Eyrie (23 page)

I
t was one of those late-summer days when the river, blown hard against the lee shore by the easterly, smelt rank. Like something left too long in a pot. The thin stews of his early teaching days that languished on the stovetop, half fermented overnight. The sun drilled through his skull and he was glad when they reached the shade of the cypresses beneath the bluff.

Gemma hadn’t spoken since they left the house. She’d come along at his urging but dawdled and sulked enough to make him regret it. If only he’d brought a pair of Speedos. The sloughy river-bend was hardly inviting, especially now the wind corralled the jellyfish against the bank. The water was brown and chunky as a dishful of steeping mushrooms. He imagined hauling himself through it, all those slick domes sliding down his chest and thighs. Not pretty. But even that would have felt like a few minutes’ reprieve.

He sat out under the limestone crag where the grand old marri reached across the water. And there it was. The bird’s wingbeats were effortless. It banked and soared on an updraught, turned and eased away, keening. It looked weightless, as if the heaviest thing it carried were that plaintive, querulous call.

Your idea of a good time, she said, lighting another fag.

He surveyed the tangled bush, the dancing insects. A bit of remnant wildness. It reminded him of the swamp. Faith and him. The ragged gang of Blackboy Crescent kids plodding single-file through the melaleucas.

Used to be yours, too, once, he murmured.

She said nothing. Blew a jet of smoke that ripped away in the wind like a current with its own angry energy. She flicked ash.

Listen, he said. I’m happy to pick him up this afternoon.

You don’t look good, she said.

I’m fine.

She bit her thumb, tilted the cigarette away from her face. And glanced at him.

There’s something wrong with you. Doris can see it. I can see it. Everyone ’cept you can see it.

I think it’s better if I get him today.

And why’s that?

He pulled the little yellow Post-its from the pocket of his shorts and flattened them on the rock beside him. Out here in the dappled shade they weren’t nearly as unnerving.

Cunts, she said wearily.

Does Stewie have a key? he asked.

Course not.

And Carly?

She shook her head.

I think they know someone, he said.

In the building?

Seems like it.

She looked sceptical.

So, I figured it was smarter for me to collect him.

Like, because you’re smarter’n me. That it?

Of course not.

Cause you’re the big fella.

Keely tore at a clump of sedge.

Fuck em, she said. It’s my car. He’s my responsibility.

Okay, but listen —

Anyway, they really think I’ve got the money.

What possible difference can that make?

I drive me own car. I pick up me own kid.
They
don’t decide what I do.

I understand the sentiment, but —

You don’t get it, Tom. If I hide, it looks like I haven’t got the money.

Wouldn’t it be better if they knew you haven’t?

Now? Are you jokin? They’d go nuts. They think I’m good for it.

Shit, why?

You, ya fuckwit. Isn’t hard to google it, or whatever the fuck people do. You were all over the telly, in the paper, ya must have money.

That’s how these dickheads think?

It’s how anybody thinks.

So glad I had that shave, he said bitterly.

Well, sorr-ee!

We’re all bloody sorry now.

The moment he said it he could have torn his own tongue out. He sat there with the hot wind baking his face, yanking at his sleeve.

I’ve got a week, she said. Six more days. Because they think I’ve got it. I’m half a chance of lasting the week if they still think I’m good for five grand.

I don’t understand the logic.

It’s not about logic.

She ditched the fag into the water. Got up and picked her way back down the track.

Keely snatched up the little yellow notes. The adhesive edges had lost their stick. They were dusted with limestone grit, a couple of addled ants. He held them up, let them flutter in the easterly. By way of standover action they looked pretty low-rent. But maybe she was right. What did he know? The whole thing still seemed melodramatic. And yet there it was, that sick, falling sensation. Sitting here on a rock, safe in the shade. With something dark and hot rushing at him like so much wind.

D
oris came in at three and tossed her satchel on the kitchen bench. Keely looked up from the table, whose surface he was still rubbing with oil.

Where’s Gemma?

Doing the school run.

Do I detect a certain atmosphere?

I spilt tea on your table.

I’ll live, said Doris, pulling open the fridge door. But I see neither of you kids has thought to do any shopping for dinner.

I’ll go in a minute.

Perhaps I should’ve pinned a note to your shirt, she said grinning. She went through to her room and came back in a faded sleeveless summer dress that showed how thin her arms had become. She stood at the kitchen bench a moment. Divining the situation, it felt like. She took an orange from the bowl beside her.

Good day? he asked, getting in first.

Not bad. Luxury of being a part-timer.

Anything interesting?

Nothing cheerful.

Try me.

Just documents for the Ward inquest.

Oh. God.

Indeed.

And?

Even seeing the medical reports – it’s beyond belief. They cooked that man alive, basically. In the back of a prison van. Fifty-seven degrees, that’s how hot the metal got. What’s that, 130-something in the old money? He was in there half a day, nearly a thousand kilometres, and neither guard thought it was a big deal that he was without airconditioning.

I forget what he was even arrested for.

A traffic offence, she said, beginning to peel the orange. If that man had been a sheep there’d be people marching in the street. But he’s just an Aborigine.

What about charges?

My guess, she said, toiling arthritically, is that neither guard will be convicted.

And the private contractor?

She looked over her specs at him and he saw the answer in her cocked eyebrow.

Business first, he muttered.

So, not a sparkling day. I thought by now I was unshockable.

You want me to help you with that?

I can still peel an orange.

Sorry.

Anyway, she said, how’s Gemma?

He shrugged.

Does she cook?

Well, yeah. Of course.

We’ll let her cook tonight, she said before biting into the orange.

What d’you mean? Why?

Doris pulled a paper towel from the roll to blot the juice from her chin. Don’t give me that look, she said. It’s not a test. I thought it might help her settle in, give her a sense of control, bit of normality.

Okay. See your point.

She’s not helpless. Doesn’t want to feel helpless.

Please don’t say the word, Doris.

Empowerment
? That word? If I had to see you on the news every night calling an ecosystem a precious
asset
, or a tourism
icon
, then you can suck eggs and let me say the E-word.

Keely raised his hands in surrender, glad she smiled.

I’ll be gone at seven, she said. Tickets for the Vaughan Williams.

Oh, he said. Who you going with?

Well, she murmured, pausing to swallow a mouthful, I had hoped you’d come. But since I booked it, things have developed somewhat.

Ah. Damn. Sorry, but I can’t leave Kai.

No. Of course not, she said. I wouldn’t let you.

Bum, he said. I love Uncle Ralph.

I know that.

Which piece is it?

The oboe concerto.

Ouch.

Yes, it’s a shame, she said, rattling her bangles and then straightening all of a sudden. Listen, why don’t you go anyway? I could stay with Kai.

But you love Vaughan Williams.

Doris shrugged and took another bite.

Mum, I couldn’t.

We’ll see if Kai’s comfortable with it. If he’s iffy I’ll leave him with you.

Thanks, he said, looking hopelessly at the watermark in the jarrah. Really. But you go.

Come on, then, she said. I’ll finish this on the way to the shops.

*

There was a peaceable languor to Doris’s riverside quarter where the shady streets smelt of cut lawns and lavender. They walked in equable silence, eking out the orange, segment by segment. An Audi slid by sedately and when they saw the personalized plates they both erupted in laughter. MINE, it said in powder blue. And in that moment of lovely wordless understanding he thought of what he’d lost and all there still was to hold onto.

The little retail enclave was bustling. He followed, like a boy shopping with his mum, mortified by how quickly he subsided into the role. But it was worse than that, weirder than just his own submission, because after a few minutes he could see that Doris was not so much shopping for their dinner as parading him through the cluster of neighbourhood businesses. She twirled her plaits in the butcher’s and jangled her ethnic hardware in the fruit and veg shop, chatting with those she passed and everyone who served her, and as the glances of cashiers and floral dears became ever more obvious, his irritation mounted. Clearly people knew and liked Doris. Their curiosity about Keely was palpable.

Well, she said when they were back on the street. You caused a stir.

Oh? he said. I didn’t notice.

I don’t think they quite believe you’re my son.

Well, he said. Sometimes I find it hard to credit that myself.

I always said I had a son, she said loftily. But maybe I sounded like a lonely old duck spinning yarns.

Okay, Doris, he said. Point taken. You’ve had your fun.

Heading downhill, they sought the mottled afternoon shadows of the planes trees that lined the street.

What are you thinking? she asked.

Nothing, he lied. He was wishing he’d been more forthcoming about the situation with Gemma.

Kai’s a curious little boy, she said, steering him into a backstreet of heavily pruned peppermints.

He doesn’t really remind you of Gemma at all, does he?

No, she said. Apart from the situation, the damage. Gemma was only cunning. Kai’s bright.

Cunning?

She had to do what she could to survive. You had the sense she’d endure. Suffer, Doris said bitterly. But endure. Kai seems more fragile.

He doesn’t believe he’ll ever grow old, he said, hating himself for letting it out, relieved he had. He thinks he’ll die young.

Well, she said without emotion. That’s upsetting.

It kills me. Hearing him say it.

Maybe he’s a realist.

What do you mean? he said, horrified. What are you talking about?

You’ve met his father, I gather.

Seen him.

Can you imagine
him
growing old?

Keely thought about that. I guess the odds aren’t great, he said.

And where are all the other men in his life? she asked. Maybe there just aren’t any examples of a benign old age. How can he conceive of what he’s never seen except on TV? Gemma’s father’s dead. She hasn’t mentioned her daughter’s father.

She doesn’t talk about it, he said, still troubled. You think she’s
cunning
?

Was, I said.

Still, you sound —

Does he ever give an indication of hurting himself?

Kai?

Does he talk about it, give you that impression?

No, he said, unable to bring himself to mention his sense of dread, the pernicious image of the kid standing at the balcony rail, leaping. It was always there now, like a dark thought, something shameful he could suppress but not expunge.

No, he said again. Not really.

Well, that’s something.

Yes, he said, unconsoled.

How to express his fear that the kid was enchanted by something obscure and awful, some terrible certainty? Because it was as if the boy were leaning out towards it, resigned to meeting it, only seeking what lay in wait for him. How could he tell her that? What would Doris hear except confirmation of his own mental unravelling?

Keely knew he should tell her about the boy’s dreams, at the very least. The drawings, the outline he seemed to have already filled with his own body. But Doris was so vigilant. He could feel himself beginning to fall to pieces under her gaze. And he could see it now, his mother stepping in, catching him, relieving him of responsibility. Half of him wanted that, to be found out, sent home, set free.

But this squalid little skirmish was all he had now. He was in it with them. Wasn’t he? He had to be. Even if he was shitting himself. Not quite present and accounted for. Pressed into service. But this was his chance to mean something again. He’d do whatever it took to keep them safe. Wondered if Doris could sense the wildness teeming beneath his skin.

*

They walked a while in silence. To break the sense of clinical observation, Keely relieved his mother of the shopping. He was shocked that he hadn’t even noticed her carrying it all until now. Made a lame joke at his own expense but was upstaged by crows as they fluttered down to heckle and strut on the grassy verge ahead, voices high and boastful.

Listen to them, said Doris. Like jockeys before a sauna.

You didn’t really answer me before, he said, emboldened. About Gemma. You said she was cunning.

It’s not an indictment, Tom. Kids use what they have, to survive.

But what do you make of her now? Honestly.

She’s a battler.

A battler.

I know. Sounds patronizing. But she’s got more starch than her mother. She’s woken up to blokes. And she’s done okay with Kai, all things considered. But of course it’ll never be plain sailing. She’s a damaged girl and he’s a troubled boy. She’s not a person of boundless resources. She’s doing what she can, what she thinks best.

Is it me, or are you a little wary?

Doris kneaded her hands. The bangles clunked and chimed at her elbows.

We always had such low expectations of Bunny.

I wasn’t really talking about her mother.

Bunny had a rough trot, no doubt about that. But, looking back, I wonder if she wasn’t a bit dim and lazy as well. She got used to being helped, being absolved of accountability. I think, despite ourselves, we got caught up, Nev and me, making her the victim, only ever seeing her as, I don’t know, prey. She was passive enough to begin with. We didn’t expect enough. We didn’t really help.

Well, you were about saving the kids, I guess.

Yes, she said. From her, as much as him, truth be told. All that sixties optimism, love. We infantilized the poor woman, indulged ourselves. At her cost, I think, and our own.

So what’re you saying?

Gemma wants me to be her mother again. To pretend I am. And I won’t do it. I can’t. I’m hard-pressed as it is – being yours, Faith’s.

So that’s it – a professional distance?

It’s not my profession, Tom.

I never thought of you as dispensing kindness with quite so much calculation.

I suspect Gemma’s a little confused by kindness.

Jesus!

Don’t speak like that.

You should bloody talk!

Tom, people sometimes confuse simple decency with investment. You help them, therefore you must love them, require something of them, desire them, need them. And then you’re expected to forsake everyone else for them.

What’s this, Social Work 101?
Ayn Rand in the Antipodes
?

No, Tom, it’s half my life.

Well, he said. You sound like a jilted lover.

Doris offered up a saintly, suffering smile and the birds lifted testily from the grass.

Sorry, he said. That was mean.

True enough, though. In a way.

I can’t – Mum, I don’t understand.

Listen, I was young. Vain. Idealistic. Of course I adored Gemma. Because she was adorable. I favoured her, tried too hard to compensate for what she’d missed. And a lot of that came at Faith’s expense.

She’s never mentioned it.

She’s not a whinger, said Doris. Faith’s smart. She never had to be adorable. But she was always generous with Gemma. Took her cues from us, poor thing. These other kids had needs greater than hers or yours. From Faithy we expected too much.

And from me?

Tom, you never shared your room, your clothes, your dolls. You weren’t cannibalized so thoroughly in the name of charity.

Fair enough, he said, all the more irritated because he knew it was true.

So, what is it?

Nothing, he lied.

Not true.

He walked beside her a few moments and then just said it. You sound so cold-blooded, that’s all.

And you seem unwilling to face what’s real. Gemma made herself loveable in the way some needy kids do. To survive they cultivate you. They want so badly and they take compulsively. They learn to manipulate you. No one can blame a little girl for seeking comfort. But I think I crossed a line somewhere, flattering myself, thinking I really could be her mother, that she could be one of my own. It’s a wonder Faith ever forgave me.

You mean you’ve talked about this?

Tommy, it’s our grand theme, the pea under our mattress!

She never said.

Maybe you never listened.

They came into her street and Keely looked through the treetops to the broad reach of the river glittering in the afternoon sun. He wished there could be a settled interval, just an hour or so when he could let himself believe he knew what was what. Nothing was solid anymore, nothing felt safe or ordinary.

So you regret all that? he asked. Everything you and Nev did?

No, she said. I just wish I hadn’t been so romantic about it, so vain. I wish we’d known more, that we’d done a better job.

A horn sounded behind them. Gemma’s car rattled by and turned up into the drive.

Remember, she’s changed, too, Tom. Like I said, she’s not her mother. And neither am I.