Floundering (9 page)

Yeah, says Loretta, it’s nice.

The ocean’s a different colour, I say.

Really? the lady says. Isn’t that something.

Loretta comes closer to me, puts her hand on my shoulder. It ain’t that different, she says.

Yes, it is, I say.

New Year’s tomorrow, the lady says.

Is it? says Loretta.

Yeah, says the lady. It’s easy to lose track of the days, isn’t it?

I guess so, says Loretta.

The lady adjusts the little girl on her hip and after a long stretch of silence says, So you’re not cutting hair?

Nah, says Loretta.

Okay, she says, see ya then.

She walks away and I can hear the little girl giggling. The lady swings her around and onto the other hip. Loretta takes her hand from my shoulder.

Loretta, the water’s nearly empty.

What? she says.

We forgot about getting water.

Just be quiet, she says. Just be quiet for one minute, okay. She slumps down into a chair and flicks her cigarette lighter on and off in her hand. Lights another cigarette and ignores me.

I leave her there, walk down to the toilet. I can hear the corrugated iron door clang, clang again. In the morning the tin clicks and ticks as it heats up. It’s surrounded by a big, dirty, sandy circle. I look in through a nail hole in the iron and see Jordy brushing flies from his face. He wobbles on the drop-toilet seat. There’s a can of sawdust next to him and a toilet roll on a wire but it looks like nothing is coming. Jordy stands up, closes the lid of the toilet – it’s the top of a can of paint – pulls up his shorts. He don’t need the toilet paper ‘cos he ain’t done nothing. I don’t make a move, just stand quiet beside the dunny. The door clangs open.

Hey, he says, what are you doing?

Nothing.

You spying on me again?

No.

You are.

I am not.

You’re a bloody pervert.

I am not.

Say, I’m a pervert.

No.

Well, you are. He walks back towards the caravan.

Jordy, let’s go to the beach.

He looks me over, then keeps walking back to the caravan.

Maybe you’ll never poo again, I say.

He turns, walks back, punches me hard in the arm.

Shut. Up. he says. A punch for each word.

Loretta’s not outside. I trail behind Jordy. He goes inside the caravan. I can feel the heat from the sun on the awning. I hear the crying then, a soft mewling like a kitten makes. I can’t see through the screen, it’s black. I open it and Jordy’s standing there. He looks too big for the space. Loretta’s at the table crying, our blankets at her feet. For a moment, because it’s so hot and dry, the strangest thing is just that her face is wet.

The sound comes into my sleep as part of a dream. When I realise I’m awake I can’t remember the dream, just the sound of Bert’s engine vibrating through it. The sound of the engine is real, though. I can hear Bert outside, the sounds he makes before he’s ready to drive. Closer is the sound of Jordy’s breaths. I can tell by their length that he’s still deep asleep. Opening my eyes I see his arm caught under him. It’ll be dead. Pins and needles.

I wipe sweat off my face and peel myself from the seat. Loretta’s not in her bed. I am much too slow with sleep. She’s in Bert. Bare feet on the sandy floor. I hear Bert leaving too early, before his engine is warm, like she can sense I’m awake. I open the screen door and there’s only dust already. I start counting to one hundred. If she comes back by the time I reach one
hundred it will be okay. I can still hear the rumble of Bert on the corrugations. I reach one hundred. I hold my breath. The morning is clear. The sky is blue. Here it’s always blue and bigger than I thought possible. I realise I have been gripping the door. I unclaw my hand from it. Along my palm is a deep red stripe. I try bring the blood back in there.

Jordy, Jordy, I say. I rub the sand from my feet. It makes a rough shushing sound. Jordy. I can’t hear Bert anymore. Jordy. Not even the low growl the cars make when they’re still ages away down the road.

Yeah, he says, mumbling into his pillow. He’s too sleepy to be mean. He shifts himself and releases his arm. I watch him clenching and unclenching his fist.

I think Loretta’s gone, I say. He’s very still. He sits up, moves over to the edge of the seat. I can see the outline of his singlet tan, and there’s a shaft of sunlight that slashes across his chest.

Really? he says. Rubs his eyes, gouging the sleep out of them.

I wait for him to yell at me, ‘cos I reckon that’s probably what’s going to happen next. I try get every bit of sand from my foot, but when it’s clean I have to rest it on the floor and I feel the thousands of grits there, back again already.

He shakes his head like he’s shaking a dream from it. Is she gone to get water? he says.

I look over at the big plastic containers, still on the bench and hollow. Nup, I say.

He gets up and takes a cup from the sink and fills it with water. He has to lean the container right over.

Can I have one? I say.

Get it yourself, he says and gulps his water down. Some
trickles down his chin and onto his chest. I push past him, find the least dirty cup and hold the container in my arms. It’s so light I can only get one cup out of it.

Okay, he says to himself.

There is a line of ants coming from the roof of the caravan, from the window that pops like a tank’s opening. A black line of them, as if drawn there with a lead pencil. I open the cupboard, start pulling things out. A can opener, an old aerosol that looks like it’s made of rust, a blunt knife that I test on my thumb. There are used plastic plates together in the sink, the colour of a dirty rainbow.

What are you doing? he says.

I don’t know, I say. I don’t know what I’m doing. Hang my arms to my sides, lick my chapped lips and look to the ceiling like there is an answer there. Jordy pushes past me and out the screen door. The door screams its scream. I follow him out.

What should we do, I say.

Nothing, we’re not going to do nothing, Jordy says.

So you reckon she’ll be back?

Yeah, he says but he don’t look anywhere near my eyes when he says it.

I’m bored.

So. What.

The heat is crouched down around us. I look over at Nev’s van, but I can’t see no one there.

Maybe he’ll take us again, I say and motion to the van across the road.

No, says Jordy loudly.

But he took us last time.

No, says Jordy. Just shut up. Let me think.

I’m hungry.

Well, have something to eat then, he says sarcastically, rolling his words at me. I hear a magpie warbling in the distance, singing as if through water. I go into the caravan, there’s Weetbix. There’s no bowls in the cupboards, though. In the sink I find one that doesn’t look too bad and wipe it out with a dirty tea towel. I sprinkle powdered milk and fine white sugar until I can’t see the Weetbix anymore. I hold the water container high and drip the last drips of water over the bowl. The drips make damp spots. I go back outside and sit on the steps, swat the flies from me. Spoon the dry cereal into my mouth. It takes me a really long time to chew and swallow. The sugar crunches and encases my mouth.

We’ll just wait for her, he says.

Okay, I say and suck on the sugar.

She’ll be back. He gets up and walks down the path towards the toilet, his head down against the light.

Good luck, I say. He gives me the finger without turning around and a laugh escapes my sugar mouth. Then I remember Loretta and there’s worry inside me, vibrating. I look over at Nev’s caravan. It looks like a face with two blank window eyes and a door mouth. The grass sways in the breeze.

I walk across the road. Step over the border of rocks, pause to see if anything bad happens. I can’t see anyone down the road, left or right. I step up Nev’s front path to the door. I stand on my tiptoes and try and look in the window.

Oi, he says.

I swing around, trip and scrape my arm on the tinny windowsill.

Hello, I say. He’s got a rod in his hand, it bounces over his head, moving even though he is still. I smell rotten prawns.

What’d I tell ya? he says. Stay away. His face is brown, shiny and weathered like them washed-up coconuts covered in husk. Get out of my yard, get, he says.

But.

No buts.

But.

What did I say?

Walking past him I see a dead fish in his bucket, the scales still there, shiny, and at the mouth of the fish, blood.

I’ll gut you, he says and makes a motion with his hand from bellybutton to neck – splitting himself right down his middle.

I run. I look back and stumble, but he’s no longer there. The caravan looks exactly the same, except now I know that he’s somewhere behind the square windows. I run into our caravan and jump on Loretta’s bed – safe.

The scrape on my arm is red, but there’s no blood. I spit on my finger and smooth it over the scratch. I wait for Jordy for a long time, but he doesn’t come back.

The toilet door is open and Jordy’s not there. I close it and hook the string back on the nail. Walk the path over the dune to the beach. The ocean is there, big and stupid. The beach is busy with fishing. I look for Jordy and see him slouching further down the beach. I slide down the dune, my feet sinking deep in the soft sand, and walk towards him.

I’ve been looking for you.

He rolls his eyes at me. Whatever, he says.

But Jordy –

Leave me alone, alright, he says.

A wave, with a line of spit-white foam at its edge, runs up to my feet. He walks away but I don’t let him go. I follow five steps behind. I feel our caravan, empty as a cicada shell behind the dune. I smell the stench of fish.

Quit following me, he says.

I’m not following you. I’m going this way.

I said, fuck off.

You fuck off, I say, but there’s no force in my words.

We’re both standing on the hard edge of the beach, alone. Jordy walks across the sand and back up the path to the caravans. I sit down and hold my knees and draw my fingers through the sand. When I look back for him the dunes have swallowed him up. I uncurl from a ball and walk the other way, past the jetty, towards the river mouth.

Here is the only place where the scrub turns tall. There are trees along the riverbank but there’s no water. The bank crumbles at my feet. It feels cooler in the scrappy shade, but there’s the hot hum of insects here. Looking up I can see the sky through the leaves and great big hunks of dead wood still standing. It makes me dizzy and I steady myself against the heat. I can see a gum across the dry riverbed and one of its branches is shiny like something rubbed for good luck. There’s a rope hanging out there, thick, with two big knots, one for your hands and one for your feet. There ain’t no water, though, it swings into nothing.

I slide down the riverbank to where the roots hang out over the sand. They’re dusty. I climb in under there, hug my legs to my chest and stare at the spiders’ webs that look like they’re holding it all together. It’s cool under the roots. The wide sandy river shimmers in the heat, almost like water. I get out of there.

The sand slithers over my thongs and burns my feet. There’s a line of ants right across the river. The rope dangles above me and I’m in the shade again. I lift my hand, see if I can touch it, but it’s out of reach. I use the exposed roots to climb up the bank and then it’s easy to climb the gum, its trunk sloping out, reaching over the river. I lie out on the smoothed-off bark. I hang my arms and legs over the branch like I reckon a sloth would and I feel the smoothness against my cheek.

I spit over the edge. Cockatoos whirl around me, and one lands on the limb opposite. Then they’re all landed, screaming yellow. A cockatoo looks at me with one eye, and all the others are screeching, jumping up and down, their heads bobbing, like they’re laughing. They rip leaves apart and the shreds drop on me. I scream back. They fly up and all of them in a smooth arc land back in the tree to laugh at me again. I nearly fall off the slippery branch so I inch my way back down the limb to the bank. I find a good stick and switch the grass as I walk, following a trail that’s been flattened in the dry grass. The paperbarks are ripped and clawed. I dig my fingers into them as I pass, try to find the hard inside the tree.

There’s a pool of black water. I fling the stick down the bank, jump after it, jarring my legs. Pa says that heels are like a crab’s shell, hard but secretly fragile, that they can shatter into a million pieces, just like if you tap a crab’s shell with a hammer. I always try to jump soft.

There are rings in the dirt all down to the water where it has shrunk and shrunk. The hottest days have the biggest space between the rings, like years on a cut-down tree trunk. I find a rock and throw it into the water and the wake circles out to the edge of the pool to meet my toes. My feet sink into the slimy
soup and I feel little things slip over my toes. I step in further, hold my arms out to steady myself.

The black water thrashes and I see the sharp triangle of a shark fin, then the water is still. I stumble back and fall, cracking through the dried mud. I perch on my heels and wait, but the surface of the water is unbroken. I’m so silent a kangaroo with its hop-crawl comes and drinks from the water on the opposite side. I’m not as tall as a kangaroo. My legs begin to cramp. I stand and point my stick at the kangaroo like it’s a rifle. The kangaroo faces me, chest puffed out, before it bounds away. Bang, bang, bang. I shoot that kangaroo dead. I poke the stick in the water and I can see something shifting. It’s a good k of dry riverbed to the sea, and I don’t know if a shark could survive that long out of water. The sky is huge with only a fart of a cloud near the horizon. The pool of water shrinks.

The mud has dried on my legs, but it comes off when I scratch it. I stand up and follow my footsteps in the dirt, back up to the bank, the stick resting on my shoulder.

Walking back over the dunes I see the caravan. It’s like the grass has grown further up around it. There’s no Bert. I aim my stick and blow out the windows of the caravan with it. I go look in the front door and Jordy’s not there. I lean my stick against the hot tin, open the screen door to get a water. I lift the containers, they’re light as balloons full of hot breath.

Jordy? I say, looking around for signs he’s been here. His school shirt is down there, under the table, curled and discarded like snakeskin. Jordy? I say.

The step creaks with my weight and I let the screen door snap shut. I can’t see anyone over the road, but the ute is there,
waiting patient at the side of Nev’s caravan. I walk around the side of his caravan, dragging my stick behind me. The shadow of the caravan looks sharp enough to cut. There’s no one out there. The glass buoys twist in the slight breeze. I stand on my tiptoes to look through a salty window. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The hot tin of the caravan is burning my palm. I realise I’ve been blocking the hum of the generator out. The sound has been there all the time. I hear it now and I can smell the diesel belch.

My eyes come good. Jordy’s chest looks concave. His fringe hangs way over his face. It’s like he’s standing there alone even though there’s Nev with his pants off, sitting on the vinyl chair, looking at him, jerking off. Me standing there, my hand burning onto the tin, like if I moved it I’d rip the skin right off my palm. Nev’s thighs look totally hairless and whiter than everything else. He’s still got his thongs on his feet. He’s gripping Jordy’s arm. But he lets go, wipes his face with his forearm and turns his watery eyes to me. I see his penis slowly droop. I see the red marks where his hand has been on Jordy’s skin. Nev’s eyes look full of tears. His head bumps to his chest. Jordy looks at me. He closes his eyes and it’s like a cloud passing over the sun. I rip my hand from the tin and run.