I lean my head against the window and see the lines of the road ahead disappearing under the snow. I can feel every heartbeat, punching at my ribcage, the hits rippling through my body. I draw in an icy breath, shut my eyes and wait.
we beginned it by wreckin ever thin. grabbed fish we fished out with patience patiently in a mist a rain then on rock we stamped um to red & to gun metal twitchin with gumboots. burnt the church & the mill only ever nowdays a tourist thin anyway. we broke ever dinner plate bent ever fork. (why'd we not heard music in so long a time? why was the river bank slippin into the river at such a rate a feet per day? whyfore the stars so bright lit in daytime? these was questions we later'd ask.) by unspoken fiat we pulled out our fingernails from our own fingers or from each other's fingers usin fish hooks as levers & pooled um no joke in what looked like for all this world a fingerbowl. the lenses afloat i mean the nails not the lenses looked like lenses but for the bloodswirlin tendrils which followed. but you couldn't see nothin through um—nothin hard as you might look. we flinged that bowl head long in the river. we rounded up the eunuchs on some solemn pretext & then as they fussed like mother geometers over all they assembly's line slit they bellies with a sharp end flint open. they stared down at they selves & we stared down at they selves & it seemed some one had dropped some thin accidental. took a few small steps then they fell to shiver til they did not shiver but stilled & breathed small. next did the animals. (was we thinkin yet a defences? all temporary this extenuatin that? already done crossed that quiet line divides regret from what all ever comes afore it?) we wrecked ever thin. we burnt the houses down & we knocked the grave stones over in the graveyard & poured a gallon a poison into the roots a the old wisteria bracin like time braces space the wire a the trellis under which we'd drunk to marriage after marriage after marriage in this town we once owned but now teared on up & stared up to a long night declined without comment to dim & cursed that unreal blue a the sky in tongues we did not know so could not translate anyway though the whole town was dead by this point i mean deaf—a whole town gone collective deaf as the hairs gone white on old frank wilkins' pa's pa's head when it went over the top those years back now a lifetime. a lifetime in a instant. it gave the impression ever one was screamin. entire four days. we wrecked ever thin. ever thin & then—& by my stones i swear to this & then—we fixed to start & brag.
from up over the hill our enemies had a course been watchin this whole time. i've since imagined um rubbing they horses' necks. that sound a they palms on the horses' necks' horse hair the sound a fabric tearin slow. that punch a neck vein in human palm the eyes on a true lover who when time comes'll quicksmart end you & ruthless. pulsin & starin the wrong prayer prays for rightin & the wrong writes prayer for always & never. they waited. & can you guess what all as they waited they whispered unto those magnificent animals' ears?
I nudge in close, waiting for the right moment to cut the engine, to let the boat drift in. If I've got it right, the current and the wind will hold the bow back, and she'll just lie there, like a well-trained pup. It's the one I've been looking for all week. The five-metre male. Big daddy. Boss of the river. There—on the sand bar, motionless, jaws agape. I coast in. Four metres, three, two. I hold my breath and my heart skips, and for a second I wonder if I've pushed my luck too far this time. And then, miraculously, the boat stops. Perfect. No-one says a word.
It's always like this, coming up close. Everyone, everything, is silent. There is only the water swirling against the hull, tinking and tapping against the aluminium, little bird taps. No-one moves, their Nikons and Canons and long lenses forgotten. The woman in the front leans back so far, she is almost horizontal, her eyes wide with fear.
Afterwards, at the bar, they will all be garrulous and you won't be able to get a word in, it'll be that tight with talk.
Mate, you're another Crocodile Dundee!
I can't believe how close we were!
Remind me to bring a spare pair of undies next time I get in your boat!
And they'll laugh and buy me drinks and slap me on the back and drape their arms over me, like I've saved them from something, taken them into the jaws of terror and then delivered them safely home. And I have. It's my job, my life, this river.
I always think it's best to start off a tour with a big saltie. Some of the other guides go for the build-up, begin the day with a juvenile. They reckon you get better tips if you leave the big ones for last. No, I say, you only get one shot, come in hard first up—it's the memory they pay for. And these kinds of memories just get bigger and better by the minute. By the time I drop them off later today, when it has all had time to cook a bit, the croc will be seven metres long and we will have been close enough to touch it. Anyway, I usually get a good tip. Most of these tourists are cashed-up. At a grand a night, they ought to be. I do all right. Being a tour guide isn't big money, but then I don't need big money. The shack's paid for, I catch fish, shoot a wild pig now and then and grow my own everything—vegies, dope, fruit, flowers. Everything. The job—it's just money for jam.
You love that job more than anything, she used to say. I know what she meant—that I loved it more than her. And then, later, more than both of them. Well I did and I didn't. You can't love a job. And this one has its downsides—the rubbish runs, maintenance, cleaning dunnies and all that. And talking to tourists all day can get a bit much sometimes. No, I wouldn't say I loved it. But then I wouldn't say I loved her either, not really. Not by the end of it, anyway. By then I felt like that croc the fisheries caught years ago, the one who was causing trouble, clambering up into backyards, eating the odd dog. They brought it in, all trussed up on the deck, its jaws wired shut. The whole town came out to have a look at it, standing around sipping beers, arguing over whether fisheries had done the right thing.
Shoulda left it.
Nah, you can't have a rogue croc in the river.
Yeah, well now we'll have all the males in here—bloody free for all.
Fisheries, what the fuck do they know? At least we knew the cunt.
On and on. Opinions and anecdotes and big croc tales. It was like a wake. Someone even brought a fruit cake. People took photos, pushing and poking at its flesh with their boots, kids squeezing in to jab at it with a stick, shrieking with the thrill of it. I looked at that old river croc—five-and-a-half metres long, 50, maybe 60 years old, destined to spend the rest of its life living in a cage—and I felt sick inside. That was gonna be me. Jumping for chicken.
I didn't think she'd have the balls to go through with it. I stepped right back when she told me. If I could have, I would have held my hands up in the air to show her how fully I surrendered, all the while walking backwards into my own life. It's your choice, your decision, all yours, I said. When she told me she was keeping it, planning to have the baby, well I kept on retreating, until I hit the wall of my own existence. And for a while she had me there, pinned up against it, me squirming, with nowhere to go. Having to face up to everything. Even thinking at times that I could manage it, that at 53 I could be a father, a real one this time. I tried it on, like a coat, shrugged my shoulders into it. Eight months to get used to it. Trying to stretch myself into it, gingerly, month by month, as if I was the one who was pregnant, as if I was the one who had to do all the growing and accommodating. I think I'm really ready for this, I told her. And she prattled on, all earnest and passionate like she was selling me something I couldn't possibly do without. And I let her go on, all the while nodding thoughtfully, pretending to listen, but, when it came down to it, I never bought a thing. Just kept on living my life while she moved further and further beyond it, until she was insignificant. A speck on the horizon.
I allow the boat to drift well downstream before I start the engine. Everyone is still silent, just looking around, adrenalin, I'm sure, still pumping. We pass a smaller croc baking in the mangroves. This time I don't slow, just carve in close and the croc startles and lunges into the water. I call out above the engine.
; Speeds of around ten ks an hour—can almost outrun a man and can leap half their body length from a water start.
The passengers nod and I spend the next hour showing them the inhabitants of the river—herons and kingfishers, green tree snakes, mudskippers, archer fish. The only thing we don't see is the sea eagle. I know where the eyrie is, but you've got to hold something back, keep something for yourself.
The boat flies over the water and it feels like the hull is sitting a few inches above it. I manoeuvre it past mangroves and shallows, following the contours of the river back downstream until we are at the mouth. There I slow the engine and look for the bar, idling back, waiting for the right moment to gun it. And then we're through and easing out through ocean chop, around the headland, the jetty up ahead, angling out into the blue.
God, I love this. The boat ride. The freedom of it, being at the helm, shooting skyward and skimming the surface. I don't think about the owners out here, about the job or the money or anything. It's just life. Living. Heat and sun and salt. Sometimes I just want to keep on driving, out to the horizon, the wind in my face, the water slipping past, until there is no land in sight and there is just me, out on the ocean, under the sky. That simple. I want my life to be that simple.
And it was, until she arrived and blew it apart.
We could do six months in each place, she'd say, when I'd fly down to visit. Take a year off. Just be with us. Take some leave, fix your place up and we'll come up. And with every coaxing, every push, I'd pull out the same card, slap it on the table like the winner that it was. The job. I can't leave the job. I've got to work. That's when the river became more than it is, more like a life raft. I clung on so tight, nothing was gonna wash me off, not even a newborn son.
I tie up to the jetty and help the passengers out onto the wharf. Mike, the American, slips a bill into my pocket. I think it's a hundred and we nod silently, like two conspirators. I busy myself with the boat, coiling ropes, checking the fuel, stowing the life jackets. She is still standing on the wharf, the woman who was sitting at the front of the boat, the one that's been asking all the questions all afternoon.
So, she says.
So, I reply.
We size each other up. Her—English, slim, 40-ish, no ring. Me—just turned 57, but fit, always fit and strong in a brown-skinned nuggetty kind of way.
So, what would a male be doing, after dark? she asks with a smile.
He'd be going back to the river.
He doesn't hang around then? Doesn't stay close?
I don't even hesitate. Nope, I say, without looking up.
Shame.
Well, he's got things to do.
Like what? She sits down on the end of the jetty, long legs swinging.
Defend his territory.
She bursts out laughing. Is that the croc or you you're talking about?
I stop and straighten suddenly. Look at her directly. My house is on the river, I hear myself say. No-one for miles.
I walk to the letterbox. The sweat beads on my skin and slides down as a sheet, my whole body drenched and soaked through. January. Worst month of the year. It's not too bad if there's cloud cover. You can work outside if there's cloud. But if the sky is clear, the heat is relentless. You can almost feel your flesh cooking. If I'm off work, I can't even get out into the garden. Just have to sit inside and watch TV, the fan on full, waiting for the sun to go down. Hoping for a storm.
You can feel the build-up of a tropical storm way before you see it coming. There's this kind of static in the air and a peculiar smell. Some summers the weather builds and builds, sometimes for weeks. The tension of it is unbearable. And then, suddenly, it breaks. It's like the whole sky is cracked and torn, and you wonder if it'll ever mend, ever be blue and whole again. And it just rains and rains and rains, so hard you can't see through to the other side. That's the wet. That's how it is.
I stop and stand for a moment under the mango tree. Absently I reach up for the closest, tweak its stem and the fruit falls into my hand. Perfect—the skin yellow-green, a bright blush of red across the shoulder. I lift it to my nose and the smell is sweet and strong. It's a Kent, first one for the season. Way better than the Bowens they go mad for, down south. I hold the mango to the light, twist it around in the sun and let it drop into my palm. It feels like I am holding a hand, warm and comforting, as I walk down the driveway to my letterbox.
There is an envelope inside. It's her writing and on the top corner, written in neat print it says, Photos—do not bend. It's the letter that I had stopped waiting for months ago—so much worse when your guard is down and you're unprepared. What am I thinking? If the letter had come in August, it would have been different. But January, a man can't be expected to think clearly and rationally in January. I carry the envelope inside and sit down to open it.
Inside is a note, typed, the paper cut neatly across and folded in half. She's only written a few lines.
He is well and happy.
Please send Xmas presents this year to the following address.
PS: I've enclosed some photos as requested.
She doesn't sign her name. I push the note aside, and reach for the pictures, my guts all strange and tight.
I try and flick through the photographs. The humidity sticks them together and I can't get them apart. I feel like crying, fumbling at the prints, trying to hold the fucking things.
And then I have them laid out on the table. One, two, three.
I get my glasses and sit in front of the photos. It's like magic. He's here, in the world, smiling, clutching a toy car. And then this one, his face up close and the blue of his eyes—they're like sea glass, and I'm swimming and drowning in them at the same time. And this one now, tumbling about on the grass with two mates, head thrown back laughing. That's my son! That one there. That's him! I want to go to him now, rush over and pick him up, cover him in kisses, hold him to my chest, take his hand, walk down the street, kick a ball, buy him an ice-cream, take him fishing, show him the crocs, the reef. Pick him a mango. I'm in a fever for the phone, for her number, her mobile—does she check her messages now? I dial it—what will I say? What will I say? Then the answering machine cuts in, not even her voice, and my mouth is working but nothing is coming out and I listen to the silence until the recording cuts out and then I hang up. I sit there, staring at the wall until the midges and mosquitoes sting through the pain of it all and I get up and roll a smoke. Suck hard until everything is thick and white and there is nothing to feel at all.
There are slide marks in the mud and I know it's the big saltie. I putter past, in my boat now, and then I turn off the engine and drift downstream with the current. Lie back in the hull and light a cigarette.
I quit once. When she was pregnant. And I started again the day he was born. Smoked half a pack, one cigarette after the other, on the drive back from the hospital. Six months on a tightrope and all undone in one lousy 50-minute drive. I can remember the smell of the eucalypts as I wound my way up the mountain, cold wintry air blasting through the car. When I arrived at her house I lit the fire and sat there, smoking the rest of the pack, reliving the birth of my son and building the flames up until I couldn't bear the heat.
What I remember most though is the feel of him in my arms. And his smell, like fresh-cut hay. I have this memory of sitting in half-light, half asleep in the hospital chair, my head bowed down with my nose against his hair, smelling and smelling, like an animal might, as if I could burn his scent into my brain. I could feel the warmth of his foot resting against my finger and in that moment I felt charged with everything that being a father might mean. I held him to my chest and if I could have, I would have licked him clean, like an old wolf, claimed him as my own. Growled at anyone who tried to take him from me. I don't know what happened. I don't know where that feeling went.
I imagine sometimes that one day he might write to me or phone. That one day I'll be in my garden, planting, weeding, tidying the yard and the phone will ring and I'll race in
and pick it up, my hands covered in dirt and sweat and she'll say he wants to talk to me. And I'll jump at it. Wherever the bar is, however high she raises it, I'll jump. Like that old river croc. I know I will.
I shift my shoulder up against a life jacket and stretch out. The boat is caught up in the mangrove roots and I can feel the water eddying and pooling around the hull. I'll head in soon, fire up the boat, cruise back to the ramp. For now there is just the river, the fug of a low tide, mangroves creaking in the wind. I give myself over to it, to the sweet river sound, to the whine of the mosquitoes, and tell myself I am home.
Molly
Of course, I must look shocked
What?
Wow!
And now, rise slowly
Soak in half-hearted applause
Show nothing of pride,
Expectation,
Just happiness.
One foot, then the next.
Stride toward the platform
And take my prize.
First in class.
It's been mine years 7, 8, 9,
10, 11, dux
But this is the last.
Ever.
I shake Miss Headmistress's hand
And take my prize.
Speech day is my day.
Weeks later school's over
Molasses hours slide languidly by,
And beat on beat on
Beat of my wild-wide-world heart
Longs for that which no book buys the mind.
Life experience.
Seems to be my weakness,
My life is learning
A brief smattering of extracurriculars
And one social outing per fortnight.
So out into the world I must go,
The Life You Choose and That Chose You Page 12