Brown Skin Blue (10 page)

Sally sits up and runs to the loo. I open my eyes and heaven is bathed in orange light, the walls are a jumbled, scrambled set of picture frames and it's simple and familiar. Life could stop right here.

Sally comes back and sits on the end of the bed. ‘Get your clothes on, Barra. We're going to find Teabag.'

‘Wha—'

She runs back to the toilet and closes the door. I can't move. The toilet door opens and her head's around the doorframe. ‘Come on, Barra. Get movin'.'

It occurs to me in the car on the way to find Teabag that we've just had sex and there's the problem of babies and I should have taken precautions or somethin', but I'm such a
bloody lug I didn't stop to think. I didn't even know it was gonna happen. I feel myself sinking down on the seat. I have no idea how relationships are supposed to work.

‘He's an Aboriginal, you know,' Sally says. ‘You could be an Abo after all.'

I murmur something even I don't understand. ‘Look,' I try to say in an audible voice. ‘I don't know what I'm gonna say, I mean how do I even know, you know. I mean, there's no way you can tell these things, I mean...' I sound like an idiot.

‘You're a real worrier, Barra. You should lighten up. Take life as it comes. Live for the moment. That's what I do. You don't have to put lines around things. You know, not everything has a place that fits neatly. We're not bloody crocs who stick to one part of a river system. We've got the whole friggin' world, Barra.'

‘I should have used a, you know, a con—'

‘Jesus, anyone'd think you were the girl. Leave it alone.'

‘Why are you doin' this?' I say.

‘What?' She's edgy.

‘Teabag. Why are you so interested in my father?'

Sally stops the car and pulls on the handbrake. She turns in her seat and looks at me. ‘Does it matter?'

‘I dunno. I suppose. I mean, I don't get it.'

‘Who says everything has to make sense. Most things don't.'

She's right there.

‘Look. We're here.' She gives me the napkin with bacon grease smudge on the corner and Bessy's pencil markings. ‘Come on. What have you got to lose?'

I'm sure there's a lot I could answer to that question, but she's got me for the moment. I can't think of anything straightaway.

Sally opens her door and gets out. She's wearing a denim skirt. Her earrings bounce around her face. She stops at my door. ‘You gonna be a chicken? I stroked your dick, not your neck, Barra. You look like you've been hypnotised.'

I open the door and get out. I try reminding myself that I've held a baby croc and I've helped feed a heap of adult crocs and made them dance for it. I've screwed a goodlooking girl. Twice. It's the only evidence I can come up with that I'm a man and should stop being afraid. Truth is I'd rather have my own story of him than the real thing.

The door opens. ‘What-ya-want?'

‘I, ah, we, ah, we're—' I splutter.

‘Are you Teabag Jones?' Sally says, moving up to the top step.

‘Yeah. Who wants to know?'

The old guy's behind the screen door. He's got a beard. He's dark. That's about all I can see.

‘Bessy at the Humpty Doo Hotel gave us your address,' Sally continues.

‘What-the-hell-for?'

‘We're lookin' for someone,' Sally hesitates. She looks at me. ‘Do you think we could come in for a minute?'

‘You tryin' to sell me somethin'?' he says. ‘'Cause you can just piss off. I don't want nothin'.'

‘You could be my father,' I blurt out. I feel stupid. No one says anything.

‘You shittin' me?' he says.

‘Na. You could be,' Sally says.

Teabag thinks for a minute. He huffs, sighs, scratches his balls. Then he opens the door.

Sally walks in and I follow.

It's a small unit. Kitchenette in the corner. One twoseater sofa. Four-person square table and chairs. Small television with rabbit ears. A faded rug in front of the sofa. Above the television is a large black velvet wall hanging of a bearded man. Aboriginal by the looks. It's a head swimming in a black-velvet sea of animals and swirls. It seems to take up most of the wall. ‘Sitdown,' he says in one word.

Sally and I sit side-by-side on the sofa. Teabag pulls a chair over from the table. He's wheezing and huffing a fair bit. By the time he sits down he sounds like he's run a marathon.

‘What's all this about a father, then.'

Sally nudges me with her elbow. I can't think. My mind is blank and my throat is dry. At least I don't feel like throwing up. And then I'm thinkin' that this is a bloody high price to pay for sex. If the truth be known, I was as happy to have that scrumpled, scratchy list of names stay under the fridge magnet forever. Sally nudges me again.

‘Well, my mum gave me a list of names. Blokes who she said could be my father. And, well, you're on the list.'

Teabag's quiet for a minute. Then he's laughing. Tears spring to his eyes and he's wiping them away with the back
of his hand. ‘You've got to be shittin' me. This a practical joke or somethin'?'

I knew it. My entire life is a bloody joke. Just mentioning the absurd facts sounds ridiculous.

‘No. He's serious,' Sally says, glancing at me.

Teabag settles down and sniffs. ‘You really serious?'

I nod.

‘Who's your mum, then?'

‘Dolly Mundy.'

Teabag thinks. His forehead wrinkles. ‘Dolly ... Mundy,' he says slowly.

Sally looks at me and shrugs.

‘Where from?' he asks.

I have to think about this. I have to put the timeline of where we've been together in my head. ‘Ah, I think it would have been in Batchelor, seventeen, eighteen,' I correct, ‘years ago.'

He's thinkin' again. Probably a good sign, at least.

‘Listen,' he says looking at me. ‘I have trouble rememberin' what I did last week. Let alone eighteen bloody years ago.'

‘But you do remember a Dolly Mundy?' Sally chips in.

He's wrinkling his nose and nodding his head slowly like he's just about to make the connection. ‘Yeah, I remember the name but I can't place who she is or where I know it from.'

Sally looks at me again.

‘Were you there eighteen years ago? Around the Rum Jungle?' I ask.

Suddenly Teabag's eyes light up. ‘Dolly. Dolly Mundy. Beaut little sheila with long dark hair. Had a van.'

‘Yeah, that's her,' I say. I feel excited. Like something is going to happen.

‘Yeah,' he says slowly. ‘I remember her now. I gotta say you've taken me a bit by surprise, you kids. Takin' me back to those days.'

‘So. It could be you, then,' Sally's leaning forward on the sofa.

Teabag smiles. ‘She was a nice sort. We had a good thing for a bit.'

Sally looks at me again and nudges me. I know what she's thinkin'. This is it. This is my father. Aka Teabag Jones. The reason I'm dark.

Teabag laughs again. A chuckle. ‘But there ain't no way I could be your father. See, I've been married four times. Couldn't father a bloody thing. And it weren't for lack of tryin'.'

Sally deflates beside me.

‘Well. Truth be known I'd make a fuckin' lousy father at any rate.'

‘Do you recognise any of these names?' Sally hands over the piece of paper before I realise what she's doin'.

‘Toucan, Stumpy, Lovejack, Boomboom. Jesus, boy. You sure you wanna do this?'

I look at the carpet and tuck my hands under my legs. No, I'm bloody well not.

‘Lovejack,' he looks like he's faraway again. ‘Yeah. That name rings a bell. He was around back then. Worked at the
pub. Bloody rough sort of fella from what I remember. Spanish bloke or some such. Dark skin and a foul temper. Died while I was still around those parts, I reckon. So if he was the bloke, you'll never know, I'd say.'

I suddenly want to get as far away from him as possible. I stand up and rush to the door.

‘Thanks,' Sally says. ‘We're at the Humpty Doo Hotel if you think of anything else.'

Teabag stands up and sees us to the door.

‘Why are you called Teabag?' Sally asks. I just want to get back in the car.

‘My real name is Lipton. Lipton Jones.'

‘Oh,' Sally says.

Some other facts I've collected.

We're driving all the way through Darwin with Atomic Kitten blaring from the backseat. Sally wants fish and chips from the bay.

The bay is full of fishing boats and trawlers when we get there. The air is thick with the smell of the sea and salt and every time the wind blows I can taste it. The boats vary in size and age, but they're all resting beside each other in rows in the inlet.

One boat is an old timber fishing boat. It's been painted pale blue and has buoy rings hanging from nails along the cabin, and nets and fishing corks strung all over it. There are two large beams that rest over the roof of the cabin. I can imagine them hanging out from the boat when she's at sea, like arms; the nets like heavy shopping bags as she plods on home, dragging her catch.

Sally knows where she's going and leads me down a small laneway where there's a number of signs at doors advertising the sale of fresh fish. We keep walking until we get to the door of a fish and chip place. Coloured plastic streamers hang down across the doorframe and a doorbell ding-dongs as we walk inside.

‘Just chips for me,' I say to the girl behind the counter.

There isn't much of a beach around the fishing port, but we walk out to the end of a timber jetty and sit down. There's a splodge of seagull shit on the timber between us.

Beside us, just back along the jetty, is a houseboat. It's small and narrow and I wonder what it would be like to live
there. I suppose Mum's van is the land equivalent, just hook it onto a car and go wherever you want.

‘Do you ever think about what's going to happen?'

The wind is whipping Sally's hair back from her face. She's staring out to sea.

‘Not much, I suppose.'

‘I couldn't do what my folks did,' she looks down at the crumbed perch in her lap. She fingers the chips. ‘You know, settle down, have kids. Get married and all that shit.' She puts two chips in her mouth.

‘Never thought much about it.'

‘That's what I like about you, Barra. You're a mystery. One day you weren't here and the next you were. I wouldn't be surprised if one day I turned up to work and you were gone again.'

The wind off the water is giving me goose bumps.

‘What is it like not knowing who your father is?'

I think how simple it would be just to shrug and mumble like I always do. It's so damn easy just to let people ramble on while I stay shut up tight. I'm thinkin' about Deano, always lookin' down. Always playing dumb.

‘For some reason I just have to know. And then some days I don't want to go near the idea. Like lookin' at crocs, I guess. Something about it is so fascinating you have to get as close as you can but your heart is racing because you're scared as hell.'

‘What if you never find him?'

‘Dunno. At least I tried, I guess.'

‘Do you hate your mum?'

I put my cardboard chip tray over the bird shit and lick the grease and salt from my fingers. ‘Did for a while.'

‘Do you think she should have stuck around with your father?'

‘Geez, Sally.'

‘Come on, Barra, it's not like I'm asking you to explain the mysteries of the universe.' She takes my hand and her fingers loop around mine.

‘Yeah,' I say suddenly, ‘I think she should have.'

There's a different past of mine playing over in my mind. One with a father and a house and mum not having to shag any old bastard just to get the van hooked up on the back of the car. I've even got a dog. Mum's got a string of pearls around her neck.

If a bloke buys his woman pearls, you know he loves her.
I remember my mum saying that.
There's things I know about pearls,
she said once.
Pearls are so special there's a different name for each different length you can get. All depends on where it sits on a woman's neck. Collars, chokers, princess, matinee – and there's one more I can never remember – and then the best of 'em all is the pearl rope. Longest you can get.

‘What about you, Sally?'

‘What about me?' she says, letting go of my hand and standing up. She wipes her hands on the denim of her skirt and holds her hair back from her face against the wind. She walks back towards the car.

There's no music. It's just the two of us, blasted by the hot wind, staring at the road ahead. We're suspended, her and I, on an endless path from nowhere to somewhere, at least that's what we think. But for every tree and hill that races past, the road stretches on before us. It never ends. It's only the petrol gauge that marks time, falling slowly towards empty.

Sally pulls over to the side of the road. She smiles at me, just faintly, before getting out. There are no houses out this way, just the bush, the ground, the sky. Trees – some of them blackened – standing, tired, in the sun. The grass is brown and spindly and sticks up out of the ground like twigs. The wind pushes against my face in bursts.

There are more termite mounds than trees out this way. Some mounds wider and almost as tall. You'd go crazy trying to count them.

Sally kicks the ground between two dusty mounds. She lifts her skirt, pulls her knickers down and squats on the ground. I can't look away. Her head is bent over her body and for a moment her hands come up to her head. Until now I have never imagined that she is vulnerable to anything, but there in the distance, she is small and I could hold her out there, but I stay where I am.

As Sally stands, she smooths down her skirt and leans over towards the ground again. She stays that way for a minute, then spits.

The magnetic termite mounds are another Top End mystery. Every single mound is built to line up with the magnetic poles of the earth. How the little buggers know how to do that is beyond me. I remember learning about it
in school. It's got something to do with temperature. Even an insect can make me feel small and lost in the world.

Back in the car Sally sighs beside me and checks her face in the rear-view mirror. She leans over my body, opens the glove box, and grabs her lip gloss. She applies it, pink, smacking her lips together.

In the car park outside the hotel Sally turns the car off.

‘Don't get out, Barra.' She fumbles in her handbag and takes out her mobile phone. ‘Ten minutes,' she says, looking at the time. ‘Let's watch everyone who walks into the pub for ten minutes. I want you to tick off the last three names on your list.'

‘What?'

‘Your father could be anyone. Why not choose?'

‘You're crazy,' I say. My hand rests on the door handle.

Sally turns back in her seat to stare out of the windscreen. Her hands grip the steering wheel. ‘I wish I didn't like you, Barramundy.'

Shit. Girls don't make any sense to me.

‘Listen, Sal—'

‘You just might be too late for me.'