How it feels (19 page)

‘Now it's going to look a bit different from how it was last night, but if you hate it, I can just change it back. Ok?'

‘Ok. Can I just see it?'

‘Don't get mad – if you hate it.'

‘I won't get mad,' I said, pushing past her playfully. ‘I don't see what's new.'

Swanna pointed to the bit of wall between the fish tank and the toilet. There were three words made out of fish-food bottles glued to the wall. The three words were, in order, I LOVE YOU.

I turned to face my designer. Her arms were crossed tightly above the large envelope pockets of her male overalls. Her mother was right: she was neither black nor white, her skin fell directly in between the two, it was beyond colour, it simply shone and shone.

‘Ok, this is why,' she said. ‘The death of the goldfish in this room symbolises empathy. As we discussed, empathy is maturity; when you realise that you are not the only living thing on this planet – you are not the only one who feels pain – then you have grown into a proper adult person.'

‘What's that got to do with love?' I asked, moving around the room, wiping some dust off the fish tank and adjusting the glow light taped to the foliage.

‘Love is what we are finally capable of, ' Swanna said.

‘When?' I asked.

‘When we have seen death, and left the child in us behind.'

‘
Then
. . .' I prompted, moving towards her.

‘
Then
we can say the words and mean them.' We were a foot apart. ‘When you flush the fish, Paul brings up Pachelbel's Canon and at the same time we make a lighting special on the three words, in the black, then Julien moves the audience out of the space and into room 4: from a great height.'

‘Ok…' I nodded, beginning to connect with her sentiments.

‘Neil? Really? Neil…' Her eyes were popping out of their sockets.

‘Yes?' I answered, my fingers looping organically into hers.

‘Is this it?' she asked, tears welling in her eyes, gripping me tight like the end of the world. I looked back at the three big words. Only my mother, Dick Hindmarsh and Stuart had said them to me. Oh and Courtney, but look at us now.

‘Do you mean it?' I asked her.

‘Do you?' she responded.

She was the child of a mean father and a dead mother. She was broken and she was strong. She was gracious and she was unerring. She made me believe that I wasn't crazy, and that anything was possible. She first appeared in my lens as the exotic little first-year girl with the hairy bush who I stuck my dick in by the side of the lake. She dissolved into so much more, stealing my heart and overtaking the menstrual photo-artist who lived in my house. In the middle of room 3: adulthood, we kissed with new gravity. Gone was the typical ripping desperation of danger and lust; this was love. We held each other, gentle as insects in the cool of the afternoon delight, and yes, I felt happier than I could remember, and that it would all be ok; and if it wasn't… then fuck it.

Do people know when you've just made love? I bounded down the stairs, past Paul and his new speakers, through the low cloud of smoking dwarves, past the unicyclists and the dancers, acknowledging Julien's letterbox/donation box and cardboard signage in the foyer, and out the door with a smile bulging off my face. Mum and Agatha and Dad and his new girlfriend would be arriving at the Coachman's Inn right about now, and I could not drive the wagon fast enough to greet them.

I wanted them to see me and be around me, to disprove their suspicions that I was just a strange little boy lost in the clutch of my own delusion and that all the HECS was wasted on fire breathing and juggling classes. I was here and I was
good at it
and I could not wait to hold them and kiss them and tell them I loved them, as they had done three years ago.

The sun was losing all ties with the sky, dipping drowsily out of sight behind the local raceway, also closing down for the day. A group of Aborigines walked along the fence line slugging from a box of Stanley's claret. Ten trucks hammered past, shaking the foundations of the road. I could see the Coachman's Inn insignia from half a mile away and sped up, slipped in front of an oncoming car and twisted into the car park, skidding diagonally into a space reserved for the disabled. I ripped the keys from the ignition, opened the car door and got out, flicked my cigarette into the mush of the motel's lawn, and looked for signs of my loved ones. I heard a screen door bang on its hinges. Agatha was on the veranda of the old hotel in a long black dress. Mum stood behind her in jeans and a brightly coloured jumper, like something from the Jenny Kee winter line.

‘Hey!' I bellowed, cantering across the gravel towards them. ‘What are you guys doing in this neck of the woods?'

‘Hi, Neil,' Agatha replied, smiling cautiously from her position by the door. Mum had floated around in front of her, but neither of them had made any special attempt to express excitement. Quite the opposite. Both of them just stared at me, cold and muted.

‘How was the drive?' I asked.

‘Hello, gorgeous,' Mum said, meeting me with open arms as I climbed up onto the veranda. ‘Come here.'

Mum held me close, stroking my hair and neck with her nails, digging them in with hard affection. She usually let me go right about now, she was not a long cuddler, but today, she was holding me tight for as long as it took. I pushed off and kissed her on the chin.

‘Hey, Agatha,' I said. ‘I'm so happy you guys are here.'

They continued to stare at me.

‘What's the room like?' I asked.

Neither of them answered.

I barrelled past them into the room, opening the blinds to let some light in. Mum's green rippled dress (that we liked to call ‘the celery dress') was hung up by the window. Just the sight of their stuff, like Agatha's pink Discman, made me smile. I wanted to climb inside Mum's suitcase and roll around in her belongings. I stood by the bed and stared down into the square case. I was thinking about Dick, and how I would be there for him until he died. I was thinking about Swanna and how, back there in room 2 I would've promised anything, but now she felt a thousand towns away.

‘Neil…' Mum said, poised in the doorway by my sister. I couldn't breathe, I felt like I was having a heart attack.

‘Can't wait for you guys to see the show! I'm so proud of it! I truly reckon it's my best work yet. And all these agents from the city are coming, and like some chick from the UK. You're going to love the design too and the performances, it's cool – the audience are led through the space. Like you don't sit down or anything, it's a moving piece of theatre. It's totally fucking wild!'

‘Nelly, sit down,' Mum said.

‘Hey, Agatha, have you seen Gordon or Courtney? They're coming too, apparently.'

‘I heard they might,' Agatha said, glancing swiftly at Mum.

‘Where's Dad?' I asked.

‘He's up at The Kelso with his friends,' Mum replied.

‘Why isn't he here? We said to meet here. Why don't we all go see him now? Shall we go for a beer now and see him?' I asked urgently, feeling a creamy bead of sweat move down the line of my nose.

‘Will you please sit down?' Mum asked, gesturing at the only bed in the room. ‘On the bed, Neil, now!'

‘Where will Agatha sleep?' I asked, my throat closing up.

‘There's a foldout.'

Mum had the most pained look on her face.

‘Stuart's coming up!' I announced. ‘I spoke to him three days ago – he reckons Malaki might come up too and a friend of ours, Nancy –'

‘Stuart…' Mum interrupted.

‘Can you believe it? Fuck, if Stuart comes I'll definitely be ne r-vous,' I said.

‘Stuart's dead,' Agatha sounded proud to know this and not me.

Mum slapped Agatha across the back.

‘Well he is!'

‘Neil, we have some news. Please…' Mum could not have said this softer. I hated her and her patronising face.

‘What the fuck did –' I was losing my balance and the walls seemed to be closing in on me. Everything was shaking and pulsating and this feeling, this burning feeling, I knew it – fucking please no.

‘Neil, will you please sit down?' Mum asked, but I wouldn't. I was trying to open the window, even though I could see it was bolted shut.

‘Sit down on the bed now!' Mum roared, and before I knew it I was sitting on the edge of the bed with my fists clenched.

Mum rubbed her face with her hands and said, ‘Ok'. She knelt down before me, peering up at me through her eyelashes, which fluttered as a tear crept along their tightrope and fell onto my knee. I had not been this close to my mother since I was a teenager, and she would read to me in bed. I missed her face, and all the stories it told, the blanket of warmth that fell upon me when I was near it. That's why we lose the handle, I thought, when we veer too far from this face, from this blanket, from this holy storybook.

‘Stuart was a beautiful boy,' she said.

How could you make him past tense already?
Was.

‘How'd he do it?' I asked.

Mum let her hair fall over her face.

‘Fucking tell me, Mum! How did he do it?' I blared, snot falling.

She was calm still, which killed me. ‘Stuart was a very tortured boy. The drugs and the girls and the clubs…'

‘Tell me how he fucking did it, Mum! I swear!' I warned, gripping her hair in my hands and twisting it down.

‘Don't talk… let go of my hair please…'

‘MUM!' I screamed, and then Agatha stood up. Crying black mascara she said to me, ‘He shot himself in the head with his father's hunting rifle.'

The world dropped then like a car crash, got slower so that every moment was filled with a million details of tragedy.

‘When?' I asked.

‘Three nights ago.'

Mum's face was in her lap on the floor, she was humming.

‘What time?'

‘Neil,' Mum said from beneath her hair. ‘This doesn't help you.'

‘What fucking
time
?'

‘Around a quarter to two in the morning.'

Five minutes after we hung up. I was the last person he spoke to.
Real mate real mate real mate
. He was asking me to save him.

‘Why didn't anyone tell me? Why didn't
you
tell me? Why didn't my friends ring and tell me! Why didn't anyone fucking tell me!'

‘They wanted to tell you in person.'

‘He's been dead three days!' my voice cracked and squealed.

‘They wanted to see you first.'

‘FUCK OFF!' I screamed, getting up and kicking the bar fridge until the door broke off and I had smashed all the glass inside it. Then I burst from the room, pushed off my stupid sister and down onto the gravel, still screaming up my throat. Stuart Stone is dead and it's my fault.

It was late and I had just returned from the technical rehearsal for
ME
(and Swanna's house). The line was crackling but I could hear him fine. He kept telling me how talented and special I was and how he could not wait to see the show on Saturday. Nancy wanted to come and so did Malaki and Ebony. Who would have thought?

‘Can you believe it, Nelly? My brother's coming. Everyone loves you, man. That faggot's never seen a performance piece. Other than Blackmarket! Hahahaha!'

I asked Stuart how he was and he said, ‘Filth, everything's wicked,' and he went on again about admiring me, and how good it was partying with me at Blackmarket, especially seeing me blow that huge ball of fire; it was ‘symbolic', he said.

‘Yeah, wicked night,' I agreed.

‘You were on fire.'

‘I know. Literally!'

We laughed and filled in more about it.

‘Fuck man, you should see Gordon's house now,' Stu said, out of nowhere into the phone.

‘Which house?'

‘Y'know he bought this massive block of land on Wanda Beach, fucken waterfront and all.' ‘How did he afford that?'

‘He's making a killing, man. Blinds. And Albert used to be an architect or building guy or whatever, so they did it together, knocked it down then turned it into a duplex so they can all live there.'

‘Moving on up,' I said.

‘The Australian Dream,' Stuart said, and I could hear him grinning.

‘Courtney living there with him too?' I asked.

‘Um… yeah, think so. They got a pool.'

I wondered what he knew about Gordon and his dad, I wondered if he could tell me what really took place; how much of Courtney's story was actually true, and how much of it was designed to make me feel bad about my behaviour. Surely Gordon and Albert didn't murder the man, surely they just issued a strong warning, surely that kind of thing didn't happen in sweet little Cronulla town.

‘I did this real estate course with this homo from L.J. Hooker,' Stuart said, coughing away from the phone.

‘No shit?' I said.

‘Yeah, the bloke reckons I can start working there if I want. I just got to get this TAFE certificate.'

‘How long will that take?'

‘Not long, and it's not heaps hard, they said.'

‘Cool,' I said, encouraging this rare glimmer of ambition.

‘But fuck that, I'm not putting up gay flags and showing losers through houses.'

‘Stuart, you'd be awesome at it!' I yelled.

‘Why?' Stu asked, serious as all get-out.

‘You got charm.'

‘Yeah, chicks like me,' Stuart admitted.

‘Why don't you give it a bang? See what flies?' I asked.

‘I dunno, man… Just cruise, I reckon. Party. Got some bouncing work coming up at Tank nightclub. Might go up the Gold Coast. Y'know if you tap a backpacker on the head their panties fall off?'

‘But, mate, you've got a gift! You have to use your talent – you have to do something with what's been given to you!'