Heat and Light (12 page)

Paddles, Not Oars

Kela sat up cross-legged in his bed as his mother slept. He took his sock off to squish a cockie against the wall. He put his hand out the window, riding the cold air, and checked the flag was still positioned well.

For his thirteenth birthday his mother had got him a bag of marshmallows and a second-hand encyclopaedia set, A to E. That month he got a weekend job on the construction site, a block away from their flat, for the new overpass.

One afternoon he headed down by the pier and used marshmallows as bait, thought he’d bring home some dinner. He rubbed the dried mud off his cheek as he waited. His father had taught him to read the stars. Hours must’ve passed because his mother screamed at him from the beach. Flat from walking the blocks, still in her cannery outfit. ‘From now on I’ll get Fran to pick you up.’

A couple of weeks went by before they got the knock on the door saying they were tearing down the building, and they had three weeks to find another place. Three weeks came and Kela’s mother packed up the car and they got on the highway. Kela tried to talk to his mother. He watched her grip on the steering wheel.

‘We’re going to your aunt’s,’ his mother said. Kela’s body clenched the souther they got. He could already feel his legs growing cold in his boardshorts.

With nothing left to do, he read from the encyclopaedia until it grew dark outside. They stopped at Coffs that night. His mother parked next to the caravan park by the water. Kela watched the waves skate in. He thought about his father. He saw the canoe in the sky. His mother sat in the back next to him, a blanket over both of them. She told him stories of his father, talking herself to sleep. She’d always sleep before him, and he played his usual night games with himself, counting numbers, remembering the encyclopaedia entries:
albino
,
Banda Banda volcano
,
CIA
and repeating things his father had told him. There were so many stories that his father had never got to finish. And here the sky was different.

He had gotten through the organisational structure of the CIA when the lights of a vehicle approached. He crawled over the seats and parked himself in the front, pulling his mother’s pillow out from under him, he didn’t need it. He turned the ignition. His father wanted to teach him on his grandmother’s property. When Mum’s not around, he had said. She was always around.

The wheel felt heavier than he expected. He reversed back onto the road and drove in the opposite direction to the car, which was pulling in. The car would be coppas or the men involved with his father. They were going after him now. He pulled his hair up with sweat. He glanced back at his mother, and she looked forlorn, changed, even in sleep. The star was heavy in his vision.

Back at the old flat, he had listened in on his mother and their neighbour, Fran, from his bed.

‘That’s how they raise their boys,’ Fran’s voice.

‘I’m not going to let him go out of control. He’s still a boy.’

‘Thirteen, he would have already been initiated if his father was still with us.’

‘There’s got to be some control.’

Kela steadied his hand, put his foot down. The road bent with the bay, he could not see if the car was behind him.

‘He hasn’t struck you, has he?’ Fran’s hushed voice.

‘He takes my wallet when he doesn’t want me to leave the house. He moved everyone’s things out of the garage one day into the neighbours’ upstairs because it was going to flash-flood.’

‘Did it?’

A pause. ‘Yes. You remember that crazy storm? The worst we had. Our street always cops it, low-lying area.’

Kela drove faster. He was ready. He went roughly around a corner; he heard his mother stir. He thought about looking at her again but he couldn’t lose his focus.

‘He’s a big boy,’ Fran had said. ‘He doesn’t look thirteen.’

‘He’s gone through too much,’ his mother said. ‘And I’m losing him.’

The car was not unlike his bed in their old flat. He was steering them towards the star, towards his father.

S&J

Jaye calls to stop when I’m going full blow down the line and I press my foot down hard thinking I nicked a roo. The dust mushrooms up and at first I can’t see anything. When it clears I see the bird standing in the road, pale and overdressed.

‘Far out,’ I say.

‘Pop the boot,’ Jaye says.

‘Hold on.’

‘You’ve already stopped.’ She pats the radio as she gets up beside me. ‘And put something else on, will you? Don’t want them to think we’re all bogans.’

Jaye walks up to the bird, smile on, arms out, and soon the bird’s smiling, too, giving Jaye her backpack and following her to the car. Jaye gets in the back seat, and the girl does, too.

‘Hi,’ she says. German accent. ‘Sigrid.’

‘Hi, Sigrid,’ I say. ‘I’m Esther.’

‘Es,’ she says. ‘Es and Jaye.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, starting the car up and veering back onto the road.

‘I’m so glad,’ Sigrid says, ‘that I’ve finally met a real Aboriginal.’

Through the top mirror I see she has a hand on Jaye’s shoulder.

‘You must tell me everything, Jaye. Tell me all about your hardship.’

We pull up to a service station and Jaye steps out to refuel.

‘She’s very beautiful.’ Sigrid sighs. ‘Strong.’

I grunt and ask where she’s headed.

‘Exmonth. I think that’s how you say it.’

‘Exmouth. Like this.’ I show my teeth. ‘Well, you’re in luck, because that’s where we’re headed, too.’

‘I’m very grateful, obviously,’ she says. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Brissie,’ I say. ‘Brisbane. On the other side, the east coast. A little south from there, Gold Coast area, that’s my country.’

‘Sorry?’ she says. ‘I don’t know where that is.’

Jaye’s walking back to the car.

‘You’re a nice golden colour,’ Sigrid goes on. ‘You look like you’re from Spain, maybe. Your parents immigrated here, yes?’

Jaye gets in. ‘Dinner, ladies.’

She unloads her hands of raisin toast and chips and Cokes.

Jaye and I stand leaning against the car in the night air outside her grandmother’s house.

‘I’m really not sure, Jaye,’ I say.

‘C’mon, sis. We can hardly toss her out, can we?’

‘I thought she’d have somewhere to stay when she got here. That’s what she said.’

‘Well, she doesn’t, and she’s alright, so …’ Jaye straightens up and walks toward the house. ‘You coming, or what?’

The house is a low-set cottage off the highway, surrounded by bush. The rooms smell stale, but it’s cosy. There’s a fireplace. Out back the veranda is falling apart and you can barely see the washing line above the waist-high grass. Jaye’s cousins have been using it as a beach house for years. Now it’s her turn.

We eat on the veranda, and then Jaye digs out a bottle of vodka and a deck of mismatched cards. Sigrid teaches us a German version of Rummikub. I’m not drinking, but the night moves quickly, like a train passing stations without stopping. A large ringtail possum sits in a nearby paperbark, and Sigrid squeals when I point it out. She wants to feed it, but we have nothing besides our breakfast for tomorrow. Jaye teaches her the word for possum in Yindjibarndi, and then the name for the tree, and then the name for the one next to it, and I’m all too used to it by now and roll my eyes. When the possum skirts off I decide to do the same.

Underneath the sheets I flick around on my radio for a bit, trying to get a channel. I can still hear the clink of wine glasses and the low murmured laughter from outside. It’s a hard decision, to gulp up sleep or stay awake for the morning light. I open the window and see a pink haze coming through. I like the thought of walking barefoot to the beach and out into the waves, but it would be strange to do it without Jaye.

I guess Jaye kind of dragged me along. I didn’t want to be by myself at the house all semester break. Everyone else was going back to their families. I was the only one who lived near mine and didn’t feel like sticking around. It’s funny now, with the darkness and the silence, no lights, no parties, that Jaye seems more distracted. She’s been on edge ever since we got here.

When we met I was a shy teen and it felt good to be going places. Doing things. She was darker than me and all the other Murris I knew, like a walking projection of what a blackfella was supposed to be like. She knew language, knew them old stories. Had to say ‘deadly’ every second sentence. Postcard blackfella.

At first I liked it. But lately she was becoming too much for me.

There are these sounds in the distance, like hooting, but it’s not owls. I sit up. It’s a horribly low sound. I look outside, but all I see is trees and mud and mangroves.

I pad down the hallway in my night-time thongs. The living room is dark, but they’re sitting on the couch. They’re sitting too close. I go back to bed.

The droning stops. I can hear some thumping around, still, and am about to sing out ‘Quiet, you brolgas’ when I realise the laughter in the living room has been replaced by weighted sighs. The door to the next room opens, and the bed springs pop. I can tell they’re trying to be quiet, which is worse. My chest feels tight. I pull the sheets over my head.

When I rise at eleven the door beside mine is still shut. I put the kettle on and butter some bread and sit with my modest meal at the small round green table in the centre of the room. Uni results tomorrow. Let the envelope sit in my mailbox for a week. I started well. Gone to every class and that, read the textbook in advance, even. Jaye slipped me some of her work, but she let me stay rent-free. It was fine, for a while. At what point did I start doing more of Jaye’s than mine?

She’s left the keys on top of the television. Longboard under arm, I cross the road and walk down the path to the beach. I drag the lead through the sand, looking for an entry point between the bucketloads of kids. For a long time I stand between surfing and not surfing.

For lunch, I walk along the beach to the surf club and order some chips.

‘You’re not from here, hey?’ the lady says.

‘Yeah, how’d you know?’

The lady points to my Brisbane Broncos shirt. ‘First time in WA?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Enjoying it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘There’s this band on here tonight. We’re expecting a crowd.’

‘Oh, yeah – Milla Breed. My friend told me.’

‘This is her last show. She’s going to the States.’

‘Good one,’ I say.

Sigrid is in the living room when I get back to the house, reading one of Jaye’s poetry books.

‘Good morning,’ she says.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Where’s Jaye?’

‘Still in bed.’

‘Okay.’ I put the keys back. ‘Last night, did you hear any noises – droning noises?’

‘Not at all,’ Sigrid says, amused.

‘Right,’ I say.

‘You and Jaye are not …’

I quickly shake my head.

‘Good,’ she says, and smiles.

‘We still going to that gig tonight?’

‘Es, I’m trying to sleep, eh.’

‘It’s 4.30 p.m.’

‘You don’t need to tell me the time. Hey, Sig’s hungry. Can you get us a feed at the surf club? Something salty?’

At eight, the other door closed again, I pull on some jeans and the only closed-in pair of shoes I own. Flatten my hair.

When I get to the pub it looks like half the town’s here, fishies and tradies. Everywhere we’ve been it’s like a whole generation is missing. Haven’t seen anyone my age since Perth, except the tourists. This last week every tourie and their dog wanted a picture with Jaye. Some wanted more than a picture. I’m always the one stuck holding the camera.

Mum used to tell me and my sisters when we were younger that being Murri wasn’t a skin thing. But next to Jaye that was all anyone noticed.

I think of Sigrid. Should’ve known.

The lady from lunchtime is on the door. I give her a fiver to get in, and go to the bar to grab a drink. Milla Breed’s all long black hair and long white limbs crashing on the stage. Her drummer can’t keep up with her. I move a little closer when she starts a new song, trying to catch a lyric, but the words are in and out so fast you can’t grab ’em. They’re more utterance than words. Reminds me of the droning from last night.

She kneels, hands out to the crowd, then gets up, hands back on her guitar. She’s wearing engineer boots, a denim skirt and a black shirt. Sleeves cut off like Jaye’s. Jaye likes all the grunge bands, especially the Aussie ones. She plays Breed’s stuff all the time, except her third LP, which she reckons is womba. I usually stick to golden oldies, the Beatles and the Stones; Mum reckons I’m the only one she knows who likes both. But Jaye’s right on this one. This bird is good at what she does.

‘Hiya, Exmouth, how you doing?’ she drawls.

‘Show us your titties!’ the big bloke in front of me screams, and I think she does but I can’t see because my view is momentarily blocked.

‘Get lost, dyke,’ one of his mates says to me as I press forward, and I tumble back onto some bird’s toe and scurry to find another place to stand.

The crowd sparks when Breed plays her radio hit as a closer. She sings it differently, addressing the room between verses. Then she slows down and flicks her hair up, gaze on mine, the blue-green of her eyes like a globe, and even though she must be forty-five, easy, I can’t help but lower my own look, her breasts prominent in the muscle shirt. I don’t need to think about what Jaye would say, because I’m thinking it. Too deadly.

She waves to the crowd and floats back behind the wall. I buy a record at the bar and wait awhile to see if she’s coming out again, but they’ve got another band up, some father-and-son act, and they’re playing Cold Chisel covers and all the blokes are mumbling along as if they’ve forgotten about her.

As I’m walking back up to the driveway a white taxi swings in front of me. Sigrid’s standing there, her hair orange in the light.

‘Where you going?’ I call.

‘Home,’ she says.

I walk up closer.

‘Sigrid?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I’m not from Spain. I’m Aboriginal.’

‘I know,’ she says. ‘Jaye told me.’

I nod and watch her put her bags into the boot.

She turns back. ‘You don’t look it. But you probably think I don’t look German, either.’

I walk inside and switch the light on. No sign of Jaye. I sit on the couch and try the remote, but the television doesn’t switch on. There’s a stack of papers beside the poetry chapbooks, and I flick through a couple of
Koori Mail
s. It’s a while before I realise I’m waiting for her. There are a few things I want to say, and I think I will say them.

The house is still. I go through the next stack. There is Breed, on the contents page. I flick to the double-spread interview.

My stomach rises with every word. She’s talking about her childhood, her family. Blue eyes on the page. By the end of it I’m so worked up I stand and think about going back to the bar. She might still be there.

Car would be faster. I open the door and walk out to it. Start the beast and drop down the driveway. In my mind I’m walking up to Breed and she looks at me and doesn’t say a word, just grabs a bottle off a chair by the throat and sucks it, looking at me still. She tells me that I’ll do, pulls me to her small frame, and pushes my jersey up over my head.

I stay at the foot of the road, in the driveway. I breathe heavily. Turn the engine off.

Still no sign of Jaye inside, but there is the drone again. I open the screen door, and the sounds feel louder. Jaye’s fluoro singlet is out back in the dark – she’s in the yard with garden clippers and hasn’t made a dent in the overgrowth.

‘What are you doing,’ I call, ‘in the dark?’

She turns to look at me. I take a torch off the table and walk down to her. She looks at my hands and I realise I’m still carrying the paper with the interview.

‘Didn’t know Breed was a Koori,’ I say.

Jaye says nothing.

‘What’s up?’

‘The fuck have you been?’

‘What? I was at the gig; I tried to get you up for it, but—’

‘I told you yonks ago I didn’t want to go. The chick’s sold out, eh. Going to the US to be in a porno. Thought you’d left me, too, sista.’

‘Sigrid?’ I ask pointedly.

‘Sig? She’s just a chick, you know. You’re my best mate. I thought that was the whole deal of coming here. I was going to show you where I grew up, all them old spots, introduce you to my mob …’

‘You’re the one who stayed in her room all day.’ It’s hard to believe her when she says she wants me around. I feel pretty replaceable.

Jaye’s head stays down.

I sigh in defeat and put my arm around her shoulders, sweaty and acidic. She stares out into the yard.

‘Why’d Sigrid go?’ I ask.

‘Think it was you.’

‘I thought it might have been those noises that scared her off. I reckon this place has ghosts.’

‘What, that?’ Jaye’s laugh mimics the drones. ‘It’s just dingoes, eh.’

‘We’ll start tomorrow,’ I say. ‘Nice and early. Exploring.’

Jaye grunts. She looks at me. ‘How was it, anyway?’

I’m not sure how to answer. ‘Not the same,’ I say.

At that moment the ringtail runs along the railing.