‘Eat up. You’ll need your strength,’ he said.
‘I can’t. I’m too full.’
‘Eat. I don’t want you lazing around on the job.’
‘Alright,’ I groaned and re-filled my plate.
Dad watched me eat and smiled. He had a plan for me, my old man.
The house looked amazing. Even with just a base coat of white, it had taken on a new lease of life. It shone in the morning sun. Dad passed me a pair of old sunglasses from his car so we could admire our efforts.
‘Wow. It looks great,’ I said.
‘Not bad. It’ll look even better with a second coat.’
I pondered my father. Why do some people, when they discover their sister has cancer, decide to run clear around the country to raise money for charity? Or why do some people, when they find out their wife is dying of a breast tumour, decide to paddle to New Zealand in an upturned bathtub? What was the point of that? I wondered. It wasn’t like their efforts were going to change anything; by the time this money could be used, it would all be too late for their loved ones. Surely their sisters and wives would prefer them to be by their side, not running through the desert or paddling around in the middle of the ocean? People couldn’t fix things like that. They were just doing it for themselves, I thought, to feel useful. These acts of compassion were nothing more than a way to hide from the truth: we were all helpless in the face of fate.
‘Why now, Dad?’ I asked.
‘Don’t think about it, Monty. Just do it.’
‘Yeah, but why now? After everything …’
‘Monty,’ Dad interrupted. ‘Just shut up and paint the house. Understand?’
‘Yeah. I understand.’
We worked in muted silence, communicating only by grunts. The simplicity was meditative. Dad had one thing right: if I didn’t think about it, time passed quickly. Eventually, he gave me a wall of my own to paint and a nod of approval when I’d finished. After two days of solid work, the house looked like it could have featured in some trendy magazine. The weatherboards were now straight and white and Dad even re-nailed and sanded the front porch, bringing it all back into line. The old, snarling face of our house now gleamed with a cheerful looking smile.
I still wanted answers. Why did he wait for my mother to be committed to paint the house? Despite my desperation, I couldn’t bring myself to ask him. He stood looking at it from the street, and a strange smile crept on his face. Did he want to surprise her when she got home? A darker thought crossed my mind; perhaps he didn’t expect her home at all?
‘Shouldn’t we go visit Mum?’ I asked.
He glowered, as if admonishing me for having such thoughts.
‘I’ll go check on her later,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to worry about all that. She’ll come round.’
He disappeared into the shed to clean up his paintbrushes.
I tried to stay awake in case the dog came but exhaustion overtook me. Night used to be my time. Often, I’d lie awake the whole night and maybe get ten minutes of sleep here, five minutes there. My thoughts had free rein over the world. I could fly free, a discombobulated head in pure nothingness. This was harder now. My body needed rest. My mind eased. Thoughts quickly fell away to morning.
‘I want to see her, Dad,’ I said at breakfast.
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ he muttered as he sopped up his fried egg with a slice of bread.
‘She doesn’t want to see me, does she?’
He looked up and wiped a little egg from the thick stubble on his chin.
‘Monty, it’s more complicated than you think.’
‘She blames me, doesn’t she?’ I asked. ‘For Silas.’
‘She blames herself, Monty. That’s what guilt does to people.’
This was, by far, the most thoughtful thing my father had ever said. I nearly burst out crying in relief to hear him utter it. Yet he seemed strangely embarrassed by the thought and quickly cleaned up the plates, keeping his back to me so I couldn’t see his face.
‘You’re going to be sixteen soon, right?’ he asked.
‘Not ’til next year. February, if you’ve forgotten.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he said. ‘The fourteenth.’
He knew. It was so simple when you had all the facts. My parents couldn’t bring themselves to recognise birthdays. It just reminded them of their loss. Silas was a permanent shadow.
‘You’ll want your licence then,’ he grunted.
He looked at me as if this was an accusation, like I’d been hounding him for months about getting my driver’s licence. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. Then a wink flashed across his face. This wasn’t an accusation. It was an invitation.
We drove out of Middleford to a paddock miles beyond the reach of civilisation. Dad drove the car up a dirt track that opened up to a wide field. There was nothing in it but dirt tracks and dead grass.
‘Righto. This’ll do. Your turn,’ he said.
He got out of the car and rounded it to open my door. I just sat there, stupefied. He looked down at me, a little annoyed that I hadn’t grasped his meaning.
‘Slide over, Monty.’
I swallowed a ball of terror and slid over into the driver’s seat. I had to pull myself up over the handbrake to get there, and nearly tore the seat out of my pants, but I eventually deposited myself behind the wheel.
The wheel felt cold and powerful in my hands, as if I was in possession of a loaded weapon. I hadn’t even started the engine yet.
‘Go on then, start it,’ he said. ‘Turn the key then quickly let it go.’
I did as he instructed, and his satisfied grunt told me I’d done it just right as the car growled into life. It was an entirely new sensation, to start a car on your own. As a passenger, you don’t even notice when a car starts. It’s totally boring. All you’re thinking about is getting to where you’re going. But the act of having control was something else. It was power. I had exercised my will over something else. It was freedom.
‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘Put it in drive.’
He caught my confused look and clarified his instructions.
‘The big D,’ Monty, he explained. ‘Pull the gear lever down to the big, D. Handbrake off, then gently squeeze the …’
Suddenly, we were off. I didn’t know to start with my foot on the brake, so we lurched away with a loud clunk as the car thundered into gear. His annoyed grunt told me I’d made a mistake, but not a vital one. Next time, I would do better. The car rolled along in idle and I steered with my elbows locked, so all we did was follow the dirt track, going about five kilometres an hour. I could have got out and walked faster.
‘Now, hit the accelerator a bit,’ he said. ‘The pedal on the right.’
I looked down at my feet and felt for the pedals. Taking my eyes off the track wasn’t a smart thing to do and we began to drift a bit. We angled into the paddock as I hit the accelerator. Now, a real car is nothing like a computer game, where the accelerator is either on or off. When you hit the gas in a real car, you can feather it a little, or gun it hard. It was stupid of me. I hit pedal to the metal.
Dad let out a holler of shock, louder and more urgent than any of his warning grunts. This meant we were in serious trouble. And we were. The car literally leapt up in my hands as the engine went into overdrive. The thing boomed in our ears. It was like riding on the back of some mad beast sprinting at full speed. All my feelings of power evaporated. I no longer had control over this creature. It had control over me.
We sped across the paddock. Clods of soil flung up from the tyres, covering the car. Grass flew around the windows and I screamed out in shock. Then something crazy happened: Dad was laughing. He was roaring with laughter, louder even than the roar of the car.
‘That’s it boy, give it some more!’ he shouted. ‘There’s nothing to hit out here!’
He looked so alive I almost didn’t recognise him. I fought through my fear and held on to the wheel, steering us to who knows where. We flew a
cross the paddock like a metallic demon. I began to smile, enjoying the sheer rush of it. His confidence gave me false hope, I guess. Or maybe it was just bravado, and secretly he feared for his life, I wasn’t sure. A fence came into view.
‘Righto. Back off now,’ he said. ‘Brake, Monty.’
I didn’t brake. I didn’t back off. It wasn’t that I didn’t realise which pedal was which. I guess I was just in some kind of catatonic state. Fear can do that to you. The truth was, it didn’t even seem real, like I was watching a play or a movie about someone else’s life. Whether they went through that fence or not, lived or died, would have no real effect on my own life. We were separated through some imaginary fourth wall. All that mattered was the drama along the way, the colour and movement. It was just something to keep you interested until the lights went on and you realised it was over.
Dad acted swiftly and threw the car into neutral and slammed on the handbrake. The engine suddenly screamed out in agony. The back wheels locked up and Dad reached over to hold the wheel straight so we didn’t end up in a spin. We slid over the dirt and pulled up metres in front of the fence.
‘Guess I’m not ready,’ I apologised.
Dad looked at me harshly, studiously. I never felt him look at me so deeply before. His fear gave way to anger. Then pity, I guess.
‘Why do you do that, Monty? Why do you act like nothing matters?’
I had no answer. I did what most stupid teenagers do when confronted by their parents: I simply shrugged and remained silent.
He gave an exasperated shake of the head and helped me turn the car around.
‘Let’s try it again,’ he said. ‘Slower this time.’
Dad didn’t give up on me. He didn’t scream and shout and order me out from behind the wheel. He simply told me to do it again. He didn’t say it outright, but this was his way of telling me not to give up.
I took to driving relatively quickly after that, and discovered I had a skill almost equal to my dad’s in controlling a vehicle. The only difference between us, I guess, was the propensity for my mind to wander off at crucial moments. But the near miss with the fence had taught me to focus. Driving forced me to concentrate on this world. It forced me to keep my mind on the task at hand. I loved it.
We swapped places again by the main road. He looked across to me and I saw something in him I’d never seen before. Pride. We’d connected. It wasn’t just the car, or the act of driving; he had given me a glimpse into his world. He showed me I had the power to make my own decisions. I never wanted a car so much in all my life.
‘This girl you keep watching?’ he asked.
‘Eliza.’
‘It’s over between you and her?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then it’s over, Monty. It’s not good for you to keep watching.’
‘Is that why you got me to paint the house?’ I asked.
He smiled and continued driving us down the highway. Sunshine made the thick hairs on the backs of his fingers glow. He gripped the wheel with muscular ease. The car would never dare bolt out from under him.
‘Exams are coming up,’ he said. ‘If you don’t go back now, you’ll have to repeat next year.’
‘I know. I can’t go back. Don’t make me.’
‘Hey. No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. Got that?’
‘Yeah. Got it.’
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Come work for us down the shop. Just over the summer break. If you don’t like it, you can always go back. Earn enough to buy something cheap. I’ll make sure it’s decent.’
‘My own car?’ I asked.
‘Nothing too fast,’ he grinned.
We drove home in silence, listening to Dad’s favourite country and western music on the radio. The wind blew through the open windows and filled the car with the warm, fresh scent of spring. Dad took the long way home, through winding roads and country scenery. We swept past lazy sheep in their meadows, cows, and even the odd alpaca. Dad drove with one arm leisurely out the window. I imagined myself doing just that in a few months’ time.
I had the sudden urge to see all there was of the world. I’d start with Australia, head up the coast all the way north until the roads ran out and there was nothing but jungle ahead, then I’d turn west and circumnavigate the whole country right back down to the Southern Ocean. After that, I’d fly to other countries, getting work picking fruit or whatever and always I’d buy a cheap, decent car. I’d know what to look for after my time working in the auto shop, and I’d always pick up something that would get me around, no trouble. I’d even make a few bucks on it when the time would come to sell it. I’d travel the world this way, touring. The States, Asia, Europe, even Africa; I’d see it all. I’d drive every car known to mankind. You could say I was hooked.
The auto shop smelled of grease and instant coffee. The other men who worked with Dad were all cut from the same frame as him; all genetically gifted with massive shoulders and thick, square hands. Their fingers were like lines of fat sausages. They didn’t speak much either. Just like Dad, they communicated in grunts and showed their affection to me by ruffling my hair with their greasy, blackened hands.
Old Bob owned the shop. He was a wizened crow of a man and stank of Brylcreem and onion farts. You never knew when he’d let one loose. You’d be standing next to him, checking out an engine, and he’d let slip the most hideous fart imaginable. The sound would go on for minutes. I swear it was like there was some kind of angry animal growling away down there. He only did this in the shop though, and had to control himself when dealing with customers. I found out later Dad had already arranged for me to work there during the holidays. Old Bob heard the stories about what happened to me at school, and with my mother and everything. He must have taken pity on me, I guess. He didn’t need an apprentice, so I was just given clean-up duties. They called me the dogsbody.
I worked hard and quickly had the place swept up, with all the tyres and radiator hoses arranged in neat rows. There wasn’t much else to do and Old Bob quickly got sick of me standing around, looking useless, so he gave me my first oil change.
The work was simple. There was an order to things. Old Bob farted and guided me through the process and clicked his tongue in approval after I was done. Later, he thought he’d keep me busy and tossed me a workshop manual. I speed-read it cover to cover over lunch. By the time Old Bob got back from the shops with his steak and onion pie, I’d changed the car’s brake pads and given it a radiator flush as well. He didn’t want me getting too cocky and told me to just stick with the oil changes, even though I’d saved him some time.
My first pay packet was a gift from heaven. I didn’t earn much compared to the qualified mechanics like Dad and Old Bob, so they just paid me cash out of the till. The envelope bulged with twenties and fivers and some coins too. I’d never really had any money of my own before so I just stared at it.
‘Don’t blow it all at once,’ said Dad. ‘I can hold on to it if you want. To make sure you save it.’
‘Alright. I’ll just keep twenty.’
Dad smiled and ruffled my hair proudly. I knew how filthy his hands were from all the grease, but I didn’t care. Affection coursed through me. I had made him proud. I had done something worthwhile. I had made my mark on the world, however small, even if it was just changing someone’s oil. My father’s acknowledgement was a rush of excitement. Until then, I had no idea how much I needed it.
I could see what he was doing; Dad was keeping me busy. He stole me away from that porch, distracted me from Eliza and the school. He’d forced me to move forward. Everything was in the past now. I could choose for it to affect me, or not. He was right and I was happier for it. Still, when silence returned, so did the past.
Middleford House, or the asylum as I preferred to call it, was busy with excitement. Piano music tinkled from a room out the rear. Someone was singing old timey show tunes. It was happy stuff, written to get your toe tapping and your troubles f
orgotten. My mother was at the front, absent-mindedly leafing through the choir booklet. She didn’t sing along. Actually, none of the patients sang along. They all just stared at the old gal playing the piano with a passionless gaze. The woman banged away at those tuneless keys with more gusto. Trying to frighten them off, I thought. She looked fearful of them. Any minute their medications would wear off and they’d attack. The more silent they were, the louder she played, warding off danger. Unpredictable folk, the insane.
I grabbed a choir booklet and started singing. I had no idea what the song was about, I didn’t care, I just sang. I had never tried singing before. I now knew I had a terrible voice. It suited my purposes I suppose; everyone turned around.
My mother took one look at me and quietly walked out.
I raced after her down the corridor. She quickened her step to get to her door. I ran to cut off her exit.
‘Why don’t you want to see me?’ I asked.
She pondered this for a moment, as if weighing up telling me the truth, or lies.
‘It hurts me to see you. That’s why,’ she said.
The truth then.
Chapter Seventeen
Alias: @The Full Monty
Date: Monday December 1, 10.00AM
I know how to get out now. You just have to keep going. You just keep working. Don’t think about it. Just do it. So what if things don’t make sense? So what if you feel pain?
Tears are salty to remind you that you’re still alive :)
Hello? Come on, you can’t ignore that one.
Fine, have it your way. This is my last post to you. I’m out.
*
I missed Gutentag. His posts were annoying, and I swear he probably spoke English fluently, but he was a friend. He heard my innermost thoughts. I didn’t even tell those to the dog, not willingly anyway. Talking with Gutentag was probably the most honest I’d ever been. For whatever reason, he’d grown tired of me and disappeared. I deleted my account. I had to take my own advice, I guess. It was time to move on.
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