The Good Daughter (11 page)

She’s sitting up, cross-legged, eating a slice of what he’s told her is pecan pie. It’s so sweet it makes her teeth ache.

‘… Broome and along the coast and then back east. I mean, I say it like that, but it’s a time frame of years. Ten years I reckon sounds fair. Then I’ll go overseas.’

‘Will you ever settle down?’

‘Never. I want kids, I want a tribe of them, but living in a shack on the beach, home-schooled maybe, able to hit the road and move on …’

‘Lovely,’ she says, laughing. ‘What makes you think someone will want to do that with you?’

‘I’ll be tamed by old age by then – I’ll be a better catch.’

‘Sounds like a bad deal for the wife.’

‘Do you want to be her?’

She throws a pecan at him.

‘You’ll be too old then anyway,’ he says. ‘I’ll want a sexy young thing to settle down with.’

‘Well, I hope you leave your run too late and can only pull some wrinkly biker chick with green tattoos.’

‘Nasty.’

She relents. ‘Not really.’

‘Aw, that’s sweet – you don’t want to give me bad karma. I tell you what, I’ll send you a postcard with my sexy young wife’s measurements so you know your hex didn’t stick.’

‘You better do it before she has the tribe of kids.’

‘Good point.’

The bike is parked behind them. They’re on private property. There’s a hayshed a couple of hundred metres away and the remnants of an old farmhouse. The river is choked with willows and blackberries but this section of the water is clear; it’s light grey and rippled with the wind.

‘Why haven’t you gone already?’ she asks him.

‘Money,’ he says, and rubs his fingers together. ‘It takes money to go from town to town living off the dole.’

‘Then you’ve set yourself back, buying me the jacket?’

‘I’ve saved up enough. I can go.’

‘Why don’t you, then?’

‘I was tempted to keep riding last night.’ He puts two cups on the grass and pours tea from the thermos, holds out one for her to take. ‘I’ve been arguing with Mum. We pretty much always argue. I want her to move away. You probably know – Kincaid owns the restaurant. Mum’s been as good as working for him for twenty years. He wants to walk in now she’s built it up and sell it out from under her.’

Rebecca takes her tea. It’s black, lukewarm and sugared, reminding her of recovering from bouts of gastro on the couch – the same drink her mother would serve up as a remedy.

‘Couldn’t your mum buy the restaurant?’ she asks.

‘He’s talking money way above what we could afford.’

‘Maybe after this he won’t sell it?’

‘It’s not the point. He’s always going to have it hanging over her.’

‘Is that why you hate him so much, for what he’s doing to your mum?’

‘What he’s doing, what he did.’

‘What will your mum do if she hasn’t got the restaurant?’

‘Start from scratch, I guess. I mean I can understand why she doesn’t want to make the break. Heaps of small businesses fail. She’s worried that if she sinks all her savings into a place on the coast, or in another town, it’ll go belly-up. Not many restaurants work like this one has. It’s her business, she’s made it what it is; it’s perfect for her. If he was selling the property, fair enough, we’d probably be able to afford that – but he’s selling her business, her reputation.’ Aden tosses the crust of his sandwich out into the grass. ‘He’s such an arsehole. It makes me sick how some people know what he’s like and still accept it.’

‘Do you think Mrs Kincaid has left him?’

‘Good luck to her if she has. You have to ask yourself why she can’t pack her bags like a normal person and walk out the door. That’s why Kincaid didn’t say right up front she might have left him. He’d let all those people go out searching for days rather than let anyone see the truth of what he’s like. It’s backfired on him anyway – now he’s got everyone all over it. It’s a good thing, if you ask me, that everyone can see him for what he is. He likes destroying reputations – well, he’s getting a taste of his own medicine.’

There’s the rattle of corrugated iron over at the hayshed as a gust of wind comes through. Some of the alfoil from the picnic is picked up and blown into the grass. Rebecca gets up and rushes to grab it before it gets away. Out of their sheltered pocket she feels how strong the wind has become – it pushes like a wave against her. The long grass bends and rustles. It’s such a bracing hit of air and elements she has to smile. The foil tumbles away and she runs after it, lunges for it like you do, as though your life depends on catching it. She’s laughing and she knows why – it’s irrepressible, this feeling of relief, not even that Mrs Kincaid is safe, but her removal from it, no mention of her name in relation to it any more. And this lightness helped along by Aden turning up, giving her the jacket.

He’s followed her, and now grabs her by the wrist. The foil cartwheels away. He has a serious expression as he pulls her into him. He puts so much into the kiss she finds it hard to stay lighthearted.

This time he uses a condom. They keep the majority of their clothes on. It’s close and personal down in their flattened area of grass. Things said, things done, that she understands will be left outdoors.

He says, ‘Tell me how much you like me,’ and she answers, ‘A lot.’

He takes her hand and puts it to his chest, flattens it over his heart. He looks into her eyes. ‘I like you too, Rebecca.’

The sex hurts in the beginning, and is harder and faster than the first time, but halfway through it the pain falls away and is replaced by the feeling that she wants it – not for the experience, but because it doesn’t feel bad any more. So much of the teasing she’s endured has been based on this – what a tart she must be, to widen her legs, open her mouth, invite and encourage more of him – that it rips her for a moment from within herself and has her back in the grass, his weight on top of her, the blue sky, the blinding white clouds behind him. She’s suddenly cold with shame and sweat. Zach’s in her ear –
Bark for me, Beccy. You take it any way, don’t you …

Aden senses the change in her, touches her face, rolls onto his back and flattens a new section of grass.

He says, ‘Fuck me,’ softly up at her, and the directness of the statement causes her to blush.

It’s good again then. The wind keeps her close to him. She’s able to keep the friction to a level she likes. He groans, warns her, like Zach did on the bus, to be careful. She slows and feels what it is to have him inside her.

He smiles with his eyes closed when it’s over, tells her sixteen must be catching – he hasn’t come that quick since high school.

18

‘What are you going to do if Aden is involved?’

Zach’s father leans in close to the bathroom mirror. He shaves the bristle on his cheek and jaw. ‘I knew the moment I met your mother what she’d be like.’

For all his talk, Zach’s father is often hard to understand. His responses can be convoluted. Zach is sitting on the bath edge. His gaze follows the razor as it’s lowered into the soapy water and shaken. His father lifts the razor and turns to shave the other cheek.

‘In most cases it’s the woman doing the choosing – don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. The difference is, Zach, I chose your mother. Some men – you’ll be the same – can do that. Not to mention that your mother could not choose a single thing for herself.’

He cleans the razor. He tips his head back to shave under his chin. The shaving cream is sparse there. The razor rasps over his skin.

‘I could see who she was when I met her, and I could have told anyone who asked what I was getting myself into. It’s no surprise to me what she does. A woman like your mother is easily led. If someone suggests something to her, she latches on to it as her new-found reason for living. She can’t think for herself. She’s not pragmatic – and that’s the word for it. Your mother, Zach, has not got a pragmatic bone in her body.’

He cups his hands in the water and splashes his face. He is quiet while he cleans off the remaining shaving cream and rinses the razor. He pulls the plug in the basin. The soapy water drains away.

‘Her day doesn’t consist of flowers and candlelit dinners and strolls on the beach, so she feels hard done by. What you can’t explain to a woman like her is – that’s the stereotype; it’s not real. Most of the time I just want to shake her …’

He reaches for the handtowel and pats dry his face.

‘I don’t want you to worry, Zach. I can handle her. Other people jump in and think they might know her, or they think they can … save her, or some bloody thing. There’s a lot of bullshit about. Your mother thrives on this bullshit; it’s like listening to the sound of her own voice. It’s easy for her to get carried away.’

He hangs the handtowel on the rail.

‘We don’t always choose the easy way in our life, Zach. Sometimes a complicated situation is what we find ourselves drawn to. A perfect girl is not always the right girl. Often the opposite of what we think we want is what we feel ourselves attracted to.’

He turns.

Zach looks up at him. Where his father has shaven is paler than the rest of his face. The skin has a grey tinge, except for his neck, which is red.

‘I know you listen to your mum and me fight, and you think that I don’t love her. What you need to know is – I do. I love your mother. I loved her when I met her. She’s impossible not to notice; you can’t take that away from her. She’s an attractive woman
without
the ability to calculate. That’s rare. She’s not manipulative. Some good always does come with the bad. If you choose someone like her, well, you can’t very well complain when things get tough. You can’t be a part of the mindless mob who say,
That’s enough, I give up, I can’t do it any more
. You stick it out. That’s what you do. I’m in for the long haul with your mother. I won’t walk away. She’s a hard woman to put up with, you know that, but she is your mother.’ He leans forward and puts his hand on Zach’s shoulder. ‘I don’t want you to worry. I’ll get her back.’

In the kitchen his father sits down at the table. Aunt Belinda puts a plate of sandwiches down in front of him. She carries across his hot cup of tea. ‘Did you pack a jacket?’

‘There’s one in the car.’

‘Would you like some food to take with you?’

‘It’s not that far up there.’

Zach turns away.

On the wall is a photograph of Zach’s grandfather. It’s a faded shot, taken on the porch of the old homestead – now gone, demolished, replaced by the current house. The same trees remain. In the photo his grandfather is leaning against a veranda post with a pipe cupped in his hand and a grim expression on his face. The man stands alone. He seems very alone. Yet down the far end of the veranda are four teenage daughters – capable, rural figures, unattractive faces – and a baby son. The eldest daughter cradles her baby brother Ben in her arms. The children are firmly in the background. There is no wife or mother to be seen. It’s all about Innis Grady Kincaid – his land, his home, his perception of the world. The photo is perhaps why Zach often thinks in old-fashioned terms of his father – because the man in the photo, his grandfather, looks just like his father, although Ben Kincaid would never smoke, or think to smoke. The rough weatherboard home in the photograph, the worn stone steps, the lack of garden, seem to suit Zach’s father’s opinions more than the modern home he built. The early 1900s sit more comfortably with Ben Kincaid than the late 1980s do.

Zach looks away from the photograph.

Aunt Belinda is packing a lunchbox. She puts in a wrapped slice of homemade cake and some Iced Vo Vo biscuits. She takes a green apple from the crisper in the fridge and gets out a plate of cold sausages.

‘I’ll never eat all that,’ his father says.

‘It’ll save you having to stop to buy something.’

‘I’ve spoken to Zach,’ his father says to Aunt Belinda before leaving. ‘He understands what’s going on. I’ll keep in touch. He knows what to do on the farm. You won’t need to fuss over him. I’ve left a list of jobs that need doing. The sheep need moving, but he can handle that on his own. If you get stuck, well … I won’t be gone long.’

‘Are all the gates locked?’

‘They’re all locked.’

Aunt Belinda and Zach’s father are silent for a moment. She steps forward as though about to kiss her brother goodbye, but she stops. She pats him on the arm. ‘I know she’s up there.’

‘So do I. I mean, for Christ’s sake, it’s the sort of place she’d go. It’s where Aden would sell half his drugs. I wonder if the cops have put that together yet? I doubt it. They would lose their cut of sales if they put Aden out of business.’

‘What will I do if the police come out?’

‘They won’t.’ His father pauses by the door. ‘If there is an emergency, and you have to get someone to come over, ring Neil Toyer. His number is in the address book in the drawer.’

Zach says, ‘I think Neil Toyer is away.’

He wishes then he hadn’t spoken.

His father eyes him. ‘So don’t ring him either. Ring no-one, speak to no-one, see no-one. I hope you understand, Zach, I was serious about you not talking to Rebecca. If I find out she’s been on the place, or if you’ve been to her house … well, she’ll be like Aden and Kara are going to be in a couple of weeks – homeless.’

Zach goes to Rebecca’s house. He takes meat for the dogs. He’s thought about it – frozen meat. It will take longer for them to eat it.

He reacquaints himself with the animals through the wire. He sits and unwraps the chunks of frozen lamb, lets them sniff the icy blocks. He’s chosen the far corner of the property, behind the rusted-out semitrailer, out of sight, a place where he can see through the long grass to the front door. There are hay bales he can hide behind if he needs to. There’s bracken and saplings all around him. He’s worn his work pants, sneakers and hunting jumper – khaki green, with material patches on the elbows and shoulders, smelling of gun oil and cordite. He’s also brought a backpack with more meat for the dogs. This much he has thought about and prepared; this is what he finds himself doing now his father is gone.

The afternoon lengthens. The wind turns cold. Climbing into the yard is proving to take some guts. It’s not the dogs, but the fear of being seen, the mirror it will hold up in front of him.