After dessert, I go with James to the lounge-room. I lie across one of the leather couches and James lies across the other. He is wearing basketball shorts and a singlet. For a moment we are silent. Suddenly he sits up and moves his body towards mine as though he has a secret to tell. I sit up too, but then he falls down again: a change of plan. He takes a pen from the coffee table and pretends to write something important in the margins of the TV guide; frowning, feigning worry, wanting me to look at him.
‘You’re left-handed,’ I say.
‘Congratulations,’ he says, without looking up. ‘I’m a southpaw.’
‘Isn’t that a boxer?’
‘Duh. It just means a left-handed person.’
He looks even harder at me now, his light-blue eyes narrowing on me, like a lizard suffering from too much sun trying to see what’s trapped under its claw.
‘I didn’t know that,’ I say, blushing.
I stare at his arms, his legs, his cheekbones. He knows that I’m watching and does everything he can to pretend he doesn’t know. He changes the channel to a cop show. A team of FBI agents pounce on a bunch of drug runners in an alleyway. They are wearing yellow sweaters with FBI written boldly in red across the front.
‘The FBI look just like a football team,’ I say.
‘No they don’t,’ he says without looking at me. ‘They look nothing like a football team.’
I wonder how long it will be before I will be alone in this house. It’d be like being alone in a five-star hotel. I could sleep in each of the beds, snoop in the cupboards, sit in the spa in Margaret and Henry’s ensuite, drink some alcohol, eat the whole box of chocolate liqueurs I saw in the piano room, smoke a cigar while on the phone and pull out the photo albums. I could roam around freely for a few days.
Perhaps something tragic could happen to the Hardings and the house would become mine.
It’s almost dark outside and we haven’t turned the lamps on. The room is blue. On the TV, two skinny, tattooed removalists are taking furniture out of somebody’s house and loading it into a van.
I remember an old joke I made up that nobody ever gets.
‘I’d like to start a furniture removal business called The Heimlich Removers,’ I say.
James doesn’t look at me, ‘Congratulations,’ he says. ‘That’s very funny. You should tell somebody who thinks it’s as funny as you do.’
I am red again. James smiles, a twisted smile, and then he looks at me, long and hard. Our eyes connect for too long, my stomach lurches and I look away.
Margaret comes into the room and stands between the two couches.
‘You’ve been watching that TV for hours,’ she says.
‘Really?’ I wonder what the rule is on a Saturday.
‘It’s all crap,’ says James, ‘but there’s been some witty distractions along the way.’
Margaret sits on the couch next to me, produces a small apple and starts to munch. These apples appear so frequently it is as though she is a tennis player producing balls from within the folds of her pleated skirt. She takes regular toothy bites and finishes quickly. She holds the apple core between her thumb and index finger. ‘James, why don’t you change out of those sweaty gym clothes?’
James ignores her.
She frowns. ‘I don’t know why you’d have a shower and then get right back into the same clothes.’
Margaret leaves the room and I say, ‘I’m going to my room to read.’
James swings around. He sits up and rests his chin on the back of the couch so that he can watch me go.
‘We have root beer,’ he says. ‘If you get me some you can watch whatever you want on TV.’
I am forced to look at him and he sees that I am blushing again.
‘You’re blushing.’
‘Congratulations,’ I say. ‘How astute.’
He returns to a supine position, so that I can’t see his face.
I go to my room, but feel lonely straight away. I decide to find Henry. I want to talk to somebody.
I knock on the door to Henry’s den.
‘Come in,’ he says.
‘Hi,’ I say, ‘I was wondering if I could come and sit with you for a while.’
I look at his armchair and the identical armchair opposite him. He has a newspaper on his lap and is smoking a pipe. I have always wanted to smoke a pipe. He looks at his watch.
‘Sit down,’ he says. ‘Is there something you need to talk about?’
‘Oh no,’ I say, ‘I just wanted to sit in here with you and maybe read a book or something, while you keep doing whatever you’re doing.’
‘Okay,’ he says, ‘if you’d like.’
‘Oh.’
He puts his newspaper down and starts asking me questions; the kinds of questions he and Margaret asked me on the drive from O’Hare airport. What do I like to do on weekends? What are my favourite subjects at school? Have I seen many koalas? If I tell too many more lies, I’ll have to write them down, to keep track.
I like talking to Henry. He is shy, yet calm. He makes me feel better. I think he’s the kind of person I’d like to be. His shirt is loose, about three buttons undone. I feel like telling him something about my family, something that will make him realise I should never go back. Instead I say, ‘Could I just read one of your books for a while?’
Henry tells me to help myself and I take a book off the shelf. We sit in silence then and it is good to sit and read in Henry’s den like this. I look at him and his relaxed body and try to relax like him. I read five pages and then suddenly I start talking.
‘Actually,’ I say, ‘my life at home is probably not what you think it is.’
Henry moves in his seat and sits up straighter.
‘I know that your family isn’t well off,’ he says. ‘Which must be hard sometimes.’
‘It’s not that,’ I say. ‘The trouble has more to do with my sisters and the bad characters they hang out with.’ I pause to swallow, but not long enough to stop myself from telling this lie.
‘My sister Erin’s boyfriend Steve is in prison and before he went inside he was always hanging around with his mates in our flat and giving me a hard time. I’m not looking forward to him getting out.’
Henry rubs his neck.
‘What is this Steve character in prison for?’
‘Grievous bodily harm,’ I say. ‘He’s a violent guy.’
Henry shifts in his seat and frowns.
‘I don’t know what I should say,’ he says slowly. ‘I would have thought the Organisation would have told us something as serious as this.’
Henry is suddenly standing. I don’t know why. I stand too.
‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I didn’t mean to shock you. It’s really no big deal. My sister is going to break up with him anyway. I’ll probably never see him again.’
I think Henry wants me to leave but he also looks like he wants to give me a hug. I think I want him to hug me.
‘Well,’ he says, standing back, looking almost angry. ‘I hope that your sister has enough sense to get rid of Steve and that you’ll keep out of his way.’
‘Okay,’ I say.
Henry closes the door and I stand in the hallway, my heart thumping. I don’t know what to do next. I wish that I could start again.
I find Margaret. She’s working on her laptop at the dining-room table. I ask her if I can have a bath.
‘Of course you can,’ she says. ‘And you don’t need to ask. You’re part of the family now, Lou. Just go ahead and make yourself at home.’
She says all of this while typing, as though she were telling somebody where the pencils are kept.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Thanks a lot.’
I am feeling happy until I realise the chair that I’ve been using to stick under the handle has been taken away. I undress in my room and run to the bathroom wearing a robe. I leave the door open while I run the bath so that they will all know this is what I’m doing and so nobody will come in to use the upstairs toilet.
>
A few minutes later somebody knocks.
‘I’m in the bath,’ I say.
‘It’s only me,’ says Margaret. ‘I just need to get something from the cabinet.’
I want to say ‘No’ or ‘Wait’ but she is already inside. She’s got a small towel wrapped around her torso. She’s naked. I can see some of her pubic hair poking out, black against the pink of the towel. She looks straight at me – not for long – but still, she looks.
She’s humming. She opens the cupboard over the sink and then turns to me.
‘Scoot over,’ she says. ‘Make some room.’
I do not speak. I pull my legs into my chest. I think I say ‘There you go’ or ‘Okay then’ but I can’t be sure.
‘Only kidding,’ she says. ‘I’m taking a spa in the ensuite. It’s all yours.’
I pretend to laugh but my face, neck, ears and throat are burning with shame and my throat feels like someone’s fist is stuck inside it.
After my bath, I lie on my bed and read a letter from my mum. Here is some of it:
Dear Yankie Daughter,
… Your cousin Paul is two and a half years old now. Your auntie Marys all worried because he doesnt speak at all and can’t walk properly and he cries all the time and bangs his head against the wall. But I tell her that Einstein didn’t even talk until he was three and was a bad baby and he was a world genius and that shes not to worry. I tell her he’s probably real special and she should keep him away from those crazy doctors. You know what doctors are like? They used to say you had that disease and keep you in hospital all the time and they used to say they could do an operation to stop you going red. What do any of them know about children my love? Look at you now!
… Your auntie Sallys hip is all fixed and …
… Your dad won the cricket last weekend and is happy as Larry. He shoved the trophy in the TV cabinet so we can all see it all night long but I’m going to stash it away in his sock drawer. … Erin is happy because shes thinking of doing a nursing course. It only takes one year and then she’ll be able to work and move into a house with Steve. She said shes thinking of moving interstate because the nurses are always going on strike there and she’ll get more holidays!
Etc, etc …
Love,
Your one and only mum
p.s: Leona wanted to add a note without me seeing it. She insists on seeling this letter herself. So dont blame me if its really rude. It probably will be!
Dear Sisko Kid!
Greg thought up the best joke the other day about Catholics. He said theres one thing about Catholic girls … half of them take it in the hand and half of them in the mouth! Pretty bloody clever dont you think? It’ll take you a while to work it out. A hint – remember when we used to take holy communion when we were kids?
Farewell,
The Hand Maiden
To recover from this obscene letter, I write seven pages of promises, pacts and undertakings.
I write that I will learn a language and take up the piano. Margaret can teach me. This might help her get back to what she misses and loves to do. I write a promise that I will do extremely well at school, sleep well and write for the school newspaper. I will swim in the mornings before school to get fit and develop legs like Bridget’s. I will fulfil my enormous potential, learn a new word every day, read a novel every week and become the world’s most impressive autodidact and polymath. I will go to university and live in student digs.
This is only the first page.
When I finish, I lie down and look at the light coming in under the door and I am convinced that everything will be better from now on.
5
The Harding vacation is about to begin. Bridget and James are packing their bags and Henry is whistling in the bathroom. I want to stay here. It’s hot out there and my eyes are stinging.
Last night I couldn’t get to sleep. I got up and walked around the house in my socks. I drank some milk at the kitchen table and then I stood outside James’ bedroom and looked at him sleeping. Henry and Margaret’s door was ajar, so I opened it and looked inside. Henry snored. I walked up and down the landing and wished that I could wake somebody. I thought about it. I thought about making noise and waking them just to have somebody to talk to. The longer I paced the angrier I got with them for being able to sleep. I thought about emptying the pots and pans from the kitchen cupboards or pushing a bookshelf over in the library then running back to my bed.
We could sit up together and talk about whether there had been a burglar and whether or not to call the police. But when the excitement faded, they would return to their pillows to sleep and I would still be awake.
I sat against the banister and fantasised about throwing myself down the stairs and lying there at the bottom. Henry would find me first. I would lie there with my eyes closed and they would think I had sleep-walked and fallen from the top of the landing. I could do this five or six times, get myself covered in bruises and then they’d send me to a sleep clinic. I wanted not to be awake and alone.
Margaret comes into my room without knocking.
‘Are you ready?’ she asks, her mouth red with lipstick, her long hair out of its bun and in two thick plaits. She is wearing shorts and long socks.
‘Yep,’ I say. ‘When are we leaving?’
I wonder if I might have time to snooze for ten minutes.
‘Now!’ she says, grabbing me playfully by the hand. ‘Let’s hit the road.’
‘I’ll just pack some books,’ I say.
‘If you think you’ll need them, go right ahead.’
What?
‘But you might want to take a break from the books and take in some scenery.’
‘Okay,’ I say and we leave my room together.
The vacation will last fourteen days and take us through three states. The mini-van (the Hardings’ third vehicle) is packed to the gills with blankets, pillows, games, a first-aid kit and junk food. But I have only one book packed, and I feel uneasy about all the time I’ll have to fill.
It is our second day on the road. James and Bridget and I lie on our stomachs and stare out the back window at the broken white lines oozing out from under the van. I am sick from the heat and doze fitfully, having eaten my way through several bags, buckets and cartons of food made mostly from salt and sugar.
I open my eyes after a foul-mouthed sleep and catch James staring at me. I look out the back window and discover that we are travelling through completely new scenery, steep mountains and deep, green valleys, but I am too palsied by the immense heat and over-eating to think any of it beautiful.
Margaret turns around in her seat. ‘How are you getting on back there?’ she asks. ‘Fine,’ we say, or ‘Great.’
When Bridget and James fight, Henry threatens to pull over and when they stop he says tsk tsk. I am surprised to hear him say tsk tsk. My mum does this. It drives me mad.
Bridget plucks her eyebrows, plays solitaire and talks about her best friend, Sonia, whose mom and dad – she tells us several times – have bought a yacht and gone sailing. She doesn’t say she wishes she could have gone with them, but it’s obvious that’s what she’s getting at.
‘Can I use your cellphone, Mom?’ asks Bridget every time we stop to get gas.
‘Just one call,’ says Margaret.
James reads comics and waits until Henry and Margaret are out of earshot so that he can make sarcastic remarks using words he has obviously picked up from the cartoonists. He tells me I’m weird about ten times a day.
‘Why?’ I say.
‘Because you are,’ he says. Or, ‘Because you can’t help it.’
I read a few pages of my book at a time, until I feel car sick and need to lie down and doze. I want to be back in the airconditioned house. I want to be alone so that my heart can slow down.
Four days pass in this way and the only relief from the tedium of driving comes when we stop to eat at roadside diners or to picnic in a forest. At first, I liked th
e tacky roadside truck-stops; each one of them different and yet all of them the same, with their salmon or peach coloured plastic chairs, cigarette burns on the toilet seats, striped or floral curtains gathered up with greasy ribbons.
But like the motel rooms we stay in, these truck-stops are only satisfying for a little while. The first sight of a motel room gives me a thrill of newness and surprise, but by the morning it has closed in on me and I feel dirty.
At first I took an inventory of peculiar American brand names and slang words. But this novelty has already worn off and I have to force a kind of traveller’s awe. It’s not really very interesting that things are called something else.
The only entry in my diary is a long one about fast food and the neon signs and billboards advertising giant-size portions of everything. The food in the ads is so big that by the time you unwrap your burger it looks like a flea. I want more. I want something different. I’ve never felt this hungry before. I’ve never felt like I needed to put so much in my mouth. Maybe the ads produce saliva. Suddenly I expect food to give me an emotion, the one I saw, the one I’ve seen on the billboards of beautiful people.
After years of exposure to this advertising frenzy, people must start to despise each other for being ugly, for having so much as a birthmark on their chin with hair growing out of it.
Yesterday, when we got our photos developed, I hardly seemed real to myself: teeth not white, hair not shiny and arms not lithe. I felt like ripping my face off my skull.
That’s the only thing I’ve written about in my diary.
Whenever we stop somewhere, Henry spends a long time taking our rubbish to the bin.
‘There’s a trash can right here,’ says Margaret, but Henry wants to walk with the rubbish bags.
‘I feel like stretching my legs,’ he says and it’s clear he wants to be alone.
Bridget always has her basketball with her and she runs up ahead and dribbles the ball, sometimes circling us and throwing the ball at us when we aren’t ready.
How the Light Gets In Page 5