Bleakboy and Hunter Stand Out in the Rain (6 page)

14

jesse

Dad swears, loudly. The noise of something being thrown comes from behind the door. I break out in a sweat. Even Beth looks a little pale.

‘Are you wearing make-up?' I ask.

Beth looks at me strangely. ‘No, why?'

‘No reason,' I say. The pale face is real. It's not fair to make her go through this torture with me, especially if Dad is already throwing things before we've even entered his workshop.

‘Psst,' I whisper.

Beth leads me away from the door. ‘What now?'

‘Sis, I'll tell Dad alone.'

Dad swears again. Beth tries to smile. ‘Nah. It'll be okay.' She gulps, ‘I can't—'

I hold up my hand and interrupt her. ‘Really, Beth. I've got to do it alone.' I try to stand a little straighter.

‘Are you sure?' Beth asks.

‘I'll just tell the truth.'

Beth grins. ‘Did Trevor tell you to say that?'

‘Trevor doesn't actually speak,' I reply.

Beth looks to the door. ‘Do you want me to wait outside, just in case?'

I shake my head.

‘Just think of the starving millions, Jesse,' she says, before creeping quietly up the back stairs and waving from the landing.

A noise like a dentist's drill comes from behind the door. It stops for a second, followed by shuffling and then the drill starts up once more. I knock. The drill keeps going. It seems to be getting louder.

I knock a little harder.

‘Who is it?' Dad's voice sounds frustrated.

I open the door and poke my head around. Dad is sitting in the centre of the room behind a sewing machine.

‘Hi, Dad.'

‘Hi, come in, Jesse.' He holds up my blue jeans. His overalls are in a pile on the floor. ‘I'm stitching our old clothes.' He coughs, embarrassed. ‘Your mother suggested we make some savings, after our,' he looks at me, meaningfully, ‘recent expenditures.'

‘Have you already donated, Dad?'

‘No, not yet. Tomorrow night. Your mum suggested we do it together, as a family, before dinner.' He looks quickly toward the door. ‘Just between you and me, Jesse, I may have been a bit rash promising one hundred dollars.'

‘That's okay, Dad. I understand.' A vision of Kelifa flashes in my mind, his disappointment is easy to imagine. ‘Maybe we could pay it in …' I can't think of the word.

‘Instalments?' Dad suggests.

‘Yeah, like fifty dollars over two months.'

Dad smiles. ‘Don't worry about it, Jesse. My credit card can take it.' He stares at the back wall and his eyes have that faraway look he gets when he and Mum talk about holidays. ‘Beth's right. Growing fruit and vegies is not enough.' Dad looks around his workshop, cluttered with tools and boxes full of cast-off junk and old appliances. He points to an ice-cream maker. ‘That was used for one summer if I remember correctly.'

I swallow hard. I don't want Dad to feel bad because of something I started.

‘Dad, I stole something,' I blurt out.

Dad looks surprised. ‘You what?'

‘I did it for a good reason, but,' my cheeks feel as if they're on fire, ‘but I know it's still stealing. I'm really sorry.'

‘What did you steal, Jesse?'

‘Your credit card,' I say, in a small voice.

‘My what!' Dad's hand instinctively goes to his back pocket.

‘For CARE Australia … and Kelifa … the
Ethiopians,' I blather.

‘Who? Where?' Dad looks confused.

‘You can get Mum, if you like. I'm sorry,' I say.

Dad stands up from the sewing machine and walks toward me. He takes my hand and leads me over to the old couch in the corner. We both sit down. ‘Okay, son,' he says, ‘tell me what you did. Slowly.'

I take a deep breath and tell him everything. Well,
almost everything. I leave Trevor out of the story. I figure Dad would blame him, even though it's all my
fault. Dad listens patiently, although he sighs a little too frequently to make me feel comfortable.

After I've finished my confession, I know Dad is thinking because he's not talking.

‘Maybe I could pay it back,' I suggest. ‘By working extra in the garden, or,' I gulp, ‘you could take it out of my pocket money.'

Dad smiles. ‘I stole ten dollars from my dad once,' he says. ‘When he found out, I suggested paying it back out of my pocket money too.' He pats my knee. ‘Your grandpa charged me interest, to teach me a lesson.'

‘You can do that too, Dad, if you want.'

‘I'm not a banker, Jesse. No, we'll work this out ourselves.' He looks at me. ‘Let me get this straight. You donated fifty dollars to CARE Australia using my credit card.'

I nod. ‘I'm going to write a letter to Kelifa to apologise for not being able to sponsor him. But fifty dollars should help.'

‘Not to mention the other money,' adds Dad.

I don't know why, but my lip starts to quiver and without meaning to, or wanting to, I start crying. I'm so embarrassed I hide my face in Dad's chest, sobbing. Dad wraps his arms around me and says my name.

We stay like this for a few minutes before I feel strong enough to show my face again. Dad smiles. ‘It's okay, son. I cried after telling my dad too.'

‘Really?'

‘Well, yes, but that's because Grandpa hit me around the legs with his strap a few times.' Dad's voice deepens, as he imitates Grandpa. ‘To teach me a lesson. As if the interest charge wasn't bad enough.' Dad's face is serious. ‘Things were different when I was young, Jesse. Grandpa was a good dad, just a little old-fashioned.'

I reach across and hug Dad to let him know he's a good dad too.

‘And now comes the hard part. Telling your mum,' Dad says.

‘Dad?'

‘Yeah?'

‘We haven't decided on a punishment.'

‘Yes, I've been thinking about that, and maybe Grandpa was right.'

I gulp, thinking Dad's suggesting a few straps across the back of the legs. Dad sees me cringing and adds, quickly, ‘No, not that!' He laughs. ‘It wasn't the strap that made me cry. It was knowing I'd done something wrong.' He looks at me keenly. ‘And I suspect you've learned your lesson, Jesse. That awful feeling in your stomach, that's punishment enough.' He stands up. ‘Don't do it again. Okay? Stealing is …'

‘Wrong?' I suggest.

He nods.

I hug him tightly once more and leave.

Beth is sitting on the back step. ‘Not too painful?'

I shake my head, scared I might start blubbering again if I try to speak.

Beth's phone beeps when I walk past her.

She reads the text and smiles.

‘Ryan?' I ask.

‘He's helping me with homework,' she says.

The drill-like sound starts again in Dad's workshop.

Beth asks, ‘What's he doing in there?'

‘Building a cage,' I say, ‘to keep Ryan out!'

We both giggle.

15

HUNTER

Hunter sits in front of the computer in his room and types ‘Queenstown' into Google Images. The screen fills with pictures of snow-capped mountains looming over a vibrant blue lake; a cable car full of smiling people waving from the windows; a man standing on a mountain top wearing a backpack, raising his arms in celebration; and apple trees blooming pink and white in a green field.

It looks like a place where people go for holidays, where only rich people live. Everyone seems happy. But there are no children. His dad will enjoy that.

He closes Google and looks out of his own window. The house next door has a light on, above the front door. Mrs Ainsworth walks out onto the verandah and calls for her dog, Charlie. She holds a biscuit in her hand. Charlie bounds up the stairs, his tail wagging.

Hunter gets up from his chair and flops onto his bed, closing his eyes. He remembers the last time he saw his dad. It was a Sunday, four months ago.

All morning, he'd been excited, wondering what they'd do. He checked the times of the football games at both stadiums, wondering which one his dad would choose. He googled the weather and decided to pack a towel and swimmers, just in case. Maybe his dad would buy him a boogie board? He jumped up as soon as he heard the car horn. Mum tried to convince him to take a jacket. Hunter had laughed, he didn't need a jacket at the beach. He raced down the driveway and jumped the fence in one casual bound. He hopped in the car. His dad said hello and sped off up the street, before Hunter had even fastened his seatbelt. The conversation went like this:

‘How are you, Hunts?'

‘Good,' Hunter placed his bag on the floor under his seat.

Mr Riley shifted gear, elaborately, and turned onto Benson Freeway. Hunter wondered what that distinctive smell was. He looked around the interior of the car at the leather seats and the wood-grain dashboard. He turned and looked behind. Nothing but an old frisbee on the rear seat. The car rumbled along the double-lane freeway. Hunter felt like he was sitting in a massage chair. He wondered if they were heading east, to the beach.

‘I'm thinking of adding a racing stripe,' Mr Riley said.

‘What?'

‘A racing stripe, black and white, like the '67 Mustang.' He smiled. ‘Didn't you notice my new car? I had a Matchbox model just like this when I was your age. You like cars, don't you, Hunts?'

‘Hunter,' he corrected his father. You shouldn't have to tell your dad your name, he thought.

‘Come on, I've always called you Hunts,' his dad said.

Hunter shrugged. They drove on in silence. Hunter kept stealing glances at his father. He wondered why he smiled all the time. Why he leaned forward, even when driving, his hands holding the steering wheel loosely, eyes narrowed, squinting into the sun. His sunglasses dangled from the rear-view mirror, swaying back and forth every time they rounded a corner. It began to irritate Hunter. He'd rather his father hid behind the glasses.

His hair was different from last time. It was longer and swept back off his forehead, lacquered around his ears and curled up at his shirt collar. Hunter stared. He was wearing gel. At his age. That was the smell in the car: hair gel, aftershave and leather.

As if reading Hunter's mind, Mr Riley wound down the window.

‘It's a good day for swimming, Dad,' Hunter said.

His dad swept a hand over his hair and wound the window up, checking his appearance in the mirror.

‘Hunts, I've got a surprise for you,' Mr Riley turned to Hunter, grinning.

‘Yeah,' Hunter replied, picturing a boogie board in the car boot.

‘In the back seat, Hunts.'

Hunter looked around again. All he could see was the green frisbee. He looked at his dad.

‘There's a park near my place on the harbour. We can throw it.'

‘I know what to do with a frisbee,' Hunter said.

His dad slammed on the brakes. A car in front had stopped to let a woman and two children cross at the zebra crossing. Mr Riley swore under his breath then checked his watch. Hunter wondered how long they could throw a frisbee.

He reached across Hunter to the glove box and flicked it open. Mr Riley pushed the road atlas aside and picked up a roll of mints, offering one to Hunter. Hunter shook his head. His dad flicked one mint from the packet and caught it in his mouth, looking at Hunter to see if he'd witnessed it. A car horn sounded behind them. The zebra crossing was free. Hunter's dad changed into gear and raced away.

They drove in silence to the park. The harbour water sparkled. Hunter's dad leaned across and pointed to a row of apartments. ‘That's where I'm staying,' he said. ‘The top one on the left.' Hunter looked up and saw the double doors open to catch the harbour breeze. On the balcony was an exercise machine and … a boogie board.

His dad drove slowly along the street, looking for a car park.

‘There's one, Dad,' said Hunter pointing to a shady spot, under a huge tree.

‘No way, Hunts,' he said. ‘Those trees drop things onto my car. We have to park out in the open.' They drove around in the heat for a few more minutes, before finding a spot.

‘Let's play frisbee, Hunts,' said his dad, bounding out of the car.

Hunter wondered whether he should bring his bag with the towel and swimmers. The harbour was almost as good as the beach.

Mr Riley was already standing on the high ground near the poplar trees along the foreshore, waving his arms. ‘You go over there, Hunts,' he yelled, pointing near the water's edge. Hunter ran to the spot. Just below him were a young couple in swimmers, sharing a towel on the white sand, their child playing in the shallows picking up handfuls of water and throwing it into the sky. The child giggled when the shower landed on his upturned face. The frisbee zipped overhead and landed a few metres behind Hunter. His father yelled, ‘Almost got you!'

Hunter, already sweating, walked to pick up the frisbee. He held it in his hand and noticed the name ‘Nathan' printed on the rim in black texta. He covered the name with his hand and looked to where his father stood. He flung the frisbee with all his might. At electric speed, it flew a metre from the ground, aiming straight for his father. Mr Riley stood and watched it shoot toward him, his hands on his hips. At the last moment, he flung out an arm and caught it effortlessly, pirouetting as he did and flinging it straight back.

For what seemed like hours, his dad insisted on throwing the frisbee. Hunter began to aim the frisbee away from his father, making him run, hoping he'd tire and suggest a swim. But Mr Riley returned the frisbee with childish abandon while more sunbathers strolled down to the sand where they read magazines or listened to iPods or swam in the cool water. Hunter wished he could do the same.

Finally, Mr Riley whistled and waved for Hunter. At last, Hunter thought. But when he joined him, his dad grinned and said, ‘Try this, Hunts.'

Mr Riley gripped the frisbee and turned to face the harbour. He checked to see his son was watching and then flung the frisbee high into the air. The frisbee flew out over the water and just when Hunter thought it would drop, it turned like a boomerang and sailed unerringly back to where they were standing. His father picked it up, laughing. ‘How's that?' he called to no-one in particular.

‘Can I have a go?' Hunter asked.

His dad looked at the frisbee in his hands. ‘Sure, Hunts,' he said, reluctantly, ‘but let me show you once more how to do it.' He walked closer to Hunter and held out the frisbee. ‘You have to aim higher and when you release it, flick your wrist. That way it'll bend and return.' He grinned. ‘It's a real skill.'

His dad threw it again and, sure enough, the disc shot out over the water and returned, this time with even more backspin and force. It zipped over their heads and landed near a group of senior citizens sharing a thermos of tea on a park bench. Mr Riley ran to pick it up. He ignored the old people.

‘You reckon you can do it, Hunts?'

‘Sure,' Hunter said.

Hunter sits up in bed and laughs, quietly, so as to not disturb his mum. He recalls the look on his father's face when the frisbee shot out over the water and kept going. Hunter had thrown it with every ounce of energy in his body. He guessed it travelled sixty, maybe seventy metres before plunging down into the deep water. No way his father was retrieving that frisbee. It was gone. Bye bye, Nathan.

*

‘Oops,' said Hunter. Such a simple word, he thought, with so much meaning.

‘Geez, Hunts, that wasn't …' His father's words fell away, like a leaf tumbling in the wind. They both looked out across the water. A ferry approached from the west, on a collision course with the green plastic disc. Hunter could see the captain standing alone at the wheel and below him on deck were tourists in sunhats, filming the idyllic beach, the swaying line of poplar trees and the father and son in the park, gawking. They watched the ferry run over the frisbee. Hunter saw it bob, valiantly, on top of the approaching wave for a second, before disappearing under water. Broken to pieces, Hunter hoped.

Hunter looked around. His father was sitting on a bench seat under a poplar. Hunter hadn't noticed him move. He watched the ferry recede into the distance, among the sails of bobbing yachts and hovering seagulls. On the opposite headland, a man held a kite in his hands, while a boy stood with the kite line a few metres away. The child ran and the man released the kite. It rippled into the sky, floating higher as the boy ran. The man kept his arms raised, as if in worship. Finally, Hunter walked to the seat and sat beside his father.

‘I'm moving to New Zealand, Hunts,' his father said. ‘I've arranged for a ship to transport my car.'

Hunter wondered how much line was left on the kite. Just how high could it float?

‘I've been offered a job. And,' he looked at his son, ‘I've met a woman called Patsy.'

‘Ha!' Hunter gets up from bed and quietly opens his bedroom door. The light shines from under his mother's door. She's probably reading in bed. He creeps along the hallway and walks downstairs to the kitchen. He doesn't want to think about his father anymore. He doesn't want to hear about New Zealand and the skiing holidays his dad promised that would never arrive. He doesn't want to visit geysers or bubbling hot mud baths. And he certainly doesn't want to hear about anyone named Patsy. Hunter doesn't want another mother.