Another Night in Mullet Town (5 page)

Sharks

‘My dad told me

when he was my age

he used to bring his girlfriend

to a fishing cabin here on the sand

that most of the kids in town

thought was haunted.'

Manx takes a swig of beer.

‘Dad said the girl

was holding him so tight

expecting a ghost at every turn.'

Manx looks around the deck

at the shiny barbecue,

the teak furniture

the plants in terracotta pots.

‘Dad spent most weekends

dragging a net offshore

catching mullet with every run.

The old blokes who lived here

shared their beer

if he cooked them fish.'

I realise Manx is talking to himself

more than to me.

‘They're all dead now,

except old man Beattie.'

I picture Beattie's shack

of rotting timber and corrugated iron

wedged between these mansions.

‘Dad reckons Lloyd-Davis

offered Beattie three hundred grand

and a place in an old people's home.

Mr Beattie told him to come back

with a serious offer,' Manx says.

‘I wonder how long he'll last,' I say.

Manx sculls his beer

and tosses the bottle off the deck.

‘Every day he hangs on

is spitting in the face

of these rich bastards,' Manx says.

‘Just 'cause they're rich doesn't make—' I start.

Manx holds up his hand.

‘Imagine someone let loose a shark in the lake.'

He sneers. ‘Make that two sharks

and they start feeding off the mullet.'

‘Everyone's got to eat,' I say.

‘But these are ugly bull sharks

who take more than their share

and they have baby sharks

and, pretty soon,

there's no food left for anyone.'

Manx looks at his reflection in the window.

‘And no-one can swim in the lake anymore,' he says.

‘Sharks are territorial,' I add.

Manx grins. ‘So am I.'

Impossible to talk

Manx picks up the paddle

and tosses it to me.

I catch it with one hand

and look across the lake.

A wedge of egrets

battle into the breeze.

‘Your dad doesn't visit

our house much anymore,' Manx says.

Our families used to get together every Sunday,

the adults with beer and stories,

me and Manx promising to catch dinner,

and Mr Gunn cooking sausages, just in case.

When Manx's mum left,

just Dad and I would visit,

as if my mum was a reminder

of what Manx was missing.

Our dads would get slowly drunk

and play darts.

‘He's taking longer hauls,' I shrug,

‘to pay off the truck.'

I dig the paddle into the sand,

and remember Mum standing

in the kitchen with her bags packed.

‘The Magna is cactus and Mum's …'

I can't bring myself to say it.

The wind is pushing white horses across the lake

but neither of us makes a move.

‘You can stay at our place

whenever you want,' Manx says.

He steps into the kayak

and wedges the esky between the seats.

I nod and attempt a smile

before pushing off.

We paddle across the lake

and the wind is so loud

it's impossible to talk.

I'm grateful.

Left alone

When I get home

I find a note on the table.

Mum has drawn a heart

on a piece of paper

with red nail polish.

There are no words.

I fall asleep on the lounge,

just like Dad does,

only without the encouragement of beer.

The wind slams the screen door

and wakes me in darkness.

I shuffle to my bedroom

and pull my blankets up high.

Every teenager's dream

is to be left alone

with the run of the house.

I remember the day

Mum and Dad paid off their mortgage.

Dad brought home a bottle of champagne

and they pretended to enjoy it

before switching to beer.

Dad helped me do the dishes,

while Mum played country music

and threatened to dance us

around the lounge room.

The next day Dad told us

one of his regular customers

had gone out of business,

the truck needed an overhaul

and the only way to pay for it

was another loan.

I wriggle further under my blankets.

I haven't seen my parents smile since.

The fundamentals of grammar

Monday in English,

I arrive too early

to find Ella reading a paperback

in an empty classroom.

I study Mrs Sutcliffe's handwriting

on the whiteboard:

The differences between an adverb and verb
.

Even in year ten

we're still learning –

or not learning –

the fundamentals of grammar.

‘Ella reads quietly,' I say.

Ella looks up. ‘Pardon?'

I feel the heat rush to my cheeks.

‘I was thinking of adverbs and verbs.'

I point to the whiteboard.

‘
Reads
is the verb,
quietly
is the adverb.'

I should have written
nerd

across my forehead in texta.

‘Now I'll jump out the window,' I mutter.

Ella smiles imperceptibly.

‘Ella smiles imperceptibly,' I say.

Ella's smile broadens.

‘Ella—'

‘Jonah!' Manx thunders into the room.

‘Trust you to be early for English.'

He tosses his bag on the desk

and swings his leg over the chair.

‘Did Sutcliffe give us homework?'

I glance back at Ella.

She's engrossed in her book.

Or pretending to be.

Tequila

Mrs Sutcliffe starts the period

by announcing we're going to read,

‘The greatest book ever written'.

Manx groans and says,

‘Anything but the Bible.'

Rachel makes the sign of the cross.

‘Save me,' she cries.

Everyone laughs.

‘It's called
To Kill a Mockingbird
,' says Sutcliffe.

‘Tequila Mockingbird?' asks Angelo,

leaning across his desk

to slap Patrick on the back.

Patrick jumps up from his chair

and threatens to punch Angelo.

His face is red, fists raised

and he's shaking in rage.

Angelo slinks down in his chair.

‘It's a joke, Patrick,' I say.

His eyes cloud over

as if he were somewhere else.

‘Sit down, Patrick,' says Mrs Sutcliffe,

‘and we'll forgive Angelo's attempt at humour.'

‘Sorry, mate,' says Angelo,

who, like the rest of us,

has absolutely no idea

what's got into Patrick.

Follow

At the end of English,

Ella waits until everyone

has left the classroom,

before picking up her books.

I untie my shoelaces

to avoid looking at Manx

who gives up waiting for me

and charges towards the canteen.

Ella walks slowly past my desk.

‘What's the term for

suffering Sutcliffe stoically?' she asks.

‘Alliteration,' I answer.

She reaches into her backpack,

pulls out a pear

and places it on my desk.

‘Your reward,' she says.

I pick up the fruit

and feel its soft warm skin.

‘I could learn more from you

than Sutcliffe,' Ella says.

She smiles and walks to the door.

‘And without Patrick's violence,' I say.

‘Do you want to share the pear, Jonah?'

I gather my books quickly,

but, in my eagerness to get to the door,

I trip over my untied shoelace.

Ella reaches out a hand

and stops me from falling.

‘One of us rhymes badly,

the other can't tie his shoelaces,' she says.

I follow her out of the building.

I'll follow her anywhere.

The list of embarrassing

Ella leads me to a seat

behind the library in the sunshine

away from the traffic of year nine.

She looks at the pear.

‘You first,' she offers.

I take a bite and the juice dribbles on my pants.

‘Lucky we're in the sun,' Ella says,

‘so it'll dry before Science,

or it could look awkward.'

‘Everything I do is embarrassing,' I say.

She takes a bite,

cupping her hand under the pear to catch the juice

and hands it back

with a knowing look.

‘Tell me the most embarrassing moment

ever in your life,' she says.

I think of the long list

and slowly begin talking.

Once I start I can't stop.

‘In my first year of high school,

before you came,

a boy from year eight

pushed me out of the canteen line.

When I tried to get back in

he punched me in the mouth.

I fell over,

with nowhere to go

but to the end of the line.

When I got home,

Dad asked what'd happened.

I didn't want to tell him.'

I shake my head

as Ella offers me the pear.

‘When Dad found out

he jumped in the car

and was gone for hours.

I spent all that time

in my bedroom

imagining the worst.

He came home just before dark.

I heard him talking to Mum

in the kitchen

and, when I crept out,

I saw him passing her money

to pay for a visit to the dentist.

The knuckles of Dad's hand

were swollen

and I wondered how

I could possibly face the boy the next day.'

A place in line

Ella is quiet for a long time.

She takes the last bite of the pear

and hops up to toss the core in the bin.

She sits back down,

closer to me than before.

I take a deep breath to finish my story.

‘The family left town

owing six weeks rent.

Ever since, I've tried to imagine what the boy

who'd hit me

was thinking

barrelling down the highway

in the back of an old car,

all their belongings packed in the boot,

his father cursing and wondering

how a place in the canteen line

was worth all that trouble.'

The bell rings for the end of lunch.

Ella stands

and reaches for my hand.

She doesn't let go

until we get to our lockers.

Black and white

After school,

Ella sits next to me and Rachel

at the bus stop.

Manx rides his bike

in slow circles

pulling tricks.

A black BMW pulls up.

The door flings open.

Patrick's dad takes off his sunglasses

and calls,

‘Hey, can someone get my son.'

None of us know where Patrick is.

Angelo jumps up

and reaches into the car,

offering to shake Mr Lloyd-Davis's hand.

‘My name's Angelo,' he says.

‘That's great, kid.

Now go get my son.'

He looks past Angelo

and sees Patrick running along the footpath,

then sounds the horn long and loud.

Patrick walks past Angelo to hop in,

and, for a moment,

I'm scared Angelo will slap him on the back again.

We all watch the BMW

do a U-turn over the zebra crossing.

‘Nice way to greet your son,' Rachel comments.

Everyone knows exactly what she means.

The best places

In the late afternoon,

Ella and I hop off the bus

and walk along Lake Road.

‘If I get home too early,'

Ella says, ‘it's homework,

or helping Mum cook dinner. Yuck.'

‘I … I know where we can go,' I say.

She smiles. ‘Is it a secret hideout?'

‘Kind of,' I say,

‘but only because no-one wants to go there.'

‘Until now,' Ella says.

We walk away from the lake

to the outskirts of Turon

where Dad's truck workshop

is surrounded by a high wire fence.

I show Ella where the wire pulls away

from the post

and squeeze through,

holding it open for her to follow.

I call to Peachy, Dad's guard dog.

She barks, then wags her tail in recognition

and bounds over the gravel

to nuzzle my outstretched hand,

nearly knocking me over.

Every afternoon when Dad's away,

I stop here to feed Peachy.

A blinking neon sign illuminates

a few empty trailers

and a badly painted front door.

I find the key under the ornamental frog.

I swing the door wide open

and step back,

letting Ella go first.

‘You take a girl to the best places,' she says.

The workshop

I turn on the light

in the workshop

and close the door.

I can't believe I'm alone here with Ella.

I take two beers from the fridge

and offer her one.

She smiles. ‘Toss it, Jonah.'

She catches it with one hand

and sits up on the desk

before opening the bottle.

We survey the workshop

of a slowly failing future.

Peachy whines as if she understands.

Ella looks at a photo on the wall.

‘Mum and Dad,' I say.

They're standing in front of

a freshly painted rig with a full load.

Dad's much younger;

his curly hair is bleached with sun and sand

and the chance of a wave

before the evening fades,

before he drives all night

still high on the barrels of Balarang Bay

and his love for Mum.

Mum's wearing a summer dress

and is barefoot and pregnant.

They look so happy,

so certain about the future

where Dad has enough time for waves

and a proper job –

making surfboards

or at the council –

clocking off

with a few hours of daylight left.

Truck driving …

it's only temporary.

‘Your dad looks handsome,' Ella says,

‘like his son.'