When Dogs Cry (14 page)

‘Friends?'

‘Friends,' he confirmed. ‘I've considered gettin' after him but I'm not goin' lookin' for anyone. If I do that, I'll only be worse off.'

‘But if you find him before he finds you, you can take him by surprise. You can finish it before it even starts.'

‘No.'

I thought about it. ‘Okay, but just remember Rube—if it gets bad, let me know. I know I'm not you, but it'll still be harder against the two of us.'

Rube's hand landed on my shoulder. That was all, and we walked home.

On Friday, Octavia came early in the afternoon, and from our porch, we watched as Rube carried a punching bag down the street. ‘Some extra practice,' he smiled as
we helped him through the door with it and down to the basement.

He hung it from the rafters and for close to an hour, we could hear him blasting it. In a way, I could only feel sorry for anyone who wanted to take Rube on. Even if there were more than one, at least a few of them would get hurt, because Rube had speed and strength and no hesitation.

When the phone rang, I answered it and asked the guy on the other end to hang on. ‘My brother wants to talk to you,' I said. ‘I mean, this is getting ridiculous. You call three times a day. You say nothing. I'm starting to think you actually
like
my brother rather than want to kill him—otherwise you'd just beat him up and be done with it. So hang on. Just a minute.'

I went down to the basement.

‘What is it?'

Rube didn't usually sweat much, but after a good hour on the bag, he was drenched.

‘It's him,' I told him.

He walked up the cold cement steps and practically mauled the phone when he picked it up.

‘Now listen,' he growled. ‘I'll be waiting down near the old train yard at eight o'clock tomorrow night. You know where that is? . . . Yeah, that's the one. If you want, come and get me. If not, stop ringin' me—you're a pain in the arse.' There was a longer silence. Rube was listening. ‘Good,' he spoke again. ‘Just you and me, alone.' Again, he listened. ‘Okay, we can bring people but when it comes down to it, it's you and me. No help,
no tricks, and then it's over. Goodbye.' He slammed the phone down and I could see he was already fighting in his mind.

‘So it's on?' I asked.

‘Apparently so,' and he went to shut the basement door. ‘Thank Christ for that.'

Then the phone rang. Again.

‘Don't worry,' Rube told me on his way past. ‘I'll get it.'

He picked it up, and immediately, I could tell it was his mate again. Rube wasn't happy.

‘What is it this time?' He shot the words through the phone. ‘You can't!?' He was getting more irritated by the second. ‘Now listen mate—you're the one who wants to kill
me,
so make up your mind about when you feel like doin' it.' He thought. ‘What about during the week? No? Well what about next Saturday? Could you check your calendar and make sure you've got nothing else on?' He waited. ‘Y' sure now? Positive? You won't be ringin' in a minute or two attempting to reschedule? No? So next Saturday night sounds like a good time to kill me? Good. Same place, same time.
Next
Saturday. Good.'

Again, he hung up, forcefully. He shook his head but laughed. ‘It's an absolute circus with this bloke.'

He started eating some bread and got ready to go out with Julia—the cause of all this. I made a clear effort to dislike that girl and blame all of this completely on her, but really, I knew. It wasn't her. It was my brother Rube. He'd brought it on himself because he'd finally stumbled onto the wrong girl, and for the first time, maybe he was
going to pay. Sure, I also told myself that I'd been wrong in the past, because Rube had often escaped dangerous situations for no other reason than the fact that he was Ruben Wolfe and Ruben Wolfe could handle anything.

With his fists.

With his wayward charm.

Any way he could.

This time though, I couldn't be sure. It was different. I guess we'd discover the outcome in a week's time . . .

Octavia and I stayed in that night, and in Rube's and my room, she played her mouth organ and put music on. Sometimes, when the music was playing, she played along, but mostly, we talked. There were stories of days spent playing music for money, characters she met down at the harbour and other places around the city. I told her about school and how I sat on a wall there and felt stories and words move through me, and how sometimes people would come down and talk to me. Past friends and people I'd run into.

I told her no-one but her knew about the words.

It felt good.

Close.

She wore jeans but took her shoes and socks off, and I remember looking at her barefoot feet, as she sat cross-legged on my bed. I remember looking at her toes, and her ankles. I liked her ankles, and of course, when I looked back up, I liked the look on her face when she spoke and listened and thought. She laughed about things. About the beer ice blocks, and stories I told her about Rube and me and going to the dog track, just
watching, laughing and gambling once in a while just for the hell of it.

Talking was good.

It sounds like an obvious thing to say, but it helped me know her, in the
way
she said things, and in the moments where she thought and then told me what it was. I guess when someone tells you something that they usually guard, you feel privileged, not because you know something no-one else knows, but because you feel chosen. You feel like that person wants her life to intersect with yours. I think that's what felt best about it.

I was close, so close, to asking about her family, but still, I couldn't. Somehow, I could sense it was something she'd have to start talking about on her own.

She came over again the next afternoon, and since Dad, Rube and I didn't get fish ‘n chips at lunch, I was sort of in the mood for that kind of thing. We went to a local shop and brought a whole lot of it back. Mrs Wolfe was grateful she didn't have to heat up leftovers, and we all ate off the paper in the kitchen.

We're not well off, my family.

We're not a lot of things.

But I noticed when we were all eating the fish ‘n chips and Rube was abusing me for dropping a piece of fish and Dad was smacking him across the head for it, Octavia watched with a small glint in her eyes.

She liked it here, I could tell.

She like talking to Sarah, and my mother, and even now to my father, who filled her in on the complexities of installing, fixing and remodelling a toilet system.
There was a roughness to it all, but it was real. Everything from dropped chips to collective insults and salt crammed at the edge of people's mouths.

At one point, when Sarah was telling us about a girl she worked with who had the most shocking breath in the world, Octavia looked over at me. She smiled.

Things were right in this place.

Not perfect.

Right.

I remembered it the next day down in the usual spot at the quay, as Octavia played music and I sat away to the side, listening and writing a few things down.

When she was finished, I went over and helped her gather the money. She looked up, closing one eye to the sun, and said, ‘I've taken you to places Cam. Places I've wanted to go.' She put the money in a small woven bag, ‘Why don't you take me somewhere
you
want to go.'

The trouble was, I never really went anywhere.

Not consciously anyway.

All I'd ever done was walk around the streets of this city. Just wandering around, looking at the people, the buildings, and breathing in the smells and sounds of the place.

The soul of the city,
I thought, but ‘I don't really go anywhere,' is what I said.

She gave me a
Don't give me that
kind of look, and I realised it was pointless trying to get away with that sort of comment. She already knew me too well. All I could do was say, ‘Well, usually I just walk around. It's nothing much. I just—'

‘It sounds nice.' She was standing now, waiting for me. Her presence was soft. Calm. She said, ‘Show me all the places you go,' and slowly, wandering, we left.

We got the train to Central and walked through the city streets. I showed her the barber shop and told her about the old barber in there and the story of he and his wife. She remembered the small page I'd written about my hopes for my own grave and said, ‘That came from here?'

I nodded.

Next was the site at the bus stop where that couple abused me and I didn't have enough money for the bus. Octavia laughed at all that. She said it was exactly the kind of thing she could only imagine happening to me.

‘I know.' I even laughed now myself.

We walked on and without recognising it, soon we were in Glebe, approaching the house I used to stand outside of, waiting for that girl.

It felt good to stand there with Octavia. Like it was the right thing to do. Now I had to think of the right thing to say.

‘I used to come here,' I began, ‘at least three or four times a week.' I stopped. The words in me propped, because I understood that whenever I thought of this place now, it wasn't about the agony of that any more. It was about Octavia. ‘But you know?' I told her. ‘These days, when I think of this place, I think of how each time I came here, it wasn't really about waiting for that other girl. It's just . . .' I wanted to say it right. ‘I guess it was you I was waiting for . . .' I shook my head and looked
to the ground, then back up. ‘I think that's the best night I've ever had, you know?'

She let her eyes swing into me.

‘Yeah,' she nodded. ‘I know,' and we just stood there a while, remembering that night, and personally, I thought about how it was only a vision of that Stephanie girl I longed for. Just the idea of her. It wasn't really her. The best thing about all this was that Octavia was real.

We went back past the station on the way home, talking about the train of that night, and soon we went past other places that had stories buried into them. I told Octavia what each place meant. It was nice to think of places as stories that meant something.

There was an alley where I once saw Rube beat a guy up, purely because the other guy had a habit of pushing people he knew he could beat. Until Rube, of course. The guy wasn't counting on Rube taking him on without even thinking about it. He left him there, saying, ‘Well are y' happy now? You should be.'

We walked up streets where Rube and I had walked Miffy, hoods over our heads. There were bus stops where people had dropped out of the open doors as I walked by. I remembered one night when Sarah was one of those people and I could smell the alcohol on her but said nothing. She doesn't do that much any more.

When we were nearly home, I asked if Octavia was tired, but she was happy to keep going.

We walked the extra distance to Steve's place, and I told her about him and me. About the things he'd said to me and how I really did, in the end, appreciate the
fact that he told me the truth. I even told her that I loved him. Maybe it was because brothers just do, even though they never say it or hardly show it. Or maybe it was more than that. I liked his strength, and the unspoken understanding we had. I told her about the night at the oval. She asked me to take her there.

We went.

It was nearly five o'clock by then and the place was empty. We went down to the goal posts and I showed her where I'd had all those shots from and the way Steve had reacted when I finally got it through.

We left there soon after and, finally, we were on the street that was home.

When we made it, we sat on the front porch and I spoke about some other things. I told Octavia about an afternoon last summer when I was sitting there and Mrs Wolfe came in from work a bit earlier than usual. She had a completely blank face and walked right past me. In the kitchen, she just sat in a chair, speaking near-silent words, over and over. Eventually, she looked up and said, ‘You know that house I clean at Bondi? That really rich guy, Mr Callahan?'

‘Of course,' I answered.

‘Well I walked in there today, and . . .' Her hands shook above the table and her voice was broken up completely with shivers. ‘I went into the bedroom and saw his feet . . .'

The man had shot himself and my mother found him amongst the blood on the carpet. I told Octavia how she shivered in that kitchen a long time, attempting not to cry.

A few nights later, Mrs Wolfe had come into our
bedroom, late. It was just past midnight, and when Rube and I woke up from the jagged light from the hall, our mother said something.

‘Make sure you live,' she'd said. ‘As decent as you can. I know you'll make mistakes, but sometimes you're meant to, okay?'

And that was it.

She didn't wait for us to reply or agree. She just wanted us to hear what she had to say.

The door shut again and the light from the hall disappeared.

‘What the hell was all that about?' Rube said from across the room.

But he knew, just like I did. My brother Rube's a lot of things but he isn't stupid. He understands things sure enough, which can make him all the more frustrating.

Octavia and I sat there a while before heading next door to get Miffy. Instead of walking him, we just mucked around a bit in the backyard, and relented to his ferocious desire to be rubbed on his stomach. He seemed in good spirits that night, though he still wasn't the pooch he once was. Maybe he was just getting old. Keith was giving him pills prescribed by the vet, but I don't know. Miffy's spark was still a bit paler than usual.

It was getting dark by the time we returned him next door and Octavia had to go.

Going to the station, we were halfway along the street when I stopped and looked back at the porch.

‘What is it?' Octavia asked.

I said, ‘There's one thing I didn't mention.' I came out
with it. ‘I remember sitting back there on the porch, watching you walk away that night—the last time you were with Rube . . . The light from the sky dripped down onto you and I thought you must have felt like I always did over at Glebe.'