by Susan Tepper
We talk about some other things in her stock before I bid my farewell. Now I must get to where I’m going, do my work and return home. A thimbleful of luck will see me safe.
4.30pm
somewhere near Nimbin, northern New South Wales, Australia
Emergency Dash
by Matt Potter
The driver’s door of the old Holden slams with a heavy shtoock and green and yellow material and frizzy dyed-red hair flash in front of the windscreen. Eve’s bare feet slap on the concrete footpath as her bangles jingle and my mobile pings again from inside the glove box then there’s a long moan from the back seat. In the distance, a toilet door bangs shut, and then the body in the back seat groans and rolls and moans some more and the car keys tinkle from the lock behind the steering wheel.
So there’s a lot of action. And not a lot of it good.
“Stop it, stoooooppp it,” Nesbitt moans from the back seat. “It’s a human rights abuse ...”
I don’t want to go there, so I sit still in the front passenger seat.
I do this for five minutes – so a lifetime – but then think, so what do I do now? I could open the car door and slip onto the grass by the roadside and slowly walk up the concrete path, past the swing and the seesaw and the slippery dip and the sandpit and that whirly thing and all the other empty play equipment and stand at the door to the toilet block and ask, Are you okay, Eve?
I could do that.
And then have her say, Bet no one ever gets diarrhoea in sleepy old Adelaide, hey Carolyn? Because everyone’s arsehole is wound up too tight, hey.
I flip open the glove box and pull out my mobile. There’s another message from Peter. The game is up Carolyn, the message says. Justin’s on the roof and Natasha’s choking on popcorn! We need you back home.
I stow the mobile back in the glove box and slap the door shut.
“Ow!” Nesbitt says from the back seat. “Stop the ship, it’s sinking!”
I could turn around and make cooing noises at Nesbitt over the back of the bench seat.
I turn around and look over the back of the bench seat. Saliva is frothing at the corners of Nesbitt’s mouth and his hands are swatting at his crotch.
“Stop the vaginas,” he whispers, his hands flapping and his head thrashing and his dreadlocks whipping against the hash Anzac plate on one side on the seat and the bowl empty of Nimbin Nuts on the other. “Pleeeasse, make the vaginas stop.”
I turn back to face the front windscreen, then reach behind my head and pull away the halterneck knot still digging into my neck.
Eve’s hand was resting on the Pyjama Poet’s arm when she suddenly clutched her stomach with her other hand and bolted out of the Gloriana Room. I was watching them. I was talking to Nesbitt (well, really, he was dribbling because he’d polished off all the hash Anzacs by then) and watching Eve trying to seduce the Pyjama Poet, when she made her emergency dash.
I left Nesbitt dribbling on his stool by the bar. Knocking on the cubicle door, I said, “Are you okay, Eve?”
She groaned and then I heard a lot of splashing echo inside the toilet bowl and then Eve said, “Has he gone?”
She probably means the Pyjama Poet, I thought.
“Who?” I asked.
“The Pyjama Poet,” she said. “Rocket.”
“Yes, I think so,” I said, “though I’m not 100% sure.”
Although, actually, I was about 99% sure he was still there, but that would be telling.
“Yeah, he is gone. He left with that tall blonde woman. The one he kept looking over at when you were talking to him.”
Eve errggghed. Her voice sounded like it was bouncing off the floor tiles, like she was bent over at right angles, her head between her knees. “If Rocket has gone then I want Nabisco for myself,” she said. “If you’re feeling lonely I’ve got an old dildo you can borrow. I don’t want you to feel left out.”
So her vagina still meant business.
I pulled open the door to the Gloriana Room and stood in the doorway. Poetic murmurs floated through. The door creaked as I opened it wider, and giggles filtered through to join the poetic murmurs.
“That’s okay,” I said. “Nesbitt said he knows from personal experience that Rocket has an enormous penis, and there’s never a dry eye in the house when he’s around.”
I rap my knuckles on the cubicle door. “Are you okay, Eve?” I ask. My voice sounds like a cartoon character because I’m breathing through my mouth and speaking through my nose.
The toilet block smells like ... well, a filthy, disgusting toilet block besides a public playground. Diarrhoea and stale filth and old sweat and those sugary sweet yellow blocks they leave in urinals that look like boiled sweets.
“I will be,” she groans, like her body is at right angles again. Followed by more sounds of fluid gushing into the toilet bowl. “You need to go back to the car to make sure Nabisco doesn’t escape.”
I look down at the frayed hem of the faded green and yellow sarong.
“Nesbitt,” I say. “His name is Nesbitt. And I don’t think Nesbitt likes women,” I add. “I might be from sleepy old Adelaide but that’s one thing we do have, men who appreciate big penises.”
“I have a very powerful vagina,” Eve says. “It doesn’t take no for an answer.”
There’s another groan from Eve, followed by yet more slop flowing into the toilet bowl.
“But is there anything left of it in there?” I ask.
“Of course there is!” she snaps. “Just make sure Nabisco doesn’t escape!”
Back at the car, I see the hash Anzac plate and the Nimbin Nuts bowl on the back seat, but no Nesbitt.
My mobile pings again so I reach in through the open passenger window, snap open the glove box and take out my mobile. Just as I straighten up and begin pressing buttons to check another message, I see something over the car roof. Nesbitt is standing on the other side of the road, staring at a bush covered with bright pink hibiscus flowers. They’re all over it, and some are scattered on the grass beside it too.
“Nesbitt!” I call out.
He turns and grins. He has pink all over his teeth and lips. “Mmmm,” he says, and stuffs another flower in his mouth.
Feet slap up the concrete footpath. “Get in the car!” Eve yells out. “The day isn’t over yet and my vagina’s growling!”
But then her face screws up and a big watery fart echoes across the playground. Dyed-red hair spins around and knees clutched together, bangles a-jangling, Eve hobbles back towards the toilet block.
A car speeds past, roof open and folded down. Rocket, the Pyjama Man sits in the front passenger seat beside the tall blonde woman he kept looking over at when Eve was talking to him. They smile as they sail past. They wave as their hair flies behind them. They cheer as they toot their horn.
Across the road, Nesbitt falls to his knees. Lying beside the hibiscus bush, he has his hand tucked inside his shorts again, a pink flower gripped in his teeth.
I smile – well, my mouth turns up a little at both edges – and start punching buttons on my mobile to call home.
4.00am
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA
Homegoing Day – Morning
by AR Neal
“Taste this,” Nancy ordered as she shoved a spoonful of macaroni salad in Jamal’s mouth. “Is it enough tuna? You know how Bertram and them like it with a lot of tuna.” She put her other hand on her hip. “Lord knows they never lift a finger to buy a single can but they sure want to tell you how to make it.”
Jamal licked mayonnaise from the corners of his mouth. He had come for the rest of his glass of sweet tea from dinner and instead found himself wrangled by his mom in a kitchen full of burbling pots and pans.
“You know, Daddy loved daffodils. I bet he’d be disappointed to see how the cold did them this year,” Nancy said as she turned back to the little window over the sink and squinted into the dark. It was only 4.00am but her potato salad needed just a few more ingredie
nts. She had so much to do.
Jamal scratched his neck. “Ma, why are you cooking? Auntie Stella said –”
“Boy, you know Stella can’t cook. Besides, everybody’s gonna be looking for my potato salad.” She whipped the big spoon around the silver bowl until it sang.
Jamal watched, hypnotized by the rhythm of her wrist.
“So?”
“So what?”
She stopped stirring and looked at him over the tops of her glasses. “The macaroni salad?”
“Oh! Yeah, it’s great. But what is all this?” Jamal asked as he waved a hand across the kitchen. “You should be resting.”
“What in the world do I have to rest for? Daddy would be cross if I didn’t feed these people right, today of all days.”
Jamal tiptoed to the refrigerator and opened the door. He had put his glass at the back of the first shelf, which was now filled with rainbow gelatin molds. He checked behind each one and sighed; he surveyed the kitchen again and spied his now-empty glass as it sat on a pile of dirty dishes.
“Boy, shut that ice box before you let all the cold air out.”
Jamal walked to the sink, rinsed the glass, and filled it with tap water. “Ice boxes went the way of the dinosaur, Ma. What you have there is an energy-efficient piece of 21st century technology.” He paused to savor a swallow of water and grimaced. He had become accustomed to his filtered city water; distance and time had changed many of the old country homestead’s flavors in the five years since he had left home. Jamal Washington was on his way up the ladder of success and the timing of this particular family issue could not have been worse. He thought there was nothing left for him in the neighborhood and shook the thought away quickly; his family was there and that certainly was more than nothing.
He watched his mother as she dolloped mayonnaise and mustard on top of the perfectly-cubed potatoes in her shiny bowl. “Anyway, like I said, you need to rest. Besides, nobody’s gonna want any kind of salad for breakfast. I think Uncle Bud is getting something catered in.”
Nancy stirred the seasonings into the potato salad. “You know you want some of this good cookin’,” she teased. “Go look in the stove.”
Jamal turned on the oven light, cursed under his breath when it did not come on, and gently cracked the door to peer inside. “Ma, one of the first things I’ll do when I get back is buy you a stove. This thing is so old, Methuselah’s momma probably baked the first loaf of bread in it.”
Nancy stopped stirring and frowned. “Boy, watch your language. Besides, nobody asked you to buy me a stove. Daddy had that put in here when he bought me this house. Now look in there like I said,” she admonished.
Nancy’s egg and bacon casseroles were heavenly and Jamal felt the water rise in his mouth. He shut the oven. “Uncle Bud’s gonna be mad. There’s enough casserole for twenty people in there, and I think he already paid.”
“You wanna clean this for me?” She had left a big dollop of salad on her stirring spoon and Jamal chewed his bottom lip as he took it. “Do I look like I care if Bud paid for anything? Nobody asked me what I wanted.” Nancy fussed as she ripped a gossamer piece of plastic wrap from the tattered box on the counter and covered the bowl of potato salad. “Don’t nobody want that old dried up diner food he bought.”
Jamal bucked his eyes at her and she shrugged.
“That’s what Bud always gets for family gatherings. Calls himself catering. That’s not catering,” she mumbled, as she stacked the trays with olives, cheese, and salami to make room in the already-packed refrigerator and slid the potato salad bowl between savory macaroni salad and glistening Ambrosia.
Jamal looked at the spoon. No one made potato salad like his mother. She had shared a few of her precious recipes with him before he had moved away but her versions always came out better. He smiled at her and asked, “Why must you be so contrary, Ma?”
Nancy turned down the flame beneath her pressure cooker and stepped across to the sink to pour water off the hardboiled eggs. As she tilted the steaming pot she said, “I need to keep busy.”
“It’s four in the morning, Ma. Ain’t that much busy in the world.”
“You didn’t say that when Daddy caught you sneaking back in the house that time you and Jimmy called yourselves clubbing all night. Y’all got real busy when he was ready to put you on punishment.” Nancy lifted the edge of her apron and pretended to tap dance. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the two of you think up lies so quick.”
Jamal laughed at his mother and the memory. He had been eighteen and it felt like a lifetime ago when his dad had threatened to take his head off his shoulders if he ever disrespected the house by staying out past midnight ever again. He wondered who would chastise him now that his dad was dead.
“Jamal?” Nancy looked at him again over the tops of her glasses. “You all right?”
“I’m good, Ma,” he answered as casually as he could and fingered a foil-covered mound on the corner of the table. “Might there be cornbread rolls under here?”
Nancy beamed. “Of course.” Jamal peeled back a corner and carefully removed two rolls; Nancy always stacked them in a spiral and the ones he chose would not ruin the pattern. “Don’t you mess up my pattern, boy,” she chided out of habit.
“Tsk! You know I got it.” Jamal sucked his teeth and handed her a roll. “I know you got some warm butter. Let’s do this.” He found an empty bar stool; the rest were covered with trays of crackers and bowls filled with freshly-washed fruit.
Mother and son stood next to each other, savoring the grainy rolls.
Nancy wiped crumb-covered fingertips on her apron with a sigh. “I sure miss Daddy.”
“I know, Ma,” Jamal replied. He had no idea since this was his first experience with death but placing an arm around her shoulder, he tried to hug the sadness from his mother’s face. “Say, why don’t you go put your feet up? I’ll wash dishes right quick.”
“Thank you, son,” her voice trembled. She turned away to wipe a tear and Jamal looked out the window. “Jamal? You heard from Jimmy? Do you think he’ll be here?”
He frowned. “I don’t know, Ma. You know I went looking for him when I first got here. I gave a message to one of his associates,” he spat the word. “He knows, Ma. That’s all I can tell you.”
“You’re a good boy, Jamal,” Nancy said gently. She peered through the window into the yard. “At least the azaleas did well. You know Daddy loved azaleas.”
Jamal sank his hands into the sudsy water. “I know, Ma,” he offered with a smile, “I know.”
6.40pm
Geelong, Victoria, Australia
Adam Gets a Raw Deal
by Mandy Nicol
“Are you sure we can’t give you a hand, Mum?” asks Adam.
Adam’s mother shakes the colander of pasta over the sink. “No, it’s pretty much all done.” She tips the pasta shells into a large bowl then looks across at Adam and Jen sitting at the dining table. “There’s nothing to it. The trick is to keep the pasta and the broccoli al dente.”
“Which translates to raw,” Adam whispers to Jen.
Adam’s mother raises her eyebrows at him then nods to the far end of the kitchen-dining-lounge room. “Jen, have you seen the photos of Adam when he was young? He was such a sweet little boy.”
Jen crosses the room and sidles along the wall as if she’s at an art gallery. Which she sort of is.
Adam’s mother tips a pan of bright green broccoli onto the pasta, adds a pat of butter and a cup of grated parmesan.
Family photos in rustic timber frames are arranged randomly but artistically on the wall. Most feature Adam at various ages. Jen smiles at photos of Adam kicking a football, riding a BMX bike, playing tennis, holding a boogie board at the beach. When she stops in front of a recent photo, where he’s lost his hair and his tan and he sits in a director’s chair as a game of backyard cricket takes place in the background, her smile slides away.
“That was last Christmas, playing cricke
t,” says Adam. “I took a catch from that chair, got my cousin out for a duck. Remember that, Mum?”
“I sure do.” His mother squeezes the juice of half a lemon into the bowl, starts tossing it through with a large slotted spoon. “Corey had a good whinge about that, acted like he was nine instead of nineteen. He always was a bit of a brat, that one.”
“Yeah, he claimed it was a crowd catch so it didn’t count. But we created a new position, called it Square Leg in a Chair.” Adam laughs. “My uncles thought that was a great idea, they all grabbed a chair and sat down for the rest of the game too.”
“With a beer, of course,” adds his mother, sprinkling a handful of slivered almonds into the bowl.
“Well, of course … we had Mid-Wicket in a Chair, Third Man in a Chair … I suppose it should have been Mid-Wicket in a Chair with a Stubby.”
“And Third man in a Chair with a Frothy,” laughs Jen, walking back to the table.
“It’s not really a laughing matter,” says Adam’s mother, bringing the serving bowl to the table. “They drink far too much, that side of the family.” She grinds pepper into the bowl. “It’ll catch up with them in the long run. I’d hate to see their livers.” She spoons generous portions onto plates.
Jen sets the plates on their placemats. “Well, I suppose anything can happen to any of us, at any time,” she says. “You could get run over by a bus …”
“Yes, yes, you could get run over by a bus tomorrow,” trills Adam’s mother. “But nobody who says that thinks there’s a snowflake’s chance in hell of it actually happening.”
Jen’s lips stretch in a strained smile and she turns wide eyes on Adam. He shrugs and winks at her.
“Now what would you two like to drink, water or fresh juice?” asks Adam’s mother.