Water Under Water

by Peter Rix

  Jim shook his head again, but he could not help grinning now as if indulging a precocious but endearing child. Andy could always make you smile. But it was a momentary reprieve. Even before Andy had slipped the jellyfish back into the water, Jim received the same flash he’d had many times over the past twenty years, every time someone had mentioned Andy’s name, whenever he’d even thought of his old friend, that same jagged image of the hospital phone booth, the stunned silence, the receiver dangling on its cord. Twenty years. There had been many times through those years when he’d wondered how other men – friends, colleagues, his own father – would have managed having a son like Tom. Not Andy, though. The question did not arise. The proof was there right from that first morning. Andy would have escaped somehow, would simply not have allowed it to happen.

  Andy slipped the jellyfish back into the water. He pointed to a different path, and they strolled though a confusion of lillipilli, grevillea, hibiscus and murraya back to the house. The two old mates sat in the cane chairs on the veranda, and Andy fetched a bottle of red. Jim refused his offer of a meal.

  Smoke?

  Not for years, Andy. Since the boys, I guess. You still?

  Some. There’s more kick in this shit than the stuff we used to get at uni. It helps push life’s little failures under the surface.

  Their talk settled into the old pattern like a wheel in a well-worn track: reminiscences of the old days, life on the lake, Jim’s job, Fran.

  And your sons, Jimmy. How’s young James? Not so young James now, I guess, and …?

  Tom. They’re fine. He is.

  He had already told Andy about the river trip. They chatted on. How simple it was, after all. On how many holidays had Jim driven the highway past the turn-off? Heading somewhere. No time to track Andy down, he’d told himself. No point. And with everything else – the pressure of his job, Tom, he and Fran at loggerheads – why would he want to take up jousting with Andy again? But this was not the old Mayfield, he realised. This was a subdued Andy, a toking Andy, each sentence released only after a pause. Not that the wit was dulled; it was just more leisurely. No worries, no hurry, as if the future stretched further on the coast, more ahead for him up here than in the days when their lives had no concept of time.

  Some contrast with Jim’s own life. He looked around the garden then checked his watch. When did it start, this panic that time was short, running out, and there would never be enough? He willed himself to settle back in Andy’s exhaled smoke. Familiar salt air, the lazy, half-told stories, as easy as breathing. Soon, he was pausing in mid-sentence too, as if words carelessly chosen might tear holes in this evening draped over the water. A silence seeped in until the time arrived when they stopped talking altogether.

  When did he lose this? He watched Andy watching the night fall. There was no escaping it; Tom’s birth changed everything, didn’t it? Simple fact of life. The dark closed around them, the shapes of the garden slid from their edges, the small mound of raw earth beneath the hibiscus softened and there was only the straight line of the shovel upright in the garden. Jim shook himself loose.

  I’d better get back on the road, Andy. Look, it’ll seem crazy, but I wanted to say …

  But Andy thought it was about the dog, waved away what he assumed was an apology, and, with everything else, Jim went along with it. Besides, in spite of himself he needed to finish the visit on equal terms.

  That wasn’t it, but I am really sorry about the dog, he said. And grateful. I am right too, though, aren’t I? It would have been worse if it was someone’s favourite pet?

  Andy had always been so quick, but now he took time to create space, hauling himself from the chair to light citronella candles, which cast a flickering glow over the veranda. If he’d just stuck around, Jim was thinking, he could have been so good, whatever line of business he’d turned his hand to.

  Worse, son? Andy said finally. You mean like which life leaves the larger empty space? Which gets more flowers at the funeral, a three-column obit in the Herald?

  He drew on his joint, flicked a burnt match into the night and leant back against the veranda railing. Maybe they were both high, the atmosphere around them a heady mix of the smokes – one acrid, one sweet – with an edge of damp grass and newly turned earth brought in on the cool air. Andy’s words slipped from his mouth like smoke rings, hard-edged for just an instant only to curl away into the light until they lost shape and faded into nothing.

  What if you’d knocked over a roo back up on that road? Andy said, almost like it had happened years ago and he was raising it now, reluctantly, only at Jim’s insistence. Or a snake? It would have been hit-and-run then, wouldn’t it? No little pile of dirt under the hibiscus. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

  Was Andy actually trying to recover ground he’d lost all those years ago? So fucking typical, as if his clever words now could simply change history. Jim had been forced to live with that phone call for twenty years, but not Andy; he does an about-face and obliterates it from the record. Jim peered at him in the candlelight. No, he was reading too much into it. This was just another joust, another purely theoretical debate. What chance Andy even remembered the morning Tom was born? The lines at the corners of his old friend’s eyes went well with his thinned-out face. This was just talk, wasn’t it? Just Andy?

  Don’t put words into my mouth, Andy, he said.

  But his old antagonist would not back off, as if not to secure his point would amount to an admission. He’d made his clever little speech with his head tilted at the Mayfield debating angle, and now his eyes narrowed against the smoke. Light-headed, Jim followed the words up into the open-beamed veranda awning, into dark corners where cobwebs shivered in the candle heat and a splay-legged spider bided its time. If Andy really was making a shot at redemption, then fine, but Jim wanted it all out in the open, laid out in front of them just like one of their old arguments. You always had to have things neat and tidy, an explanation for everything, he wanted to challenge Andy, but as soon as it got rough around the edges you cut and ran. That’s why you dropped out of uni, came up here, never took on a proper job, because you knew you couldn’t live up, that it couldn’t live up. You couldn’t even bear the thought of a child like Tom, let alone be the wise kahuna to him. Or have you forgotten that promise, too? I used to envy you for getting ahead of what the rest of us had to go through, but you weren’t really getting ahead, were you, just away?

  But he said none of it – who would he really be attacking anyway? And it was he who had run over the dog – that was real enough, wasn’t it? He let the moment pass. They both did. Andy flopped back into his chair and held up the bottle. Another drop? Jim shook his head.

  Ah, Jimmy, my good old friend, Andy said. Haven’t we learnt anything? And you’re right – a loved pet versus a stray. Of course, you’re right. There has to be a hierarchy. We can’t avoid it. I guess I just meant it seems tough on the ones at the bottom rung.

  As it ever was, he left Jim unsure if he’d won or lost or if a truce had been declared. He turned his glass upside down – their old signal to end hostilities.

  Twenty years, Andy. Can you believe it?

  The mood was broken as they left the veranda and the garden with its glint of water through the trees and the hesitant steps of their coming together. There’d been a texture to the light around the back, drawing them closer as the day slid beneath the covers. At the front of the house, the air was flat and suburban. Yellow-lit windows glowed from the houses on each side, and the evening muses kept their distance. A streetlight pulsed erratic reflections off the concrete driveway and metallic-painted bonnet. The picnic rug sprawled on the grass like something left behind. Jim could no longer feel the salt on his skin as he folded the rug. That rug. He and Andy and Fran huddling beneath it on a surfing tour. Somewhere north? He held it up.

  Remember that trip, Andy?

  But it was impossible. Twenty-five years before, the same tartan blanket? No, I’m wrong. Forget it.


  He tossed it onto the passenger seat and climbed in after.

  Do you ever wonder, Jim asked, if you’d finished your degree, put in four or five solid years in the city, given yourself a base?

  Andy grinned. That’d be to fall back on, you mean?

  Why not?

  Fall back on is still falling, mate. He moved to close the door. Or, maybe I just got the old midlife crisis out of the way twenty years early. I was always quick on my feet, so they say.

  The confession and the joke. Somewhere in there was the truth of Andy’s life. Jim started the car, shifted into reverse but kept his foot on the brake.

  Really, mate, about the dog.

  Andy picked a leaf off his T-shirt and held it up to look closer. There was a weariness in his voice. Forget it, son. I shouldn’t have had a go at you. You’re right, I should have stayed for a while, too, or called. I wanted to. I’m really sorry. I’d like to hear all about your son, about Tom, if you want to. And James, of course, he must be …

  Yeah, he’s great. Next time, that’d be good.

  Jim checked in the rear vision and let the vehicle start back along the driveway. Andy raised one arm in a mock salute then drifted it into a gesture of farewell. His hand was still raised as Jim drove off, as if screening his eyes against the flickering streetlight. Jim took extra care at the right-hand turn, glancing back towards the place where the dog went under the wheels. So Andy did know, had known. And kept his distance all this time. Just like the others whom Jim and Fran no longer called friends.

  He pushed on towards Port Halliburton, alert for speed traps. There was a message on his mobile: Dad, it’s me. I won’t say the time. Kaylee doesn’t know about me using her phone so I have to say it quietly then I have to put it back in her bag. Dad, I had my big trip to the river all planned and now she’s spoiling it. She thinks it was my fault about Amit. I need you to come to the river to tell her. You have to promise you won’t get mad. I’d better let you go now. Please come quickly. Please, please, please.

  Why was Tom calling from Kaylee’s phone? He was always losing things. They got him the mobile to make things easier, but sometimes it seemed more trouble than it was worth.

  Eleven

  This is Jim Campion. Leave a message.

  4.44 pm: Dad, this is Tom, your second son, at four-four-four pm. I know you can’t hear me in this time now but when you get this message then you’ll hear this same voice that I’m speaking with. I really need to know if you can take me skateboarding tonight. It will still be daytime if you can give me a pick up to the skatepark. Don’t bother about calling back. I don’t want you to get mad. Just tell me when you get to our place.

  4.49 pm: Dad, it’s me again, your other son, Tom. I won’t say the time any more like you said. About tonight. I’ve got my skateboard that you gave me last birthday ago. And, here’s the good news for you! I got James’s out of his room for you to ride. Take my advice, Dad. I’m a skateboarder, so I can teach you. Don’t bother about returning this call.

  4.53 pm: Dad, it’s me again. I don’t think you’d better ride James’s skateboard. He got mad when I let Amit use it. I’d better let you go now, my TV show is coming on. Actually, I don’t think I’ll leave any more messages. Love you.

  The skateboard was the big present for Tom’s fifteenth birthday. He was in his room when Jim got home, pads and helmet on, the skateboard cradled in his arms.

  Hey, my favourite father.

  Your only one, mate.

  I still love you, Dad.

  Just hop in the car before it gets dark.

  The skateboard came on an outback expedition those June school holidays. Three families, kids ranging from ten to sixteen, four-wheel-drive vehicles loaded with most of what they might need and a lot they wouldn’t, including Tom’s special pillow, his guitar, boogie board and half a dozen ‘homework’ books. James had opted out, so there was plenty of room for once. Even Tom’s rock collection made it on board.

  We’re going into the desert, Jim told Tom. There’ll be more rocks than you can poke a stick at. There’ll be nowhere to ride a skateboard, either. It’s all bush.

  Tom did his staring-statue routine.

  All right, we’ll jam it in somehow.

  No one else went near the rocks. Jim unloaded them at each night’s camp. Tom never gave them a thought, and they didn’t make it back on board after the fourth night’s camp. The skateboard was forgotten too, until they pulled into a roadhouse a hundred kilometres from the next town on the route. The fathers filled up and did the oil/water/tyres check. The mums and most of the others invaded the shop for a few extra supplies. The roadhouse kept watch at the intersection of two narrow blacktop strips stretching away to all four points in dead-straight lines. The day had been cold and cloudless, a headache’s worth of glassy light. In the late afternoon, the wind had whipped up again, deadening fingers and searching out bare skin through gaps in clothing. They were in for a freezing desert night. Jim stamped his feet at the petrol bowser. It got bitterly cold out there – better a winter surf any day than this. Let’s get out of here.

  Tom had slept through most of the afternoon’s drive, but now he was staring at a group of boys playing on the tarmac. Then he was rummaging around in the back of the Landcruiser.

  Come on, Tom, his father said. Don’t start unpacking now.

  My skateboard.

  Forget it. We’re only here a few minutes.

  It was so cold his fingers could hardly hold the pump. Tanks filled, he looked around for Tom. Dark came in quickly out here. The local kids were taking turns on a skateboard going over a makeshift jump – a piece of board and a few bricks. Tom was sitting on a dirty old pallet. Jim almost envied how Tom always found a way to join in, chatting away to the fellow next to him, spinning the wheels of his board like his brother did.

  Tom, come on, we’re leaving.

  A couple of the others looked up but not Tom. Jim knew that determined non-response. He headed over to the group. Tom’s companion was an old Aboriginal man.

  Dad, this is my new friend, Robert. Robert, meet my father, Jim Campion.

  Tom loved introductions. He jumped to his feet and extended an arm towards each of them in turn, as he’d seen his father do. The other man’s greeting came from somewhere under a frayed old beanie.

  Boy reckon y’ might be interested in a didge.

  The dads had talked about buying didgeridoos – if they could get the genuine article, not some tourist imitation. It was hardly an ideal buying situation, but Jim could already hear the story in it. He squatted in front of them.

  All right, let’s talk about that.

  The old man blinked. Tom wriggled along the pallet closer to his new friend. Jim fought to keep a straight face. There was Tom, eyes bulging, darting looks from one face to the next, organising the players like he was heading up the negotiation team. Honest broker Tom, manipulating the players.

  … there’s one thing I see in him more than Down Syndrome.

  My dad works in a big building in Sydney, Tom announced. That’s still in Australia. He’s got lots of money.

  The other boys left their game. They crowded onto the pallet behind the old man. Tom was all proud host, lining up his fancy, new skateboard next to their old, battered one. He worked his way through a round of introductions complete with conspiratorial winks and nudges. Then he was leaping about on the pallet, worming his way into the middle of the local kids so that it seemed to Jim, negotiating the deal in the gloom, as if the old bloke had some kind of motley support team, a squirming phalanx of disembodied, laughing eyes and gleaming teeth. And right in their midst – unfairly it seemed, somehow – one white face kept flashing in and out of view, grinning as widely as the others. So that even as Jim showed off the new acquisition in camp later that night, the pleasure he normally took from a deal well done was oddly absent.

  The trip stumbled on, a few ups, a few Downs – a joke only a parent could tell, and only to another parent.
We chosen few, as Fran used to say when the effort it took to manage Tom got the better of her. A few days later, they were picnicking in the park of a small country town. The local council had installed a skateboard ramp in one corner. One of the other boys bowled up to Tom. Hey, can I borrow your skateboard, my favourite friend? Say yes, and I’ll be your slave for a whole hour.

  Tom loved this game, so his frozen-statue act came as a surprise.

  Where is your skateboard? Jim asked. I haven’t seen it around lately.

  Tom stared.

  You haven’t lost it? That was a birthday present.

  It’s cool, Mr Campion, the other boy said, worried he’d got Tom into trouble. It doesn’t matter.

  Jim went to search in the back of the vehicle.

  Tom yelled after him. Don’t you know I’m fifteen going on sixteen? It’s my life to lead. And my rocks, too.

  Tom’s skateboard came up again a year later. They’d taken him on a fortnight’s holiday in Italy. James had been overseas with his parents a couple of times while he was at school, but now he spent his long vacations backpacking with his girlfriend. Fran reckoned it was Tom’s turn and was convinced he’d be able to manage the long journey. The flight attendant handed out colouring sets and puzzles, hesitated the way people did, passed Tom by, then dropped the pack into his lap on her return run.

  Tom was out of his seat in a flash, chasing her down the aisle. These are for little kids.

  Oh, yes. I thought … I’m sorry.

  Don’t worry. I’ll keep them if you want.

  At the end of their row, Tom sat next to a young woman. Torn jeans, spiky hair, body piercings and a real scowl. You couldn’t really blame her, dumped next to Tom instead of the international stud she might have been hoping for. Tom offered to demonstrate how to use the air-sick bags. She was probably thinking he’d get the message and leave her alone. Half an hour into the flight, she stood to retrieve a jacket from the overhead locker. No matter how alert his parents were, Tom was always faster. Fran saw his eyes fasten onto the intricate bird just above the line of the girl’s jeans.