The Good Parents (41 page)

After they left the MCG Cy Fisher drove her across town to an unpretentious little cafe where – of course – they knew him
and the coffee was excellent. She sat across the table from him and told him about Maya and their life in Warton. How dull
it sounded, even to her. It occurred to her that for all these years what she’d called ‘good’ was no more than fear and guilt
and prudence.

This was the effect he’d always had on her. He overturned you. He woke you up.

She still didn’t know what ‘good’ was.

To go further out.

When he drove her home from the cafe, she saw an old terrace cottage with a row of ragged Tibetan flags waving across its
porch. Who lived there? she wondered. Was it an ashram or a hippie house? Decoration, or a frail reminder of the spirit?

A rhythm had started up in his head. Da dum da dum …
They hand in hand
… What was it?
Paradise Lost
. Adam and Eve banished forever. The last two lines.

They hand in hand with wand’ring steps and slow,

Through Eden took their solitary way.

The airport was lit up like a theatre, a gala occasion. The taxis filed in one after another, they were suddenly in the midst
of a panic of people lugging their baggage in and out of cars. A huge plane was lowering overhead, coming in to land.

Jacob paid the driver, they called out their thanks and slammed the taxi door. Now he took her hand and they ran.

H
e asked her if she minded opera and then played the whole of
Don Giovanni
, disc after disc. There was no expectation of talk. She slept and woke, slept and woke. He stopped for petrol in a town called
Goondiwindi and she walked a little way into the sun and shut her eyes to smell the dust and feel the warmth on her face.
Cy Fisher came out of the service station carrying snacks and drinks. She saw how exotic he looked out here, black clothes,
black car, white face.

He bought them each a bottle of water and an apple and what he called a passable foccacia. She felt like a kid.

He drove and took fast bites of the foccacia lying unwrapped on his knees. He had sharp teeth for an old person. ‘Usually
for lunch I eat Japanese,’ he said. She could tell he liked food.

There was endless scrub, trees with thin black trunks and fresh green leaves and yellow wattles everywhere. Her body had stopped
aching. She started to come awake. She opened the window and took a breath.

As the road fell into shadow she put herself on roo watch: she wasn’t sure he’d know about kangaroos. A full white moon was
rising.

‘Do you believe in the supernatural?’

‘Someone looks after me, no doubt about it. I’ve got a first-rate guardian angel.’

Then she told him about the flying saucer and Jason Kay and the Brethren, and all her life right up to the office and the
flowers.

The lights of Dubbo appeared on the horizon.

He cruised the streets looking for a motel.

‘Do we have to stop?’

‘I don’t know about you, but I’m not up to another ten hours’ driving. I promised your mother I’d bring you home safely.’

It was early evening when the black car pulled up outside Cecile’s wooden slatted fence. The plane trees across the street
had broken out in pale green leaves. The courtyard light was on. Maya sat very still. The car was warm and cosy, littered
with pistachio shells, a capsule outside time. It felt like home.

‘Would you like to come in?’

‘Not this time. But you have my number.’

‘What am I going to do?’ she said, almost to herself, as she opened the car door.

‘Something amazing, no doubt.’ He smiled at her.

The car slipped back into the traffic.

The key was in its place under the little Buddha. She stalked from room to room, snapping on lights. Where were they? She
saw the discreet flash on Cecile’s closed laptop. In her room the bed was made and the floor was cleared and there were clothes
she recognised from long ago hanging in the cupboard, her father’s red cowboy shirt, her mother’s best black pants.

She looked in the bathroom mirror and saw her face was thinner, paler, almost translucent.
You have more passion
. What did that mean?

She went downstairs and paced around the conversation pit, strangely bereft. Something was missing, she was filled with nostalgia,
but for what? They were all here and yet it wasn’t enough.

Deep in her bag, the telephone rang. Her hands shook as she scrabbled for it. She saw the number and pressed the green button.

‘Hello Andy,’ she said.

My thanks to Drusilla Modjeska for her generosity and encouragement.

And for their help in various ways with this book, my thanks to Priscilla Alderton, Peter Bahen, Christophe Bourguedieu, Derek
and Julia Carruthers, John de Hoog, Bob Hewitt and FotoFreo, Ruth and Kerry Hill, Giles Hohnen, Gail Jones, Eveline Kotai,
Robert Riddell, Bob Shields, Clancy White, Terri-Ann White and Morgan Campbell.