You Belong Here

by Laurie Steed

  Dex looked at him in disbelief. ‘I hope not. Only so many times you can come.’

  ‘Something happened,’ said Alex.

  ‘For real? What else did you work out, Sherlock?’

  ‘No, it’s just . . . what do you want me to say?’ said Alex. Nearly said ‘did,’ but corrected himself.

  ‘Forget it,’ said Dex. ‘Saying it doesn’t make things different, you know?’

  ‘I do,’ said Alex.

  Dex paused. ‘Why haven’t you opened the letter?’

  ‘Just words,’ said Alex.

  ‘And still, you haven’t read it. What if I dare you?’

  ‘A game?’

  ‘Now you’re getting it,’ said Dex. ‘That’s what brothers do, right?’ A moment hit, but he shook it off. ‘Better go.’

  Dex stepped down, descended the rise that led to the edge. Walked quickly over ground and away from the ocean. Turned back, waved, and jogged to his dad. The man ruffled his son’s hair, and then they hopped into the car, a four-seater station wagon, seating two in front and two in the back.

  Alex sat down on the rock, felt sick thinking about the boy and his parents. Wished he’d probed a little further. Feeling helpless. Stupid.

  Selfish.

  He thought about Jay. Felt maybe, if he saw him, he could start a conversation. Perhaps he wouldn’t need to. Things would just click, naturally, as he’d heard they sometimes did. Thought maybe, if he moved past guilt, he could open up the letter.

  ‘Coming through,’ said a man steering a double pram. ‘Move it or lose it.’

  Alex shifted his legs. As they came past, the smaller of the two babies reached out, and the father leaned down, pushed the hand back in the pram.

  He opened the letter. Felt guilt, but named it, let it loose, and said, ‘Hey, bro.’

  Twenty-eight steps: Or, the thoughts of Jay Slater on the untimely and unfortunate implosion of the Slater family (revisited), 28 March 2001

  1.I get it, Alex. We’re brothers, and as the older brother you have to make the decisions. But why do we always have to play a drinking game?

  2.I’m often lost in puzzles of my own creation. I remember when you were seventeen. You in your room, The Downward Spiral on repeat. You weren’t drunk then, just sad.

  3.The logical part of my brain wants to tell you that people die, just as full-forwards miss shots at goal and bands make awful second records. I loved Marvin the Album but traded in Shape for that one by the guys who sang ‘Sweat (A La La La La Long).’

  4.Say ‘You.’ Say ‘Me.’

  5.Come over. Bring a pizza. I don’t care if it’s frozen, such is my desire to shoot the shit with you. Make me laugh. Stay longer than planned, until it’s well past time to leave.

  6.I’ve listened to The Downward Spiral twice, but I’m unsure of its message. Do you have a backup album that might better explain the issues at hand?

  7.A drunk, a critic, and a depressive walk into a bar. The bartender says, ‘Hi, Alex.’

  8.A man walks into a bar. He’s angry with his brother, but he loves him; it’s not like you stop loving people when you’re mad at them.

  9.It’s not an assignment or a test. It’s a way, if you’re willing, to work around the problem.

  10.There are twenty-eight steps because I’ll most likely have not made my point by twenty-five. I have a tendency to get distracted . . . or to skate around the issue.

  11.There are twenty-eight steps for another reason. I’m counting. Being extra careful not to miss a step.

  12.Nine Inch Nails is a depressing band. Apparently, Trent Reznor moved into the house of the Manson Family murders to record The Downward Spiral. What, was Auschwitz already booked? I’m now on my third listen, and I want to smash my stereo with a pickaxe. What exactly do you like about this album?

  13.Thirteen is considered unlucky in many cultures. Strangely, twenty-seven is the age when many artists die.

  14.You got a hat-trick on October fourteenth. Didn’t tell me but, I had to get it out of you. We talked and, in the end, it was like I was there. The wickets you took. The way you came good, holding up the ball as you walked from the field.

  15.I wrote about our family as two sides of a cassette. Compact discs do not have sides. They have tracks. If you follow the tracks, you’ll see where this is headed.

  16.Can you believe it gets better with time? I promise it does, but this is not an easy list, like ‘Grocery List, October 25th’ or ‘5 Things You Will Love About Your Discman.’

  17.Sometimes I talk to a more generalised ‘reader’ because I’m worried you will read this as a personal attack on your God-given right to ruin your life.

  18.I sent you a list because I’ve never been good at confrontation. In ‘The Tears of a Clown,’ Smokey leaves clues. It’s as if he’s saying, ‘Check in now and then, I’ve not been doing so great.’

  19.I started painting, at first real dark, and then a mix of light and dark. It’s hard to say if my art is any good. In the end, I destroyed it. It felt logical to get rid of the evidence.

  20.The most popular question in the English language is ‘What are you doing?’ The next most popular is ‘Why?’

  21.In every maze, there is the quickest route and the slowest route, but there is no ‘right’ route. You have to muddle your way through.

  22.At the height of his addiction, Trent Reznor turned to David Bowie. David Bowie’s not that easy to reach. Is there someone you can turn to? A friend perhaps, or a brother?

  23.Is it social if you’re doing it alone, with the lights out, listening to The Downward Spiral?

  24.This step is a dead end. Take it and I will never forgive you.

  25.You’re joking about this album, aren’t you? They’re sampling screams on ‘The Becoming,’ and it’s nowhere near as catchy as ‘Closer,’ which is basically a love song, as written by a Minotaur with a migraine.

  26.The Downward Spiral is not just depressing. It’s long, like the night Dad left, or the day of Walker’s funeral. Maybe it felt true at some point. Does it still?

  27.There are twenty-seven steps from the gate to my front door. I count them when I leave and when I come home. Count the steps. We’ll get there, I promise.

  28.There’s a track on The Downward Spiral called ‘A Warm Place.’ It’s too short by half, but long enough for its purpose. Come in. Press PLAY. Tell me what you like about this song. Shout out your dreams, cravings, obsessions from when the track starts, right through to the end. I’ll shout too, you, me, together, louder until we’re a wall of sound. We are trying to find things, people, places we love, and everything counts—songs, films, books, fathers, lovers, friends, and brothers.

  I’ll go first, right here: I love you, and I’m worried about you.

  What It Is

  Alex arrived at Emily’s at around nine-thirty at night, looking less GQ and more post–Perth Cup, still formally dressed but with the freshness of a day-old, half-drunk longneck.

  He wore a black tie, white shirt, and shoes so shined they looked wet. He’d brought along a six-pack of Redback, still cold from the fridge, but starting to sweat.

  Emily was not too keen on the beer, but she’d have happily taken a peppermint tea and some water crackers. She had been up at five that morning, busting for a wee. Couldn’t sleep. Read a bit. Dozed off. Had a cry. Thought of Mum, and wondered if she’d felt like this.

  She hadn’t eaten all day. Knew it was big, this question mark sat deep in her belly. That her house was not so different to her mind. A throw rug for a living room curtain, floorboards scratched to shit, and once-green couches gone a dull khaki, scuffed up, and sagging in the seat.

  She only half-opened the door, although she knew it was Alex.

  ‘I’m heading to bed.’

  ‘Stay up,’ he said. ‘I got this letter. It’s weird.’

  ‘And you’re telling me why?’ said Emily.

  ‘Can I come in?’ he said, ‘For a bit?’

  ‘You’ve picked a w
eird time to wake up,’ she said. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad, it’s just I was starting to get used to my dildo of a brother.’

  Reluctantly, she let him in, headed inside. She poured herself a mug of ice water, offered him a drink but he declined, and then they headed to the living room.

  ‘It’s a nice place,’ said Alex. ‘Bit small.’

  ‘It’s tiny,’ said Emily, ‘and the pipes groan, and you’ve never been here, not even for my housewarming. So what do you want?’

  He straightened his tie, adjusted the knot until it sat straight. ‘Maybe this was a mistake.’

  ‘The suit is definitely a mistake,’ said Emily. ‘Why are you dressed like that?’

  ‘Wanted to see Walker,’ he said.

  ‘At ten at night?’

  ‘I wasn’t here in the day. Would have been his twenty- fifth birthday.’

  Emily motioned to a couch, and sat down opposite. ‘Bit bleak.’

  ‘It’s important to honour the dead.’

  ‘But not be them,’ said Emily.

  He offered up the sixpack. ‘I’m not going to drink these. Thought maybe you could take them off my hands.’

  Emily laughed. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’ She sat, impatient. Wanted to tell him she’d grown herself a question mark. That she fed it ginger beer and water crackers because nothing else would stay down. ‘I need to tell you something.’

  ‘In a bit,’ said Alex. ‘This is important.’ He sat, stared, a little too long. ‘You look good.’

  She laughed. She’d worn the brightest thing she could find, pretty much the last thing in her wardrobe, a light blue summer dress, thin-strapped, which fell just above the knee. Had thrown a grey hoodie on top, one of Alex’s old ones, to keep out the cold. ‘You got a letter,’ said Emily.

  ‘From Jay,’ said Alex.

  She paused. ‘Why would Jay write you a letter?’

  ‘He missed me?’

  Emily raised an eyebrow, fixed her best don’t bullshit me stare.

  ‘I let him down,’ said Alex. ‘Didn’t mean to, but I did.’

  ‘You feel guilty.’

  Alex nodded. ‘He wrote me a list.’

  ‘A list.’

  He glared at her. ‘Don’t.’

  She stifled a laugh. ‘No, it’s just, you’re about to cry . . . over a list.’

  ‘Pretty silly, huh?’

  And she wished he was sometimes; that he would dance the way he used to as a kid, while practising his ‘Thriller’ moves. That he’d again make lyrics for TV themes, and curtsey when she entered, and tell her he’d originally written ‘Wired for Sound,’ but had called it ‘Wow, I’ve Got a New Stereo.’

  ‘You crying, we don’t . . . it’s not us.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Alex. ‘You used to cry. Now, you’re this robot. I thought we could talk, like really talk, you know?’ She stayed silent, and he fell back; embarrassed perhaps, or afraid. ‘Come on, make a joke.’

  She searched for the opportunity, the right line or cutting barb that would wound him, but, for reasons she could not define, no longer felt the need. ‘No, you’re right,’ she said. ‘At some point, easier to pretend, right?’

  Alex smiled, and his face softened, as though she’d taken the knife, slid it back into the block. ‘It’s us, we’re the problem,’ said Alex. ‘We grew up, and apart, angry, sad, wouldn’t even say “hey” anymore. Bomb blast break-up and Mum’s not the same, she’s sad, fully scrambled, and Dad’s fucked off, and it’s all you can do to keep going.’

  ‘Is this about Walker?’ said Emily.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said Alex.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not everything is about him,’ said Alex. ‘I wasn’t picking flowers before that day. It was something I found way back, and it stayed, it followed me from then on in.’

  Emily was tired and her breasts were crazy tender, although that wasn’t something you could tell your brother. But she saw him, really saw him tonight; he seemed younger, more of a kid than he’d been in years.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Emily. ‘I don’t know what it felt like. You left, just disappeared, you know?’

  ‘Jay said that too.’

  ‘Well he’s right, you dickhead. What were we supposed to do? Read your mind?’

  ‘I miss him,’ said Alex.

  She stayed silent, sat and listened, her tummy gurgling. She threw him the box of tissues, which he caught, and he laughed, blinked the tears away, as though they were dust.

  ‘You going to tell Jay about this?’ said Alex.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Emily.

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘I’m not like that, so don’t say I am. He loves you. I love you. What do you want us to do, write a book?’

  He sat hunched over, hands spired, and breathing through the gap. ‘The lists. Let’s do it, now.’

  ‘Should I get some paper?’

  ‘Screw paper,’ said Alex. ‘We’ll say it, loud. Only way to get it out.’

  *

  Emily shut the front door. Walked slowly to the living room; counted steps as though she or Alex might run if given the chance.

  ‘I’ll do your poxy list,’ said Emily. ‘Just one thing, can you lighten the hell up?’

  ‘Deal,’ said Alex.

  ‘What’s the list?’

  He grinned. ‘The ways in which we’ve let each other down.’

  ‘You’re lucky I didn’t get the paper,’ said Emily. ‘We’d be lopping trees.’

  ‘Aw, princess——’

  ‘I’ll start,’ said Emily. ‘You call me princess.’

  ‘Good one.’ He took a moment. ‘Now, Emily . . .’ It hit him. ‘You like PJ Harvey, as if she doesn’t literally sound like a woman’s period.’

  ‘You’re a misogynist,’ said Emily. ‘And you haven’t even listened to PJ, not enough to get her, and besides, she didn’t write it for you.’

  ‘You call me a misogynist whenever I have an opinion,’ said Alex.

  ‘You never come around.’

  Alex paused, gauging her intention. ‘You want me to come around?’

  Emily nodded. ‘You’re my brother.’

  ‘You believe in our family,’ said Alex, ‘Who does that?’

  ‘You don’t get me, or even try to,’ said Emily.

  ‘You say you care, but you know that you don’t,’ said Alex.

  Emily threw her mug of water, only just missing his head, and it broke upon impact.

  ‘How about you go fuck yourself?’ said Emily. ‘Or you find yourself, and then go fuck yourself.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You want to talk about caring? Caring means you pick up your phone,’ she said. ‘That we’re honest. That you’re sad if you want to be sad.’ She fiddled with the cords of her hoodie, evened the length until they sat similar. ‘That you check in from time to time. Once a year, even two, to see if I’m okay.’

  ‘Like friends?’

  ‘Like we piss off the lists, the names, and the pretending,’ she said. ‘It’s not a competition or the fucking sweepstakes. It’s time. Like maybe there’s a time when we’re not there, or we weren’t there. And it wasn’t anyone’s fault, just we were scared, sad, or pissed off then.’

  ‘Like you’re pissed off now,’ said Alex.

  ‘What about you, you get angry sometimes?’

  ‘I get angry always,’ said Alex.

  She counted ring stains on the coffee table. Two, three——

  ‘I’m sorry, Alex. So sorry that I wasn’t there for you. I didn’t get how much it affected you,’ she said.

  He picked up the shards of the mug from the top of the couch, cupped them in his hands, and brought them to the table. ‘You were a kid,’ he said. ‘What were you going to do?’

  Save your life. Make you better. Fix things.

  ‘You think Mum and Dad did the right thing?’ said Emily. ‘You know, moving to Perth?’

  ‘You’re jok
ing, right?’ said Alex.

  And she knew he was joking, because this was home. They had walked the avenues; Mount Lawley Primary now so much smaller than it had seemed at the time. Had crossed on Third and Beaufort, headed to school but walking apart, so as not to embarrass each other.

  Emily began to cry, no clue from where, or why, but for once, she let it come. Alex stood, walked awkwardly around the coffee table and over to his sister. Sat down as though trying not to wake a sleeping cat.

  ‘Hey,’ he said.

  ‘Just go,’ said Emily.

  ‘Go? You really want me to leave?’

  She shook her head, and he pulled her in. Kept her close, though she tensed up at first, and then softened, slowly, when it was safe to do so. He let her loose, kept his arm around her shoulder.

  ‘Feels hard,’ she said.

  ‘And yet here we are,’ said Alex. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

  ‘Oh, that. Are you ready?’ said Emily.

  ‘For what?’ said Alex.

  She smiled. Took his hand and lifted it to her tummy. ‘It’s what you think it is.’

  For once, he was struck dumb. No quick response or clever put-down. He gulped. Repositioned his fingertips to encompass the bump, gently, carefully.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ he said. ‘I can feel its pulse. It has a pulse, right?’

  ‘You bet,’ she said.

  ‘The dad——’

  ‘He knows,’ said Emily. ‘He’ll help out as best as he can.’

  ‘So long as it’s not——’

  ‘It is,’ said Emily. ‘But it’s cool, really.’

  ‘You scared?’ said Alex.

  ‘Terrified.’

  ‘Welcome to my world.’ He smiled. Tapped a gentle one-two with the tips of his fingers.

  Arrival

  Jay glanced at the flight board. Flicked a stick of sugar with his index finger, waiting for his sister to return from the café. Around him, a circle of shops and tunnels; the periodic calls of boarding and delays sounding more like a plea for passengers to be punctual.

  He picked at a thread that hung from his sleeve, feeling fragile, as he often did.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said Emily, sliding a tray onto the table.