Jasper Jones (22 page)

I don’t know.

We stay silent for a time. I don’t ask any more. I take on some more whiskey, though.

After a while, Jasper shuffles and looks up.

“You reckon they’ll get a man on the moon?”

“They say they can do it.”

“Seems impossible, don’t it?”

“Sure does,” I say. “We can’t even get to the bottom of the ocean, let alone all the way up to the moon.”

“I reckon they might, you know,” says Jasper, with a small smile and a shake of his head. “I reckon they’ll get there. Imagine it.”

“It’d be something,” I agree.

“You know, Charlie,” says Jasper, scratching at his calf, “I don’t get how people can look up at the moon and still reckon they’re the
center
of everythin. When I sit here sometimes and take it in, it makes me feel like I’m just the smallest piece of dust in the universe. Like I’m nuthin. It’s a lonely feeling, but it sort of makes me happy too.”

“How do you mean, the center of everything?”

“Laura once told me that they reckon that over a hundred billion people have lived and died on the earth, in the whole history of it. A hundred
billion
have come and gone and had lives before we even got here. You can’t even imagine it. But when you think about it, you realize you’re stupid to think that you’re the one who found this space here, that it’s your bit of the earth. Unless you’re the lucky bloke settin foot on the moon, I reckon people are fools to be claiming this or that for themselves, drawin lines and territory. Just like they’re fools to be thinkin that some big bearded bastard gives two shits how much money they throw in a tin tray or if they eat fish of a Friday. It’s all rubbish.”

“You’re talking about Catholics?”

“No, not just them, Charlie. But it’s some of it, yeah.”

I think about it. “Well, see, I think it’s that most people don’t like that lonely feeling. People don’t like looking up and feeling small or lost. That’s what I think prayer is all about. It doesn’t matter which stories they believe in, they’re all doing that same thing, kind of casting a line out to outer space, like there’s something out there to connect to. It’s like people make themselves part of something bigger that way, and maybe it makes them less afraid.”

“Do you do it, then?” Jasper looks at me quizzically.

“Me? No. Course not. I’m a speck of dust like you.”

“Does it make
you
sad?”

“Sometimes, I guess. I mean, it’s bleak to think about.”

“Like an empty feelin.”

“Right. I guess it must be comforting to actually believe in God and Jesus and all that. It must fill in all that space so you don’t have to worry about it anymore. But it’s a bit like closing a door when there’s a cold draft, isn’t it? It’s still cold out there, it’s just that you don’t notice anymore because you’re warm.”

“Exactly,” Jasper agrees.

“But all that stuff has never worked for me anyway. I’ve listened to Gooseberry and read bits of the Bible and all. But there are too many
holes and gaps and slippery bits that I can’t get past, and I just keep thinking about them. I have too many questions along the way for any of it to stick to me. It just hasn’t ever made any sense. Sometimes I wish it would, though, just so I don’t have to feel so tiny.”

“But that’s not so bad, Charlie. Take it from me. I bin made to feel small all my life. I’m used to it. And all it’s ever done is made me want to fill it up meself, you know? To do big things. That’s the good thing about havin nuthin to lose. There’s no use havin a cry about it. And if this is all you believe in, this time and place here, then you’re not likely to waste it, are you?”

“Makes sense,” I say.

Jasper nods slowly. He coughs and flicks ash into the dam and presses on.

“Somethink else I could never understand,” he says, “is how people, ages ago, could look up at the moon and still reckon the world was flat.
Flat
, Charlie. See, that’s what I mean by people thinkin they’re the center of things. Everythin comes back to what they could
see
. Nobody ever thought they might be a small cog in a bigger engine, just one of those billion little balls spinning through space. Everyone was convinced it was orbiting round
them
, not the other way round. It’s crazy. Like they were living in the middle of one of them snow domes. You know, the ones you’re supposed to shake up.”

I nod. “I know the ones, yeah.”

“You see what I’m saying?” Jasper asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. You know, in India they believed the world was a big flat board that was carried on the back of a turtle.”

Jasper smiles. “Bullshit,” he says.

“I’m serious. A turtle.”

“Bollocks, Charlie, I don’t believe you. That’s the grog talkin. A giant space turtle? That’s what you’re tellin me.”

We’re both laughing.

“That’s right. The earth is a big biscuit, and we’re on the back of a turtle. Shooting for the moon.”

“That’s crazy.” Jasper shakes his head.

“You’re right, though. People just kind of used what they saw around them, and made it up from there. And you can’t really blame them for trying to make sense of it. It’s when you know better and still believe it, that’s when there’s a problem, I think. Have you ever heard of Easter Island?”

Jasper quaffs and coughs. Wet-lipped.

“Is that the one with the big stone heads?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“And they used all their trees to build them, and so they couldn’t make canoes anymore. So then they died because they couldn’t catch any fish.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty close. Anyway, they were the most isolated civilization in history. Completely marooned. Thousands of miles from anywhere else, water as far as the eye could see. So you can sorta see how
they
might have thought they were the center of the universe. All they knew about were fish and potatoes, and birds, who they worshipped most of all. And off the main headland of the island, there were a couple of smaller rocky outcrops where these birds would nest. And when this started, they saw it as their god’s announcement of the birth of the new year. The eggs were gifts.”

“Right.”

“So what happened was, there was this race. All the chiefs from all the different clans on the island would choose their fittest bloke, and they all had to swim out to these rocky outcrops through shark-infested waters to try and steal the first egg of the laying season. Once he had an egg, he had to swim back, climb up a thousand-foot cliff with the egg strapped to his head, and present it to his chief, who was waiting in a stone hut. The chief who received the egg first then became the Bird Man.”

“Bird Man?”

“Well, he was like their spiritual leader. Kind of like their god’s ambassador or representative. Like the Pope of Easter Island. And for that year, his particular clan had total dominion over the island. Also,
he had to seclude himself from everybody else. He painted his face red and black. He wasn’t allowed to cut his hair or his fingernails. And he had to strap a dead bird to his back.”

“A dead bird to his back?” Jasper raises his eyebrows.

“A dead bird to his back.”

“Probably a good thing he was secluded, then.”

“Good point.”

“And best of luck wiping your arse with foot-long fingernails.” Jasper smiles.

“I never thought of that. But I’m sure he had someone to do that for him.”

“Now, there’s an occupation, Charlie.”

“Come on. That’s an honor, not a job.”

“You can wipe my arse with honor anytime you like, mate.”

“Only if you tie a dead pelican round your neck for twelve months.”

Jasper laughs out loud. It looks like his face hurts when it spreads. He touches the side of his mouth with his tongue.

“Deal,” he says. “We have an accord, Charlie, my boy. I’d shake your hand, but I just found out where its bin!”

We laugh some more. We have some more whiskey, too, which is much closer to the bottom of the bottle than the top.

“Still, it’s kind of fascinating, though, isn’t it? When you think about those people trying to answer all those questions just using what’s in front of them on a tiny bit of the world.”

“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it, Charlie? It’s all just a big Easter Island. A giant snow dome. Whether it’s Bird Men or sun gods or giant bloody space turtles or Jesus himself. But what I want to know is, why can’t we think like that now about the earth? Now we’ve learned about other planets and stars and galaxies, now we know it’s round and spinning and tied to the sun, now that the earth isn’t all we know. Why are we stuck? And why does everything have to be for us? Why are
we
so special? There’s no such thing as God, Charlie, at least not how they say. Just like there’s no such thing as Zeus or Apollo or bloody
unicorns. You’re on your own. And that can make you feel either lonely or powerful. When you’re born, you either luck out or you don’t. It’s a lottery. Tough shit, or good on yer. But from there, it’s all up to you. There’s nuthin up there that gives a shit if I took a pack of smokes or lifted a tin of beef. I’m left with meself, and I know what’s right and what isn’t. Nobody would ever give me a job in this town, so I had to make things work when I could. Soon as you can walk and talk, you start makin your own luck. And I don’t need some spirit in the sky to help me do that. I can do it on me own. But, see, that’s what I reckon God really is, Charlie. It’s that part inside me that’s stronger and harder than anything else. And I reckon prayer is just trustin in it, havin faith in it, just askin meself to be tough. And that’s all you can do. I don’t need a bunch of bullshit stories about towers and boats and floods or rules about sin. It’s all just a complicated way to get to that place in you, and it’s not
honest
either. I don’t need to trick meself into thinkin anyone else is listenin, or even cares. Because it doesn’t matter.
I
matter. And I know I’ll be all right. Because I got a good heart, and fuck this town for makin me try to believe otherwise. It’s what you come with and what you leave with. And that’s all I got.”

We pause for a while. I pick at the dry grass by my feet. We share some more whiskey. The bottle makes a wet plinking sound as we pass it back and forth. It doesn’t taste quite so lousy now. And that heat seems to have cloaked my whole body, mostly the front of my brain. It almost feels as though the world
is
orbiting around me. There’s a slow spin to the trees. A green mesh, a gray mash.

And I don’t think, I just ask.

“You’re half Aboriginal, aren’t you? D’you know much about what they believe in?”

“Nah, not really, Charlie. I never really knew me mum, so I never learned about that stuff. And she weren’t from this town, so I’ve never met any of her family.”

“Do you remember anything about her at all?”

“Nah, mate. She died when I was still pretty young.” Jasper clears his throat. He flares up another cigarette.

“What happened?” I ask, then say, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be asking about all this.”

“No, that’s okay. You’re all right, mate. Truth is, I don’t know that much. It was a car accident. Real bad one, from what I can gather. Tryin to get my old man to talk about it is like tryin to get him to find a fuckin job.”

“Maybe it makes him sad.”

“No doubt, Charlie. But it’s no excuse anymore. He’s just wasting his life and his money. He’s a joke. I’m ashamed of him, tell you the truth. You know, down at the footy club, they talk about him like he’s royalty. Reckon he was a champion in his day. The best player goin around. They reckon he could’ve gone on with it, could’ve gone anywhere. And I look at them like they’re pullin the piss. I can’t even imagine it. He fucked it all up, Charlie. No heart. He just quit. Just like that. It got too hard. Then my mum got up the duff with yours truly, and that was the end of him. He never went back. He hasn’t stepped foot in there for years now.”

“That’s a real shame,” I say, but I’m slightly distracted. I give my head a brief shake. The world is blurring and stirring further still, and there’s a tribal thrum in my head which is pounding ever louder. I’m in some trouble, I think. I absently look down and try to gather myself. But my vision keeps shifting in a weird fashion, and my belly is roiling. My mouth is pasty. I can’t feel my arms.

Messily, I up and stumble, like I’m being led by invisible reins. And then it’s like an exorcism. That horrible spirit leaps from my body in a wet, acrid shower. I stop staggering and rest my hands on my knees as that vile shit keeps wrenching my guts. It dribbles off my lips as I groan. And I learn that whiskey doesn’t taste any better on its way out.

And then I’m just buckling and flexing with my mouth open. There’s no Black Bush left to purge. I feel Jasper’s hand on my back, warm and comforting.

“You right, Charlie?”

“No. I think I’m dying,” I sputter.

“Close,” says Jasper, “but not quite. Here, get this in you.”

He holds out a jar of water. I shake my head.

“I can’t. I can’t drink any more,” I say.

“You got to, mate. You’ll feel better. C’mon, just a bit.”

Against all my instincts, I grab at the jar and suck at it sloppily. I try to straighten up, to square my shoulders and man up, but I’ve been robbed of balance. I’m back on my haunches again. Trying to breathe deeply.

Then I realize that the water I’ve been given has likely been scooped from the dam, at the bottom of which Laura Wishart sits still, pale and soft. I can’t help but think of her, swaying like an angel in the water, her hair slowly twisting. Silky and serpentine. Just as quickly, I imagine I’ve drunk odd flecks and flakes of her skin, bits of her body. I retch it up instantly, grunting like an animal.

My knees are weak, but Jasper steadies me. He leads me back to where we were sitting, helps me down, sits the jar beside me. I’m wheezing, my stomach is sore, but I’m not vomiting anymore. The spinning has eased. I’m not so dizzy. But I still feel like I’ve been beaten up from the inside. I feel weak and embarrassed.

I hug my knees to my chest. We knock around a little while longer, talking back and forth, though I do considerably more of the listening and grunting of assent. Jasper breaks sticks in his hands, and I concentrate on stopping the world turning like a money wheel. I slowly improve, but my tongue still feels like a dead mollusk and my belly feels like it’s been wrung out like a sponge.