Yesterday's Dust

by Joy Dettman

  ‘Dusting fossilised lies.’

  She stared up at him, and for a moment her eyes mirrored Ellie’s quizzical expression, but only for a moment. ‘Anyway, the cops think that Johnny and I bumped him off . . . Dad. They think we buried him that night. I know they do, and he could clear up the mess in five minutes, but he’s – ’ She looked at him, closed her mouth, then opened it again. ‘Speaking of messes, Tristan had diarrhoea today. Did I tell you? Probably not. It starts with a D. Doesn’t fit in with cat and cop and case and kid – ’

  ‘Perhaps we should try to sort out the cops and the case before we start discussing diarrhoea.’

  She sat, head in her hands, elbows resting on her knees. ‘Maybe they did plant a bug. If they did then the game’s up.’ She frowned as he sat beside her, squeezing in beside the bath. ‘They would have heard every word if they’d put it in the phone.’ She stopped abruptly, hiccupped and grabbed at her stomach.

  ‘In the phone?’

  ‘That’s what they do on television.’

  He had no idea what she was on about, but he kissed her, remembering her at sixteen when she’d wiped herself out on spiked punch. She was a mad drunk, each glass seemed to deduct five years from her mental age. Tonight she was a raving six year old. But he loved her anyway. He looked at her hair. Black fairyfloss tonight. She rarely allowed it to dry untamed. He looked at the long legs and the one shoe off and the one shoe on, and the long toes. Then he picked up the wine bottle.

  A centimetre remained. He tasted the wine, rolled it on his tongue, swallowed it, then emptied the bottle, closer to Ann than he had been since Bron’s wedding, his thigh against her thigh, his shoulder against her shoulder, her hair tickling his nose when he turned. The years had not dulled his need for her. He kissed her brow, lost beneath the wild hair, kissed her wine-flavoured lips, and she sighed, rested her head against his.

  ‘Did he have a temperature?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tristan. Diarrhoea.’

  ‘I hope not, the rabid little coot. He almost bit Matthew’s finger off. He’s too much like you.’

  ‘Me? I don’t bite.’

  ‘Matthew is too much like you. I think I’ll have to teach him to bite back. And don’t do that,’ she said as he kissed her again.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because.’

  ‘That bug, eh? Big brother watching.’ His arm slipped around her shoulder and her head fell against his, rested a while.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m a liar, David. I’m a cheat.’

  ‘Who with?’ he said, lifting her chin, kissing the speaking lips.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘What did you do with the boys while you were out cheating?’

  ‘They watched The Lion King. Twice.’

  ‘A long session, eh?’

  Nice to sit close to him. Nice to talk. She wanted to tell him about her father. Her briefcase was empty, so why shouldn’t she empty herself? Not so easy. Mightn’t be anything left in her if she did that. Couldn’t ever empty that place. Mandy might get emptied out too, and she wasn’t going to let her be gone. She wanted to turn her face to him, to kiss his smiling mouth, make love, which could blot out the world more effectively than wine, and no hangover either. Wanted him. Wanted him, but she pulled away, tried to struggle to her feet. Too hard. She gave up.

  ‘I think you’d be better off in bed.’

  ‘Incapable . . . at this particular moment. Can’t go anywhere without it,’ she said, patting the seat of the toilet. ‘It’s my security blanket.’

  He prised her free, lifted her. Waves of nausea rose with her and she swung away from him to the toilet bowl, where her stomach gave up its rosy-pink froth. ‘What a waste,’ she said. ‘Was it one of your expensive ones?’

  ‘Two of them by the looks of it.’ He stood waiting, damp cloth in his hand, and when she was done, he handed her the cloth, flushed the toilet.

  ‘I’ll replace it when I get my cheque. If I ever get another cheque. I’m a kept woman, David. I haven’t got any time to sew. Everyone wants a piece of me these days, and there’s nothing left for me. If they’d locked me up, I would have had time, wouldn’t I? I could have made a fortune in jail. Come out in twenty years time a rich woman.’

  ‘No wine in jail, and what in God’s name possessed you to down a bottle of wine on an empty stomach?’

  ‘It’s not empty. I’m bigger than I was with Tristan, and I’m sick of being big, and sick of napkins and wiping little bums and breaking up little brawls. Motherhood stinks sometimes – and I smell like a cross between a winery and a public loo,’ she said, weaving by him in the limited area and stepping into the shower recess, turning the cold water on full blast.

  ‘You’re supposed to take your clothes off to shower, Ann.’

  ‘Kill two birds with one stone.’

  He adjusted the water, testing the heat with his hand while she stood there in jeans and shirt, watching him.

  ‘Your eyes hurt me too much, David. They’re her eyes.’ He shook his head, and her hand reached blindly for the soap. It slipped from her grasp to the floor. She studied it a while, then her eyes sought his again.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love your deep ocean eyes, and I miss her. I still miss her.’ She thumped her breast with her fist. ‘It eats me. It eats the inside of me. Every day. Every hour.’

  ‘I know, my love.’

  ‘I know you know.’ She looked down at the wet shirt now moulding her high pumpkin belly. ‘I don’t want it to be another girl.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I know you know, and I know you know that I do want a little girl. I do. It’s just . . . it’s just . . . it might stop me from missing her, and it makes me scared, like the last part of her might get away from me.’

  He shook his head, wordless now. They never spoke of Mandy, never had been able to. She’d gone and they’d closed up that place, never to be reopened.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, leaning against the tiled wall. ‘I’ve got a pain, and I don’t know if it’s in my heart or my back or my stomach.’ She looked down at the soap, stooped, then changed her mind. ‘I might not get up again if I lean down there. Could you get it for me, please?’

  He reached in, picked up and handed her the small bar. He watched her lather her face, and her hair.

  ‘You’re far too thin. That baby is taking the strength out of you.’

  ‘Parasitic little growth. Him on the inside, them on the outside, I’m all sapped out.’

  He turned off the water and handed her the towel. She blotted herself, her clothing, wrapped the towel turban fashion around her hair, and he went to the bedroom for a gown.

  She was standing where he’d left her, dripping water onto the floor while studying her face in the mirror.

  ‘Get out of those wet clothes. You’ll catch a cold.’

  ‘That’s my problem.’

  ‘And you are my problem, and tonight a drunken one.’

  ‘Go and eat your beans – and turn the heater up.’

  ‘I don’t feel like beans.’ He kissed her.

  ‘That’s not a good idea.’

  ‘But it’s nice,’ he said softly. ‘You taste like a cucumber, cool, picked early while the dew is still on the vine.’

  ‘A pickled cucumber, vinegar seeping out of the pores. A screwed-up cucumber, not much good even for bottling.’

  His fingers worked on wet fabric, attempting to undo large buttons, but her hand caught his, pushing it away.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do, David.’

  ‘You’re going to get out of those wet clothes and get the hair dryer, and dry that hair, then you’re going to bed. My bed.’

  She took the towel from her hair and stood a moment, combing the wet mass back with her fingers. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘You can hear her in this room. Listen.’

  ‘It’s just the wind in the wires. Get into your nightie.’

  ‘It’s not the wind.
She’s out there, chasing her cat. It’s out there with her tonight.’ A finger to his lips, she said, ‘Shush. Listen.’

  And he listened and almost heard baby words in the wires, and he didn’t want to hear. ‘Where’s your hair dryer?’ he said.

  She reached for it and he plugged it in, turned it on. It killed the sound of the wind in the wires.

  ‘I wish so much. I wish I could . . . say so much to you. Just say everything and get it out of my head.’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘It’s like . . . in the end it goes on too long so you can’t say it, and you’d hate me anyway if I did.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Promise me that you won’t hate me, that you won’t tell anyone? Ever. Spit your death and hope to die?’

  He stood brush in one hand, dryer in the other, speaking above the noise. ‘You’ve done enough spitting for both of us tonight. Consider me spat.’

  ‘You can’t ever break a promise. No matter what happens. Promise you’ll come and visit me on visiting days and bring the boys if they lock me up for his murder?’

  ‘I promise. Every Sunday, maybe on Wednesdays. If I can get the day off.’

  ‘He’s not dead, David. He’s in Narrawee.’

  ‘How do you know?’ He turned off the dryer and looked at her face, trying to see into the dark eyes.

  ‘I know.’ She rested her face against his. ‘I just know.’

  ‘Just a minute. Just one cotton-picking minute, please. How do you know?’

  ‘It would have been good for Mum if it had been him. She could have given him a good Catholic funeral. Stuck his name on a tombstone. RIP.’

  ‘You’re sidetracking again. Is your father alive?’

  ‘Physically. Not technically.’

  ‘Concentrate, Ann.’

  ‘That’s what Johnny used to say. Concentrate. That’s what he said the day I found Sam’s ring. Whoops.’ She claimed the hair dryer and turned it on to high, pointed it at her hair and the black curls flew. ‘He found a wild poppy on Monday and he built a fence around it for me and he put chook wire over it for me so the cows can’t eat it. I’m taking the boys up there tomorrow to see it.’

  ‘Ben has to go to school tomorrow, and you’re going to have a hangover.’

  ‘So? That’s a good reason to take a sickie.’

  ‘We’ll take them up to see your poppy after school. I’ll finish early and come with you. And what ring were you talking about?’

  ‘Nothing. Anyway, they can’t blame me for his murder when he hasn’t even been legally murdered.’

  ‘No,’ he said, finally giving up. ‘Not unless it’s all been done legally, my love.’ He turned off the dryer and he led her by her hand to their room, holding her against him as he stripped off the still-wet shirt, eased the saturated jeans down.

  ‘I used to think he was a basically decent man once. Very basically. I mean at his base, at his very core. He used to talk to me when I was little and I used to sit with him and try to dig down deep. I used to think that if I could dig down to his core then I might find the rotten bit and dig it all out so he’d be good . . . like . . . like when Ben and I used to dig out the stink weeds in the paddocks so the cows didn’t eat it. It used to make the milk taste off. Horrible.’

  ‘You talk too much.’

  ‘You know, if someone had tried to do that years ago, before it got its roots down too deep, then they might have been able to dig down and get out all the bad bits. But even if it’s too late for her to dig it all out, she knows everything. And she is a good person, David. She’s a very good person. She’ll make him do it, won’t she?’

  ‘I’m sure she will.’ He was no longer attempting to follow her ramblings. So familiar, the touch, the scent of her flesh. He kissed her.

  ‘Your kiss is like . . . like rain on the dry dust of a paddock. And your breath is a cool breeze, heralding the end of drought in a land where the sun has ruled for too long, where the grass is grey and the greenness too long gone.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I don’t know why.’

  ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I miss you too, so don’t work late. I go stir-crazy on wet days. Can you give me a job at the bank? I won’t lose your money.’

  His lips traced a pathway from ear to lips. ‘Are you well enough?’

  ‘For a job at the bank?’ His hand explored the rise of her stomach, resting there. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Him. He’s just mistletoe on a gum tree. As long as the host lives, so does the mistletoe.’

  wind in the wires

  She was sleeping when David glanced at the bedside clock. Ten-thirty, and he hadn’t eaten since two. Hungry now, but at peace, he moved his arm from beneath her shoulder, brushed the bare shoulder with his lips. She didn’t move, the rhythm of her breathing didn’t alter, so inch by inch he moved away. As he stood, she murmured and rolled over to his side of the bed.

  In the kitchen he opened a can of beans, heated them in the microwave and ate them on hot buttered toast. He read the paper, drank his tea then, near midnight, crept back to the bedroom and slid in beside her. She turned to him, reached out to him, and he gathered the warmth of her back into his arms and he slept, and he slept soundly for the first time in a week.

  It was near dawn when he rolled over and found himself alone. Wide awake instantly, he listened. Only the wind in the wires. He lay listening to it, and listening for movement, then he swung his feet to the floor and checked the bathroom.

  Light was showing beneath the family room door. He smiled. She’d grown hungry too, he thought, but when he opened the door he saw her grasping the back of a chair, her teeth clenched.

  She glanced at him. ‘My hangover is having contractions.’

  ‘Practice pains?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Not positively?’

  ‘They’ve been practising for a while,’ she replied, straightening as the pain eased. ‘I was going to make a cup of tea and some toast.’

  He filled the jug, plugged it in. He set bread in the toaster. ‘How long have you been up?’

  ‘A while. They’ll stop in a minute.’

  A wicked wind rattled the back door. He locked it, then walked back, and they spoke of the wind while the jug boiled and the toast popped, while he took two mugs to the sink and tea bags from the canister, while he poured the water, his eyes rarely leaving her face. Then he saw her grip the chair and he forgot about the tea.

  ‘That’s a bad one.’

  ‘It’s not due for weeks. It will stop. I had pains for the last month with Tristan.’

  ‘Sit down,’ he said.

  ‘It’s better if I stand. He’s riding my spine and digging his boots in.’

  He added sugar to her tea, he buttered the toast, and she took a bite, a sip of tea then placed the cup down.

  ‘I don’t think he’s practising, David.’

  ‘Have you got anything packed?’ She shook her head, and he walked to the bedroom where he pulled on trousers and a sweater.

  She was watching the clock when he returned to the room, shoes in hand, and he looked at the clock, tied his laces, drank tea until the minute hand ticked over and another one began. He saw the pain return too soon, and he went for her overcoat and shoes.

  ‘We can’t leave the boys.’

  ‘Dee will watch them.’

  ‘God.’ A prayer, a moan. ‘What a night to be born. I hate that wind. It’s screaming. I hate it.’

  One button dialling their doctor neighbour. ‘Peter,’ he said. ‘It’s David. Sorry to disturb you but we’ve got an impatient baby on the way.’ And the phone was down. Before the next pain hit, he had her buttoned into her overcoat, had her at the back door, an easier descent to the car than the staircase.

  ‘Wait there out of the wind. I’ll bring the car around.’

  She’d never done as she was told, not the child nor the woman. She followed him to the drive, her hair whipping her face.

  ‘All the b
aby clothes are in the bottom drawer of – ’ Nauseating pain closed her mouth, her mind. He stood at her side, holding her, supporting her until the contraction eased. ‘ – Benjamin’s wardrobe,’ she said.

  Then Peter and Dee Williams were running from their yard. ‘How close are the pains?’ the doctor called.

  ‘A minute – two. I don’t know. Very close.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me sooner?’

  ‘I woke only a moment ago. Ann was planning to produce it in the kitchen.’

  ‘Silly woman. Get her in the car. I’ll follow you.’

  The hospital was five minutes away. David left Ann refusing the wheelchair.

  ‘Do as you are told,’ he said. ‘I’ll settle the boys in with Dee, then I’ll be back.’ He drove the empty roads home, and together he and Dee wrapped the boys in blankets and carried them next door.

  ‘Daddy,’ Benjamin opened an eye. ‘Why are we here?’

  ‘Mummy’s gone to get our new baby.’

  ‘Are we getting another boy?’

  ‘We’ll know soon. Be quiet, Ben, you’ll wake the little ones. You help Aunty Dee if Tristan wakes up.’

  ‘Will Mummy be a long time?’

  ‘Not too long. Sleep now. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  A black night, studded with the pale yellow glow of streetlights. No stars, no moon, only an evil howling wind prowling the night streets, searching for spoil.

  What the hell had he been thinking of last night? He hadn’t been thinking. Hadn’t considered the baby. But they’d made love late with the three boys, who had arrived close to the expected date.

  The boys. Always lumped together as one. Always the boys. They’d chosen the name for another boy. He’d be Liam John. No name for a girl. They’d had their girl. There was still a gap in his gut, a raw unfillable hole when he thought of Mandy. Time and the boys could not fill it. There were tears, too, that still came at odd moments. In the garden when he watched a bee busy at his labour. Little dresses in shop windows hurt his heart. Little girl’s hands held in larger hands. These things always brought back memories of Mandy, her moist little hand in his own.