by Peter Rix
No way! Shouts tossed like coins towards the stage. Thrustin’ Justin!
Of course not, the speaker assured them. Our hero drapes a conspiratorial arm over the fellow’s shoulder, presses a couple of big notes into his hand for a taxi and offers him a few Sirs for good measure. Within minutes, the poor old boy is ready to pay for both cars, hand over the keys to his wine cellar and throw in his virgin daughter to boot!
The crowd roared. Jim could still hear them as the lift doors closed. The room on the eleventh floor was overheated. He slept badly and dreamt of Andy wandering through the garden by the lake, his face and body brushed by branches and hanging fronds. Then he was crouched by the mound of newly turned earth. His lips were moving, the voice rising and falling like a chant, the words carried away on the wind.
Jim stirred in the unfamiliar hotel bed, reached out for Fran. She was there, and he held himself close to the rhythm of her breathing. She pressed back into him. Shhh, Jimmy.
He slid again beneath the surface …
He was still there at dawn. Underwater now. Even as consciousness pushed sleep aside, he reached back for the images that darted from the depths like fish, like birds soaring, swooping, and again a fish, a bird, a fish, and he grasped at them, but they flashed for an instant and were gone. He let his eyes remain closed, willed himself back into sleep.
It was stifling in the hotel room. Half-awake, he stumbled out onto the balcony for air. He looked out over the water. Not even the offshore stirred. The night air goosebumped his skin. The hour before daylight, monochromatic sky and sea. He had dreamt of his father, too.
His father? Dead three years. In the dream, Jim had been woken from his childhood bed, the sleepout at the old family weatherboard house.
Our own little piece of paradise, his father used to say. Far enough back so the nor’easter’s not in your face, Jimmy, but close enough for the surf to rock you to sleep.
Fully awake now. Below him, Port was all black silk, as if he might drag it up onto the beach, drape the rocks and picnic seats, pull it over himself like a giant bedsheet.
His father took him fishing on mornings like this, a few times in the middle of one summer, after jewies and bream off the beach, well before sun-up. Slow to shrug off the bed heat, shivering in board shorts and T-shirt, yawning, stumbling barefoot in the heavy, damp sand, salt dew smearing his skin like mozzie spray. His father showed him how to cast with the big beach rod. A tall man, well over six foot, he slung the sinker way out past the shore break and into the channel. Then it was Jim’s turn. Waves foamed around his ankles, the water thick and soft, warmer still from the anticipation that it must be freezing. The rod was far too long for a small boy – no chance for young Jim to get the rhythm of the back swing and the releasing flick at just the right moment to catapult the heavy ball of lead over his shoulder. He tried once then let his father cast, the shame not quite banished by the pure, tingling pleasure of being there. Even at that age, Jim took seriously the responsibility of being an only child. If he could just think of something funny to say, something to make his father laugh out loud … but he suppressed the urge, tried to be grown up there on the beach at dawn, to be worthy of this time, just the two of them.
He and his father talked quietly in the half-light as they waited for the fish, and for the sun to break through. Out there.
The water beyond the break was dark shadow – like Port now, but seething, hungry. Jim and his friends were in the surf most days, summer and winter. He was as comfortable under the water as above. But this was different, the black surface a quicksilver divide between two worlds. What if he was out there right then, out of reach, treading water, head on top, his ghostly, slow-motion body and legs below, hidden from view as if to prove how easily they could be taken? Taken by the creatures that hid unseen in the water under water. The child-fear words were out before he could bury them.
What if you were swimming out there, Dad, when the water’s like that?
His father’s voice, clear across forty years, apologetic, as if it were not quite fair to be giving a lesson at that hour. The water doesn’t change in the dark, Jimmy. The water stays the same. We see it differently, that’s all.
His father bent low to the bucket half-filled for the fish, scooped water into his cupped hands, held them up to his son. See? It’s never really black, or green or blue. The water is always clear. We know it, Jimmy, but we let ourselves forget.
There had only been that one summer before Jim lost interest in fishing. Years later, his father found a true disciple in Tom, and whenever the boy had a weekend sleepover at his grandparents’, the two of them would load themselves up with fishing gear and provisions and head off, not to be seen for the rest of the day. Jim would collect Tom late on Sunday, and the boy would rave on about the giant whale he’d caught then fall asleep in the front seat, stinking of the bait fish Fran would find later stuffed into his shorts pockets.
Jim stepped back into the room. There was no chance of more sleep. The other remnant struck at him out of the dark before he could get the table light on. He sat on the bed, fingers on the switch … his father, in the hospice at the end, propped up on pillows to maintain the illusion he was still with them. How could this vacant, shrunken figure be the giant of those fishing mornings? His eyes fixed themselves on some point above Jim’s shoulder, but he offered no response to the determined joviality, their visiting-hours questions.
So, how is it today, Dad? Did they give you a good breakfast?
Jim held his hand. There was no sign the old man knew. Jim had a business trip organised. Fran and James were to join him. The airline tickets, accommodation, tours were all booked.
It doesn’t matter, Jimmy. We’ll go another time, Fran said.
I have to be in London for the conference. He could be like this for months. Longer. He doesn’t even know we’re here. I don’t want to leave him like this, but … I’m not sure …
They went finally, the three of them. Tom stayed in the respite care house; he’d never been keen on the place, but they promised him this would be the last time. The others were on landing approach for Sydney airport, crossing the coast just before sunrise at the moment his father died. Jim rang from the cab. The nurse confirmed the time.
I was with him at the end, she said.
It was light. Time to throw off the bad night with the tangled sheets. A quick cup of coffee in the room; on the road by six.
It didn’t work out that way. He decided on a few laps in the hotel pool; there was always a pair of Speedos in his overnight bag. The few hundred metres he’d planned slipped into something else. He quickly worked off the stiffness of a night in a softly sprung bed, but then with no laps target he just swam. No goal, no tension, and the rhythm came without strain, a state of equilibrium he could sustain for hours. Soon, he was moving not through the water but with it, the strokes no longer driving him forward, only holding the balance, providing a direction, arms robotic, flutter-kick barely disturbing the surface, breathing on the fourth stroke, twelve strokes to the lap, catching sight of the wall, tumble turning, pushing off, and back down the pool again. And again, and again. For more than an hour, there was only the counting, the breathing, the water, the flow. Until he was the flow.
Two young girls tormented each other at the poolside. I’ll push you in. I will!
Mid-stroke, Jim stood in waist-deep water. Heat flooded the muscles of his shoulders. For a panicked moment, his heart threatened to break free from its cage. He climbed from the pool on shaky legs. Towel? Draped over a plastic pool seat. He dried himself slowly, the touch startling on his skin. The early-morning sun brought him back, head raised, eyes closed, warm, alive.
The resort served a buffet breakfast in the dining room. If Campbell Baxter was there, he would be with his family. A brief moment would be fine to say hello.
Jim showered then dressed in front of the bathroom mirror. This trip was not going as he had planned it. He was under no illusion. From t
he start, it had been much more than just getting closer to Tom, and so far it felt as if he was being interrogated at every turn. Andy and the dog, the twenty-first, a disturbed night, like a zombie this morning. Picking up a hitchhiker! And now he was about to break another rule: eat a buffet breakfast. He detested the laid-out breakfasts in hotels. And being charged for the food you looked at rather than what you ate. Heaped baskets of breads and pastries, deep bowls of cereals and fruits, steaming bains-marie of eggs, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, three kinds of sausage.
Fran again, on one of their trips with the boys. There must be mountains of food left over, Jimmy. What do they do with all that?
He would brave it that morning, though. The face in the mirror gave him an odd look, the reflected grin quick as a flash; Tom loved hotel breakfasts almost as much as room service – the independence and the people, opportunities at the juice bar or toaster.
Tom, please don’t drag any more strangers over to meet us.
Dad, I’m not stupid. They’re not strangers. I introduced them.
From his table, Jim scanned the room for Campbell Baxter, lingered over a second cup of coffee. He was fairly sure the boy had spotted him at the door of the ballroom; it would be odd now to leave without explaining. But there was no sign of the young man, and after twenty minutes he gave it up and headed for reception and then, after an impatient wait to check out, to the car park and away. It was odd, too, the feeling ever since he’d set off from the city, a discomforting sense of urgency, the need to get to Tom quickly even as he sought out one diversion after another, as if he were already laying the foundations of an excuse.
Back on the highway, he relied on cruise control to keep him under the limit and turned on the radio to block out those so-confident voices from the birthday party at the Flying Dolphin.
Thirteen
Tom’s eighteenth birthday had been a work in progress for three years. Just about everyone he met during this waiting time was extended an invitation.
We all have a survival strategy, Fran told Jim. Even you.
The woman behind the counter at the post office received an invite, and the liquor-store delivery boy. A plumber came to clear a blocked sewer pipe, standing knee deep in his pit.
What a pong, Tom said, but you can come to my eighteenth party if you like.
The poor bloke straightened, accepted the scrap of paper like it was a royal invitation. Well, thanks, chief. And when is it?
The big day is in two and a half years.
Oh, right. I’ll keep that in mind.
You just have to wait, Tom, Jim told him.
It was a long wait, but eventually the big day came. Tom’s speeches were marked by moments of surprise. Jim positioned himself close by, a suitable place for intervention.
Ladies and jellybeans, Tom began. When my mum and dad got married, they did, you know, that thing …
Stick to your notes, Tom.
… then they had me, so they were very happy.
Stay on track, mate.
I’ve had the same parents now for eighteen years. They’re the only parents I’ve got … but they didn’t buy me a disc-jockey set last Christmas ago like I asked for.
He glared at them.
And I have a beautiful brother who loves to help me.
His cackle bounced around the room. James ducked for cover; when it was just the family around, he was always up for being dragged into Tom’s performances, but in front of all these people he decided to stay out of range. Tom never knew where to draw the line, especially when it came to his growing preoccupation with sex.
Before, when I was just a kid, I had three uncles, but one died. He’s still dead, and I don’t know how long I have to wait for him. And my other aunty – there she is, hiding behind the pot plant – she had to have a divorce because she wasn’t really happy with her one.
Jim stepped closer and put an arm around him. That’s probably enough now, Tom. Let’s cut the cake.
But Tom was in full voice and shrugged him off. He had assembled the full cast for his biggest of all days. Family friends and relatives, of course. Many had seen the whole eighteen years. Others, more recent acquisitions, arrived with nervous smiles – people were never quite sure.
We hope it is all right. Tom seemed very insistent we come.
Amit, invited for twelve-ish, arrived on the stroke of noon.
I know all of Mr Campion’s cars but I’m not going to say them today, not today.
I have a new car, Amit.
A new car? You haven’t got the blue Landcruiser any more? The blue one is gone? Before that, it was the silver one. It was a Landcruiser too. It was stolen – that’s why we didn’t see it any more. And before that …
Amit. Let’s not do the cars today, all right?
Karen arrived, marionette arms, head lolling. Her wheelchair was too dangerous near the pool, where the friends were congregating. Jim squatted to meet her eyes.
If you can get on to her level, Fran suggested once, you might be surprised.
So, what would you like to do, Karen?
Tom raced past, spinning her chair.
Watch it, Tom!
Karen in the chair was one thing. But tossed onto the floor, arms and legs and head all over the place like they might come apart – how would he gather her up?
Tom yelled back over his shoulder, She likes the computer. In that room, the computer in there she likes.
Well, at least you’ll be away from this madhouse, Karen.
He wheeled her into the study and pulled away Fran’s chair. The computer was switched on and in Microsoft Word. As good as anything?
So, Karen, is this all right? I’ll leave you to it, then.
Tom’s other best friends came: Newton, Virginia, Lizzie. And then a group in a special bus from the respite care house, down the driveway to the back garden, the other guests unsure how to deal with the wheelchairs and crutches. It had always been like that when the two worlds came together, the other guests intimidated by the en masse collection of disabilities.
The new arrivals congregated in and around the pool. Most swam – waifish skinny, hugely fat, elfin tiny, bent and misshapen, protrusions and gaps where there should have been tanned contours of strength and grace. Jim wondered if he should hop into boardies and join in.
No, not today, he had served his time …
A fine Sunday morning. Thousands headed for the beach, the cricket, to worship. Tom’s eighth birthday. He’d allocated a special role for his dad.
My dad taught me to swim last year ago. Now he can teach all the others.
At the shallow end, Jim encouraged them to come to him, or lifted them in himself. It meant something, didn’t it, to offer them this new skill? They crowded at the edge, boys and girls, skinny and gargantuan, alert and trancelike. He brought them, body by body, into the water, like some baptism ritual. He placed arms and legs into positions for the stroke, positions that approached normality, to create something functional, something whole from what was weak and broken. After all, Tom in the water was a new being, wasn’t he? It had often seemed that the boy was more a creature of the water than he was himself, swimming, diving deep with hardly a splash, staying down there, too, as if this were his natural medium, dolphin-rolling just beneath the surface, eyes wide for his father on the pool deck. More than once in the early days, Jim had panicked, jumping in for the rescue only to be welcomed by Tom, smiling, blowing bubbles.
And if Tom, why not the others?
I tried, Fran, I tried.
But there were so many, each with their own disability. If he’d just had time to work out a strategy … he had always believed in the power of water, the buoyancy, its capacity to repair and renew, but against these odds even the water was powerless. After an hour, the scale of the undertaking overwhelmed him. What was he seeing in their eyes? Which part of a broken body should he hold? The kids squealed and yelled and thrashed and writhed in his arms. In delight? Or was it terror, or pain? W
as it agony to bend this arm, for this leg to kick? Was his touch on this twisted spine unbearable, his hands instruments not of learning but of torture? He stuck it out to honour the promise, but in the end he had no choice but to duck beneath the surface to wash the shame from his eyes. Then Tom bombed him, and he lifted the boy high above the water.
Hey, who’s ready for party games?
He’d learnt his lesson. At this party, a decade on, he’d stay out of the water.
Hey, who’s ready for music? Tom was calling to his friends.
Dancing was as much fun as swimming. His friends knew all the moves. Except Amit, who had just the one frantic beat. Tom danced with Maisie. She and her brothers had grown up with James and Tom. Lots of barbecues and picnics and family holidays. Maisie’s photo had a special place on the back of Tom’s bedroom door. He had used his best scissor-cutting to excise his brother, her then boyfriend, from the shot of James and Maisie at the Stambridge House Year Twelve formal.
It’s too much for me having Virginia and Maisie, Tom confided once to Fran, but I don’t know which one to choose.
Young Maisie had been great with Tom over the years. And now here was Tom, right into the music, tempting her with the raunchy lyrics. She played along, making wide eyes. James laughed. Then a slow song came on, and Tom drew her in close – his head nestled neatly beneath her chin.
Maisie, I love your tits.
Tom! Nice boys don’t say things like that, she scolded.
Everyone looked, mouths open.
Why does he have to spoil it? Jim said in frustration as James moved quickly to fill his father’s glass.
Forget it, Dad, James said. She can handle him.
Tom wasn’t going to back off. Is James nice, then, Maisie? Did he say nice things in the swimming pool last year ago?
Now even James had had enough. Don’t be a loser all your life, little brother, he called out.
When the respite-house bus had left, Fran called the stayers to lunch. They sat the family and friends at one table, Tom and his group arranged around another.