The Best Australian Stories (56 page)

‘What time is it?' he says. ‘Where are we going?'

‘Away.'

His father zips the suitcase and carries it to the car. The motor is still running; the headlights flare across the forecourt towards Lena's room. Angelo follows him out, carrying his shoes. The door of his own room is left ajar.

‘Lena,' he says. ‘What about Lena?

‘Lena's finished,' his father says. He slides into the driver's seat and shuts the door. ‘Get in.'

As he swings the car back out towards the highway, Angelo looks back to see Lena standing by reception. Her body is full and heavy, bathed in light from the open door.

‘Don't look back,' his father says.

‘Where are we going?'

‘A new home, somewhere decent.'

Angelo lifts his hand to wave but Lena doesn't move.

‘Don't look back. We're gone from here.'

Everything outside the car is dark except for Lena. She is ablaze with light, shining brighter and clearer than he's ever seen before, and as the car accelerates away she seems to float toward him, beckoning, holding out her arms. The headlights scan across the empty column.

Angelo knows that soon – tonight perhaps – the baby will be born. He knows it is his father's child. All of his memories start and end with her. Angelo knows he has been here before.

Any Dog

Sonya Hartnett

They're saying something about a dog. But there wasn't any dog.

Unless they mean old Taf. But Taf has been dead for years. There's no good reason to speak so loudly of Taf.

—The son kept mentioning this dog.

—The family's here?

—No, they're coming. I spoke to the son on the phone. He lives with the son's family, apparently.

—Did you tell them to hurry?

—I assume they're hurrying.

The boy in blue creases his nose. He shakes his head like a pony. He is a nervy and restless boy. His lungs must be like bellows, that big body full of air. God it's hot.

—The hottest day on record, they're saying on the radio.

—Yeah, well, it feels it.

Words roll from me before I can stop them. They flow down my chin like lava. It's not hot, I say. The men in blue both look at me. They are surprised. I've kept silent thus far. I remember hotter days when I was a boy.

—Well, I don't know, Mr Collier. They're saying it's the hottest day on record. It's forty-four degrees Celsius out there.

—Forty-four! The boy clutches his head. Jesus Almighty! Forty-four?

The older one shifts closer. Mr Collier, your son said something about a dog. A golden retriever. Did you have a dog with you? Do you remember a dog?

He's staring at me earnestly. I gaze mildly back at him. Sweat is unpleasant on my skin, on my neck. The room which holds myself and the gentlemen is square and small and white. The furniture is cheap and itches. There is a
NO SMOKING
sign on the wall. Also a sign that says
WHO IS WATCHING?

I've shut my mouth, I'm feigning ignorance, I'm saying no more. They're speaking of Taf, and Taf's not their business. Taf sleeps in my heart like a secret. Nobody knows he is there. I will not discuss him, disturb his peace. I will not let them put their thoughtless paws upon him. My memories are antiques, china-delicate: even I handle them only rarely, and then with utmost care.

It was a hot day, like this, the day I found him. I remember a sky like blue cream, free of clouds. I can, in fact, recall everything about that day, just as if I'm walking through it again. I'm twelve. It's a flea-market. There's grass underfoot. I am there.

The younger sighs heavily. We can't wait all day.

—It won't be all day. The son said he'd be here. Besides, would you rather be outside? It's a hundred times hotter out there than in here.

The young one's collar is an eel at his throat; he wrestles with it. Anyone's got the energy to break the law on a day like today, I admire them. Wouldn't you, Mr Collier?

—Mr Collier, can we get you anything? Something to eat, maybe?

My nostrils flare. I smell toffee. It's a thick sweet smell, a tooth-rot smell, making syrup out of the air. I see a crowd of faces, some grubby and leering, others church-white and mean. Music is playing, something cranked out of a box, four or five notes that trip over themselves like a hiccuping drunk on a road.

The younger one has his feet up on the seat. I have never sat in such a way. He is big as a colt, and impolite. He has the habit of thinking his own concerns are paramount. He's bored, he's hungry, he's hot, he's tired. He's not yet learned that nobody cares.

—What did the doctor say, anyway?

—He's a bit dehydrated. A bit sunburned. He's in pretty good shape, considering.

—Then he can't have been outside very long.

—Who knows.

—Well, he can't have been. Simple fact. I mean, it's hot. I mean, this is killing weather. Walk around out there too long – especially wearing your Sunday get-up like he is – and you're going to die. Simple fact.

—Drink your water, Mr Collier.

I'm at the flea-market and the sun is on my head like honey, drizzling into my shoes. I'm wearing shoes and socks. Most boys wear bare feet. My mother says that I am not a ruffian and I will not appear as one. She has said
DON'T GET INTO MISCHIEF
, as if this is something I occasionally do. She's given me a handful of pennies. She stands behind the table of the parish cake stall.
BE BACK BY LUNCHTIME, KEVIN
.

I take a sip of water. It comes in a paper cup. The gentlemen are watching with proud, doting smiles. The older one should have his thyroid checked.

At the market the junk stalls face each other with a wide aisle in between. The aisles head north, south, east, west, they are tidy and angular as hedgerows – yet they also tangle like rambling roses, and soon I am lost. Perhaps, in truth, I know where I am, could return to my mother in moments if I chose, but when I stop and look around, I can't remember the twists and turns I've taken to this point, the stalls I've passed, the goods I've fingered, the people I've bumped against. All is commerce. All is noise. Doubtless there are shady deals being sealed in the shadows but, from where I stand, all is good-cheer. Babies howl. Children squabble. Glass is broken. Money rustles.

—So what did they say about the vehicle?

—The wife's car. A station wagon. Green. He took the keys from her handbag, apparently.

Pennies only buy things that I do not need. I have a room full of trinkets and trash; also other, more costly wares. Spinning tops, wooden toys, a train set, boxed soldiers. A leather ball, rocking horse, a tin engine, a marionette. I have these and countless more. I'm an only child, an only grandchild, an only nephew, inundated. I don't particularly care for this overflow of goods – but nor do I care to see my toys ill-treated and manhandled. When Mother invites boys over to visit, I am edgy. Too often, my possessions emerge from these visits the worse for wear. I feel the damage is done deliberately, it's jealousy or revenge or a show of strength. I don't know whether to be angry or impressed. I am clumsy with friendship, I know. I am shy, I lack conversation, I constantly feel the fool. I squirm, when Mother asks another
CAN YOUR BOY COME OVER TO PLAY
? Even worse: the boy squirms. I have begged her
DON'T SAY THAT ANY MORE
.

WHY, KEVIN
? I remember everything about her, her smell, her teeth, her hair, her clothes. I could point her out in the street to you. I remember how her face twisted in pain when I said
DON'T
.

THINGS GET BROKEN
, I say.

HE BREAKS MY HEART
, she tells my father.
HE'S SUCH A LONELY CHILD
.

My father won't speak of anything emotional. He glances at the stove. Dinner is his emotion. Dessert has his heartfelt sympathy.
WHAT
DOES IT MATTER
, he says,
IF THE BOY IS HAPPIEST ALONE
.

BUT HE'S NOT HAPPY. THAT'S THE POINT.

YOU'RE NOT HAPPY. THAT'S THE POINT. KEVIN SEEMS FINE TO ME.

And the predicament is that they are both right. I am happy alone. I am also lonely. I think I've been born inside a glass box. There's no place for me beyond its confines. But I am reasonably content inside my home. In privacy, I am almost perfect. It's the wider world which finds me distasteful. When my mother insists on cracking the walls, inviting the world, dismay and disaster must naturally follow.

—Did the son know where he was going, in the car?

—Wasn't sure. Said he's always agitating to go home, to the house where he grew up.

—Oh yeah? Where's the house?

—In Dublin.

The young one sprays laughter. Then gets a professional grip. Try to remember where you left the vehicle, Mr Collier. The green station wagon – remember? You were driving it. Then you stopped and got out and walked around. Did you leave the vehicle by the side of the road? Or in a carpark? Or maybe in somebody's garage?

—It could be anywhere.

—No, it couldn't. It must be close to where we picked him up. The doctor said he hadn't been in the sun very long.

—The doctor only said he's in good shape, considering.

—Mr Collier? Can you hear me? Mr Collier, do you remember the car? The station wagon? You were out driving today, remember?

—You're wasting your time. He's got dementia.

The young one's lip curls – I think he's frustrated. So what was he doing behind the wheel?

—He wasn't supposed to be. He stole the keys, I said.

The younger one says nothing. He shakes his head again. His mouth can't help twisting into a smile. He secretly likes theft. I look away.

Then I see Taf.

He's inside a wicker cage with four hearty siblings. Each of them is similar, but it is Taf I see. He's standing, his wisp of tail waving like a corn leaf in the breeze. His ears are folded like envelopes. He has a white stripe down his nose. The rest of him is the colour of toffee-apples – slightly red, slightly brown. His coat is short, but also long – enough to betray his lifelong tendency toward untidiness. I am the same myself.
KEVIN, PICK UP YOUR CLOTHES. KEVIN, YOU'RE DROPPING PEAS.

I gaze at him and I know I will die without him. Already I know his name.

The man behind the table is selling second-hand novels. The pups are his burden, not his merchandise.

HOW MUCH ARE THE PUPPIES?

He looks up.
HOW MUCH HAVE YOU GOT?

I know without counting. She always gives me the same.
TEN PENCE
.

THAT'S NOT ENOUGH. EACH OF THESE PUPS COSTS TEN BOB AND A
HANDSTAND.

A WHAT
?

A HANDSTAND AND TEN BOB. ARE YOU DEAF? I COULD HAVE CHARGED
SOME JUGGLING TOO, BUT THEY'RE NOT PUREBREED.

I have my fingers through the wicker. The pups are biting me. Their teeth are like talons. They cut to the bone.
I WANT THAT ONE
.

OH YER, HE'S MIGHTY
.

I'LL HAVE TO ASK MY MOTHER.

GET GOING, THEN
.

SHE'S OVER THERE. AT THE CAKE STALL. I'LL BE BACK IN A MINUTE. DON'T
LET ANYONE TAKE THAT ONE WITH THE STRIPE.

CAN'T MAKE PROMISES, BOY
.

I can hardly bear to turn my back. I tear myself away. I speed like the wind through the crowd. I feel my feet strike the earth. I want to run, like a sheepdog, over shoulders and heads. My mother is not averse to animals. In fact, she likes them, as does my father. I have many books on the subject of the natural world. I've had a rabbit and a white mouse. I can identify many wild birds. But I've asked, before, for a dog, and my mother has said no. I don't know why she's taken this stand. I am not irresponsible, forgetful, or cruel. I am clever and obedient and accepting. Until today I have always taken no for an answer.

I run, dodge, weave. The crowd is bovine, slow, thick-boned. Waves of sickness and fear splash me. She'll say no and my life will veer irreversibly onto the wrong road. I will become criminal. I will become hollow. I will waste away.

At the cake stall, Mother is talking. I hop up and down distractingly. I fidget as if I have worms. Finally she looks at me.
CAN I HAVE A
PUP
?

NO. HAVE YOU HAD LUNCH
?

BUT MOTHER. THEY ONLY COST TEN BOB.

AND ALL THE REST. HAVE A SUGAR SLICE.

I stand back from the table, swallowing. I feel suspended, as if from a hook. In this moment there's only me in the world. There is me and the cobwebbed, abandoned planet.
PLEASE, MOTHER
.

She leans toward me. Her voice is hushed in the vain hope that the other mothers won't hear.
WHY DO YOU NEED A DOG, KEVIN? WHY CAN'T
YOU BE FRIENDS WITH OTHER BOYS?

My lips are cracking.
BECAUSE I CAN'T BE
.

I'm trembling. It's the truth. I can't be friends with the other boys. I will never. In my life there will be only me.
I NEED A DOG BECAUSE I
CAN'T BE FRIENDS.

MAYBE, IF YOU TRY – THEY'LL LIKE YOU, KEVIN
—

NO THEY WON'T. THEY NEVER WILL. I'M TIRED OF TRYING. I'LL JUST BE
ALONE, MAMA.

My mother glances at the cake-stall women. They stand around nonchalantly. They are curious as hens to know what she will say. They have boisterous sons of their own who get smacked on the backs of the legs. This is a smacking situation. The women listen, because there's pleasure to be had in hearing a child denied.