All That I Remember About Dean Cola

by Tania Chandler

  ‘Go to the river now,’ she said.

  I let go of the sheet, jumped out of bed, and ran straight through the girl, across the foyer, and into Mum’s bedroom.

  Mum was snoring into her pillow. She had fallen asleep with her lamp on. The room smelled of sweated-out alcohol and dog. Barky lay at Mum’s feet, licking his bum; he looked up at me and wagged his tail. The woodgrain faces in the birch wardrobe watched me slide in next to Mum. I worried that I’d stepped on cracks in the foyer. The hot-water tank in the roof roared as it boiled. Too many firelighters again. ‘Aah–aah! Aah–aah! Harelip! Harelip!’ screamed Elton and Liberace.

  Mum stirred, and I told her about the girl in my room.

  ‘Shh, just a bad dream.’

  ‘Can you please go check?’

  ‘There’s nobody there.’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘No. Go to sleep.’ She reached out and turned off the lamp. The black bugs started dropping.

  TUESDAY 24 JANUARY 1989

  I’m scared. I can’t sleep.

  I keep going out to the kitchen to check the stained glass in the back door — it looks a lot like Jesus. Maybe I should go down to the river. I could take a torch. Perhaps Petra & I left something from childhood behind — a sign.

  I don’t feel so good. Aching all over, especially my back. Probably from running up & down the road too much — I need to do more exercise, lose some weight. I’m hot & cold. My head hurts. I can’t sleep. I’m scared.

  FRIDAY 27 JANUARY 1989

  I can’t remember writing that last entry. I’ve been sick. Must have been a fever. A lot of weird dreams: strange lands & creatures, winding roads, rainbow fish jumping in glittery waters.

  Not doing much. Reading a book of Sylvia Plath’s poetry. Writing poems, but now realise that I don’t know how to write a poem. I don’t understand the different forms, & my words are contrived, flat, rhythmless.

  SATURDAY 28 JANUARY 1989

  Slept over at Petra’s last night — first time I’ve been into town, or even out of the house, this week. Saw Dean driving past in the stupid blue-&-green Cola Hardware pick-up truck while Petra & I were sitting by the lake today. Of course, Petra had to scream out to him. He waved, but I turned my face away so he wouldn’t see me, but I’m sure he did. I suddenly didn’t want to see him — not then, not in town, not in the daylight.

  BETWEEN THE old drive-in-cinema speaker poles, assorted trash and treasure was displayed on trestle tables, across blankets on the ground, and in car boots. The smells of doughnuts and hot chips from the canteen greased the air.

  Nan handed over money to a stallholder for a set of kitchen canisters: a white Pillsbury All Purpose Flour, a yellow Domino Sugar, a blue Maxwell House Coffee, and a red Lipton Tea. I wished I’d seen them first; they would have made good pencil and paintbrush holders. ‘Collector’s items,’ said the stallholder as he packed the canisters in a plastic bag. Mum examined a rack of second-hand clothes: denim skirts and jeans same as the ones she always wore. Pop wandered off in search of tools, feeling the square of his wallet in the back pocket of his stubbies shorts.

  ‘I’m going to look around by myself,’ I said.

  ‘Somebody’s birthday in three days,’ Mum said. ‘Pick whatever you like, and I’ll get it for you.’

  I moseyed along with the crowd. Plastic jewellery, trinket holders, moccasins, tie-dyed T-shirts, stamps, coins, dodgy-looking household appliances, hand-tooled leather wallets. I stopped at the bookstall. Among the knitting magazines and shiny thrillers, I saw an old leather-bound copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. A little boy was handling it while he licked an ice cream. I glared at him, gritting my teeth, willing him to put the book down. He dropped it, started crying, and his mother dragged him away. I snatched up the book. The White Rabbit embossed in gold on the cover, gilt-edged pages, bound-in satin ribbon. In good condition. Published 1977. Not as old as I’d thought, but a bargain — along with a book of Leonard Cohen’s poetry — for five bucks.

  Next to the books was a stall selling pets. Birds, guinea pigs, and kittens. I crouched down and stuck my fingers through the wire mesh of the kittens’ cage. ‘Hello.’ One kitten — a black one — came forward and looked up as though it recognised me. Big, intelligent blue eyes. It’s brothers and sisters continued playing with the shredded newspaper at the back. The black kitten licked my fingers with its little sandpaper tongue. ‘Wait there,’ I told it.

  The kitten mewled. I stood up and looked around for Mum, couldn’t see her. ‘Don’t sell the black kitten, I’ll be back,’ I called to the stallholder as I rushed off into the crowd.

  Breathless, I found Mum and Nan at the plant stall. ‘I saw what I want for my birthday. A kitten!’

  Mum shook her head.

  ‘I’ll pay for it.’ Nan reached into her hand-tooled leather bag.

  ‘No,’ Mum said, narrowing her eyes at Nan.

  ‘Why not?’ I said.

  ‘Barky wouldn’t like it. And it might kill the chooks.’

  ‘I’ll keep it inside.’

  ‘I said No!’

  Nan flinched at Mum’s tone. She touched her long ponytail, sunlight catching a tinge of violet in the mousey-grey.

  I looked at Mum’s hands; she was holding a packet of red handkerchiefs and two weird little bonsai trees.

  I stormed off towards the canteen.

  Pop was waiting in line at the bain-marie. ‘Sid!’ He held up a vacuum cleaner by the handle. ‘Look what I scored for your grandmother.’ Under his other arm was a rifle case. He showed it to me, pointing out its one little defect — a hairline crack across the bottom. ‘You haven’t come rabbit huntin’ with me in a long while.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Not since I was about twelve. I thought of the ‘bunny stew’ Nan made. Gross. ‘I’ll come next time, if you let me drive again.’

  ‘Rightio, but don’t tell ya mum.’ Pop bought a doughnut, and paid for the hot chips I ordered.

  There was a fire truck parked outside the trash and treasure. Kids were crawling over it like ants on a jam jar. ‘Put the siren on again!’ shouted a little boy.

  ‘In a minute, matey,’ said Christos, who with another firefighter was keeping watch over the display.

  I lowered my head as we walked past, but he saw me.

  ‘Sidney!’ He grinned like the Cheshire Cat. ‘And Mrs Madsen.’ He held out his hand to Mum.

  ‘Miss,’ she said, juggling her hankies and bonsai in one hand while Christos kissed the other. ‘Faye.’

  He introduced himself to Nan and Pop, kissed and shook their hands respectively. ‘Miss Faye.’ He looked back at Mum and winked. ‘Have you ever been in a fire truck?’

  I couldn’t believe it — Mum blushed.

  ‘Let me hold those for you,’ he took her treasures, ‘while you climb up and have a look. How about you, Miss Sidney?’

  ‘I’m right, thanks.’ I stuck a chip in my mouth.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind havin’ a butcher’s,’ said Pop.

  ‘Absolutely!’ said Christos. ‘Right this way, Pop.’

  Pop left the vacuum cleaner and rifle case on the ground, and followed Mum up into the cabin.

  ‘Nan?’ Christos said, the grin never leaving his face.

  She shook her head demurely.

  On the way back to the car, Mum nudged me with her elbow. ‘Bloody hell, Sid, he’s gorgeous.’

  TUESDAY 31 JANUARY 1989

  Couldn’t sleep again last night. Awake till 4 a.m.

  Collected my books for school today.

  On the title page of ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’ that I bought at Trash-&-Treasure is inscribed:

  To dear A

  With love from S

  xxx

  Who was A & who was S? Why had A not wanted this precious book anymore? How had it ended up at Tra
sh-&-Treasure? Perhaps A had fallen out of love with S. Perhaps A had died. Perhaps A had been a child & S a beloved relative, & A had grown up & thought she (or he) didn’t need Wonderland anymore.

  If my future self forgets D & finds an A to love — an Adam, Adrian, Anthony? — I will give the book to them.

  Reading Leonard Cohen’s book of poems now. My favourite is ‘Suzanne Takes You Down’ — about a girl who lives near the river.

  WEDNESDAY 1 FEBRUARY 1989

  Happy birthday to me! Sweet 16 & never been fucked. Still too young, Dean Cola? Petra gave me a Bon Jovi poster & a diamante bracelet. Mum gave me a Supergirl nightie & a gift voucher from Target. Auntie Stella gave me a scarf she bought on the Champs Elysees. Nan & Pop gave me a card with 50 bucks inside. We had a cake from Dom’s Cafe in town (more fat).

  Christos rang to say ‘Happy birthday’. Not sure how he knew it was my birthday. I guess firefighters are a bit like cops & can find out anything. He was really nice on the phone. He’s nice in person too, I suppose.

  Wish I was in Tasmania with Dean Cola, snuggled in a blanket down by one of those wild rivers he described. I’d even settle for our boring river here. I feel like a birthday drink, but Mum discovered I’d been into her whisky & she wasn’t happy (big understatement!).

  I’ve started a diet (after the cake) because I really am too fat.

  THURSDAY 2 FEBRUARY 1989

  School hasn’t changed. Still the same fucking boring drag. The only subject that’s OK is English. The teacher is Mr Haigh. He’s really sweet & encouraging. He said the purpose of the novel is ‘to tell the truth’. Everybody seemed to get what he meant, so I didn’t ask ‘Whose truth?’.

  We have to read ‘The Bell Jar’. I want to leave school & get a job at a magazine or publishing house in the city & live in a hotel like Esther (the main character in the book). I’m not sure what Esther does exactly — editing, I think, but that would be boring. I think I’m a lot like Esther — cynical & intelligent. But, unlike me, Esther can eat as much as she likes & never gain weight. Perhaps I should try to be cooler like Doreen (Esther’s shallow, flirty friend).

  Honestly, I don’t know what/who I want to be. Like Esther — clever & literary. Or like Doreen — silly & happy, just having a good time. The worst would be to end up like Mum — teen preggo, trapped forever in this hellhole. I think I just want to be free: from this place, from Mum, from school. & I don’t ever want to be reliant on a man, don’t ever want to have babies. But, on the other hand, there’s Dean Cola. I could love him forever, have his babies tomorrow. But if not him, nobody else. Ever.

  Esther has these glitches in reality, the way I sometimes do — like when mirrors seem too silver, or lights too bright.

  It’s 40 degrees, I have my period & the worst headache ever.

  Still not sleeping. Still have the weird sounds in my head, but I’m getting used to them — just background noise. Everybody probably hears them sometimes.

  FRIDAY 3 FEBRUARY 1989

  News: Joan Kirner has been appointed to the role of Deputy Premier of Victoria — first woman ever to have that job!

  More locally: the must-have accessory at school this summer is a spritzer bottle of water refrigerated or filled with ice cubes. Did an experiment in biology on sheep’s lungs, heart & liver. Donna Doherty (bitch) took a bit of the lung & put it in Justin Maher (Mahersy’s younger brother)’s Chiko Roll at lunchtime. Somebody must have dobbed to Froggy (Mrs Froggett, principal) & Doherty got in so much trouble. What a laugh!

  Had to write a haiku about the place where we live.

  Floodplaining drought zone

  Pain zone, dry rivers flow dead

  Dusty as stone’s blood

  SUNDAY 5 FEBRUARY 1989

  Auntie Stella came over last night. She & Mum got too drunk to drive me to Jay Jays, so I had to stay home. Petra went out without me. She reckons Christos likes her, but she couldn’t get on with (that’s what we call pashing now) him because he wasn’t there. Huh? Petra said she saw Dean & he was looking for me. He said I must hate him now & he wanted to tell me he was sorry. Just when I had given up, now this — filling me with hope again. It hurts even more. I know he doesn’t want me, but something inside me clutches at straws. He’s right — I do hate him. I HATE HIM. I love him. I hate myself for loving him.

  ‘I Hate Myself for Loving You’ by Joan Jett is playing now! How does the radio know?

  THURSDAY 9 FEBRUARY 1989

  Sorry I haven’t written for a while. I’ve been sick again. Not sleeping, cold shivering with my electric blanket on. Aching all over — probably from the exercise I’ve been doing. Skipping & sit-ups as well as running.

  It’s so hot, I can’t breathe. I fainted in the bathroom before — it felt like the space around me was expanding again, but then the floor was coming up towards me. Mum brought me to with cold, damp towels. I can hear voices again/still — I think they’re coming from the monsters’ cupboard.

  SUNDAY 12 FEBRUARY 1989

  I dreamt that Dixie chook came back & Mum had to bury her again because, even though she seemed alive, we knew she was really dead.

  I’m still sick. My throat hurts. Feel like curling up in bed & sleeping for a long time. The good news is I’ve lost a kilo.

  Two days till Valentine’s Day. I know it’s just a stupid, commercial thing, but I got Dean a card.

  I SAT on the bench seat outside Finley’s Discount Store while I licked the red envelope, sealing the card inside. Just hand it to Dean and rush off, pretend you’re in a hurry to get somewhere else. Simple. I thought about his old-fashioned movie-star eyes locking with mine, and I needed to go to the toilet again.

  Standing up, I caught my reflection in Finley’s window. I hitched up my school dress to show off my legs, which I’d been tanning at lunchtime with Petra. Imagining Dean’s hand resting between them, my undies felt slippery-wet. My period wasn’t due; it must have been that embarrassing clear stuff that dried white on my undies. I took a deep breath in — could smell the coconut suntan oil on my skin — and out.

  The blue-and-green signage at Cola Hardware looked freshly painted, but amateurish. A wheelbarrow of plants in brightly coloured pots, a bin of brooms, and a few tubs of assorted shiny tools stood out the front.

  The door tinkled as I entered. A swarthy, middle-aged man in a blue-and-green polo shirt stood behind the counter. ‘Afternoon, love,’ he said. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Hi. Is —’ My voice squeaked; I cleared my throat. ‘Is Dean here?’ I scrunched the card into my pocket, pulling the bottom of my sweater down over it.

  ‘Dean out doing deliveries,’ he said. ‘Anna!’ he yelled at the back doorway, which was curtained with clear beads. ‘What time Dean be back?’

  Anna emerged through the beads, which clung to her for a moment like strings of teardrops. Her hair was swept off her Sophia Loren face in a loose ponytail. She wore a blue-and-green polo shirt too, tucked into grey trousers. ‘In about forty-five minutes.’ Her movie-star eyes did a quick down-and-up of me. She smiled, we introduced ourselves, and she told me I could wait down the back for Dean.

  ‘It’s OK, I can come back later.’

  ‘Come, Sidney. Let me help you with this.’ She took the school bag from my shoulder. ‘So heavy.’ Her hand on the small of my back felt comforting as she guided me to the desk at the rear of the shop. ‘Take off your sweater. It’s hot.’

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘Very pretty girl, but you shouldn’t wear your dress so short. The boys will all look.’ Anna placed my bag by the chair beside the desk. ‘I be back in a minute.’ She disappeared through the teardrop beads.

  I sat on the chair, tugging down the hem of my dress. There were photos stuck to the corkboard above the desk: Dean and Shelley in school uniform; birthday parties; a newspaper clipping of Dean playing football, taking a speccy; a tall guy in a shirt a
nd sweater vest, muddy boots over pleated trousers, standing in front of a weatherboard house on posts.

  ‘Dean’s grandfather.’ Dean’s dad stood by the desk, tapping the photo of the guy in muddy boots. ‘Bloody Obel. Left us in Butlers Gorge on the bloody Hydro, while he piss off to grow bloody plants in the bloody Cradle Mountains.’

  I widened my eyes and nodded.

  ‘The Tasmania summers are hot like hell. And the winters,’ he threw up his hands, ‘Jesus Christ. Me, my mother, my sister, my brother, we eventually give up on him ever coming back, and we move to the mainland. Bloody Obel stay a bloody madman in the bloody Cradle Mountains!’

  I kept nodding while he told me a story about somebody called Electric Eric Reece. When he stopped to take a breath, I made the mistake of asking if Obel was still in Tasmania and got a lecture about the dangers of sphagnum moss. Obel died of a rare lung infection you can get from it. ‘Silly bloody bugger mixed it with his tobacco.’

  ‘Frank!’ Anna emerged with a plate of home-baked biscuits. ‘Are you breaking Sidney’s ear? Go make a coffee.’

  I didn’t want to ruin my diet, but I took a biscuit to be polite. Lemon. Oh my God! My tastebuds almost couldn’t handle the flavour — deliciousness in a different league to the sweets Mum bought from the supermarket.

  Frank did what he was told, somewhere beyond the beads, while Anna and I talked about school, and I ate another biscuit. Anna said Dean was very clever at school and he should be at university now, but Frank wanted him to stay and take over the business. The smell of coffee brewing filled the shop.

  Frank returned with a little cup for me. I sipped. It was very strong; I tried not to screw up my face.

  ‘You got your keys?’ Frank said.

  I frowned.

  ‘For your house? Let me see.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Sidney,’ Anna said, ‘Frank just want to show off his new key-cutting machine.’