Tigers on the Beach

by Doug MacLeod

  ‘Oh.’ This doesn’t seem so strange to Mum.

  ‘Why on earth would she do that?’ Dad asks.

  ‘It’s an old trick,’ she says. ‘It’s meant to keep away possums. You know how Mum hates the possums.’

  ‘I think everybody at The Ponderosa knows that by now. Nathan took down the teddies.’

  ‘Then there’s no problem, is there?’

  ‘This is a holiday resort, Georgia,’ Dad snaps, ‘not The Blair Witch Project. You can’t have hanging teddies. It’s disturbing for the children.’

  Mum realises Dad is right. ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘It won’t be long before the guests start leaving,’ Dad adds.

  ‘I’m sure they won’t.’

  ‘Please, just speak to your mother.’

  ‘I will, Ken. I will.’

  I make my arrival known. Mum smiles hello and leaves the office.

  ‘Did you have a good afternoon, Adam?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘How was the movie?’

  ‘Bad.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘This guy who gets pregnant.’

  ‘Wasn’t that a movie with Arnold Schwarzenegger?’

  ‘This was a remake.’

  ‘They remade an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie? Hollywood must be desperate. Who was in it?’

  ‘Rob Ryder.’

  ‘He’s funny.’

  ‘He’s not that funny.’

  ‘I thought you liked him.’

  ‘Never. I’d rather watch paint drying.’

  Dad is startled by my sudden hatred for Rob Ryder.

  ‘Dad, is everything okay with you and Mum?’

  ‘Of course it is,’ he says.

  ‘Do you swear on a stack of bibles?’

  We actually have a stack of bibles in a box under the counter. The bibles were given to us by the Gideons, to put in the cabins. We’ve never got around to it and the guests haven’t complained. We keep the bibles for swearing purposes. Dad takes out the bibles, swears on them, then puts them away again.

  That night after dinner I go outside, eat macaroons and think about Sam. I lean against the Barnetts’ fence, feeling sorry for myself as the stars come out. My relationship with Sam hasn’t been developing the way I would have liked. She’s seen me perform a lewd act at the general store. She’s witnessed me losing my temper with a blind person’s friend and laughing at a man being attacked by a breast pump. As I eat the last macaroon I realise that despair tastes of coconut. I never want to eat another macaroon for as long as I live.

  Later, I lie in bed wondering what I can do to prove to Sam that I’m her perfect boyfriend. I consider ringing her, but Sam said she’d ring me, and I don’t want to look needy or desperate.

  ‘Poofter,’ says Xander when he sees me using Rose’s moisturiser on my face. ‘Poofter, poofter, poofter, poofter. You are a gigantic poofter.’

  ‘You are an enormous poofter,’ I say back.

  ‘You are two enormous poofters,’ says Xander.

  ‘You are a haemorrhoid.’

  There is a massive blowfly in the room. The buzzing in the dark is driving me crazy.

  ‘I think there’s a blowfly in the room,’ says Xander.

  ‘Of course there’s a blowfly in the room. Do you think I’m making that noise?’

  ‘You’ll have to kill it.’

  ‘I thought you liked insects,’ I say.

  ‘Blowflies are disgusting. Whenever they land they vomit.’

  ‘Then I hope it lands on your tongue.’

  ‘Kill it, or I’ll murder you.’

  I climb out of bed and turn on the light. ‘Okay, I’ll get some flyspray.’

  Xander sits up in bed and screws up his eyes against the light. His hair is mussed up and he looks like a troll doll, only less attractive. ‘You can’t use flyspray,’ he says. ‘You’ll poison my bugs. You have to squash it.’

  The fly buzzes loudly as it circles the light bulb. I grab Xander’s Ronald McDonald towel to flick at the fly.

  ‘And you can’t use that,’ says Xander. ‘It’s a valuable antique.’

  ‘Tough,’ I say.

  I run around in my undies, flicking the the towel at the fly.

  ‘Zzzzzzzzz,’ the fly taunts.

  I yell at it to shut up.

  ‘Zzzzzzzzz.’

  ‘It probably doesn’t understand English,’ says Xander, helpfully.

  I flap and flail with the towel.

  ‘Zzzzzzzzz.’

  I stub my toe on the bed. It hurts like anything.

  ‘Zzzzzzzzzz,’ says the fly.

  I swear and nurse my sore toe.

  ‘You’re useless,’ says Xander.

  The fly has landed on his bedhead. Xander picks up a large book and whacks the fly. I’m amazed that he squashes it on the first go. Then I’m annoyed to see that he has used one of my books to do it. It’s my big special-effects book, the one that Grandpa and Grandma gave me.

  ‘I’ll murder you for that,’ I say.

  ‘All right,’ says Xander, happily. ‘Come and murder me and I’ll murder you.’ He jumps up on the bed in readiness. But I feel exhausted.

  ‘Sorry, Xander, not tonight. Go to sleep.’

  Before I flick the switch, Xander speaks in a solemn voice I don’t often hear. ‘Dad doesn’t like Grandma staying here,’ he says. ‘He’s looking cross. Around his head.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘He’s got an angry colour around his head.’

  Has Xander inherited Grandpa’s gift?

  ‘You can see colours around people?’ I say.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘How come you never mentioned it before?’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you everything that’s interesting.’

  ‘But you tell me everything that isn’t interesting. Have you told anyone else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That means you can read auras.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s called reading auras, when you see a colour around a person. Grandpa could do it too. Did you know that? Xander?’

  But Xander has either fallen asleep or is pretending. I look at him and wonder what it must be like to live in his world, where he can see colours that aren’t there, but he can’t see trees that are. Is my little brother actually an alien, who can do impossible sums in his head, but can’t hold a tray? Should we hide him away, in case the scientists from Roswell come for him? I wish I could have a secret power like Xander and Grandpa. I can’t see auras. I can’t do incredible sums in my head. I can’t fly. For someone who is so interested in special effects, I am sadly lacking in special powers.

  I turn out the light and overhear Mum and Dad arguing in the next room.

  ‘Of course I don’t hate your mother,’ says Dad.

  ‘Then why won’t you be civil to her?’

  ‘I’m very civil. She’s the one who’s going around throwing stones and terrifying the guests.’

  ‘Can you imagine what it must be like for her?’ says Mum.

  ‘But she’s had time to get over it all.’

  Mum sounds really furious. ‘Since when did grieving have a time limit?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –’

  ‘How would you feel if I died?’

  ‘Georgia, don’t be silly.’

  ‘How would you feel, Ken?’

  ‘I’d be devastated. You know I would.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘For the rest of my life. But I wouldn’t upset people.’

  ‘Mum isn’t upsetting people.’

  ‘But those hanging teddy bears –’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Will you stop going on about that?’

  ‘It’s just an example.’

  I stay awake long after their arguing finishes.

  There is a rustling noise outside. I look out of the window. The Ponderosa is still, the cabins bathed in pale moonlight. Then I see move
ment. Grandma is walking away from cabin number two and down the driveway. As quietly as I can, so as not to wake Xander, I climb into my clothes and creep outside to follow her.

  Grandma walks out of The Ponderosa, crosses the road then paces along the path that cuts through to the beach. She is moving quickly, as if she’s been this way before. I tail her. A twig snaps behind me. I turn and see Xander in his pyjamas. The moonlight makes his long tousled hair look white.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I whisper.

  ‘Sleepwalking,’ says Xander.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘I’m following you.’

  ‘Go home,’ I say. ‘You’ll walk into a tree.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asks.

  ‘Keep your voice down. I’m tracking Grandma. She’s heading for the beach.’

  ‘Why is she going to the beach at night?’

  ‘I’m hoping to find out.’

  ‘I’ll come too.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I want to come too.’

  ‘All right, but you have to promise you won’t walk into a tree.’

  ‘I promise,’ says Xander.

  ‘You’d better hold my hand, just in case. It’s dark.’

  ‘Poofter, poofter, poofter, poofter, poofter,’ he says. ‘You are a titanic poofter.’

  ‘Stop!’ I cry.

  Xander stops. He is about to walk into a tree. I force him to hold my hand. We continue along the track through the tea-tree, then trudge into the sand dunes. The sand is soft. We hear the waves lapping ahead. The moon shines through some clouds.

  ‘Do you see Grandma?’ I whisper.

  ‘No,’ says Xander. ‘Maybe she walked to the moon?’

  ‘We’ve lost her. It’s your fault for holding me up.’

  ‘I think there’s someone sitting on the beach,’ says Xander.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Over there.’

  ‘Don’t just say, “Over there”. Point.’

  ‘That isn’t my pointing hand.’

  ‘Live dangerously.’

  ‘But you’re holding my hand.’

  ‘Point with your other one.’

  Xander points. He’s right. There’s a dark shape about a hundred metres away. Someone is sitting and looking out to sea.

  ‘Is it Grandma?’ whispers Xander.

  We venture a little closer. It is Grandma.

  ‘Time to go back,’ I say. ‘Before she sees us.’

  ‘Why is Grandma sitting on the beach in the middle of the night?’

  ‘I don’t know, Xander. Come on, let’s go home.’

  We leave Grandma alone on the beach. I’m fairly sure she has Grandpa’s urn with her.

  I wake up at 5.30 a.m., which means I’ve had only a few hours sleep. I tell Mum and Dad about what Xander and I saw.

  ‘Does she know you followed her?’ Mum asks.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’ll have to speak with her,’ says Mum. ‘She mustn’t go wandering at night.’

  ‘Provided she’s not disturbing the guests, I really don’t mind what she does,’ says Dad.

  ‘Could you please show a little more concern?’ says Mum, giving Dad one of her glares. A fly plummets to the counter, dead. Dad brushes it away and says nothing.

  ‘Thank you for telling me, Adam,’ says Mum.

  ‘When are you seeing Sam again?’ Dad asks me.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I pretend to be uninterested. ‘She said she’d ring me. But if she doesn’t, that’s okay.’

  Dad realises that I’m being untruthful. A blind parrot would. An amoeba would, and they are the lowest form of life, except for real-estate agents.

  ‘Did I ever tell you about how your mother and I met?’ Dad says.

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ I say.

  ‘When I first saw your mother we were both in year eight. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘I adored her but I didn’t have the guts to tell her till we were in year ten. And do you know why?’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘I had pimples in year eight and I thought your mother was just too beautiful for me. But in year ten she developed pimples too so I figured that made us even. Our pimples brought us together.’

  Dad tells this story often. I guess it is sort of sweet. And when Mum hears it, she always smiles.

  But not today.

  Dad and I no longer run along the beach in the morning. He’s always too tired. It’s probably because he stays up late arguing with Mum. This bothers me. But the fact that he and Mum haven’t laughed in days bothers me more.

  Purple Haze is different from any other shop in the Port Argus region. There are no postcards. You can’t buy board shorts. But there is a wide range of gags, bizarre jewellery and just plain weird stuff. Today the customers are mainly teenagers. Two of them wear goth make-up and black clothes. It must be hard for goths who live in beach areas. The seaside and everlasting despair just don’t go together.

  I browse amongst the little statues of monsters, the rubber masks, the bongs and the trading cards. Some of the practical jokes are on sale, such as the laughing toilet seats, itching powder, joy-buzzers and squirt-flowers. Xander has always liked the laughing toilet seat. He would.

  The guy who runs Purple Haze is bearded, balding and round. He could be anything from thirty to fifty. He sells hundreds of practical jokes and promises customers a refund if they are not fully satisfied. We are talking about a serious comedy expert.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ the guy asks. Today he’s wearing a T-shirt with a skull that probably glows in the dark.

  ‘I need something really funny,’ I say.

  ‘You’ve come to the right place.’

  ‘It has to be funny enough to make my parents laugh.’

  ‘Oh. That might be a tall order.’

  ‘Mine laugh at plenty of things,’ I say. ‘Well, they used to. But they don’t anymore. Not lately. What would you recommend? Not a bong, please.’

  The man pinches at his beard. ‘I’ve seen you here before. What’s your name?’

  ‘Adam Cartwright.’

  ‘No kidding? Just like the cowboy in Bonanza.’

  I’m surprised he knows. Bonanza is such an ancient show.

  ‘I’m named after him,’ I say.

  ‘I’m Zebulon,’ says the guy.

  It can’t be his real name. He’s obviously stolen it from Battlestar Galactica or something.

  ‘Zebulon?’ I laugh because the name is so unusual. ‘That’s your real name?’

  Zebulon looks unamused. ‘It’s Hebrew.’

  I’m instantly solemn, because I don’t want to be mistaken for a fascist. ‘Right. Hebrew. Sorry.’

  ‘I like my name,’ says Zebulon.

  ‘It’s a fantastic name,’ I agree.

  ‘How much money do you have to spend?’

  ‘Thirty dollars.’

  ‘That much?’ Zebulon is being sarcastic.

  ‘What do you reckon would make my parents laugh for thirty dollars?’

  ‘I’d have to know more about your parents,’ says Zebulon. ‘What can you tell me about them?’

  ‘Well, they’re just . . . normal.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  ‘They run some holiday cabins.’

  ‘In their spare time, I mean.’

  ‘They don’t really have that much spare time.’

  ‘What TV shows do they watch?’

  ‘Dad watched Bonanza when he was a kid.’

  ‘Me too. What about now? What shows do they like?’

  ‘Sometimes they watch nature documentaries.’

  ‘Hmm. That doesn’t give me much to go on. Do they like reading?’ Zebulon persists.

  ‘They don’t read much either,’ I say. ‘Though they keep telling me how important it is. Hey, maybe you could watch them for a little while and work out what would be the best joke for them?’

  ‘Yo
u want me to spy on your parents?’

  ‘It wouldn’t really be spying.’

  ‘What else would you call it? Market research?’

  ‘Yeah, that sounds right.’

  ‘Adam, I have scruples. I’m not going to do market research on your parents. Not unless you pay me a lot of money.’

  ‘I don’t have a lot of money.’

  ‘You’ve already made that obvious.’

  I look at the various practical jokes on display. ‘Do you reckon they’d like the wind-up false teeth?’ I ask.

  Zebulon leans forward as though he is about to reveal something of great importance. ‘I’ll let you in on a secret, Adam. There isn’t a single person in the whole world who has ever laughed at the wind-up false teeth. Not even the man who invented them. And especially not his parents.’

  ‘Then how come you sell them?’

  ‘I sell lots of things, not all funny.’

  ‘Whoopee cushions?’

  ‘They’re certainly funnier than the wind-up teeth. But the trouble is, they never sound like proper farts. They sound like a horse breathing out. Somebody sits on one, they make a horsey noise, and that’s it: “Good heavens! Grandma has just sat on a horse. How embarrassing!” ’

  ‘I once downloaded a ring tone,’ I say. ‘That sounded exactly like a fart.’

  ‘Did your parents laugh?’

  ‘No. Dad said it wasn’t appropriate for the assistant manager of a tourist resort to have a farting phone.’

  ‘He’s probably right. And you would be the assistant manager, I presume?’

  I nod. ‘I bought a poster here that made them both laugh. It had monkeys and a funny caption:

  ‘YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE CRAZY TO WORK HERE. BUT IT HELPS.’

  Zebulon leaves his beard alone. ‘You bought that from me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I don’t remember ever stocking a poster like that.’

  ‘You recommended it.’

  Zebulon looks nonplussed. ‘I must have been having an off day.’

  ‘But you were right. When I gave it to Mum and Dad they were laughing all over the place.’

  ‘Maybe they just wanted to please you? It’s not that great a joke.’

  ‘No, they hung it up where everyone can see it, so they must think it’s extra funny.’

  Zebulon allows himself a moment of pride. ‘Well, I’m glad I sold you something that made your parents laugh. Laughter is a wonderful thing.’