, and soon I am lost. Perhaps, in truth, I know where I am, could return to my mother in moments if I chose, but when I stop and look around, I can’t remember the twists and turns I’ve taken to this point, the stalls I’ve passed, the goods I’ve fingered, the people I’ve bumped against. All is commerce. All is noise. Doubtless there are shady deals being sealed in the shadows but, from where I stand, all is good-cheer. Babies howl. Children squabble. Glass is broken. Money rustles.

  —So what did they say about the vehicle?

  —The wife’s car. A station wagon. Green. He took the keys from her handbag, apparently.

  Pennies only buy things that I do not need. I have a room full of trinkets and trash; also other, more costly wares. Spinning tops, wooden toys, a train set, boxed soldiers. A leather ball, rocking horse, a tin engine, a marionette. I have these and countless more. I’m an only child, an only grandchild, an only nephew, inundated. I don’t particularly care for this overflow of goods – but nor do I care to see my toys ill-treated and manhandled. When Mother invites boys over to visit, I am edgy. Too often, my possessions emerge from these visits the worse for wear. I feel the damage is done deliberately, it’s jealousy or revenge or a show of strength. I don’t know whether to be angry or impressed. I am clumsy with friendship, I know. I am shy, I lack conversation, I constantly feel the fool. I squirm, when Mother asks another CAN YOUR BOY COME OVER TO PLAY? Even worse: the boy squirms. I have begged her DON’T SAY THAT ANY MORE.

  WHY, KEVIN? I remember everything about her, her smell, her teeth, her hair, her clothes. I could point her out in the street to you. I remember how her face twisted in pain when I said DON’T.

  THINGS GET BROKEN, I say.

  HE BREAKS MY HEART, she tells my father. HE’S SUCH A LONELY CHILD.

  My father won’t speak of anything emotional. He glances at the stove. Dinner is his emotion. Dessert has his heartfelt sympathy. WHAT DOES IT MATTER, he says, IF THE BOY IS HAPPIEST ALONE.

  BUT HE’S NOT HAPPY. THAT’S THE POINT.

  YOU’RE NOT HAPPY. THAT’S THE POINT. KEVIN SEEMS FINE TO ME.

  And the predicament is that they are both right. I am happy alone. I am also lonely. I think I’ve been born inside a glass box. There’s no place for me beyond its confines. But I am reasonably content inside my home. In privacy, I am almost perfect. It’s the wider world which finds me distasteful. When my mother insists on cracking the walls, inviting the world, dismay and disaster must naturally follow.

  —Did the s
on know where he was going, in the car?

  —Wasn’t sure. Said he’s always agitating to go home, to the house where he grew up.

  —Oh yeah? Where’s the house?

  —In Dublin.

  The young one sprays laughter. Then gets a professional grip. Try to remember where you left the vehicle, Mr Collier. The green station wagon – remember? You were driving it. Then you stopped and got out and walked around. Did you leave the vehicle by the side of the road? Or in a carpark? Or maybe in somebody’s garage?

  —It could be anywhere.

  —No, it couldn’t. It must be close to where we picked him up. The doctor said he hadn’t been in the sun very long.

  —The doctor only said he’s in good shape, considering.

  —Mr Collier? Can you hear me? Mr Collier, do you remember the car? The station wagon? You were out driving today, remember?

  —You’re wasting your time. He’s got dementia.

  The young one’s lip curls – I think he’s frustrated. So what was he doing behind the wheel?

  —He wasn’t supposed to be. He stole the keys, I said.

  The younger one says nothing. He shakes his head again. His mouth can’t help twisting into a smile. He secretly likes theft. I look away.

  Then I see Taf.

  He’s inside a wicker cage with four hearty siblings. Each of them is similar, but it is Taf I see. He’s standing, his wisp of tail waving like a corn leaf in the breeze. His ears are folded like envelopes. He has a white stripe down his nose. The rest of him is the colour of toffee-apples – slightly red, slightly brown. His coat is short, but also long – enough to betray his lifelong tendency toward untidiness. I am the same myself. KEVIN, PICK UP YOUR CLOTHES. KEVIN, YOU’RE DROPPING PEAS.

  I gaze at him and I know I will die without him. Already I know his name.

  The man behind the table is selling second-hand novels. The pups are his burden, not his merchandise.

  HOW MUCH ARE THE PUPPIES?

  He looks up. HOW MUCH HAVE YOU GOT?

  I know without counting. She always gives me the same. TEN PENCE.

  THAT’S NOT ENOUGH. EACH OF THESE PUPS COSTS TEN BOB AND A HANDSTAND.