Hunting Elephants

by James Roy

  'Like what?'

  'Like my dad.'

  Eighteen

  It was Sunday morning, the day of the wedding. Harry had persisted with and finished the book he'd brought from home, but he wasn't ready to find another yet, or in fact to do anything much apart from rolling a coin across the backs of his fingers.

  He held the coin on edge, between his thumb and forefinger, then twisted his wrist, opened his hand and the coin was gone. He swore, and recovered it from the bedclothes. He definitely wasn't ready to do that trick in public.

  He wasn't leaving his room just yet, either. The rest of the house that lay beyond the bedroom door sounded like a very good place to stay away from. He could hear his parents fussing about in the bathroom. Dad was asking about his tie and his shoes, and Mum was giving some predictably irritable response about him being a grownup, and therefore being perfectly capable of dressing himself. To his credit, Dad stayed away from the issue of who'd packed his bag.

  Now they were discussing him. 'He was pretty quiet last night. Maybe he was a bit crook,' he heard Dad remark.

  Mum's reply was lost, but he fully expected the door to crack open at any moment, and for his parents to peek in. That was all right – it would be easy to say he'd been a bit off last evening but that he was now feeling better, thank you, even though he wasn't feeling all that well at all. His guts had churned pretty much non-stop since the door of the caravan had opened to reveal Frank at the bottom of the step.

  Frank. He'd be out there somewhere, perhaps getting dressed or putting the final touches on something to do with the wedding. Yes, he was out there, and all the guests from the previous evening had gone.

  Footsteps came along the hallway, past his door and right to the end. 'Trent, love, are you up and getting ready?' Greta asked, and she received a muffled reply. Then, as a kind of secondary response, the deep thuddy grind of death-metal began.

  Harry rolled onto his side. It was later than he'd planned to sleep, and the light in the crowns of the trees outside the window was brighter, less golden than it had been on the two previous mornings. Propping himself up on his elbow, he looked up the hill towards the caravan. It no longer seemed to be frowning at him, as it had the day before. Now that he'd been inside and seen a glimpse of what secrets it hid, it wasn't frowning – it was simply sad. It was as if its windows were dark, downcast eyes, not ashamed, but full of grief. Or was it, in fact, shame?

  He shook his head. This was stupid. A caravan couldn't be sad, or ashamed, or scowling angry. It was just a van, he decided, and heaving a sigh, he flopped onto his back. As much as he wanted to stay in that room, he knew he couldn't. He was busting to go to the toilet. Plus there was going to be a wedding.

  The wedding. Frank's fourth. Obviously he kept doing something wrong. Surely it wasn't possible to marry three people who were so hard to live with that you'd have to leave them. Once might be poor judgement. Twice, unlucky. Three times, and you'd have to be asking some serious questions about yourself, and what you expected of a partner. Or unlocking the padlock to the van and ushering your wife in there, letting her see the secrets, letting her know about yourself before she could discover it by accident. Letting her know that what she and everyone else thought of you might not be quite true.

  But then Harry remembered the expression on Frank's face when he'd stepped up to join him in the van. Not the cold anger – that had dissipated pretty quickly – but the resigned sigh and the relief which followed. Was that what it was? Yes, it certainly seemed like relief, that someone had discovered his secret, that he hadn't needed to take someone's hand and lead them into the lies and say, 'Everything you thought you knew about me is wrong. This is who I really am.'

  That memory gave Harry the courage to throw back the bedclothes and swing his feet to the floor. It wasn't the preparations going on in the house that had caused him to stay in bed – it was his fear of facing Frank. And the memory of Frank's relief in the caravan, like a cancerous crust melting away, was what gave him enough strength to stand, pull on his jeans and shirt, and open the door to the rest of the house.

  'Morning, Harry.' Frank's voice took him by surprise. He was coming out of the laundry, which was next to the guest bathroom. A crisp white shirt on a hanger swung from his hand.

  Harry wasn't sure where he should look, so instead he found himself staring at the shirt's pearl buttons. 'Hi.' Slowly he allowed himself to raise his eyes until they met Frank's. 'How are you?'

  'I'm well. Nervous.'

  'Not really,' Harry replied, before realising his mistake. 'Oh, you're nervous.' He laughed self-consciously, and Frank chuckled as well, which made Harry relax a little. The honest truth was that he was nervous – about meeting Frank. And now here they were, face to face, completely by accident.

  Frank rubbed his cheek, his bristles scratching faintly, like static. 'Harry, you ever heard the saying "There's an elephant in the room"?'

  Harry shook his head. 'No. What's it mean?'

  'It means that sometimes there's an issue that's so big, so in need of discussing that no one does. Because it's hard to talk about. But everyone knows it's there.'

  'I don't ...'

  'After what you saw yesterday, I know there's a big old elephant between us. Between you and me.'

  Harry bit his lip and kept listening.

  'But do you think we can ignore it for just a little longer?'

  'Why?' Harry asked. 'Because of Greta?'

  Frank nodded slowly. 'Something like that.'

  'Will she be angry?'

  'She's a very understanding woman, Harry.'

  Like all the others were too, no doubt, Harry thought, a little sourly. 'She won't be mad that there was an elephant in the room, and she never saw it?'

  'Or that I never pointed it out to her? Maybe. But if she's the woman I think she is, she'll understand that there's a part of me which I keep to myself. I can't tell you why, because I don't even know. And she respects that. So unless someone else goes snooping around ...' His eyes were suddenly set hard. They were boring through Harry, who knew in that moment that Frank's anger wasn't gone – not even close. He was putting it on hold until the wedding was over, and that thought made Harry catch his breath with dread.

  It was turning into a much warmer day than it had first promised. Harry hooked his finger inside his collar and tugged at it, trying to create a bit of ventilation. He hated wearing a tie, and he couldn't really understand why he should have to. It was, after all, a farm, and not even a very big or particularly impressive one. Besides, he'd seen what the groom was wearing, and there was no tie in that picture.

  Mum and Greta were standing near the entrance to the marquee, talking to a middle-aged woman whose greying hair was cut in a neat skullcap. She wore a powder-blue suit and carried a black folder, and Harry guessed that she would be conducting the ceremony. Huge arrangements of white flowers on pillars stood like sentinels on either side of the entrance and, beyond them, inside the marquee itself, Harry saw white plastic chairs lined up. He knew those chairs well – he, Dad and Trent had spent almost an hour that morning unloading them from a van and setting them out in careful, tidy rows.

  Closer to where Harry stood, on the verandah of the house itself, a couple of girls in black skirts and white shirts were working near a table, where a man in a dark waistcoat was pouring wine into dozens of glasses. The clinking of the glasses and the quiet chat from the waiters made the whole scene seem more peaceful, if anything. It was certainly more peaceful than it had been earlier, with deliveries of food and flowers and last-minute phone calls from people who weren't sure if they'd get there on time. But now things had settled down.

  Just in time, too, because some of the guests had begun to arrive, and at the top of the driveway was Trent, slouching, his left hand deep in his pocket, white earbuds in place, directing the trickle of traffic with an odd, grudging pride. As each car reached him he'd flap his hand in the vague direction of the rocky field behind the house,
the one in which the caravan stood.

  Harry watched him, and almost wished that he could help. Not that there was enough for two of them to do, but even hanging out with a surly Trent would have been better than standing about in a shirt and tie and good trousers watching people nervously manoeuvring their sedans and wagons up the rough driveway.

  'Got your gear packed, Harold?' Dad had slipped up beside him when he wasn't paying attention. 'Remember, we want to go pretty much as soon as Frank and Greta take off. Trent and his dad are looking after the place, and they don't need three extra guests hanging around.'

  With a strange expectation, Harry remembered that he was going to meet the infamous Greg. Greg the terrible, waste-of-space father, if Trent was to be believed.

  'It's getting warm, isn't it?' Dad squinted skyward. 'I reckon it might storm later, though. Oh, look out,' he added as a midnight-blue BMW sedan picked its way carefully up the driveway towards them. 'That one's from the bride's side of the family, I'd say.'

  'Is Greta's family rich?'

  Dad shrugged. 'I don't know. It was just something to say, really.'

  'How much do you think her family knows about Frank?'

  'Hard to say. They'd know as much as he's let them know – that he's a Vietnam vet, a war hero. And I'm sure someone's let slip about the tunnel thing at some point.'

  'What if none of that was true?'

  Dad frowned. 'What do you mean? Why wouldn't it be true?'

  'What if everyone thought all of that was real, but the truth was different?'

  Dad tugged at his ear, puzzled. 'I can't see why he'd do that, Harold. He might be ornery at times, but he's never struck me as a liar.'

  'No, I know that, but ...' He felt about for the right way to explain what he meant. 'I'm not saying he's a liar.'

  'Then what are you saying? That he didn't fight in Vietnam at all?'

  'No –'

  'Then what?'

  'Just forget it. I'll tell you later,' Harry said quickly as Frank strode across the lawn towards them. He wore black trousers, the white shirt with the pearl buttons that Harry had seen earlier, and an excruciatingly bright, multicoloured waistcoat.

  'Well, the entertainment's arrived,' Dad muttered. 'He looks like he's about to perform a magic show at the Boggabilla RSL. He could borrow your deck of cards.'

  'No, I think he's pulled a whole shelf of paint cans down on himself,' Harry said, and Dad coughed to cover his laughter.

  'Chaps,' Frank said, flashing a quick smile. 'You both look pretty sharp.'

  'Talk to my wife – she packed the bags,' Dad replied.

  'Huh?'

  Dad shook his head. 'It's nothing. You look ready for action yourself, Frank, all dolled up in your finery.'

  Frank sighed. 'Oh, I can't believe how nervous I feel! I mean, it's not like it's the first time I've ever gone and got hitched, is it?'

  'No, it's not.' Dad squeezed Frank's shoulder. 'You'll be fine, mate.'

  Frank smiled tightly. 'All these people. It makes you feel rather humble, actually.'

  'So, any army buddies coming along today, Frank?'

  'One or two, maybe. To be honest with you, a lot of us lost contact after we got back. And of course some of them couldn't be here for ... for obvious reasons.'

  'Yes. Yes, I see,' Dad replied, looking at the ground.

  Harry caught Frank's eye then, a fraction of a second before he cleared his throat and glanced away. 'Anyway, I should go and make sure that Trent's all right. He wasn't keen to help, but he seems to be doing a pretty good job so far.'

  'Yes, he's doing fine,' said Dad. 'Well, good luck today, mate. I hope the rain holds off for you.'

  'Yes, I hope so too.' Frank took a couple of steps towards Trent, then hesitated and half turned, before changing his mind and continuing on. It was as if he had something more he wanted to say, something unfinished.

  'Oh, this one might struggle, Harold,' Dad was saying, as a red Commodore SV8 made its way through the first rutted dip at the bottom of the hill. 'He'd be better off parking it down there and walking up.'

  'That's Joel's dream car,' Harry said. 'Remember when he got that magazine with the Holden Special Vehicles liftout? Every HSV car since they first started making them. And then how he cut out all the pictures and stuck them all over his room?'

  'I remember, Harold. I also remember how he used sticky tape, which pulled huge flakes of paint off the walls.' Dad sighed heavily. 'I have a few regrets about Joel – the fact that he's not still with us is the big one, of course – but I also get a bit sad when I think that I never saw him drive. It's all he ever wanted to do, just get behind the wheel and drive. He talked about it constantly, remember?'

  'Yeah, I do. Plus there was that driving game he used to play on his PlayStation all the time.'

  'That's right! Whatever happened to that?'

  'I've got it now. He said I could have it.'

  'He told you that, beforehand?'

  Harry nodded.

  'Really?' Then, after a brief but thoughtful pause, Dad said, 'You know, Joel used to count down the years and months until he'd be old enough for me to take him down to the RTA to sit for his learner's test. Then he was going to drive home.' Dad stopped speaking for a moment, and Harry didn't have the nerve to look at his face. 'But he never got that chance.'

  'Yeah, it sucks,' Harry said, and while it seemed like such a poor excuse for a reply, it was all he had.

  'I should have taken him out in the bush, or brought him somewhere like this and ... and let him have a drive. You know, just so he could do it. But we never thought he might not get to be old enough.'

  Blurrily, Harry saw that the driver of the red SV8 had seemingly taken Dad's advice and pulled over to the side of the driveway, about halfway up the hill. Now he was opening the passenger's door.

  'Do you think he would have, if he hadn't got sick in Cairns that time?'

  'What, made it to sixteen? Gee, how can we know? Maybe.'

  'Do you think if he'd taken all his meds that night –'

  Harry was interrupted by Mum, calling from the verandah of the house. 'David, can I borrow you for a sec?'

  'Hang on, Harold, hold that thought.' And Dad turned and went, leaving Harry's question hanging in the air like a half-made apology.

  At the top of the driveway, Trent was talking to the driver of a mid-sized silver-grey sedan – a Toyota – and Harry immediately noticed the car's ordinariness. It wasn't new, but it wasn't that old; it wasn't in great shape, nor was it all beaten up. It hadn't been polished in a while, but it wasn't filthy either. It was, in pretty much every way, a very average car.

  Opening the back door of the Toyota, Trent took out a blue sports bag, and as soon as he slammed the door, the car moved slowly away, disappearing behind the end of the house.

  Harry watched Trent walking towards him, and holding out the bag. 'Do us a favour, would you? Can you take this inside?'

  'What is it?'

  'It's the old man's stuff.'

  'That was your dad, in that car?'

  'Yeah. Why?'

  Harry shook his head. 'No reason. He just wasn't ... didn't seem to be what I expected, I guess.'

  'What did you expect?'

  'I actually have no idea. I guess I'll just take this inside.'

  Greta met him as he came through the front door. She'd changed into a shimmering white dress, which fell almost to her ankles, and her hair was swept back. Harry found himself feeling weirdly shy in her presence. At least there was no lipstick on her teeth this time.

  'Harry, I've got a special job for you. Would you mind helping me with it?'

  A special job. He smiled, and tried not to feel patronised. 'Sure – what is it?'

  'A couple of girls have come out from town to serve the drinks and so on, but I wonder if you'd be a darling and direct people to the front of the house from where they're parking out the back. I'm sure they'd find their way on their own, but it would be great if someone could just po
int them in the right direction. You know, make them feel welcome and looked-after. Some of them were here last night, but a lot weren't.'

  'Yeah, no worries,' Harry replied, and he saw Greta's shoulders visibly relax as he said it.

  'Thanks, Harry – you're a star.'

  He headed around the end of the house to the backyard, and from the corner of his eye noticed Trent glancing his way as he passed. He heard Curious Reg whimper from where he was tied to the tap at the back of the house, and cringed at the mental image of the dog leaping up onto Greta and her shimmery dress. 'Sorry, mate, but I don't think they want you jumping on people in their wedding clothes.'

  Up in the makeshift car park, a handful of people were getting out of their cars, or standing around in their best clothes while they waited for others. Harry recognised a number of them from the drinks the night before. Some held large gifts in white and gold and silver wrapping, and over in the shade of one particularly large eucalypt, the driver of the blue BMW was crouched down at the front of his car, looking at something under the front bumper.

  'Good morning,' Harry said as he approached a group of four slightly lost-looking guests. 'Are you here for the wedding?' Inwardly, he winced at the stupidity of the question.

  'I hope so,' joked a tall, thin man in a dark suit. 'I'd hate to think I got all dolled up like this for a barbecue.'

  'Or a funeral,' added the dorky young guy standing just behind him, but the joke fell flat.

  'Well, you're in the right place for the wedding,' Harry said. 'If you want to go around to the front of the house, there are drinks.'

  'Come on,' the tall man said to his companions, and they wandered off, leaving Harry alone, and slightly cross. I'm a guest at this wedding too, he thought, not some kid just helping out the grownups, doing as I'm told. I'm not some kind of servant.

  Somewhere between forty and fifty, Trent's father had a kind, well worn face, a thick moustache, and hair that looked like it had been combed into submission. He nodded at Harry as he locked his silver-grey Toyota and pocketed his keys. 'Are you Harry?'