His Illegal Self His Illegal Self His Illegal Self

by Peter Carey

  Hello, Bvains, said Susan Selkirk, the patronizing bitch.

  How does it feel?

  A complete unknown, walking barefoot up the middle of an empty highway toward Yandina, Queensland, Australia, with a rich boy in one hand and a cat in her damn pocket and all her worldly assets gathered around her person. The blacktop was empty, littered with leaves and twigs, a branch or two, but mostly smooth and weirdly slappy in the rain. If there was a way out of this, she did not see it and she once again regretted not leaving him in that hotel room. That might seem cruel to pet lovers and sentimentalists, but he would be with his grandma now, safe in bed on the other side of the world.

  She was from Southie. This township was not like anything she understood. There was no convenience store or deli that she could recognize, just a cutesy post office, small regular cottages with hedges and peeling paint. There was a bar which was like the fishermen’s bars along the Delaware at Callicoon, staring redneck windows, dirty glass protecting the sexual bravado of morons.

  Dial, look.

  The boy had found a bottle full of milk and was already poking his dirty fingernail at its foil top.

  Stop it.

  She snatched it from him. Her heart was beating way too fast, this sudden terror of transgression.

  Where’d you get that?

  On the stoop.

  Baby, she said, this is a very redneck place. Do you understand? We do not steal. We don’t want to get arrested.

  He looked at her, all bruised and blaming.

  We can get in so much trouble, she insisted.

  For drinking milk? He dared to raise his eyebrows.

  Yes, for drinking goddamned milk. She would not be a mother. All her life she watched the Irish girls, a new crop each season, their bellies pushing at their jeans.

  You shouldn’t yell, he said.

  Oh please! She replaced the single bottle on the weathered single step and, without holding out her hand for him, walked diagonally across the deserted street to the post office, a small clapboard building with a raised white painted veranda. He came rushing behind her and she felt a ridiculous and savage pleasure in her victory.

  Should we get cat food, Dial?

  Against all her inclinations, she laughed, and kissed him.

  No, he said. Really. As if he could not accept such intimacy. Should we? he asked.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  There was no one around except a peculiar woman with a duck-leg walk who emerged from the street alongside the bar, but that was about one hundred yards farther down.

  Buck is hungry, the boy said, but Dial did not have her contact lenses and was trying to resolve what she was seeing, not a woman at all. Maybe the hippie. The skirt was a sarong. His strange breasts soon revealed themselves as trousers, stuffed like sausages, hanging around his neck. She had never seen Trevor walk before, but this was how he did it—a sort of heterosexual sashay.

  Dial removed her cardigan and gave it to the boy, the protesting kitten swinging loudly to and fro.

  You can pet him until we find him food.

  She watched Trevor getting closer. She thought, My armpits stink.

  Where did you come from? she asked.

  They had not parted on good terms, but this morning it seemed they had a history. He replied with a smile, hidden like chewing tobacco, tucked inside the corner of his mouth.

  Hello boy, the hippie said, removing the lumpy trousers from around his neck. Hello cat.

  Away from the dreadful car, he was different, his eyes wider, less stoned probably, and he gave off a surprising aura of good health. The raindrops stood on his bare brown skin as if it was a well-oiled coat or healthy vegetable. From his unknotted trouser legs he produced a large papaya, a hand of tiny bananas, the stems still oozing a pale white sap, a huge green zucchini, another papaya, this one with a bright green patch, and a purple eggplant, all of them wet and lustrous.

  Plus, he said.

  A bottle of milk.

  The boy caught Dial’s eye and she rubbed his head roughly as if to acknowledge that she would let him win that round. It was with some distinct pleasure that she observed him watch Trevor remove the silver foil. He cocked his head attentively as the hippie dipped his square-tipped finger into the milk and offered it to the kitten’s open sharp-toothed mouth.

  Give’s your hand, he said to the boy, in that musical accent they had. She watched with approval as he dipped the boy’s finger in the wildly creamy milk, guiding it to the kitten’s desperate tongue. She liked him then, more than she had imagined possible.

  Trevor led the way up the veranda steps. He was not tall, indeed two inches shorter than Dial, but she was relieved that he had a real physical authority as he squatted, pouring milk directly into his cupped hand.

  Our trailer tipped over, the boy said.

  You bet, he said. Of course.

  Trevor hopped about the floor, found a wooden-handled clasp knife in his trousers and drew its blade around the papaya which opened like a book—a color plate Carica papaya. Trevor scooped the black seeds in one swift movement and held them dripping in his fist.

  I hurt my arm, the boy said. I fell out of my bed.

  Eat food, the man instructed.

  Trevor threw the seeds over the rail.

  Just put your face in it, he told the boy, giving the other half to Dial. He did not look at her but as she took the dripping fruit she felt some double entendre which she did not like at all. It made her hesitate, but at the same time she found herself thinking about her appearance, that her hair was oily and flat on her head. My nose is huge, she thought, before she gave in to the papaya. But when this was finished there was nothing else, no plan, no strategy, and when the postmaster arrived to open shop she saw how he looked down on her, her face wet with papaya, her great Greek nose sticking in the air.

  13

  The boy ate six small bananas, maybe eight, and his belly was tight as a drum. There was a water tap down the steps and when he washed his hands he saw the black seeds shining in the dirt. He dug them up and washed them too, setting them on the concrete sidewalk. When he had ten of them he turned them over to dry their undersides and then he put them in his back pocket with his stuff. There were also little creepy bugs with lots of legs.

  Back on the veranda he poured more milk for Buck, who sniffed it and then walked away, preferring the hem of Dial’s long hippie dress. In the Best Western in Seattle the boy had watched Dial sew up that very hem, purple with blue-green waxy thread. That had been in the days after Bloomingdale’s, but they had moved on to White Fang already. He had a passport. His hair had been buzzed and dyed and he believed his mother’s hem was now everything, not only to her, but to him as well. At customs he thought he heard its contents shiver. Most likely it was beyond adult hearing, but now Buck definitely heard something, like a deck of whispery cards being dealt, perhaps, or two green leaves sliding face-to-face. His gray-striped ears pricked up. He stepped delicately out across the post office veranda floor. He batted once at the hem, but Dial’s hand swept down like God’s from heaven, circling his pet life and his organs.

  Buck peed. The boy poured him milk so he would know he loved him just the same, but the cat cocked his head, and watched it drip away.

  Buck, Buck, Buck. He grabbed. Buck feinted left and then leaped on the hem.

  Now Dial grabbed. Then Buck squawked. Dial unhooked his claws, and held him out toward the boy, who tucked the fierce little creature inside the cardigan and tied him in a friendly knot.

  Take him for a walk.

  He took Buck down the steps and showed him the seeds and washed two for him. He taught him to count. Buck tried to kill the bugs and then got puzzled and then he went back up the steps and the boy washed some more seeds and lined them up, about thirty, before he was ordered to take Buck away again.

  Where can I go?

  He meant, Don’t send me away from you.

  There’s a very interesting war memorial, Trevor said.r />
  I’m OK here, the boy said.

  Go, called Dial.

  He dropped Buck in the cardigan and slung the cardigan around his neck. At the far end of the street, in front of the Wild West bar, he could see a lonely statue ringed by long green grass. In the old chapel near 116th Street he had seen white marble slabs with the names of Columbia students who had died in the Civil War. His grandma took him. She said, These children want to make another civil war.

  She had meant his mom and dad. He was old enough to know she should not talk to him like this.

  They never think they’ll die, she said, her voice getting that catch to it, a sort of flutter she saved for stuff like this. She didn’t know how bad this felt. She didn’t know he listened to her breathing in the night.

  I know, he said—to stop her being bohemian, to make her quiet.

  As the boy came down the post office steps he had to jump over the Rabbitoh arranging his long brown legs.

  The sky was gray and thick and furry. Steam rose from the blacktop. When he arrived at the memorial he saw a small bronze lizard cross the soldier’s dead blind eyes.

  Yellow lights arrived flashing like a police car—a truck. The driver stared at him and raised a finger from the wheel. It was a local wave, but the boy did not know what sort of sign it was. He was not worried very much but he hurried back to the post office where Buck got free and jumped up to the railing. He was about eight inches long, all pink mouth and spiky hair.

  Dial laughed at him so Buck flew through the air. His barbed-hook claws found the lovely purple hem, and when Dial jumped to her feet, he still hung there. No one imagined how confused he felt. Trevor was leaning back resting on one elbow but he hardly had to reach to get one hand around his milky middle. As he yanked, Buck screamed.

  Let go, you silly bugger.

  The claws were caught. Trevor pulled harder. The dress ripped. A flood of green hundred-dollar bills sliced through the gray cyclonic air.

  The mother’s speckly eyes flicked up and down the street, then toward the dark open door of the post office. She lifted a single bill from between her long straight toes.

  Trevor kneeled and unhooked the claws from the torn hem and then gave the cat to the boy.

  Scram, he said.

  The boy’s throat was dry. He moved closer to Dial, next to, and behind.

  The Rabbitoh came forward across the floor like a squatting monkey in a dance, his long hands harvesting the spilled bills which he stacked and shuffled as he neared.

  Don’t sweat it, he said. It’s cool. He passed his loot to the mother without expression. She protected the remainder of the injured velvet in one hand.

  If you knew us, said Trevor, you wouldn’t look like that.

  How do I look, the mother asked.

  Like you just shat yourself, said Trevor.

  Dial threw her head back and laughed all wrong, like a fat kid on the first day at school.

  The boy could not see her face, only the bright light in the eyes of both the men.

  14

  As Trevor slipped his trousers on, he never took his eyes off the mother.

  You better come for a walk, he said.

  Dial did not move.

  Little chat, Trevor insisted, his mouth opening on the left side.

  The boy watched everything, his throat gone very dry.

  The mother held up the broken hem, meaning the hundred-dollar bills would fall out if she stood. This money was their life and death; she had made that very clear when they received it from his father’s friends. With money you could pay the pigs, buy a room with a bath, a real hotel. If someone might hurt you, then you gave them something folded. It was just like Grandma paid the janitor, the super, Eduardo, an envelope every Christmas. Do you think they really like you?

  Can’t walk, suggested Trevor.

  Uh-huh. Dial’s cheeks were pink as bubble gum.

  The boy thought, Give him the money. Make him go away. He wished they had found his dad in Sydney but the squat they went to was filled with junkies who did not know his name. He wished his dad would drive into the street, right now.

  Trevor called, Hey, Rabbitoh.

  Jean Rabiteau was once more seated on the post office steps, cleaning his fingernails with a silver clasp knife. The knife seemed sharp. He was paying a worrying amount of attention to such a simple job.

  Want to get the vehicle, mate?

  The Rabbitoh uncoiled himself. When he was upright he removed his hat, flicked his glossy black hair out of his eyes. He replaced the hat so the brim was low and hid his thoughts from view. Then he wandered off down toward the Wild West bar, not hurrying, but prancy in bare feet.

  John and me, Trevor said, we can take care of your items.

  The boy thought, Just pay him. Make them go away.

  At least there are two of us, said Trevor.

  Dial laughed but her hand was wet and slippery.

  Trevor raised a pale eyebrow and showed an old scar line hinged across its middle.

  No one’s making you do nothing, he said at last. He paused to watch the sun slice across the mother’s great long legs. We can drive you to the bank in Nambour, he said. The big town with the sugar mill.

  It was an ugly town; the boy had seen the cruel black stacks, the freight cars of sugarcane rolling through the thunder, a bad dream on the dark side of the earth.

  Nambour, Trevor said. You saw it yesterday.

  As he spoke, the Ford slid in, pinching its bumper hard along the curb. The Rabbitoh’s elbow was stuck out the window, but what the boy noticed most was a quick flash of silver in his hidden hand.

  You can go back to Nambour, Trevor said. If you so desire, babe. We’ll drop you there right now.

  The mother looked over her shoulder where the sad-eyed postmaster was sorting out the mail. She said, Can we discuss this somewhere less public?

  The boy preferred the postmaster to watch over them, but Trevor took the mother’s hand and led her away from him, down the steps. She held out her hem like a bridesmaid at his cousin Branford’s wedding.

  The car’s floor was awash with bad black water from the storm. The boy held Buck inside his woolly pouch. The pair of them, cat and boy, looked down together as the water surged and sloshed. As they accelerated up the highway five soggy Uno cards sailed out from under the front seat. Buck struggled, then went still.

  Trevor’s arm lay along the top of his seat like a squeezing snake. They left the highway, drove past five small houses. Then the blacktop ended, and Trevor twisted himself to look back at Dial whose feet were tucked beneath her hibiscus skirt.

  You could just fix up the hem, he said. Do you have a needle?

  Dial kind of stared him down.

  Do you?

  Dial did not budge.

  Or you can just get out, Trevor said suddenly. He jerked away. I don’t give a fuck, he said. But he did give some kind of fuck because he spun around again. If you go to the bank in Nambour, he said, they’ll call the cops before you leave. Christ, get over yourself.

  The boy’s stomach tasted like the inside of a tuna can.

  Please, Trevor said, and showed his ragged teeth, you have no fucking idea of where you are or who I am, so don’t be fucking sarcastic. You’re American. You wouldn’t know if you were up yourself.

  The car slowed, then stopped. No one spoke. They should have left the car right then.

  I’m sorry, Dial said.

  In response the car began to creep between the walls of bush, and the Uno cards went under the seat and only three returned, two reds, a yellow.

  What’s happening? the boy asked. No one heard him anymore.

  The car left the dirt road for something worse, a kind of track which wound up a ridge, along a hillside rutted with deep tire marks.

  The mother gripped the top of the seat in front. What’s going on here?

  He thought, Just give them money, Dial.

  Buck twisted and complained. Trevor told him to shut his mo
uth. The car smashed against the cutting and an acacia poked in Dial’s open window and left a long line of blood from eye to mouth. They were on a downhill slalom on a long shining streak of yellow mud—plunging, sick and slick, John swinging on the useless wheel, the boy now feeling throw-up in his throat.

  There was one last bump and something heavy crashed on the metal floor. They came to rest at a flat place where people had driven in a circle.

  What’s this? the mother asked.

  The bank, said Trevor.

  The boy thought maybe he would not vomit. He heard crows, saw burned-out cars, a lot of sorry-looking charcoal, bust-up fires.

  We’ll leave you to count, Trevor said.

  The boy’s stomach was a football of bad old air. He stayed with the mother as she slid the money from her hem.

  Will you give it to them?

  What do you think?

  But what will happen to us then?

  She put her arms around him and kissed him on his neck. Being squiffy in the stomach, he pulled away.

  I don’t have time for this, she said.

  She soon gave the hippies money. First she laid it on the hot hood of the wagon. Then Trevor counted. Then John. It was eighteen thousand one hundred American.

  The boy said, I have to be sick.

  All right, Dial said, where is the safe?

  Trevor nodded backward at the woods.

  Do we have to walk far?

  Leave it to Beaver, said Trevor. The boy watched while he slipped between the saplings, hipless, no butt in his pajama pants. Then he followed, his stomach heaving as he ran.