I sip my beer and try to remember the last time I drank alcohol.
Dad was working on the Holden in the driveway one Saturday afternoon. The front of the car was up on blocks, both wheels leaning against the fence. He was on his back under the chassis.
It took fifteen minutes of grunting and swearing until he’d wriggled free, his hands stained in oil. Bits of dead grass stuck in his hair. He asked me to get him a beer. When I got to the front door, he called out, ‘Make it two.’
I figured he was going to scull the first one in celebration and sit against the fence with the second telling me long involved stories about cars he’d owned, angry customers at work and horses he should have backed. Instead, he took one bottle from me and nodded at the spare in my hands. ‘Don’t tell your mum, okay?’
We sat against the fence, the two of us, and he told me that his boss gave him a fifty percent discount on beer and that was why he’d stayed at the same job all these years. That, and the fact that he didn’t have any other skills.
‘Promise me you’ll stay at school,’ Dad said.
‘What? Forever?’ I joked.
‘For as long as it takes to not end up working in a pub.’
I drank slowly, listened like a good son should and watched the afternoon drift by. I wanted to ask him what he hoped for when he was my age, but I took another sip of beer and another and studied the worn rubber of the tyres leaning beside me. In the end, I asked how much a new tyre cost.
He finished his beer and tossed the bottle on the grass.
‘More than we can afford,’ he’d said.
I’d wheeled the tyre towards the car.
Good enough for another year, and nothing more.
‘Does beer make you deaf?’ Charlotte says.
I’m standing in a shiny kitchen with a girl who scares me and all I can think of is my dad.
Charlotte hops down from the counter and leads me through the house. In the lounge is a giant flat screen television attached to the wall. The coffee table is a scatter of glossy magazines around a vase of yellow roses, one petal fallen onto the cream carpet. A grand piano is in the corner, a stack of sheet music on top. I walk across to the instrument and run my fingers along the surface.
‘I’m not deaf enough to listen,’ I say.
I expect it’s her mum’s piano, but Charlotte smiles and sits down behind it.
‘Close your eyes, Luke.’
I figure it’s because she’s embarrassed and just learning how to play.
The first note seems to vibrate across the space between us. It’s clear and crisp like the tolling of a church bell.
Charlotte plays. I keep my eyes closed. It’s like being massaged by sound. I sit on the lounge and all I think of is Charlotte leaning over the piano, intent on the keys, a wisp of hair falling across her face and yet she can’t brush it away or the music will stop. I listen for minutes, hours, I have no idea how long and not once do I open my eyes to break the spell.
‘Do you know Bach?’ Charlotte asks.
‘Bach, Beethoven, Beyoncé,’ I say.
Charlotte smiles.
‘My mum teaches me every evening for an hour, both of us sitting here,’ she says. ‘She watches my fingers, turns the page of the score and whispers to relax whenever my shoulders hunch or my eyes squint.’ She looks down at the keys. ‘Do you know how many black keys there are?’
I grin. ‘Yeah, sure, course I do.’
She looks at me and sees I’m joking. ‘Silly of me to ask.’
‘Black keys, white keys and a foot pedal for …’
‘For?’
‘… for making it go faster!’
‘But no brake?’
‘Nah. Take your fingers off the keys and it stops all by itself.’
‘Magic,’ Charlotte smiles.
She gets up from the piano and walks out the back door to the garden. I follow because I don’t trust myself alone with all this stuff lying around, begging to be broken.
Before I go out the door, I notice a family photo hanging on the wall. Charlotte is in a private school uniform of white blouse and tartan skirt, her hair hanging to her waist. Her mum stands beside her, looking like Charlotte with shorter hair: pale skin, green eyes and lips set in a knowing smile. Or is it a knowing frown?
Next to her mum is a tall man in a dark blue suit. He has a shock of wavy dark hair, a suntanned face and a strong chin. He looks like Superman in a suit. Strong, dependable. Mr Reliable.
I drag myself away from the photo of a family handsome enough to sell luxury cars. I walk down a narrow path, bordered by hedges pruned to perfection, opening out to a full-size tennis court with fake grass, a high wire fence and a covered pavilion where Charlotte sits on the hardwood seat.
I walk to centre court and run my hand along the net. It’s taut, as if someone is just about to start a game.
‘My dad reckons he’ll host work parties here,’ Charlotte says.
‘I’d rather a swimming pool,’ I say.
She laughs. ‘I’d rather he stayed at the office.’
I sit down next to her and we both look out at the court. I move my head from side to side, slowly, as if a game is taking place.
Charlotte notices and does the same. Back and forth, following the track of an imaginary ball.
I applaud loudly. ‘Your mum just hit a forehand smash right into your dad’s balls,’ I say.
Charlotte grips my wrist. ‘Best game I’ve ever seen,’ she says.
‘Only game I’ve seen,’ I add.
‘I think of ways of hurting him. For what he’s done. A dose of Ratsak in his protein shake. A bomb in his Audi.’ Charlotte smiles grimly.
‘He drives an Audi!’
She looks sharply at me. ‘Typical.’
‘Maybe something more inventive.’
She arches an eyebrow.
‘A hair dryer with a short circuit issue,’ I add.
Charlotte smiles. ‘A tarantula in his slippers.’
‘Any man who wears slippers deserves to die.’
‘Ha!’
‘A knife inserted into the handle of his tennis racquet, that flicks out when he hits a backhand.’
‘A life jacket on his sailboat that—’
‘He has a boat too!’
Charlotte leans across and playfully punches me in the ribs. ‘A life jacket designed to make him sink, not float. Or we remove the brakes from his bicycle.’
‘How about itching powder in his lycra?’
Charlotte reaches for my hand. ‘You know, Luke. I could grow to like you.’
‘I have that effect on people,’ I say.
Charlotte’s phone beeps. She checks the text.
‘Mum’s coming home early.’
I look up towards the house expecting to see the woman in the family photo walking down the path, brandishing a can of Mortein to spray the pest buzzing around her daughter.
‘I bet she’s going to cook another roast,’ Charlotte says. ‘To make up for last night. As if it was her fault.’
‘Your father’s a dickhead,’ I say.
‘Can you tell Mum that?’
‘How long has it been going on?’
Charlotte closes her eyes, either trying to remember or wishing she could forget.
‘I’m sorry I asked,’ I say.
She opens her eyes.
‘Dad used to say things to Mum when I was growing up. A comment on her weight, or the shadows under her eyes,’ Charlotte sighs. ‘Before we moved up here, it got worse.’
We both know what that means.
‘You could go to the police,’ I say.
‘Mum told me when he first hit her, she ran out of the house and drove to the police station at Bondi,’ Charlotte says. ‘She parked outside and tried to calm down.’ Charlotte takes
a deep breath. ‘She realised once she stepped into the station, the marriage was over. She couldn’t do it. The statements, the neighbours finding out, moving away from home. It was all too much.’
Charlotte stands. ‘Besides, men like my father are—’ She walks up the path without finishing her sentence.
Men like her father are … What? Above the law? Untouchable? Just because they’re rich and live in a mansion with a full-size tennis court and a grand piano?
I follow Charlotte, not sure whether to push the issue. As she approaches the back door, I notice her back straighten, as if she has to steel herself every time she enters the house.
She walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge door, stepping back as if inviting me to help myself. I hesitate.
‘Take a sixpack home for your dad.’ She attempts a smile.
I walk to the fridge door and close it. ‘We don’t need a handout.’
Her phone beeps again. She ignores it.
‘I’d better go,’ I say.
She sits up on the bench, as if daring me to stay. I walk out of the kitchen, past the piano, back down the lush carpeted hallway and out the front door.
As I’m walking down the driveway, the automatic sprinkler system springs into life, spitting water on my skanky clothes. I jump away. ‘Fanculo!’
Laughter rings from the verandah. Charlotte points a trigger finger my way. ‘Gotcha.’
I smile and walk away.
‘Luke,’ she calls.
I turn.
‘Thanks.’
I have no idea what for.
7
I wake to the sound of a car engine revving. Drawing back the curtains, I see Mr Grady’s ute pulling away from the driveway, towing his boat. I hope he gets lucky and shares the catch. Mrs Grady waves to him from the front yard. She watches him drive all the way down the street before walking to her car ready for another day in the emergency ward. I remember the smell of the place when Dad and I visited a few years ago: disinfectant, sweat and the persistent odour of unwanted bowel movements.
Dad and I had bet that his wedding ring would fit on my finger. Ten dollars. He was sure it would slide right on. I’d taken one look at his skinny hands and knew there was no chance. He’d removed the wedding band and tossed it to me.
‘Only time it’s been off my hand,’ he said.
I tried to slip it on my finger. Impossible.
‘I win,’ I said.
‘Not so quickly.’ He worked the ring onto my finger, twisting it slowly over the knuckle. Then it wouldn’t come off.
We spent an hour applying olive oil and soap. It wouldn’t budge.
‘Looks like you’re married to Mum,’ Dad joked.
I could tell he was worried. The harder he pulled, the more my finger became blue and swollen.
Eventually, Dad took me to the hospital and Mrs Grady carefully wrapped a long piece of elastic around my finger, over my knuckle and all the way to the ring. Using tweezers, she slipped the elastic under the metal and carefully unwound it. The ring came off in a minute. Mrs Grady went to the cabinet and returned with a tube of salve. She squeezed a little on my finger and worked it into the indent left by the smooth gold.
‘I was worried you were going to have to cut it,’ Dad said.
‘Not a wedding ring,’ she replied.
‘More than my life’s worth,’ Dad answered.
Mrs Grady finished applying the salve, reached for the tube and handed it to me. She winked.
‘The public health system won’t know it’s gone.’
I stood up.
‘Thanks, Sally. You won’t mention this to—’
‘Bet on the horses, not wedding rings, Bruce,’ she said.
On the way out of the hospital, Dad had told me to forget about the ten dollars I owed him.
I glance at the alarm clock beside my bed. It’s too early for anything but sleep or swimming at the reservoir. I hop out of bed and slip on my swimmers and jeans, grab a towel from the bathroom and walk down the hallway. Mum’s door is closed. She deserves to sleep in.
Buster sits behind the fence. I open the gate and he heads straight to the bush track.
A flock of starlings fan across the reservoir. It’s like an elegant dance that only the birds understand. Buster and I are both mesmerised by their patterns. I curse leaving my camera at home. When they disappear into the trees on the far bank, I take off my jeans and t-shirt, plunge into the cool water and come up spluttering. Buster barks from the bank and I see Rodney standing on a rise, watching me.
Not again.
He doesn’t move.
I stop paddling a few metres from the bank. He takes a cigarette out of his pocket. He’s wearing the same overalls and boots.
‘Do you sleep out here?’ I call.
He lights the cigarette.
I restrain myself from mentioning cancer and paddle closer.
‘I used to come here as a kid,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t much of a swimmer, but the girls wore bikinis. That was enough to get me here.’ He smirks.
‘There was always a gang of us,’ he continues, sucking deep on the cigarette, casting an eye towards Buster. ‘All you’ve got is a dog.’
‘I choose my friends carefully,’ I say.
He scoffs.
I point up the rise to where the wreck sits, blackened among the bushes. ‘Is that your latest?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, kid.’ He sits down on a mound of dirt and stares across the water.
‘Isn’t it more valuable selling the whole car?’
He finishes the cigarette, goes to flick it into the reservoir, but then stubs it out with his boot. ‘Spare parts are harder to trace,’ he says. ‘You’d be surprised what people leave in their cars. Phones, laptops, cameras. I found a bundle of cash once.’
‘Yet you still have boots with holes in them.’
‘I bought,’ he smirks, ‘more urgent stuff.’
I can imagine.
‘I know what you’re thinking, kid,’ he says. ‘Maybe I got a family.’
I float a few metres away from the shore. ‘We’ve all got family,’ I say, ‘doesn’t mean we live with them.’
‘What would you know?!’ He jumps to his feet and I stroke further away from the shore.
He kicks the dirt and points at me. ‘You got a way of pissing me off, boy,’ he says.
I smile. ‘You sound like my teachers.’
He looks towards the wreck and sighs. ‘Yeah, well, maybe that says something about you, not me.’
Buster runs along the shore but knows better than to go near Rodney. I swim in circles and wonder how long he’ll stand there.
‘I can boost a car in less than twenty seconds,’ he says.
I swim close to the bank and stand in waist-deep water. ‘My mum can find her car keys in five seconds,’ I challenge.
‘Yeah, but how long did she have to work to buy her car?’
I think of Dad’s superannuation payout.
‘She can find the keys every morning. No sweat.’
He shrugs. ‘Each to their own.’
I look at my fingers, wrinkled from too long in the water. ‘How many times you been in jail?’
He looks at me for a long time. ‘Enough to know I don’t want to go back.’
We both turn our eyes to the wreck, knowing it’s a certain transport to the lock-up. I don’t have to say anything.
‘Lucky I’m lucky,’ he says.
‘I read this story once,’ I say, ‘about a skydiver who jumped out of planes ever since he was eighteen. Hundreds of times. Always checked the parachute, the reserve parachute, every piece of equipment.’
‘A professional,’ Rodney nods.
‘But no-one can predict a gust of wind at five hundred feet.’
‘Looks like I won’t go skydiving,’ Rodney says.
Buster wanders to the water’s edge and takes a tentative slurp. His eyes don’t leave Rodney.
‘I’d like to shoot the breeze all day, kid,’ Rodney says, ‘but I gotta work.’
‘Hey, Rodney.’
He turns and looks at me.
‘Don’t go boosting any blue Mazdas.’
‘One of my favourite cars,’ he answers. ‘Always a demand for spares.’
‘Yeah, but not blue ones,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing but a few coins and cigarette butts in the ashtray.’
Rodney almost smiles. ‘Okay, kid. Seeing you didn’t mention,’ he holds up the packet of cigarettes, ‘I’ll go easy on blue.’
He walks away and I notice he has a slight limp but maybe that’s just from the hole in his boot. Buster wags his tail at me.
‘Do you reckon I can swim a lap of the reservoir, Buster?’
He barks.
Later, I sleep on the shore. Buster snuggles close.
When I get home, I go straight to the fridge. The fridge with one door and no ice-cube maker. I check the use-by date on the bottle of milk.
No.
In the cupboard are three packets of noodles, a tin of baked beans and a bowl of sugar.
Mum walks in the back door carrying a few bags of groceries.
‘You’ve been shopping,’ I say.
‘Don’t look so surprised. It hasn’t been that long since my last shop. You know how tired I get.’
She dumps the groceries on the kitchen table and a frozen lasagne topples out of the bag.
‘Is that tonight’s dinner?’
She nods. ‘And I’m baking a treat to have with it.’
‘You’re what?’
‘I can cook,’ she says.
‘Reheating isn’t really cooking, Mum.’
She starts unpacking the bags. ‘We both miss your dad’s cooking,’ she says. ‘Maybe it’s time I learnt.’
She walks over to the CD player and chooses Elton John, turning it up loud.
‘I’ll be in my room,’ I say.
She knew that would do the trick.
I jam some dirty clothes under my door to stop Elton from creeping through. I think of Rodney walking down the main street, checking out every car, trying to decide between the Hyundai and the Toyota. I wonder how he bypasses the door lock and the ignition. All the time expecting someone to shout, or a hand on the shoulder. Would he run or fight? Those boots wouldn’t get him far.
The Bogan Mondrian Page 5