Jasper Jones (40 page)

“Jesus bloody
Christ
. Do you have any idea what kind of mess you kids have brewed up for me this morning? I got city patrols on their way, I got volunteers giving up their holiday time, coppers from other
shires coming in. I’m calling in favors, and for what, missy? Your bloody mother is beside herself. D’you understand?”

His voice rises steadily. The back of his cab smells of grease and alcohol and dirt. I stay quiet, posting my hands between my knees.

“It’s not bloody good enough, is it? What were you
thinking
, leaving the house without telling your mum and dad? Now, I don’t give a rat’s arse what you two have been up to, but that’s not on. Not after what you’ve all bin through. Eh? Can you imagine your mother this morning, finding your room empty?
I
can, because I was over there within the hour, tryin to calm her down, which isn’t easy when her eldest daughter is still out there missing. I would think you’d know better.
Both
of youse! Are you listening to me?” He spits out the window and glowers and shakes his head to himself.

We arrive at the station. The gravel car park is full. We lurch out of the car. The sarge leads Eliza to the entrance with his hand on her back. She still hasn’t murmured a word. I walk behind. When we reach the mesh door, the sarge leads Eliza in. She disappears. I hear a chorus of voices. I don’t want them to take her. I move to go inside, but I’m barred by a bearlike forearm. The sarge turns to address me.

He looms over me. “Piss off home. This is your last warning. You fuck me about one more time, you’ll wish you hadn’t. Do I make myself clear? You’re lucky you’ve got a head on your shoulders as it is. One more episode like this and you’ll be too scared to wipe your arse after I’m finished with you. Understand?”

I nod readily. I do understand. I feel the weight of his threat, I get a real feel for what he’s capable of.

I don’t leave, though. Besides not wishing to go home just yet, I feel the need to stay for Eliza. I sit in the sun, chasing away my thoughts. I absorb myself in picking up cigarette ends, cleaning up the front garden. I don’t even notice the bees scouting the bottlebrush. I wish Jeffrey was here.

By the middle of the afternoon, I am oily and dirty and thirsty. My tongue has cultivated a fur coat. My worry compounds. I wonder what
she’s saying in there, how much she’s telling them, how heavy the interrogation is. Perhaps it’s dangerous for me to be here. What if they’re drawing up my arrest warrant? What if they’re already out, looking for Jasper Jones? I hid a body. I did that. Perhaps I should turn myself in before they have a chance to take me. I’ll tell them everything and beg for clemency.

I don’t know.

But there she is. Eliza Wishart. Free to go. Being led out of the station by her parents. One on either side. Her mother is red-faced with distress; her father looks pale. Eliza walks solemnly. I try to catch her eye, but she doesn’t give it to me until she’s lowering her head into their car. And I think she offers me a whisper of a smile, but I can’t be sure. Either way, it does very little to assuage my worry.

They drive away, kicking up a plume of dust. I watch them pass. I’m about to topple over. I spend a long time considering the entrance of the police station, then I decide to head home. I want to swim in the river and not come out. I want a lychee drink and a stupid hypothetical.

I shuffle past the school oval, and I notice those kids I’d seen a couple of weeks ago have finally got their ragged kite going. I stop to stare at it.

It’s easy to imagine it as a circling bird up there. As though they’ve tied a long string to the foot of a hovering hawk, keeping it on a thin leash to feel what it is to fly. And you want to let it higher, you want to spool out your line and hold it, just for the thrill, to see how far it goes. But once it’s out of view, you want it back again, don’t you? Because you’re still stuck down here and you can’t follow it. But it’s nice to know that you had enough weight to hold it down, to keep it grounded so you could admire it for a time. Like something precious that you can pull out and look at. A piece of jewelry. A poem, a song. And you want to tie it to something permanent, put it in a cage at night. Have it for keeps, despite its nature. Like people who put rings on their fingers just so neither of them can leave. But of course you can’t do that.
Holding something doesn’t make it yours. You realize at some point you’re just keeping it back for yourself, because it’s pulling away with equal force. You’ve got to cut the string from your finger and leave that wispy thread, like a baby spider on the breeze.

I look away, and I lock my eyes shut for a long time, concentrating, the way you do when there’s a sneeze gathering in you. But my throat caves in on itself and my mouth turns down. And I hurry home before anybody sees me cry.

don’t leave Corrigan. I don’t steal away in the night with Eliza Wishart or Jasper Jones. There’s no leaping into boxcars, no thumbs out on barren roads. No bindles or sleeping rough under a blanket of galaxy. I stay right where I am.

But my mother leaves.

She left that night. She packed her things and she drove out, our car fishtailing wildly down the street, our curious neighbors forming a loose guard of honor on their lawns. They heard it all unfold. And within hours, the whole town would know everything. In an instant she’d stripped her name of whatever careful varnish she’d glossed it with for so many years. In a single scene she revealed herself, ugly and loud and mean. And they heard it all.

She left that night, but not before she’d ranted and raged. Not before she’d picked a fight and, like always, didn’t get one back. My father just let her go. It was like yelling at a statue. He let her scream and holler, let her beat at him and weep. He didn’t give her comfort, nor did he give in to any anger.

She left, but not before she tore into my room, hoping I’d be there. She tipped things, stripped things, tore things. Threw and broke things. She found my father’s manuscript on my desk and ripped it apart. Cast it across the room. She left, but not before finding my suitcase and unlatching it. The only time I’ve left it unlocked. She emptied its contents on my bed, sifted through those treasured sheets, searching in vain for her name. And she dragged that empty suitcase to her vanity table. She stole it from me, but she had nothing precious of her own to pack in it. She just shoved in her clothes, her jewelry,
her perfumes. She snatched the keys from where they’d skittered after she’d thrown them at my father. And she announced her intentions with our front door open. She finally told my father what she thought. No more threadbare hints or poor metaphors. She finally said what she’d been meaning to say.

Of course, it came as no surprise to my father. He knew she was miserable here, he even knew the company she’d been keeping. He knew all her little secrets, the holes she’d dug for herself. I’m not sure when it was he realized. Perhaps he knew all along. Though I often wonder why he kept it to himself, why he let it go on. Perhaps he thought it made her happy. Or maybe it was easier for him to shrug and sweep it under the rug and pretend otherwise. Or maybe it was to save me the grief. Maybe he wanted to shelter me from the disruption and hurt. I don’t know. Maybe he hoped she’d stop of her own volition. That she’d see sense and admit her wrongdoing and they’d mend back to new. Or maybe he still believed in the commitment, the sanctity, of loyalty, so he stood firm even while she strayed away and made a cuckold of him.

I don’t know.

But he didn’t intervene as she dragged my suitcase out to the car. He didn’t implore her to stay. He stood on our veranda and coolly observed. He let her go. He cut the string on his finger. And he watched her weave away and leave for good. She was free of every bind; she had severed ties with the town she hated from the moment she arrived.

And she hasn’t once returned. Not in two weeks. She’s moved to the city to be cosseted by her family. She’s back to being the spoiled girl. They’ve given her a house all to herself, full of furniture and trinkets and paintings and a cleaner that visits on Fridays. Maybe she thought we might follow her, that we’d call her bluff.

She’s spoken to my father only once since that night, on the telephone. She said she wasn’t coming back. He said he didn’t ask her to. He did urge her to talk to me, try to put things right. But she declined. She didn’t say why. Maybe she’s too ashamed. Or maybe it’s all a part
of her being liberated. She’s cut me loose too. A whole fistful of kites left on their own to spread in the sky.

So it’s strange at home now. I waver between wishing her back because something familiar seems missing, and getting to like this new arrangement with my dad. We’re both learning to fend for ourselves. Of course, my dad can’t cook worth shit, so I’ve picked up the slack. Cooking is conducting, knowing when each piece comes in and how strong. It’s all about timing. And I enjoy it. I really do.

And it turns out my dad quite enjoys keeping things neat and clean, so he takes care of the dishes and dust and clothes. He likes the simple satisfaction in wiping things away, restoring them to freshness.

I was never aware that his comb-over hadn’t been his idea. Within days of my mother leaving, he’d trimmed his hair short and let his scalp shine free. He’s even growing a stately beard. He looks like a dignitary, a man of influence and sway. Jeffrey says he looks like a communist.

He’s yet to hear from any publishers, though he assures me that these things take time. Of course, he had another copy in his desk drawer, so all my mother destroyed was my chance to read his novel straightaway. I finished
Patterson’s Curse
a couple of days ago. I took my time. Pored over it, taking little portions and chewing over them, savoring the taste.

It is so smart and sad and beautiful that I’m not even jealous. And I have a warm feeling in my belly that says someone important is going to believe in it. That one day soon I’ll see my father’s name on a straight spine on a bookstore shelf, standing proud and strong and bright.

***

Eliza Wishart didn’t say a word to the police. Not a single one. But it was clear to them, as it had been to me, that she held an important piece of the puzzle. She knew
something
. So they pressed her for hours. But she just sat in that station and fiddled with her hair clasp and she shrugged, with her lips tight. She stayed firm when they plied her with sweets and lemonade and spoke soothingly; even firmer when they threatened her, when they hissed in her ear and told her she was betraying the people she loved.

When they arrived home, there was no punishment. They didn’t even ask where she’d been.

It was after her father left for the Sovereign that she finally spoke. Eliza made a pot of tea and sat her brittle mother down. In her room she’d made a copy of Laura’s letter, and she slid it across the table. And she told her that Laura’s Trouble was never a lie, it was hideously true. She told her she followed Laura out that night, but she didn’t say where. And she told her she crouched and hid in this secret place and watched her sister. She told her that she knew where Laura was now. And she was never coming back because she took her own life in this place. Two lives. Another one that sat inside her like a barnacle. And her mother leaned forward and held the back of her head and silently wept while the sun bled away and their tea went cold. And Eliza offered her neither comfort nor love, because this woman had betrayed her eldest daughter. She turned her back to the truth and now Laura was gone.

But Eliza promised this: if her mother wished to come forward, to declare what was true and see that things were put right, then she’d take her to the place where Laura lay. Until that day, she vowed to stay quiet.

So far, neither of them has spoken. The secret has stayed with the Wisharts, sealed shut in a jar, locked in a dusty cupboard. And Eliza thinks that’s where it will always stay. Once, I asked Eliza if she wanted to see her father punished. She narrowed her eyes and softly assured me: he’d get his. And that’s all she said on it.

I’ve been seeing a lot of Eliza Wishart. She retreated a little these past couple of weeks, but she’s coming back. She’s getting some meat back on her bones. As am I, slowly.