Jasper Jones (26 page)

She looks at me like I’ve just mumbled something in Ukrainian. I panic. Did I imagine that whole conversation? But then she remembers and laughs, and my heart resumes beating.

“Of course! How could I forget?”

“You almost stood me up,” I say.

“That would have been tragic,” she says, still smiling. “I would have remembered too late, and then I would have turned up breathless at the Plaza to find our table empty. The waiter would have told me that you had arrived and left already. So I would have followed you back to Brooklyn, searching everywhere, only to finally see you linking arms with some other young belle in a fur coat and a pillbox hat.”

“Oh, no. That wouldn’t happen,” I mumble, then blush and look down. Where is my wit? I am witless. Has my head been infected by an earwig? It’s never like this when I daydream this scene. I would have quickly quipped something about the importance of being punctual, about my eligible bachelorship and the slew of society girls waiting to make my acquaintance.

“Oh really? And why is that, Mr. Bucktin?”

“Because I would have waited. All day. Until they closed.”

And now she blushes a little, because I’ve delivered the verbal equivalent of an awkward kiss.

We both look away, out across the oval, just as the game recommences. The Blackburn side run out as a single white cluster, looking confident and intimidating. Their opening bowler is enormous. He looks old enough to have fought in Gallipoli. And he looks angry about it too. He has to be the world’s only prematurely balding teenager. Either that or he’s swapped birth certificates with one of his children.

The innings starts badly for Corrigan, but brilliantly for me. Warwick Trent is bowled early without troubling the scorers. I almost celebrate his wicket loudly from the sidelines. I’m filled with a spiteful glee as he trudges off the field, slapping at his pads with his bat.

The scoring is slow. I look over to Jeffrey, who sits cross-legged a few meters away from the rest of the team, his kitbag closed behind him. It doesn’t look like he’ll be in anytime soon.

Eliza tells me she likes my shirt. She touches my rolled-up sleeve, which transmits a shiver up my spine.

“Thank you,” I say. “I like your, you know, dress.”

She laughs and thanks me back.

I ask softly:

“So how is your family? And how are
you
doing with everything?”

Eliza picks at the cover of her book. She shrugs and speaks with that accent.

“It’s all about the same, I guess. But it’s all a little less … I don’t know,
urgent
. It’s very strange. And sad. Nobody knows what to
do
. My mother is a mess. You know, Charlie, we still can’t sit down and eat at the table without her noticing Laura’s empty chair and just bursting into tears.”

“That’s awful,” I say.

“Yeah. And yet my dad is completely different. First he just refused to admit she’d gone missing. Now it’s as though he never had another
daughter. He’s blocked it all out. He’s blocked everything out, really. Which must be easy when you’re drunk all the time.”

She says this last part very quietly. Maybe she doesn’t wish to talk about it anymore. But she goes on.

“Christmas was the hardest, of course. All my cousins and aunties and uncles were being so careful and polite. But you could see that everybody was avoiding it. My mother had already bought presents for Laura before she went missing, and so she just wrapped them all up and gave them to me. Then she said that I will have to share them with Laura when she comes back.”

And then Eliza starts to cry. I freeze. Her face slowly creases, there’s a moment where she is struggling to control it, but then it’s unstoppable. Another wicket falls. There is consternation everywhere. Chaos. My mouth is open. I have no idea what to do. Why did I have to ask about all this? Why did I have to invite all this sadness to the surface? I feel utterly responsible. It’s hard for me to watch. Her face reddens. Her cheeks are enameled with tears. And I know I can’t help noticing her dimples make her even more beautiful.

I want to go back in time, back to that night. I want to make this all right. I want someone to tell me what to do right now. Should I place my hand on her shoulder? Or should I pull her to me like I want to, hold her close?

I remember. I have a handkerchief, I think. I pat my pockets. Yes. I hope it’s clean. Please be clean. It is. I am useful. I hand it to her.

“Thanks, Charlie,” Eliza says, and gives a short smile. She wipes her eyes and blows her nose. Her mouth is still turned down. Her hands fall heavily to her lap.

“See, everyone is just waiting for Laura to ring or to write and say that everything is okay. Or they’re expecting her to suddenly return home, but …” Eliza just shakes her head and shuts her eyes tight. Her lips turn down even further and she begins to sob quietly again.

I admit, I’m close myself. I feel the sting in my eyes.

It hurts me that I can’t say the things that seem right, because to do so would be an unforgivable lie. I can’t give her assurances or
comfort, because I know that Laura Wishart is dead. I know exactly where she is. Because after she died I drowned her to save Jasper Jones. I did that. We bound a stone to her feet and watched her sink to the bottom of a still pond.

I suppose that if Eliza ever finds out what I’ve done, she will hate me for the rest of her days. And I don’t blame her. But would she understand about Jasper Jones? If I told her that Laura loved him, that he loved her back, that they were planning to flee to the city together? That if we’d left Laura where we found her, she would have been discovered and Jasper wouldn’t have stood a chance? That I’d tried to do the right thing?

“I’m sorry, Charlie,” Eliza says, sniffing. She dabs at her face again.

“Please don’t be,” I respond, swallowing heavily.

She sighs and closes her eyes. I steal an opportunity to look at her closely. I want to tuck her hair behind her ears, wipe her cheek with the back of my hand. She looks so slight, so small.

“I know things, Charlie,” she says after a time, and opens her eyes. “I know I’m not a good person. I don’t even know why you talk to me.”

I frown at her. Ready to defend her virtue. But she waves me away before I get the chance.

“Forget it,” she says. “We’re all doing okay, Charlie. Really. Don’t worry. Let’s talk about something else. Anything. Say something funny. Make me laugh.”

Laughter? Now I have to induce laughter, after I’ve just brought her to tears? Of course, I panic.

My brain is a vast, barren, jokeless plain where wolves howl at the moon over rocky overhangs and the wind kicks up twists of sand and tumbleweed. And funny words huddle in clusters at the bottom of shallow burrows. Without thinking, I kneel and reach into the closest one and quickly pull something out. Without thinking, I am quoting Jeffrey Lu.

“Okay. Here’s one. Would you rather wear a hat made of spiders, or have penises for fingers?”

As soon as I realize what I’ve said, I want to crawl out of my own
body and thump myself to death. Mark Twain was right: I’ve just removed all doubt. I want to quickly stuff those words back down into their black little hole and rummage about for something, anything else. Idiot.

But to my surprise, she does laugh. She really does. She giggles and rocks back. Her nostrils flare and fall. When she settles, I’m curiously pleased to find her addressing the quandary.

“That’s a good question. Hmm. Believe it or not, this is quite a hard one for me, Charlie. I’m absolutely terrified of insects.”

“Really?” I ask, almost leaping at her.

“Oh,
terribly
. I am useless when confronted by them. In fact, most of the time there doesn’t even need to be a confrontation. Sometimes I look for excuses to stay inside if I know there is a bee nearby. And I
hate
wasps. Even thinking about them makes me all queasy.” She shudders.

“Really? You know, I’m exactly the …,” I start, then instantly nip it in the bud. A fear of insects is admissible for girls. Not so for me. I urge her for an answer.

“Am I allowed to ask questions?”

“Of course,” I say.

“Okay. Well. Are the spiders still alive?”

“I’m afraid so. Yes.”

“And are they …”

“Poisonous? Absolutely. They are practically oozing with poison. Neon-green poison. Like acid.”

“Oh God. Charlie, that sounds like a
nightmare
!” Eliza strokes her chin comically, then holds up her hands. “Okay. I know you’re going to think less of me, but I’m afraid my fingers are going to have to become penises.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say with a grin.

“I
know
. I’m so ashamed. I’m going to miss my fingers. I
love
my fingers.” She fans them out in front of her.

“It’s okay. To be honest, it’s what I ended up choosing.”

“Really?” she laughs. “Well, I guess it’s a little better for you. At least you’re a boy.”

“I’m still a boy with penises for fingers.”

“It’s true. You’re a freak, Charlie. We’re both freaks. We’re outcasts. But at least we have each other for company. We’ll have to move to the mountains together, live in seclusion for the rest of our lives.”

“We could join the circus,” I say.

She clicks her fingers and lights up.

“Charlie, that’s perfect! Yes! We will join the circus. Right away. The next circus that comes to Corrigan, we’re stowing away inside their carriages. We’ll travel the world as carnival people. Carnies! Maybe I can grow a beard too. And you’ll wear a cream shirt with navy-blue suspenders, and I’ll wear a peach-colored pinafore and have a yellow ribbon in my hair. Oh, and sensible black boots.”

“And maybe we can live in New York during the winter, and we’ll just wear gloves or mittens to hide our hideous penis-fingers,” I say with my eyebrows high.

“Perfect!” Eliza says, and laughs out loud. She has a sweet laugh. A high warble. I feel chuffed; I’ve been able to make her happier on request. She leans the top of her head against my shoulder. Volts of electricity pulse up my body. My stomach wrenches. I’ve never felt more pleasantly nauseous in all my life.

All the while, the score ticks along. The ball is a little older, and the field spreads out to accommodate the bigger shots. There is a tightening of the atmosphere, a palpable feeling that we’re headed for a close finish. An even bigger crowd has developed in the late afternoon. A row of men spectate from the boundary with their arms folded, cans in hand, reaching out to point at field placements or to offer their expert comment on technique.

I can smell the woodfire starting for the post-match barbecue. Children roll their bodies down the steep hill by the clubhouse; others show off their Christmas presents. Jeffrey stays sitting where he’s been all innings.

I pepper Eliza with more hypotheticals. I ask her if she’d rather wear the same underwear every day for the rest of her life or have to bite the head off a frog once a week. Astonishingly, she selects the frog. She says I wouldn’t understand, because I’m a filthy boy. I ask if she’d prefer to have no arms or no legs. Cleverly, she chooses to have no arms so as to nullify her obligation to have penises for fingers. She seems happy with this, until I remind her that she no longer has hands with which to pick up the little frog she’s agreed to decapitate with her teeth. I tell her it will be just like bobbing for apples, except there’s only one apple, and it can jump. She asks if I would hold it for her so she could chomp it properly. I reply by saying that ordinarily I would, but in this case the rules forbid it. Eliza laughs and says she hates me.

Then disaster strikes the Corrigan team. We lose four wickets in two overs to a crafty spin bowler. I can barely believe it. The crowd is in shock. And I become intolerably nervous as Jeffrey Lu hurriedly buckles up his pads and briskly canters onto the field for his debut knock. This is his chance. He looks so tiny out there, marching to the crease. Jeffrey Lu, the last man in. Fortune or failure resting on his shoulders. I can barely watch.

The Corrigan side are carrying on as though the game is already lost. Most are sitting with their heads between their knees; some have walked away to the changerooms. The coach is on his haunches, packing up the team gear bag. He’s not even watching.

I lean forward as Jeffrey squares his shoulders, asks for middle stump, marks his guard, and stands ready. My heart is pounding.

Blackburn’s captain, thinking little of the diminutive player at the crease, has brought his fielders into attacking positions. There are four slips, a close gully, and two catchers close to the bat.

The Veteran runs in. Jeffrey looks poised.

He is bowled. First ball. His off stump cartwheels out of the ground and my heart breaks. Eliza brings her hand to her mouth and lets out a disappointed groan. Blackburn erupt. The Corrigan team begins shuffling onto the field to shake hands with their opposition. But then they stop. Everyone stares in the direction of the umpire, whose right arm
is fully extended to the side, like he’s reaching for a peach. It’s a no ball! The Veteran has overstepped! Jeffrey stays in! In fact, he waddles over to where his off stump has rested, picks it up and resets it in the ground himself. The Corrigan side creeps back. The Blackburn team is furious. They resume their positions, riled and robbed. The game is still alive, by a thread.

Jeffrey’s first ball in cricket has ratcheted up the tension. Players from both teams are now standing at attention. The Veteran steams in again. His next ball is short and sharp and it hits Jeffrey flush on the shoulder. I spring to my feet instinctively, full of indignation, but Jeffrey doesn’t flinch or go down. He barely even looks hurt. I can hear the Corrigan team laughing from the boundary.

The Veteran wanders down the pitch, his finger a dagger, upbraiding Jeffrey loudly. He spits, just missing his bat, and turns. Jeffrey looks unconcerned.

The next ball is short and fast again, and this time Jeffrey rocks back and swats it smartly behind square with a loud crack. It’s four runs. The crowd is stunned. There is no applause, just silence. I can barely believe it. But the next ball too is short of a length and wide enough for Jeffrey to glide through the slight gap in gully for another four runs. The Veteran is livid. Jeffrey is serene. He’s out there to win this game. He really thinks he can do it.