New Australian Stories 2 (9 page)

He relaxes again, picking the paper up and shaking it straight, returning to the column he was reading for the third time. Staring at the picture of the writer.

An old lady ties a dachshund up outside the supermarket, the dog issuing its outraged yapping at the automatic doors — making them indecisive. The dog jumping back, confused too. Both dog and doors making each other stutter. Both of them seeming panicked.

The yapping stops and the old man looks up, noticing the chocolate labrador tied up there now.

He leaves his paper and beer, waits at the crossing, hammering the button.

The lights change and he's marching before the beeping's started.

On the other side he steps over the dachshund, becomes entangled with it — hops on one leg, the door juddering against him, the labrador at the full extent of its lead, wolfing down some Friday-night vomit near the ATM.

The old man peers into the supermarket for the owner, then quickly unties the lab and crosses the road with it, darting between moving traffic and away.

Once home he inspects the labrador's collar:
Chocolate
, it reads. A phone number. He removes the collar and heads outside with it, crossing the expansive parking lot at the end jon bauer of his street — checking for any obvious observers before wiping off the evidence with his hanky and chucking both in the bin.

Back indoors he turns on the radio, horseracing commentary coming at him. He likes it on in the background. The snaffled excitement of the voice. He only hears that on the radio now — that familiar voice.

He stands at his front window for ages, peeking through the drawn curtains. The dog watching him. The racing commentary turned right down now to just a bubbling stew on the stove or a waiting taxi.

Eventually he gives up his window vigil and surrenders to the TV in the corner, the labrador by his slippered feet, unsettled but playing the part at least.

Spring carnival is around the corner and that familiar voice is a face on the news, talking about the influx of overseas contenders and
Can Australian racing stand the
competition?
The chocolate lab plonks her head on his lap, and even though he could never think the same way about dogs again after what happened in the hills those months ago, he leans over the animal and buries himself in the solace.

Next morning he shuffles out of his bedroom in slippers, lifts the kettle from its throne, gives it a wiggle, shuffles over to the sink, his hair squiffy. His head fogged over with last night's scotch. He turns on the tap, letting it run into the kettle, gazing out at the back garden and groaning at the piles and piles of unearthed soil and chewed bamboos that once supported the first creeping of beans. The dog out there too, looking at him, jowls on paws. The man's own jowls to-ing and fro-ing as he shakes his head, standing with his hands on the stainless steel of the sink, the kettle grumbling.

He's outside later, traipsing about the garden in his dressing-gown, using a small shovel to fill in holes and pick up dog-dirt. The lab sulking, or twisting round occasionally to fuss over her breasts that are almost neon with rawness. Small cries filling her throat.

The old man can't recall seeing a dog like that, mammaries hanging down. More naked somehow than when male dogs get their erections in the park — cantilevering behind some bitch with her bum on the ground.

It's been three days now and still no posters up. He looks for the collar in the parking lot bin but it's been emptied of everything but stench.

In the newsagent's he picks up the special-edition
Winning Post
and the daily papers, both of which have a picture of a glistening racehorse on them.

FREE Cup Day Form Guide!

He scans the sports sections of the nationals and there it is, a column in
each
paper. He's aflame with pride. His smile sustaining all the way through the usually curt transaction with the shopkeeper.

He sits at the pub with a celebratory beer and smoke. Reads the articles both. Then reads them again. Raises his beer to the hills.
Cheers
, the old man's mouth says, and a little girl in the back of a car looks like she'll remember it forever. A lonely old man with nobody to cheers.

People come in and out of the supermarket with armfuls of alcohol. Men and women go by in the garb of pageantry. Every other car is a taxi.

The man sees the woman sticky-taping a sheet of A4 to a power pole then moving on, a stack more of them under her arm.

Back home he hurriedly unburdens himself of keys and newspapers, the sticky tape from the poster catching on his sleeve, the old man arrested for a moment by the dog's agonised yelps.

He opens the laundry door and she remains distressed, the smell of ammonia, a puddle on the floor. She comes out, stopping to lick at her underbelly, walking away, a perfunctory wag of her tail, then pausing again to fuss and fuss at her swollen teats.

Please help
, the poster says (a picture of Chocolate with an array of snuggling, suckling puppies, their eyes closed).
Her
puppies and family miss her! Reward offered.

He takes the piece of paper to the phone, shutting both the back door and the one in the hallway against the yelping.

Ordinarily he'd wait, give it a few days. But it's Cup Day, his first without an invite to the hills. Last year it was little Jerome and Daniel cheering the telly, the dog barking, the old man laughing — their dad working his busiest day of the year.

He shaves again, drinking from a bottle as he does. Runs a towel under a hot, hot tap and puts it to his face, dancing a little in the bathroom. He brushes his hair. Dresses in his suit, chooses a tie. Takes the suit jacket off. Looks at himself. Puts the jacket back on. Takes off the tie. Goes out and pats the dog panting on the lawn, listless, whimpering.

He opens the cupboard and tries to remember which of the dangling leads is Chocolate's. He chooses string instead, for authenticity.

They leave the house, Chocolate putting on a smile despite her discomfort. That same dachshund yapping at the automatic doors outside the supermarket, working them open and closed like its bark is a clicker.

As he turns the last corner he can see the woman at her gate, her hand up to her forehead to keep out the sun. Then she's coming along the footpath, halfway between walking and jogging, Chocolate straining on the string until the old man lets her go and her claws click-clack away, teats swishing.

There's a tangle of hair and fur and wagging tails, the woman looking up from the embrace to smile at the man's approach, then turning back to Chocolate, checking her over.

As he gets close she stands, holding the string, Chocolate attending to her teats again. The woman keeping her hair behind her ear. A kind smile.

‘I can't tell you what a relief this is!'

‘As I said, right out in the middle of the road.'

‘It's crazy, I was only in the shop two minutes.'

‘Maybe she slipped her collar?'

She shakes her head. ‘It would have been left behind. No, someone must have taken her then thought better of it and let her go. I've given up trying to understand what motivates some people.'

‘Well all's well that ends well, I suppose.'

‘I suppose,' she says. ‘We've got a house full for Cup Day but, come in and meet the puppies?'

‘I've just finished work, and —' ‘Sarah, by the way.' An outstretched hand. ‘Don't you want your reward?'

‘Ted. No need for a reward, Sarah. Any decent person would have done the same. I love dogs.'

He wipes his feet before entering the house. Does his hair again. Struck by the sheer homeliness of everything. All the different-sized shoes by the door. The faces posing together on the walls. The distant sound of voices, as well as yelping. The aroma of damp newspaper, and that sickly-sweet puppy smell.

He catches up in time to see Chocolate let loose and racing to the wooden board barricading the puppies in the laundry, all of them jumping up towards her face. Little tails thrashing. A garden of people through the windows, the barbecue going.

‘Hopefully they'll get a moment together before the kids notice,' she says and removes the partition, the pups standing on each other's saggy faces to get to their mum. Chocolate licking and licking at them then giving in to the nudging and rummaging for nipples, her body moving on the lino with the seven heads pushing into her side — Sarah turning to Ted and beaming at the moment, bottles and little rubber teats drying on the draining board.

‘I can't tell you what the kids've been like. And the pups. Lucky it's pretty much time for weaning. D'you have a dog?'

‘Haven't been able to face having one since … He was a chocolate lab too, actually.'

‘Oh you poor thing.'

‘It was my son's.'

‘Did it go missing too?'

He shakes his head and says to the lino, ‘An accident. My grandchildren were in the car at the time. It was always a bloody stupid mutt, chasing car tyres. They
encouraged
it.' And their faces come back to him, the way they looked just after. His car still running.

Sarah's hands are up covering her open mouth, Chocolate giving a warning snarl at one of her pups.

‘I haven't driven since. Haven't seen my grandchildren, either.' He gazes at the row of wagging tails. ‘I suppose he's just busy, my son. Sports journalist.' Ted's face urging hers to understand — her hand down now but her mouth still a little open. ‘Posh house in the hills.'

There're squeals then as the kids come in and happy-hell breaks loose, Sarah looking at him looking at the children.

He loiters in the garden, an outsider among the inclusive throng. He doesn't know how to feel. On the one hand here he is, their new best friend and hero, people getting him sausages and does he want mustard or red sauce?
Beer, Ted?
This is Ted, everyone. Ted's the one that brought Chocolate home.
Inebriated cheers.

But behind the smile and the polite platitudes of his replies there are those hills staring at him.

…
She came home with nipples like brake lights!

He goes into the relative quiet of the house, watching those swigging aliens through the window. The light in their eyes. He sets his beer down on the kitchen surface, feeling drunk suddenly. His innards sagging.

He wanders through and has a look in the laundry, the barricade there, the puppies back inside now having been paraded and cooed at — chased round the garden. Or left to put tiny puncture marks in things, like four-legged ticket inspectors.

They're curled up now. Seven yins. Or yangs. Sprawled all over one another like they're one organism, pink skin on their bellies. Breathing quickly as if excited to be alive even when they're asleep. Giant paws. Everything dawning and new and beginning for them. Sagging skin, but sagging with capaciousness.

A little TV is on in the kitchen, showing footage of children at the racetrack, releasing hundreds of helium balloons into the air. The children's excitement backed by manipulative music and shots of the multicoloured balloons shrinking into the sky.

There's bedlam in the kitchen, people moving in a tacit congo through to the big TV in the lounge, turned up loud for race time. Like it's New Year and close to midnight. Betting slips and drinks jutting from hands, children shooshed sternly but weaving themselves in among the tense, excited bodies of adults. The TV blaring and Ted walking out to the garden but Sarah fetching him in again — telling him he can't miss the race.

So he stands at the back, ready for that voice. The excitement in it like his son is a child again. Like his voice in the days he wasn't yet old enough to chide Ted.

You left them, Dad. I don't care if it was to get him to the vet
… You can't be trusted with them if you panic like that. You can't
even be relied on to drive.

But it was just a son getting his own back for his childhood, Ted thinks, watching the families around the TV. He takes an urgent slug of drink. That was parenthood for you, eighteen years of giving everything but still feeling it isn't enough. Then the rest of your life waiting for them to realise. The rest of your life waiting for them to take their love away.

SLAM. The gates open, hooves on the ground, divots flying, gaping nostrils, the whites of the eyes. That voice galloping along too and everyone in the lounge happy and bouncing and delighted. The children wrapped up in adults. Fingers in half-open mouths. Laughter. Screaming. Ted in the corner, the crystal glasses tinkling in the cabinet beside him from the vibrations.

He leaves his beer on a coaster, slips out of the lounge, then the front door. Walks down the path, not wanting to leave but unable to stay. The street quiet.
The race that stops a
nation
. Ted moving through the open gate.

‘Ted?'

He stops, still focusing on the footpath. Sarah's tentative hand appearing on his shoulder. He turns a little, eyes downcast and wet.

‘What is it?'

‘I don't deserve your hospitality.'