The Good Daughter (2 page)

Not clean – she’s not a clean freak, one look at the bathroom will tell you that. All she can say is that she likes her shoes in pairs, clothes hanging in order of length, so there’s that nice graduation, cassette tapes in their cases and catalogued, comb and brush side by side, bed without a wrinkle; standard things probably, if it wasn’t for the surrounds.

Rebecca stands in front of her mirror and undresses. Her ribcage stands out in comparison to the weight of her breasts. Her arms look like something Bob Geldof might get worked up about. She doesn’t think Zach is going to be exactly blown away with how she looks naked. Clothes add much needed bulk. Whereas girls in her class talk of diets and limit themselves to one Mars Bar a week, she’d eat Mars Bars for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if it meant her period came when it was supposed to and her hips didn’t stick out in a pair of bathers. It’s frustrating because her mother wasn’t thin – she was short, and always squeezed into tops and jeans too small for her, buttons straining, a slightly boiled look to her skin, like she was trying to wriggle out of that as well. Rebecca’s height and dark hair come from the silent partner in the equation, the invisible gene donor – her biological father. The one that ran all the way to America to get away from her, Australia not even proving big enough, needing an ocean between them. She imagines she was a lot more frightening as a baby than she is now. If he saw her now he’d see she wasn’t about to demand anything from him. He could safely live in the same country as her.

For dinner Rebecca and her father have grilled chicken breast and steamed vegetables. They sit at the table to eat. The sun has lost its kick and the light coming through the open windows is tinted pink. The sky – what they can see of it – is a brilliant colour show.

Her father says, the usual run-down the night before he leaves, ‘Bring a couple of the dogs in at night, and if anyone asks, say I’m only away for a few days.’

‘Yep.’

‘I’ll try to ring every second night but, depending on where I am, I might not be able to. You’ve got Teddy’s number. He’s just split up with his missus though – so only ring if you have to.’

‘Have the Redmans split up?’

Her father grunts in confirmation and keeps on with the spiel. ‘I’ve got a day or two in Perth waiting for a backload, so it’s probably gunna be nearer to two weeks this time. I’ve put petrol in the car if you need it and the keys are under the visor. There’s a couple of fifties on top of the fridge.’ He looks around the room. ‘There’s not a lot in the water tank so go easy with the showers. There’s a stack of wood, but I don’t think you’ll be needing a fire …’

‘It’s all right, Dad. I’ll be all right.’

‘What about next week – you gunna be all right then?’

Rebecca brings up a shoulder, screws up her nose. ‘First and the fifth anniversaries are the hard ones, Mum said. It’ll be okay this year. She told me second anniversary, all you care about is that you’re not as wrecked as you were the year before.’

‘Never have understood anniversaries … They seem a lot like dusting something off, propping something up … I’d like a day
not
thinking of your mother – and you know what I mean by that.’

‘I suppose it’s about not forgetting.’

‘Little chance of that. Why did she say the five-year one was hard?’

‘That’s the year you realise sadness is one of the things that doesn’t make you stronger.’

He laughs. ‘She told you that?’

‘In hospital.’

‘That must have cheered you up.’

‘Mum liked a good anniversary.’

‘That she did.’

He reaches across the table and gives her hand a squeeze. ‘You can come with me if you like.’

‘No offence, Dad, but the truck is even more boring than Kiona.’

3

The night is hot and, imagined or not, the smell of Rebecca is on his skin, in his nostrils. Zach pulls back the covers and sits for a moment on the side of his bed. He looks down at the grey rectangle of moonlight on the carpet, listens to the soft murmur of his parents talking somewhere, not in their room, perhaps not even in the house. He gets up and walks with one hand outstretched, feeling for the door.

In the hall and through the games room he reaches out and touches familiar objects to steady himself. He runs his palm along the side of the pool table, climbs his fingers over photo frames and ornaments. He sees, as he comes through into the dining room, that his parents are outside on the patio, sitting on deckchairs, a bottle of wine and two wine glasses between them, his mother with her legs curled up and his father leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. All the lights are off and they are sitting in the dark, only the starlight and moonlight illuminating them. The sliding door is closed, but the windows are wound open to let the breeze in, and although they are speaking quietly, mindful of how their voices carry, they are easily overheard.

‘I’ve refused to give her any more,’ his father is saying. ‘I’m not giving her another cent. He’s an adult, and I’m sick of his smarmy smile every time I see him. I’d rather everyone knew, so they’d stop introducing us. He holds out his hand every time to be shaken, you know – smug grin on his face, knowing I can’t ignore him.’

‘How could you keep this from me?’

‘It was there if you looked.’

‘Where?’

‘In bills, in phone calls, in rumours, in the feeling between you and her the times you went off to her bloody courses. If you want to be shocked and hurt, that’s fine – if that’s how you want to play it – but with me, don’t bother. I’m not having you act like it’s a bolt out of the blue. To your friends, fine, but not to me.’

‘What about Zach?’

‘I won’t let it affect him.’

‘How am I meant to look Kara in the eye next time I see her?’

‘I don’t know, Joanne. Perhaps you could keep with the vague tripped-out look you’ve been using for the last twenty years?’

‘Why are you talking to me like this? How would you react if I told you I had an adult son and I’d been giving his mother money every week?’

‘Well, there you go. How do you know I paid her weekly?’

‘I … guessed.’

His father scoffs and shakes his head. ‘Right. I didn’t really expect you to be rational about it; I’m not telling you for you to understand. It happened before you and I were together – we weren’t even dating. The farm and properties are set up through the company and he can’t touch them. The money I’ve given them is no big deal – most of it the accountant has managed to put through as a tax write-off, anyway. You’re not going to fall apart over this. The last thing we need is you spinning off into one of your depressions.’

His mother says, ‘Kara Claas … ?’

‘Don’t even think of making it about that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it was before we were together. It’s none of your business.’

‘None of my business?’

‘That’s right.’

They fall silent. Zach feels under his hand the smooth wooden back of the chair he is holding, and in his face, on his bare chest, are soft gusts of cool night air. He breathes open-mouthed, watches his parents’ silhouettes and listens to the lonely chirp of a single cricket.

‘Do I open my eyes to one thing or to everything?’ his mother says.

His father pushes to his feet and Zach’s heart lurches; he can’t move though, can’t drag himself away. He watches his mother lean back in the chair, lift her face in defiance.

‘How many things am I not allowed to spin off into a depression over? Are you going to explain everything to me in simple terms?’

His father says, ‘Would you like me to? Because I will if you want me to.’

‘No,’ she says softly, ‘no thanks.’

‘I didn’t think so.’

There is another pause, maybe as long as the first one, but by now Zach’s blood is thick in his veins, his head is full of air, time seems altered. He can’t say how long it is before his father says, ‘Your timing’s right out, Joanne, if you’re thinking of finding some fucking gumption.’

4

Rebecca wakes to silence. No clanging and bashing over at the shed, no power drills starting up, no engine revs or ratchet sounds. There’s a cool breeze through the window, birds twittering in the hakeas, far-off bleating, a tractor running somewhere and smells of dry grass and barren earth slowly heating up. It’s midday. She throws back the covers with resolve, but then sits peering bleary-eyed around her room. First days of holidays are almost always about cleaning the house, and the prospect of that is daunting.

She gets up, walks outside to let the dogs out. The sun is blinding in the front yard. She tiptoes down the path, her hair messed up, dressed in an oversized T-shirt and skimpy knickers.

The dogs are desperate to get out. They whine behind the mesh and push past her when she slides the latch. In the carport they’ve turned over both buckets of water and torn up one of the foam dog beds. Too groggy to deal with it, she turns and picks her way back up the path. Halfway up the porch steps she sees a male figure standing by the side gate. Although she recognises the stance and outline as Zach’s, there’s still a split-second in which her chest contracts and her heart jump-starts into a rapid beat. Her fear quickly settles though, and is replaced with a different type of anxiety: it’s an effort not to bring her hand up and smooth down her hair, check that her T-shirt is covering her underwear.

He opens the gate and some of the dogs bring up their heads and bark.

Rebecca says, ‘What are you doing here, Kincaid? I’m not even out of bed yet.’

‘These dogs gunna bite?’

A couple of dogs run over and mill around the gate.

‘They’ve switched to daytime mode,’ she says. ‘They react favourably to light.’

He eases through the gate, looks down as the dogs sniff at his pants and workboots. ‘Shouldn’t you call them off or something?’

‘I didn’t know you were scared of dogs.’

‘Yeah, well, there’s friggin 500 of them.’

‘Six actually, but I can see how you’d make the mistake.’

The banter between them is unchanged and a comfort, a habit, but more awkward than usual considering what they were doing last time they were together. Rebecca holds a hand to her chest and bunches her T-shirt in her fist. She stands with her legs crossed, feeling every inch the second-class citizen.

‘Jeez, Bec, is this how you welcome all your visitors? Nice to see you’ve decked yourself out for the day.’

‘You know what – if I didn’t know better I’d say you’ve got it bad for me, Kincaid.’

‘I wouldn’t get too excited, Toyer.’

He’s dressed in green work pants and a faded flannelette shirt. A sheen of sweat covers his forehead. He has the same lifted chin as she has, the same half-smile and cocky stare. They’re pretending the bus thing didn’t happen, but at the same time it’s real between them, the reason for all this – a stupid thing to try and ignore.

‘Heard your father pulling out this morning,’ he says. ‘He driving interstate?’

‘What time were you up?’

‘Some of us have to work over the holidays.’

‘Well, aren’t you a hero.’

He tips his head, pulls a face. ‘Yeah, I guess I am.’

But Rebecca sees now there’s a dull quality to his gaze – not up to the verbal back-and-forth today, not into it. He licks his lips, squints and peers off around the yard.

‘You know, it’s illegal or whatever to have this many dogs. All the farmers want to shoot them.’

‘We lock them up at night. They stay in the yard during the day.’

‘First sheep to go down and you’re gunna have every local out front with rifles loaded.’

‘They’re not going to take down a sheep.’

By his side is the heeler-kelpie cross. He holds out his hand for the dog to sniff. ‘You gunna invite me in or what?’ he says, still looking down at the dog.

Rebecca glances at the house and tries to recall how she left it last night.

‘I haven’t …’ she begins, but changes tack mid-sentence, ‘Well, I guess I have to, now you’ve turned up like some lovesick puppy. I’m gunna have a shower though – so you’ll have to make your own coffee.’

‘I don’t drink coffee,’ he says as he follows her inside.

She feels him looking at the backs of her legs.

‘Well, cordial like Mummy makes, or chocolate Quik or whatever.’

The shower is a blessing: it saves her from having to watch him look around the house. She knows he’s out there walking from room to room, frowning at the things he doesn’t understand or relate to – the diff housing on the laundry floor, the oil-stained towels draped on door knobs, the torn vinyl, dirty foam, the stack of
Playboy
magazines on the kitchen dresser.

By the time she comes out, he’s done all his snooping and is looking at least partway comfortable – sitting on the arm of the couch, flicking through a truck magazine.

He says, ‘What sort of truck has your old man got again?’

‘Kenworth.’

She’s put on shorts and a singlet top, left her hair out to dry naturally – he gives her the once-over. It’s the schoolyard look, how his mates look at her if she passes, and a reminder of what’s really going on here. When his eyes meet hers he drops his gaze. She sees again there’s something different in his face today – he’s here, but not necessarily for the reasons she thinks. For the first time she’s seeing him with something weighing on his mind.