When Dogs Cry (19 page)

‘He'll be okay,' I managed to say, but she didn't leave. She came towards us as Rube's voice fought its way next to me.

His hand came out from under the blanket and held on to mine.

‘Thanks,' he said. ‘Thanks brother.'

The pale light hit me from the window. My heart howled.

 

the eyes have it

I crouch down, with tired arms and eyes and legs.

Silently, the dog pleads with me to come a little further. His head still hangs and his breath is visible in the last dark air before the dawn.

As we walk the street, the sky turns the pistol-grey of first light.

At the end of the road, someone waits, and I know who it is. He wears the same clothes as me and holds his hands inside his pockets, like me. He waits.

When the dog sits, I touch him for the first time
—
that rough, rusty fur, still reaching defiantly for the sky. I love the force of it on my fingers. Feeling the truth of it.

And then I think of the eyes.

I look into him and let the eyes ignite into mine.

The eyes of hunger.

The eyes of desire.

I want to stay but don't, softly lifting my hand and turning away.

When I turn back, I speak to the eyes. I nod and say thank you, knowing I'll be taking the rest of the road alone.

The human waits at the end of the road, but before I get there, I turn around one last time.

I half-expect the dog to leave, but he doesn't. He's paid for this moment. He's brought me here, and now I owe it to him to carry on and finish it. He deserves to be fed, and I whisper.

‘It was hunger that guided me through the night.' My voice wavers. ‘It was hunger. It was you . . .'

He's heard what I said, and turns now to walk away.

Rough and raw and real, like the feeling in me.

I'
LL GIVE IT TO HIM.

Rube actually got up the next morning and went to work with Dad and me. He was bruised and still prone to constant bleeding, but he still showed up and worked as hard as he could. I don't think there are many people who could take a beating like that and get up the next day and work.

That was Rube.

There isn't anything else I can say to explain it.

Everyone woke up in the morning when he and Dad argued, but once it was over, that was it. Mrs Wolfe asked, or actually, begged Rube to stay in at night more often, and there was no way he'd be arguing with that. He agreed completely and we filed out to the car and left.

It was mid-afternoon when Rube finally asked about some of the hazier details of the previous night.

‘So how far was it Cam?' His words came and stood in front of me. They wanted the truth.

I stopped work. ‘How far what?'

‘You know.' He caught himself in my eyes. ‘How far did you carry me last night?'

‘A fair way.'

‘All the way?'

I nodded.

I'm sorry,' he went to say, but we both knew it wasn't needed.

‘Forget about it,' I said.

The rest of the afternoon passed by pretty quickly. I watched Rube work at times and knew that somehow he'd be okay. He was just that type. If he was alive, he'd be okay.

‘What are y' lookin' at?' he asked me later, when he saw me watching him and wondering about it.

‘Nothin'.'

We even afforded a laugh, especially me, because I decided I had to stop being caught when I was watching people. Watching people isn't really a bad habit in my opinion. It's the getting caught I need to cut out.

When we made it home, Octavia was already there. When she saw Rube, her face was similar to that of Sarah's the previous night.

‘Don't ask,' he said on his way past her.

When she saw me, she looked relieved that I didn't look the same. She could only mouth the words,
What happened?

‘I'll tell y' later,' I answered.

On my desk in Rube's and my room, there was a present waiting for me. It was an old grey typewriter with black
keys. I stopped and looked at it from a few steps away.

‘You like it?' came a voice from behind. ‘I saw it in a second-hand shop and had to buy it.' She smiled and touched the back of my arm. ‘It's yours, Cam.'

I walked to it and touched it. My fingers ran along the keys and I felt it under me.

‘Thank you.' I turned around and faced her. ‘Thanks Octavia. It's beautiful.'

‘Good.'

Sarah was on the phone for a while, talking to Steve. His semi-final was on the next day and Octavia and I decided to go. What I didn't count on was Steve coming down to our place later that night.

Octavia and I were on the porch when his car pulled up and he walked towards us. He stood there.

‘Hi Octavia. Cam.'

‘Hey Steve.'

I stood up and we both watched each other. I remembered the last time we'd spoken down here. Tonight, though, Steve's face was shattered, like it was at the oval, way back at the start of winter.

‘I heard what happened last night,' he began. ‘Sarah told me on the phone.'

‘You came to see Rube?' I asked. ‘He's in bed, but I'd say he's still awake.' I went to open the door, but Steve didn't go in.

He stayed in front of me and didn't move.

‘What?' I asked. ‘What?'

His voice was abrupt, but quiet. ‘I didn't come here to see Rube—I came to see you.'

Octavia shifted in her seat and I remained focused on my brother Steve.

He said, ‘Sarah told me you carried him home from the old train yard last night . . .'

‘It wasn't anything—'

‘No. Don't lie Cam. It
was
something.' He stood above me, but it was only a physical thing now. A matter of height. ‘It was something, all right?'

I agreed with him. ‘All right.'

We smiled at each other.

Steve stood there.

I stood there.

The silence collected at our feet, and we smiled at each other.

He went inside a bit later but didn't stay long. Octavia left as well and I went in to write on the typewriter. In truth, it scared me, because I wanted to write perfectly on it. I was still staring at it just after ten o'clock.

Soon, I thought to myself. The words will come soon . . .

Octavia and I went down the harbour earlier the next day to make sure we didn't miss Steve's game.

I was near the water, listening to her distant song, when Rube arrived at my side. I was surprised to see him but noticed his face was already starting to heal a little.

‘Hey Cam,' he said.

‘Hi Rube.'

He was nervous, I could tell.

‘What are y' doin' here?' I asked.

His hands played with his pockets as he crouched
down. We both stared at the water and I could tell Rube was falling apart, just slightly. He looked on and said, ‘I just had to come and tell y' somethin' . . .' He looked at me now. We were in each other's eyes.

‘Rube?' I asked.

The water of the harbour rose up and dived down.

‘See,' he said. ‘All my life I sort of expected you to look up to me, y' know?' The expression on his face reached for me.

I nodded.

‘But now I know,' he went on. ‘Now I know.'

I waited but nothing came. I asked. ‘Know what?'

He stared in me and his voice shook as he said, ‘That I look up to you . . .'

His words circled me and went in. They got beneath my skin and I knew there was no way back out. They were in there for always, and so was this moment, between Ruben Wolfe and me.

We crouched there.

Thinking truth.

And when we finally stood up and turned to face the world, I could feel something climbing through me. I could feel it on its hands and knees inside me, rising up, rising up—and I smiled.

I smiled, thinking,
The hunger,
because I knew it all too well.

The hunger.

The desire.

Then, slowly, as we walked on, I felt the beauty of it, and I could taste it, like words inside my mouth.

 

the edges of words

I'm home.

I sit here on the back steps of my mind as the city stands up as always to the horizon.

Daylight is born as winter dies, and the hunger grows in me.

The typewriter waits
. . .

I think now, of the edges of words, the loyalty of blood, the music of girls, the hands of brothers, and of hungry dogs that howl through the night.

There are so many moments to remember, and sometimes I think that maybe we're not really people at all. Maybe moments are what we are.

Moments of weakness, of strength.

Moments of rescue, of everything.

I've wandered through the real world, and written myself through the darkness of the streets inside me.

I see people walking through the city and wonder where they've been, and what the moments of their lives have done to them. If they're anything like me, their moments have held them up and shot them down.

Sometimes I just survive.

But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.

That's when the stories show up in me.

They find me all the time.

They're made of underdogs and fighters. They're made of hunger and desire and trying to live decent.

The only trouble is, I don't know which of those stories comes first.

Maybe they all just merge into one.

We'll see, I guess.

I'll let you know when I decide.