The Hands (10 page)

But trying anyway. ‘I don't know, mate. She was … a good person, eh?'

They'd sat through the ceremony, the hymns and a generic homily from a minister who'd been roped in at the last minute. But at the hotel afterwards things had come good. They'd taken off their ties, put an arm around Trevor and said things more simply. ‘Fuck, mate, whatever you want, just say, and we'll be there. Right? Just get on the phone. Anything.'

‘We just gotta get things back to normal,' he'd replied, and they'd nodded their heads, taking off their jackets and unbuttoning their shirts, one of them sneaking Aiden a beer and saying, ‘It might seem hard now, but things will come good.' Asking, ‘How's young Harry coping?'

‘Good.'

‘Yeah? He's a fuckin' marvel on a bike, eh? And you, too, you're a fuckin' marvel.'

Eventually Aiden had started feeling good, aware, for the first time in days, that life might go on.

Moving above the desert, Bill asked, ‘How's Harry's leg?'

‘He's hobbling around.' Noticing a few cattle and writing a 2 at their approximate location on the map.

‘So, we gonna get him back on the bike?'

‘Of course. Young bones heal quick. That's what they said.'

Bill looked at him, trying to work out if he believed this or if he was reciting some sort of prayer. ‘He's a tough little bastard,' he said. ‘Although … the leg might not be the problem.'

Trevor saw another bunch. 6. ‘What do you mean?'

‘You know … emotional issues.'

‘He'll be okay.'

Bill wasn't so sure. ‘Just gotta keep an eye on him, eh?'

‘Na …'

4, Trevor wrote, as they flew over a dry waterhole. ‘Should we start heading north?' he asked.

Bill banked, slowly. ‘What about you?'

‘What about me?'

‘How you goin'?'

Trevor looked at him and shrugged. ‘She's dead. What can I do? I've got a bloody farm to run.' He looked into the distance and saw a big group of animals. ‘Hold up.'

Bill flew around them as he counted.

27.

Resuming the journey, Bill said, ‘You should come into town more often.'

‘Why?'

‘You know, stuck out here: kids, Fay and Chris. Sometimes it's good to have some … adult company.'

7.

‘I haven't got time.'

‘You gotta make time. Alcohol, that's the key.' He smiled.

‘It'll be hard, when Aiden's at school—having to leave Harry with Fay and Chris.'

Bill pointed out another group. ‘It's the isolation that gets people,' he said. ‘You gotta make an effort, old man.'

They kept on for another ten minutes but there were no more cattle, around here at least. As the conversation stalled, Trevor descended into the landscape. The Mitchell grass had thickened and he felt he might drop from this machine, this loud thing-of-dials-and-flickering-green-numbers, this airborne dialysis ward, into the bed of soft vegetation.

‘Over there,' Bill said, indicating.

3.

Or perhaps it could end more suddenly. All he needed to do was take the cyclic, push it forward, hold it down. Bill would fight him, perhaps, but at this height it wouldn't make any difference. The nose would drop, they'd tumble from the sky. There'd be a loud shattering and twisting of metal and perhaps the fuel would leak and ignite. But then it would all be over: a little mess, two dead bodies, and no more worry.

4.

‘Sandra often mentions her,' Bill began.

‘Who?' Trevor asked.

‘Carelyn. There's a book of photos of them together. Like the time they went shopping in Melbourne.'

Trevor stopped to remember; the trip to town; the over-priced airport parking; the girls laughing, sucking on miniature bottles of brandy as they lined up to board the plane.

‘She said when yer in town next, she'll cook yers a roast.'

Trevor could see them, giggling, as they walked the length of the aerobridge.

‘That'd be nice.'

‘She was upset she didn't get a chance to speak to you at the funeral.'

Trevor couldn't remember whether he'd seen her or not. ‘They gave the credit card a workout that weekend,' he said.

‘Eight?'

‘Yes.'

As he descended, again, into a landscape of lost cattle.

11

It was time. The doctor called on a Thursday night and the following morning Aiden and Trevor were packing the car, checking the tyres, wrapping Fay's sandwiches in plastic and planning what they'd say to Harry.

‘He'll be a hobbler for another few weeks,' the doctor had explained, ‘but then he should be able to go solo.'

Father and son set off into an already warm morning. Fay was standing in her nightie at the back door, making them promise to drive carefully, to bring her little boy home safe. Chris was busy squeezing a handful of tissues, wiping his nose, squeezing again, as Fay picked the white fluff from his lips and nostrils.

Trevor guided his new car along the dirt road towards the highway. He slowed, riding the corrugations, and drove into the bush to get around a puddle. Then he sped up and coasted down the hill, watching the purple road grow closer, seeing in it (for the first time) a new beginning. ‘So,' he said to his son, as he quickened through the soft sand, ‘the four nucleic bases?'

Aiden looked at him. ‘Not now.'

‘Yes, now. There's never a good time, is there?'

It was only a week until school returned. Trevor had received and paid for the book list. On their last trip to town he'd stopped at the uniform shop and bought the Year Twelve blazer and a new pair of pants. He'd signed off on his son's five subjects; planned the day and time he'd return him to his glassed-in room. He'd said to him, ‘This is gonna be a good year,' and Aiden had replied, ‘That's yet to be seen.'

Now, sitting next to him, he guessed it was time to start getting serious. ‘Come on.'

‘Adenine.'

He slowed, stopped and looked both ways. ‘All clear,' he said, and half-asked his son, confirming there wouldn't be another mistake.

‘All clear,' Aiden dutifully replied.

He pulled onto the highway and accelerated. Soon they were cruising at a hundred. He was sitting up, head erect, windows open. Eyes welded to the road. When he couldn't see over a hill or around a bend he'd slow, almost stopping, as Aiden said, ‘There's no point being paranoid.'

‘I'm not.'

The car jumped across road grates and passed the remains of truck-struck cattle. ‘The other two?'

‘Cytosine.'

‘And?'

Aiden shook his head. ‘I don't know. What's it matter?'

‘Thirty weeks, then you can do what you want.'

‘Why can't I do it now?'

‘You'll regret it.'

They passed a B-triple carrying prime movers and Trevor gripped the wheel. He wondered why he'd lost control. It was all so simple: accelerate, steer, indicate, turn … stay awake. There was only one road, and all you had to do was keep left.

‘You need me now,' Aiden continued, still looking out.

‘I'll get by.'

‘Who'll run the house? Who'll help Harry?'

‘We'll work it out.'

As the car just growled.

‘Bill's offered more help,' Trevor said. ‘He's not going back to the Territory.'

‘But he's not there every day, is he? For whatever needs doing.'

‘Thirty weeks,' he half-sang.

‘I'm not going back.'

‘Yes, you are.'

‘You can't make me.'

‘I can. I've just paid your fees.'

Aiden looked at him. ‘I'll pay them back.'

Trevor took his time, but eventually said, ‘Thirty weeks.'

‘Fuck thirty weeks.'

And as if attempting to avoid the inevitable, he said, ‘I'll help you, the whole way. I'm not entirely stupid, you know.'

Trevor was enjoying the ride. Their new Commodore seemed to fly, or at least hover above the road. Inside they were oblivious to the pistons and fan-belt, the changing of gears and rotation of wheels. It was luxury, but not deserved, he guessed. A consolation, but no consolation, really. Still, he couldn't help but enjoy it. With only 3000 kilometres on the clock it promised a replacement future.

For a moment he took his eyes from the road. ‘One day you might even thank me.'

Aiden just looked at him.

‘What if you lost interest, and drifted away from the farm?'

‘What else would I do?'

‘That's the whole point. You're not to know … not at seventeen.'

‘So,
you'd
rather be doing something else?'

‘Yes, some days I would.'

‘Like what?'

Trevor almost shouted in frustration. ‘That's what I'm saying. How do I know? I never got the chance.'

‘You love the farm.'

‘
Some days
. Others …'

Silence. They passed a roofless cottage, its walls three-quarters buried in sand. ‘See, that'll be Bundeena in a hundred years' time,' Trevor said, indicating.

Aiden just shook his head. ‘You're the one should be encouraging me to stay on the farm.'

‘If that's what you want.'

But Aiden wasn't happy with this. ‘Who else is gonna take over? If not me … and Harry?'

‘Well, that'll be it.'

Aiden studied him, caught up in a confusion of matrices, meiotic division, the causes of the Russian Revolution in 1000 words. Why was he talking this way? Why was he so willing, so eager, to risk losing Bundeena? ‘I'm not going back.'

‘Yes, you are.'

‘You can't make me.'

‘I can … I will.'

Trevor thought of Harry's hand, sitting half-finished on his bench for the last two months. He wanted to get back to it. Could see how it would finally look, each of the little wrinkles and tendons sandpapered into pine, varnished, hung on the wall, a reminder. But now he felt tired. He sat up, shook his head and took a deep breath. Switching on the radio, he said, ‘So … adenine?'

‘No.'

‘Come on.'

He came up behind a truck but then dropped back, twenty, thirty metres.

‘You're not gonna hit it,' Aiden said.

‘Leave the driving to me, please.'

Aiden remembered the day they'd picked up their new car from the dealer in Port Augusta. Remembered how carefully Trevor had driven from the lot, waiting for a woman to back out, checking distances between vehicles; indicating for a full thirty seconds before turning; checking, re-checking corners; cruising slowly down suburban streets; parking in empty corners of carparks.

Things had improved, he guessed, but not enough. ‘That's why people have accidents,' he said.

‘Why?'

‘You're too cautious.'

‘Rubbish.'

Once, he remembered, on their way home from visiting Harry, his father had pulled over as he approached a B-triple. Aiden had said, ‘You're losing your nerve.'

‘No, I'm not.'

He was still looking at him. ‘You've gotta put it out of your head.'

Trevor approached the truck, checked for oncoming traffic and pulled out. The car growled and flew past the soft-sided trailers, ever-lengthening, refusing to yield. ‘He's speeding up,' he said. Soon he was up to the cab, shaking his head at the driver. When they were back in their lane, Aiden said, ‘See.'

They stopped at Port Augusta for lunch. Trevor parked in Gladstone Square and they walked to Commercial Road. Fay's sandwiches were deposited in a bin and they found a chicken shop on Tassie Street. Then, as the sun peaked, they sat on a bench on the foreshore and each worked their way through a yiros, shedding yellow lettuce and soft tomato. ‘We should make these,' Trevor said, allowing the mess to fall between his legs.

When they'd finished, he stood, put his dripping bag in the bin and said, ‘I'll meet you back at the car in twenty minutes.' He searched his pockets for his keys and handed them to Aiden.

‘Where you going?'

‘Elders.'

‘I'll come.'

‘No … why don't you find a video for Chris?' He took his wallet and handed him a twenty-dollar note.

‘He needs more videos?'

‘It shuts him up.'

Aiden took a short cut through a three-lane drive-thru and watched a forklift load pallets of beer onto a truck. Walked along hot footpaths with their stray chips and gummy concrete. There was nothing worth watching at Country Target so he returned to the car, settled in the passenger side, switched on the radio and reclined his seat. Adjusted the rear-vision mirror so he could sit watching the locals pass; big clans of bare-footed, footy-shorted bodies drifting from one shop to the next. He saw an old man pushing a shopping trolley full of bags of cans. Hunched, but determined, leaning into the little bit of wind that tunnelled between the shops and over the dead lawns.

Then there was his father, two blocks away, talking to a brown-haired woman who was wearing some sort of uniform. He sat up, turned around and watched them through the back window. His father spoke, smiled and laughed. He watched as he moved closer to the woman, held her arm and then released it. And laughed again, rolling his head back, stepping forward and whispering something in her ear.

They seemed to say goodbye. Trevor waved at her then turned and headed back up the hill towards the car. The woman watched him go then went back inside the shop. He tried to see what it was. A bank? A chemist? Yes, a chemist. He watched his father approaching, crossing the road, almost skipping along the pavement, moving for an old couple and greeting them.

Trevor got in and looked at him. ‘Any luck?'

‘Nothing. What about you?'

‘Yes, drench … but I'm gonna pick it up on the way back.' He started the car and, without his usual caution, backed onto the road. ‘I have this vision of it splitting open, and ruining another car.'

‘You worry too much.'

Trevor noticed his expression. ‘What's wrong?'

‘Who was that woman?'

He drove off, carefully. ‘Old friend of your mother's.'

‘Who?'

‘Gaby … Sacrow, I think.'

Aiden studied the narrow road ahead. ‘How did she know Mum?'

‘I don't know … just knew her, somehow.'

Aiden wasn't happy with this. What would he say next? I was just walking along? I just ran into her?

‘I popped in to say hello.'

‘Did she come to the funeral?'

‘No.'

‘Why?'

‘How do I know?'

They drove out of town, back to the highway. Trevor was silent, caught up in his own thoughts. Aiden was reading him; through the words he didn't speak, the way he held the wheel, the number of times he searched for a station on the radio.

Gaby, he thought to himself. He'd never heard of a Gaby. ‘She works at the chemist?'

‘Yes. Were you watching me?'

He shrugged. ‘Maybe she didn't know.'

‘What?'

‘About the accident.'

Trevor shook his head. ‘She found out later.'

It was a long drive to town. Beyond the gulf, as they headed south, the vegetation changed to eucalyptus, shelter-belt wattles and rest-stops littered with melaleuca and fresh nappies cooking in the sun. There were plenty of skid marks and shredded tyres, reduced to their steel belt. A few wrecks, left in the scrub, overgrown with sheoaks. There were fatality markers, too—black with a red cross. Although they hadn't placed one, yet, at the site of their accident, Trevor guessed it was just a matter of time. Before some arsehole decided to rub their nose in it.

He kept his eyes on the road.

Aiden was looking at his face. ‘I suppose it'll be good to have Shit-head back,' he said.

‘Yes.'

‘He does have his uses.'

‘How's that?'

But Aiden didn't know.

They crossed the road and started walking towards the centre of the park. There were several boys in wheelchairs, one in his hospital gown. Another had his legs covered by a rug, his feet protruding. The walking wounded: a dozen or so boys and girls, one with only a few strands of hair, a broken arm, a gauze-covered face and neck. There were a few nurses, talking, laughing, one with a cigarette, joking with Murray as he dragged his feet across the lawn. A doctor wore a stethoscope as a sign of authority. Trevor and Aiden cracked jokes with a six-year-old from Penola who'd crushed two vertebrae in a riding accident. And out front, struggling through the thick grass: Harry.

‘You okay, Harry?' one of the nurses called, but he ignored her, unwilling to be the cripple any more.

They arrived in the middle of the park. Harry stood beside a big stone with a brass plaque commemorating a child who'd spent his entire life in and out of hospital. He'd already read it, weeks earlier, when he'd been pushed here by Murray; left in the sun as the old man retreated to a bench, and a cigarette. And when he'd asked, Murray had said, ‘It'll do you good.'

‘Why?'

‘It just will.'

Harry showed his friends and carers where to stand. They did as they were told and one of the nurses took out her phone, ready to film him.

‘Okay.' He let out his whip. ‘It might scare the little ones,' he explained, and one of the boys replied, ‘I've heard one before.'

Harry looked forward and grasped the whip, just as Murray had shown him. For the last several months he'd been telling his new friends about his farm, his animals, adventures along the bore run, trail-bike races with his brother; his virtual school, his chooks, his mental dog, and his whip. In the end, he felt, he needed a demonstration of his outback idyll; something to bring the sounds and smells of the desert to ward 5B. He'd held them in awe, these city kids, but now he needed to prove himself.

He took a deep breath. In one quick movement he lifted and flicked his hand. Crack! He turned, smiling, to the group. Again. Crack! A chorus of voices mumbled in admiration. ‘You see, you've just gotta send it forward, but then pull it back on itself,' he said, showing them. ‘Neat, eh?'

At last he felt vindicated: farm boy in the Park Lands. ‘I have this tree with lots of bottles hanging on it,' he said, ‘and I try to break them, don't I, Dad?' He looked at Trevor.