Louis Beside Himself

by Anna Fienberg

  Hassan looked down at his hands. ‘We don’t agree about Cordelia.’

  Singo came up then with Bobby, who clapped me on the back so hard that I knocked into a Year 10 boy, who looked at me as if I was a carrier of the bubonic plague. ‘See this guy?’ said Bobby, holding Singo’s hand high like a champion. ‘Tomorrow’s the big day – this man is gunna be man of the match! He’s gunna win it for this school!’

  Singo grinned and sort of feebly protested but you could see the excitement leaping in his eyes. ‘We had a match yesterday with Cameran secondary,’ he said.

  ‘And Singo almost stopped them getting the winning score,’ finished Bobby. ‘Next time he’ll be ready, for sure. We’ll cream them.’

  ‘How come you were there?’ Hassan asked Bobby. ‘I thought you chose tennis for sport?’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Bobby shuffled his feet. ‘I got sent off last week. Broke some guy’s racket. It was a dumb racket anyway, old as my grandpa. So I reckoned I’d come and support my mate, eh Singo?’

  Singo grinned at him but you could see he was AMBIVALENT, meaning in two minds about Bobby’s loyalty. I couldn’t blame him. You just never knew what Bobby was going to do next.

  But I was glad of his presence as we walked through the quadrangle. Bobby was a bit like a mini tornado – his whirling energy sucked everything into it, so you couldn’t think about anything else. He was mimicking Singo’s ducking and dodging the Cameran players.

  ‘See, Singo mightn’t be the tallest guy in the team,’ he said, ‘but he’s like that Mohammed Ali guy, you know, the boxer. Ali was great at dodging, he had such fancy footwork. What’s that thing he used to say?’ Bobby turned to me.

  I sighed. ‘Dance like a butterfly, sting like a bee.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it!’

  By the time the bell went for the end of lunch, we hadn’t finished arguing about whether you could even compare boxing to basketball, and, if Mohammed Ali was the greatest boxer ever in the world, then who was the best basketballer? So no one had a chance to bring up Cordelia, or ask what anyone was planning to do that night.

  ‘You’re coming to the match tomorrow?’ asked Singo. ‘Two o’clock at the courts. Get there early or you won’t get a seat.’ He grinned anxiously and cracked his knuckles.

  ‘We’ll be there,’ said Hassan, looking at me. Then he whispered, ‘We’ll sort something out after this weekend, okay?’

  I nodded, NONCHALANT, as if I had nothing more heavy to think about than the history homework I hadn’t done.

  I GOT detention for not knowing what Blaxland, Lawson and Wentworth discovered in Australia. I had thought it was the plough, but apparently that was another guy. Normally I had a book in my bag for detention, which helped me escape the classroom in a Russian train to Prague, or a leaky boat across the dangerous Timor Sea. But this afternoon, I’d forgotten to bring a book. You weren’t allowed to make a sound in detention, and even though there were nine other kids in the classroom not a word was said. It was torturous. I stared out the window at a lunch paper blowing around the bins, and tried not to think of the night ahead.

  As I walked home, I thought about Hassan’s quiet worry with Elena, and Singo’s basketball game. Everyone was on their own journey, as Gus often told his brother Roy, so sometimes you just had to pick your own street and walk it alone. But, as Roy told his brother Gus, if everyone did that all the time, then wouldn’t we all be walking alone?

  I WAS still arguing in my head when Dad got home. His presence didn’t seem to make any difference. I felt as if I was in a glass jar, like the bugs I used to catch and observe. Dad and I exchanged some words, I suppose, but everything seemed muffled, as if sounds were coming from a long way away. Rosie drifted in and out like the tide, draped in a seaweed-green skirt.

  When Dad suggested dinner, I said I wasn’t hungry. It was the truth. I thought he’d be going out on a Friday night, as he’d done last week, but instead I watched him get into his old flannel pyjamas and make a cup of hot cocoa, even though the radio said it was twenty-nine degrees. This was a problem – an extra one I didn’t need. Where would I say I was going?

  Dad wasn’t hungry either. He sat in his pyjamas and flipped through the TV guide. He looked old, and kept running his hand over his bald head as if to comfort himself, but it wasn’t working. My stomach turned over.

  ‘Aren’t you going to Doreen’s?’ I asked, even though I didn’t actually want to have this conversation.

  He shook his head. He was looking for his reading glasses. But then he stopped, his arm still outstretched towards the coffee table, as if he’d forgotten it was there. ‘I’d like to go,’ he said wistfully, ‘but I’m not sure she wants me there.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you just ask her?’ I said. Der. ‘You could bring her that Thai takeaway left over from last night.’

  Dad shifted on the sofa. ‘She’s probably had dinner by now.’

  ‘Well, maybe she just wants company. You two could listen to Bruce Springsteen or something. You seemed to be having a good time the other night.’

  Dad nodded. He almost smiled. ‘I thought so, too. But then she didn’t ring.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘She rang only a couple of nights ago.’ I tried to make my voice calm and gentle, not impatient and exasperated. ‘And you talked to her for ages. Why would anything have changed since then? Maybe she’s waiting for you to pick up the phone. Maybe she got really busy with work, maybe Agnes is being difficult, maybe a hippopotamus climbed in through the bathroom window and now it’s stuck and angry and very dangerous and Doreen’s in the doorway facing the big, angry, stuck hippopotamus and she’s wondering what on earth to do.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Dad absently. ‘But I don’t want to put her in the position where if I ring and suggest something and really she doesn’t want me there then she might have to say yes just to be polite, and I’ll race over and sit like a lump on her couch and she’ll be wishing she or I were anywhere else but she can’t leave because she’s already home.’

  ‘Mm,’ I said. I retreated. What else can you do in this kind of situation?

  I sat on my bed and tried to refocus on my job at hand. Maybe, with the mood Dad was in, he wouldn’t question me too closely if I went out now. I’d tell him I was going to Hassan’s. That would sound normal for a Friday night.

  I thought I should probably dress up a bit to make a good first impression. If I wore my best jeans and changed my shirt, I might look trustworthy, like someone who takes hygiene and good personal habits seriously.

  But as I was looking for a belt, I suddenly imagined Hassan ringing here. What if he wanted to talk about Cordelia and The Situation?

  As I picked up the phone I noticed how easily the idea of lying had come to me, without a twinge. This is what happened when the words for the truth flew away.

  There was no answer on Hassan’s home phone or mobile, so I left a message. ‘Hi, this is Louis. Don’t ring me at home, whatever you do. I’m telling Dad I’m coming to yours, but really I’m going to Cordelia’s. It’s just across the park in Fort Street. It’ll be all sorted by tomorrow, don’t worry. See you at the game.’

  I went into Rosie’s room for a final check in the mirror. When I looked at my reflection I could have sworn I looked taller.

  ‘Bye, Dad, just going over to Hassan’s,’ I called from the hall.

  ‘Oh, okay,’ he called back. ‘Are you staying the night?’

  That was a good idea – he wouldn’t worry if I was late back.

  ‘Yeah, see you tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Okay, have a nice night.’

  ‘Thanks.’ But as I closed the door behind me I had a brief PRESENTIMENT, meaning vision of the future, that these might be the last words my father and I ever exchanged. And really, when you examined them, weren’t they disappointingly flat?

  I had to go back.

  ‘And you have a spectacular night!’ I called.

  16

  BREAKING
IN

  I entered the park as the last light was fading to a golden trace beneath the clouds, like the line of light under a closed door.

  At the far edge of the cricket pitch I stopped to look across the road. Lemon lollies of light had come on in the houses, and one window flickered television-blue. For a moment I wished I was home, with Dad and the TV guide, sitting cosily in front of the box. I wished, too, that I’d brought the street directory with me, or made a map. But no, if I closed my eyes a moment, I could see it in my mind – didn’t I just need to cross this road, walk a few metres down to the next street, and follow it up to Fort?

  I tried to whistle as I strode along. Dinner smells wafted through the air – barbecued steak, maybe, or sausages. My stomach gurgled. But I was too tense to be really hungry.

  When I came to the corner I squinted up at the sign. Funny, this part of the suburb was so near my place and yet we’d never explored it much. There were no Welcome Marts here or newsagents.

  At what I hoped was Fort Street, I turned right. No street signs here. Tall, hairy paperbarks lined the footpath and the black shapes of birds – or bats – rustled and fought in their branches. The houses didn’t have fences with numbers. And didn’t these people have letterboxes, either? I began to panic. But then I saw a letterbox carved in the shape of a little boat, painted with a silver 16.

  The house beside it was set so far back from a garden of sprawling shrubs and lantana that I could see nothing but its dark shadow rearing up against the navy sky. Above it, a handful of stars had come out. I walked past the wilderness towards the pool of light dropped by a streetlamp. In the sudden glare I saw a gate and the number 22. Good. If I kept going in this direction, I’d come to 124.

  That was when a flare of panic hit. This was real. It’s one thing to imagine, even rehearse an event – it’s another thing to actually place your body there in the fire to experience it. Strange, you’re supposed to become more sure of yourself as you grow older, aren’t you? It seems the reverse with me. A year ago I would have had more confidence. I was always hoping that my words might change things, that the truth told with kindness and consideration would bring out the best in people. But now I didn’t know. And I didn’t feel tall or grown-up. I felt like I did in Grade 2 when I went to stay the night at a new friend’s house, and Gus hadn’t been introduced to me yet, either, so I didn’t know there was anyone else like me.

  The houses were thinning out, here, and the grass growing longer in between. My good jeans were sticking to my legs. I wiped my face, shook out my shirt. The street ahead sloped down into a well of shadow.

  In the light of the next streetlamp, brass numbers gleamed on a letterbox. 120.

  Only two more houses to go. I dragged my feet. 122 was a vacant lot. Scraps of newspaper drifted over its scrubby dirt. A couple of ice-cream wrappers lapped onto the footpath. I took another few steps.

  My heart banged so hard it was difficult to breathe. I closed my eyes and took deep mouthfuls of air. You can do this, Louis, I whispered.

  Or you could go home, I whispered back.

  There was a fence, and a rolled-up newspaper poking out of the letterbox.

  124.

  This was it. I peeped over the fence. A vegie garden surrounded by chicken wire was laid out at the front, but the lettuces had wilted over wonky sticks propping up a frayed tomato vine.

  Further up was a balding lawn, and then the house. Cream fibro. The front windows were closed, like eyes. Blind.

  My hand hovered on the latch of the gate. A squeal of tyres and the gunning of an engine made me jump.

  Oh, what was I doing? I hadn’t checked for Jimmy’s van! I leapt back and peered up and down the street. There were only three parked cars on this side. No blue van. Jimmy wasn’t home.

  No excuse now. Still I stood there, my hand on the gate. You’re stalling.

  I know.

  This is your only chance.

  I know.

  My heart was beating so fast I was afraid I’d pass out. Maybe this time I’d really hit my head on the concrete and wouldn’t know anything for hours and when I woke up, if I did, there’d be no more last chances and somehow it would have all worked out with Cordelia, one way or another, and Doreen and Dad and Rosie and Miles would all be living happily together with enough people to look after Agnes and everyone would be fine . . .

  I opened the gate and walked up the pebbly path. The front door had a panel of stained glass at the top, pale blue and yellow.

  Very nice – now look at the door knocker and use it.

  It was a big brass ring with a snorting bull in the middle where you put your hand. It made me think of Grandad quitting wrestling and going to see the bullfights. It must have been hard for him at first to speak up. Wrestling was the only thing he’d known. But if he hadn’t, he probably would have gone to an early grave with a bunged-up head and no good memories, instead of to sunny Spain.

  So speak up!

  I took the ferocious door knocker in my hand and banged it down.

  No one answered.

  Yay! I can go home to the telly.

  Try again.

  No.

  I waited a bit instead. A bat squeaked and flapped overhead. I held my breath again but this time I did it deliberately to prevent breathing in any particles of bat wee. Singo said you can get a fatal disease by inhaling bat wee, and you never know when a bat is going to URINATE, as it probably doesn’t have to stand still to wee, like we do – it probably lets go mid-air, right over your head.

  Now you can go home, satisfied that you tried, but really, there was nothing you could do.

  And what will be at home?

  I tried again.

  Nothing happened. I stepped back and looked up at the sky. The moon was rising now over the rooftops. The silence was unnerving. Sometimes the quiet is like a giant CAMOUFLAGED animal waiting to spring out at you. I was just about to go when I heard a noise from inside the house. I put my ear to the door.

  Music. Faint as smoke. Some old rock song. An old Neil Young song. I remembered that. Dad had played it over and over last year.

  The front windows were closed. The house looked locked and empty. I put my head against a window. Now there was the sound of a piano. That made me feel bolder. It vanished the animal of silence, making everything more ordinary. What if I looked at the whole thing more like a puzzle I had to solve? Or if the door suddenly opened I could say I was doing a charity drive and did they have any small coins?

  I decided to explore around the back, which meant sneaking down the dark corridor beside the house. Long weeds and crawly things brushed my legs. About halfway along, a window with bubbly glass appeared above me. The bathroom? I scrambled around a leaking water tank, and then arrived, suddenly, at the back of the house. My stomach gurgled in the silence. Here, quite possibly, the resident of number 124 could be sitting on outdoor furniture, taking in the fresh night air.

  I flattened myself against the side wall, panting. Then I peeped around and saw a pocket of grass with a clothesline slung between two posts. A pair of black jeans and a man’s T-shirt hung there. I swallowed. The waist of the jeans’ was wide, the legs long and worn at the knees. They were made for a very big man.

  But the yard was empty. I inched out along the brick wall. No doors here, just a large window above my head. I rose up on tiptoes.

  A sink, a fridge covered with photos and notices, cupboards, and a wooden table.

  And on the wooden table was a radio. A man was talking, I could make it out quite easily now, about the DELETERIOUS effects of carbon gases on our climate. ‘Neil Young was singing about it back in the seventies’, he said. ‘And now for another song of his, “Like a Hurricane”. ’

  I knew this song, too. Somehow, that was reassuring. Even here, in the home of a serious criminal and a woman blind to the truth, was Neil Young who’d sung about the dangers of climate change long before most.

  I rapped at the window, and startled a beetle
crouched in the corner of the windowpane. But there was no answering movement in the house. I tried the window. It rose an inch. It wasn’t locked.

  This is your only chance.

  I pushed up the window as far as it would go and levered my knee onto the sill. A tingly rush of memory nearly toppled me back onto the grass. I was watching myself break into a stranger’s kitchen just as I’d watched Cordelia break into mine. In slow motion. With horror. IRONIC, wasn’t it?

  I crawled through and landed with my knees on the stainless steel sink. Imagine if someone came in now, from the bathroom maybe, and found me! But no, probably the radio had been left on deliberately. Dad did that when we went away for a weekend – so thieves would think someone was home.

  I checked the fridge for photos. And yes, there was Cordelia, with long hair. A woman was smiling, with her arm around her. This must be her mum. Cordelia was frowning into the camera. Her mouth looked lugubrious.

  I padded out of the kitchen, into the hall. On the right was a large bedroom, with a key in the door. And beyond that was the living room, which looked out onto the front porch and lawn.

  My stomach was churning. I had to do something. Even if I couldn’t talk to anyone, I had to let Cordelia’s mother know how much her daughter missed her. Maybe I should leave a message.

  On the kitchen bench there was a hairbrush and comb, a bowl with a shell necklace, a notepad and pen. I picked up the pad.

  Buy milk, pick up dry-cleaning, Friday 6pm meet Kathy at Café Gigi

  I folded over the page and wrote.

  Dear Cordelia’s mother, and then I stopped. How to say everything and not everything? How to tell about Cordelia and not reveal where she was?

  I sucked the pen. Singo hated this habit of mine. I could see his horrified face. Who might have been sucking that pen before me? A vision of those big jeans hanging on the clothesline outside floated into my mind. I shuddered and put down the pen, picking up the shell necklace. I was committing the sin of PROCRASTINATION, which means wasting time doing anything else but the job you’re supposed to do. My fingers trailed through rubber bands, paperclips, a pencil sharpener, some odd buttons. I suppose you’d also call this SNOOPING, which is of course a far worse sin.