Deep Water
Page 5
I manage a hollow smile.
Silence isn’t the problem. There’s plenty of noise going on inside my head.
* * *
Outside it’s one of those overcast days where the light barely changes, making it difficult to pinpoint exactly what time it is. My phone tells me it’s almost ten o’clock, but some of the shops on Railway Parade are only just opening. Saturday mornings in The Shallows used to be bustling with weekenders, and at least one tourist coach would have pulled up alongside Eliza Park by now. Maybe Tom’s right – the media coverage about January’s freak storm has done as much damage as the storm itself. And the closure of Cutler Bend now only leaves one route in and out of town, which certainly isn’t helping.
It’s not a huge place, The Shallows. It takes about an hour to walk from one end of town to the other, east to west, north to south, or a twenty-minute bike ride if you keep a steady pace, not the aimless meandering we did as kids. Tom and his grandparents live in a pocket of weatherboard cottages on the westernmost end, out by the graveyard, while the Weavers’ place is in the valley on the eastern outskirts. The rest of us are dotted much closer to the main street of town, with the reservoir nestled in the national park to the south. The Shallows is home to around four thousand people, which felt like a lot when I was a kid, but my Sydney high school’s student population is a third of that number, all crammed into the same bustling campus. No wonder I feel like I can breathe whenever I visit The Shallows.
I cross the street near the Criterion Hotel and continue towards the post office a few doors down. As I pass the laneway beside the pub, a hacking cough snags my attention. A few metres in, Ivy Weaver is leaning against the brick wall, a spray-painted graffiti tag sprouting from behind her like mangled wings.
She has one arm locked across her chest, the other working like a lever, bringing a cigarette to her lips and dropping it back to her side. She smokes quickly, agitated, as though she has somewhere pressing to be.
Our eyes connect long enough that I feel compelled to slow down and acknowledge her. She is, after all, Henry’s mother.
‘Hello,’ I say, coming to a stop. ‘How are you, Mrs Weaver?’ I’ve never been able to address her as Ivy like everybody else.
She stares blankly at the brick wall opposite. ‘I’m nobody’s wife.’
I’m not sure how to respond. Should I call her Ms Weaver? Miss? Technically she’s still Mrs, even though her ex-husband has married again.
Ivy straightens, narrowing her eyes and assessing me. She’s always done this, ever since my mum used to mind her two boys after school when we were younger. A year or so after Ivy’s husband left, when she still had a job at the local supermarket, Henry and Mason would walk to the IGA after school and sit around outside for hours until Ivy finished her shift. I know my mum didn’t like it – I overheard her telling Dad it wasn’t any place for kids and she thought Ivy might be struggling – so she offered to walk them back to the motel with me on the days Ivy had to work. Ivy knew us well enough through the Nolans and Uncle Bernie to accept Mum’s suggestion – a casual arrangement, nothing fancy. Henry and Mason could hang out and have a snack, do their homework and watch TV out of the weather.
While Ivy was grateful for the help, she also seemed wary about the close bond I was forming with Henry. He was like the little brother I’d always wanted, and even after Ivy was laid off from her job and the child-minding fizzled out, I felt attached to Henry and begged my mum to keep inviting him over. Mason was more independent and not particularly interested in hanging out with a girl two years younger. Henry, on the other hand, was delighted about the time I could spend with him, as though he was starved for company at home.
I looked out for him at school. Dad and I took him fishing at Shallow Reservoir and he’d explore the bush behind the motel with me, Sabeen and Raf. He’d come with me to Shallow Vintage Wares to get book recommendations from Tom, and we’d always end up playing whichever old board game had been donated to the shop that week. It became second nature to include Henry in most things, even though Mason didn’t seem thrilled about his little brother tagging along.
Yet, Ivy still didn’t trust me. I was starting to understand it was less about me and more about what I knew.
Henry confided in me. I knew all about the accidents and the arguments, the lean weeks when they could barely afford milk and bread. I was aware of the smashed glassware and missed birthdays, how their power was cut the same week Ivy bought a fancy display cabinet for her collectable plates. It’s why she’s never invited me in any further than her doorstep, why she never holds eye contact with me.
Her gaze drifts away from me now, back to the brick wall.
‘Is there any news about Henry?’
She takes a long drag of her cigarette before answering. ‘No.’
‘I got some new flyers printed. I could drop some off at your house if you need more.’
Ivy shoots me an impatient glance, her red lips pressed thin. She’s always worn red lipstick and matching nail polish like those actresses from the fifties. Uncle Bernie says she was known as ‘a looker’ when she was young; he showed me an old glossy photo of his son – Tom’s dad – with a group of classmates, all dressed up for their Year Ten formal. The girls had big hair and wore pastel taffeta, the boys in matching cummerbunds and rental tuxes. Ivy was the petite blonde in a poufy pink dress with her mouth open wide in laughter, her hand clutching the arm of a square-jawed boy with a mullet. I didn’t have to ask Bernie if that guy was Mason’s father. He had the same broody demeanour, his attention off-camera as though there was somewhere else he’d rather be.
A bald man in paint-splattered overalls peers around the corner of the pub.
‘You’d better get back in here, darl,’ he says to Ivy. ‘Jonesy’s threatening to steal your pokie.’
Ivy pushes herself off the wall, dropping her cigarette and grinding it with the toe of her boot. ‘He won’t if he knows what’s good for him. That’s my lucky machine. There’s a win coming and I’m bloody well owed.’
She almost knocks into me as she passes. The bald man disappears back inside the pub.
‘Should I bring over some flyers?’ I ask quickly.
‘Do what you like,’ Ivy mutters.
‘I thought maybe—’
She jerks around so quickly my words dissolve in my throat.
‘You thought what?’ she says. ‘Got another opinion, have you?’
I take a subtle step back.
‘Sitting up there on your high horse with your nose in everybody’s business. You’re the one who put ideas in Henry’s head.’
‘I—’
‘Ever since he was little. Always droning on about Sydney like the grass is greener. Telling him one day he could get away from here.’
‘I just meant—’
‘How is it any of your business?’ Ivy says. ‘You drift in and out of town with your bossy little opinions, making waves.’
My skin grows hot with shame. I’ve never been told off by any of my friends’ parents before. I feel offended and tiny and mortified all at once.
Ivy points a finger at me, her red nail slicing the air like a tiny dagger. ‘You don’t get to tell me what I should do about my son.’ She turns to leave, cutting me down with a final glare. ‘It’s your fault he’s gone.’
Ten weeks before the storm
It was almost 11 pm when Mason pulled the car up in front of Rina’s place on Railway Parade. He kept thinking of it as the car instead of his car because it didn’t feel like it really belonged to him. At least, not yet. He’d only been working for Stu Macleod for a couple of weeks, but Stu insisted Mason start driving the Subaru wagon around. ‘Need more space in the workshop,’ he’d said as he handed over the keys. ‘You’ll be doing me a favour by getting it out of the way.’ They’d made some loose arrangements about when the paperwork would get signed over, but for now Stu wanted Mason to get a feel for it and make sure it was the right car for him.
‘I like the fluffy dice,’ Rina said, batting the two foam cubes dangling from the rear-view mirror. ‘Very retro.’
Mason could tell she was stalling about getting out of the car. He’d purposely suggested a movie for tonight’s outing, then kept the car stereo loud on the way home. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation, and talk was all Rina ever wanted to do these days. Talking about feelings. Talking about the future.
How had he let it get this far?
‘We should take a road trip,’ Rina said, turning in her seat to face him. She still hadn’t taken off her seatbelt. ‘Just the two of us. Maybe after Christmas? We could throw some sleeping bags in the back and drive down to Merimbula or something.’
She slid a hand onto Mason’s knee and his eyes bounced to the dashboard. He didn’t want to say he’d already suggested the same thing to Tom and Raf. Camping with Rina honestly hadn’t even crossed his mind.
He knew there was probably something wrong with that, the way he didn’t think about Rina when he wasn’t with her. When he’d picked her up earlier in the night she’d said she hadn’t stopped thinking about him since the weekend, and he’d had to lie and say he felt the same way. Even when he was with her, his mind often drifted to other places while his body responded on autopilot.
Something’s not right with you.
Whenever Rina whispered in his ear about how he made her feel, Mason scanned his own body for a reaction, coming up with nothing more than a numb kind of dread.
It should never have gone further than that September night when Rina found him on the banks of Shallow Reservoir. Mason thought he was alone with half a bottle of his mother’s whisky, not realising Rina had followed him there from the party on Coleman Road after he’d fought with Tom at the bonfire. Their disagreement hadn’t become physical, but Mason still felt bruised; tender with embarrassment. When Rina emerged from the bush track in the moonlight, Mason’s first instinct was to growl at her to go away. They’d known each other since they were kids, though, and she’d always been sweet and harmless. So Mason offered her the whisky bottle as she sat in the sandy dirt beside him, and in return she offered him a hug.
He’d wordlessly leaned into her, suddenly exhausted, sick and tired of overthinking. When Rina surprised him with a kiss on the forehead he glanced up and gave her a weary smile. Next second her lips were smashed up against his, her hands in his hair. Mason decided it was easier to roll with it. He couldn’t tell if he was responding to Rina because he liked her or because he was drunk.
What stuck with him from that night, more than hooking up with Rina, was the argument with Tom. It had started out as gentle teasing over nothing in particular and somehow morphed into sarcastic insults fuelled by alcohol and frustrations Mason couldn’t quite articulate. Was it jealousy? Maybe. Tom had just announced he’d completed his applications to study in Canberra next year, and this filled Mason with a suffocating sense of panic. Was it because Mason wished he was getting out of here? Or was it because he was going to miss Tom?
They’d met all the way back in preschool when a rough kid called Darren Foster started hassling Tom in the playground. Mason had watched on as the louder, bigger boy ran up to the quiet curly-haired kid with glasses, demanding he hand over a ball. Tom surrendered it without a fight, running to hide in the cubbyhouse. He’d always been like that – not a fan of confrontation – and Mason understood what it felt like to want to hide out until the storm around you had passed. He made both an enemy and a friend that day when he snatched the ball back from Darren Foster and marched it over to the cubbyhouse.
Both of Tom’s parents were still around back then, before the court case and his dad’s prison sentence, before his mum fled to Queensland, promising to move her son up with her when she was in a position to do so. That never happened. Excuse after excuse, and in the end she agreed it was more stable for Tom to stay in The Shallows with her in-laws. When Tom went through that whole mess, Mason was his rock. Tom had told him so many times.
All through primary school and high school they’d had each other’s backs, especially when Darren Foster was around. Mason only shared a fraction of what it was like living with Ivy because he was worried he’d scare Tom away. But his best mate always listened. He forgave Mason when he flew off the handle. He accepted Mason’s flaws because they’d spent nearly every single day together since that morning when Mason had handed Tom his ball.
Glancing at Rina now, Mason almost felt guilty that he’d never have that kind of close bond with her. The whites of her eyes reflected the coloured dashboard lights as she stared at him hopefully. There was no question she was pretty. Long curly hair, honey-coloured skin, the same full lips and long eyelashes as her mother, the local dance teacher. In the first few weeks they were seeing each other, Rina’s touch made Mason’s pulse race and his skin hot, the unfamiliarity of everything almost alarming. Now he wondered if that was because he’d never been touched or held like that before. Ivy used to hug him when he was small, but it was with desperate clutching arms, fingers that dug into his skin like hooks. Cuddles were conditional and often withheld, sometimes as bribery, more often as punishment.
Wayne had been no better, with his hard backslaps and habit of mussing up their hair, although Mason supposed that was affection in its own way. Henry was the one Wayne lifted onto his shoulders and tucked into bed at night, always claiming Mason was ‘too old for all that’. But Mason knew what was really going on. Henry was Wayne’s flesh and blood, and Mason … he was the baggage who’d come as part of a package deal.
Rina cleared her throat and leaned towards him, linking her pinkie finger through his.
‘My mum’s out at a wedding until midnight. Why don’t you come up?’
Her eyes danced towards the windows above the flower shop, to the small flat she shared with her mother. Mason’s pulse thumped. He’d known this was coming but wasn’t expecting it to be tonight. There was a weird pull in the pit of his stomach that felt like guilt and also horniness, but mostly like the feeling of wanting to run away.
What was this reaction? Didn’t guys wish this sort of moment would fall into their laps? He could do it now and then decide afterwards if it was what he wanted, if she was what he wanted. Get the whole thing out of the way and deal with any doubts later.
Except it didn’t seem fair. He liked Rina. Maybe not in the way she hoped, but they’d known each other for a long time and he didn’t want to hurt her. He knew what resentment felt like, the way it chipped away at you until you couldn’t remember how to feel good about anything.
‘Are you going to come up?’ Rina said, unbuckling her seatbelt at last.
Mason stared out the windscreen to avoid her gaze. ‘I’d better get home.’
From the corner of his eye he saw Rina’s shoulders slump. Her defeated sigh reflected his own state of mind, though his dread was less about leaving her and more about going back to that house.
She leaned over and kissed him gently on the jaw. ‘Bye.’
I’m sorry, he wanted to say, because he was already thinking of ways to break up with her.
* * *
The house was dark when he rolled the car into the driveway, save for the faint glow of a lamp in Henry’s bedroom. His brother shouldn’t be up this late, although Ivy didn’t bother policing things like that anymore. She’d probably passed out hours ago, if she was even home at all.
Their house was a tired timber bungalow in the middle of two acres backing onto bushland. Weed-riddled grass pressed up against the house on all sides. They struggled to maintain the inside, let alone the feral garden. Their former neighbour, Mr Milburn, used to take pity on Ivy and mow it for her sometimes, but he’d long since moved away, and the old place next door sat empty.
Tom’s grandpa said Ivy had inherited the house young, when her pare
nts were killed in a car accident one Christmas. Her older brother – Mason’s uncle – showed no interest in either the house or his relatives after moving to Bali. It’s funny how Mason had to hear about his own family’s history from other people. He wondered what his uncle looked like, and if he had children, what he did for a job, whether he ever had a passing thought about the two nephews living in the house he grew up in. Yet another person who’d voluntarily removed themselves from Ivy’s orbit.
Mason hoped his mother was out somewhere so he could kick his shoes off and crash in front of the TV. But as soon as he eased the front door open, the stench hit him in the face. She’d thrown up somewhere, the third time in as many weeks. Jesus Christ.
Henry’s bedroom door was closed. His mother’s was wide open and he could see her from down the hall. She was fully clothed and lying facedown across the mattress, a reeking patch of vomit covering a sizeable area of the carpet just inside her bedroom door. Some of it had splashed up the hallway skirting board and onto the wall.
Mason swore under his breath. He didn’t have the energy. He just wanted a shower. He wanted to watch mindless crap on TV before stumbling off to bed. Even as he collected a bucket of soapy water and rubber gloves, still on hand from the last clean-up, he considered setting the carpet alight instead.
Where the hell was Henry? Surely he’d heard their mother throwing her guts up. Would it kill him to attempt the clean-up himself for once? It’s not like he hadn’t watched Mason do it a hundred times. The little turd would be lying in that room pretending to be asleep, and tomorrow he’d claim he slept through it all. Mason knew Ivy’s behaviour scared his younger brother, but newsflash: it scared Mason as well.
After fifteen minutes of scrubbing, a fresh bucket of water, and another ten minutes of wiping everything down and towelling it off, Mason knew he was going to have to tackle his mother next if they didn’t want to inhale her foulness all night long. He emptied his bucket into the bath, then rinsed out both the bucket and the tub until they smelled clean. Placing a bathmat on the floor, he then located several fresh towels and left the tub filling as he returned to his mother’s bedroom. She tried to swat him away as he removed her shoes and socks, somehow coaxing her to roll over so he could take off her jeans. That was it though. She could go into the bath in her underwear and T-shirt. It was bad enough doing all this without copping an eyeful of his mother as well.