Riggs Crossing (8 page)

Chapter 24

It’s after Easter, so everyone has money. Daddy bought a new motorcycle last week. We just went down to Coffs Harbour to get me some new clothes, and on the way back we stopped by Ernie’s house.

Ernie’s girlfriend Kerry is at his place, and she’s brought her friend Brianna. They’ve just got back from Kmart, where Kerry spent some of Ernie’s money and Brianna spent some of her cropper boyfriend’s money. Kerry mostly bought clothes for herself, Brianna mostly bought things for the baby she’s holding on her lap.

Kerry is cutting the tags off two pairs of jeans and some shirts.

‘I have a pair just like that.’ Brianna points at the pair of acid-wash jeans. Kerry holds them up to show the back, which has lacing like a corset. ‘But I can’t get into ’em since I had Jaidyn.’ The baby on her lap drools and gurgles.

‘You tried Herbalife?’ Kerry asks. ‘My mum lost heaps of weight on Herbalife.’

Kerry and Brianna start talking about weight loss pills, even though they’re both really skinny anyway. Then Brianna takes Jaidyn into a bedroom to change him, and Kerry follows her so they can keep talking. Ernie gets two beers from the fridge and hands one to Daddy. He got a Coke for me as soon as we arrived.

‘Gee, you’re a nice guy,’ Daddy says, nodding toward the sound of the chattering women.

‘Got me arm up me back,’Ernie says in a low voice. Ernie means that since Kerry knows about his cropping, she has something over him. They sit in silence for a minute. ‘At least she hasn’t got herself preggers.’

‘How long you think that’s gonna last?’ Daddy says. ‘Better get the snip if you wanna protect yourself.’

Ernie looks appalled. ‘Hey, that’s me nuts you’re talking about!’

Kerry and Brianna come out of the room with Jaidyn and go back to the couch. Kerry pulls a book out of one of the Kmart bags. ‘See? They had this one marked down to twelve-ninety-five. It’s about reincarnation and past life experiences.’

‘I was Nefertiti in a former life,’ Brianna says.

‘So was I!’ Kerry exclaims, surprised and pleased. ‘Hey, Ernie, isn’t that cool? Bree and I were both Nefertiti in our past lives!’

It’s Daddy who answers them. ‘You can’t both have been the same person in a past life.’ Usually, he starts sentences like this with ‘Bullshit’, but he doesn’t this time because he’s talking to a lady and he’s in someone else’s house.

‘Why not?’ Kerry blinks, surprised that anyone would disagree.

‘Yeah, I think it could happen,’ Brianna says, nodding.

Daddy waits a moment before replying. ‘Have you ever noticed that everybody who says they had a past life always says they were Nefertiti or Cleopatra or Napoleon or Henry the Eighth? Nobody ever says they were a delivery boy or a garbage collector.’

Kerry shrugs. ‘I guess those are the lives you don’t remember.’

It’s Saturday morning. I’m lying in bed, remembering those two stupid women surrounded by all the stupid stuff they’d spent Ernie’s money on who were too stupid to understand that Daddy was telling them they were stupid.

When you think about it, stupid people usually win. There’s strength in numbers, and there are lots more stupid people in this world than smart ones. Why are most TV shows stupid? Because stupid people want to watch stupid shows. TV network executives aren’t smart, but they’re smart enough to realise that most of their audience is stupid, and create stupid shows for them.

This line of thought is starting to confuse me. I get out of bed, grab my toiletries bag, and head to the bathroom. In the shower, I remember that this is a Mrs Rowles weekend. I’m looking forward to having Lyyssa out of my hair for a couple of days.

Since Bindi pissed off, this place has become a lot more tolerable. The feeling of something dangerous just waiting to happen has gone away. Still, before I leave my room, I always sit and listen to the house, trying to work out who’s home, what room they’re in, and what they’re doing.

I sit on my bed in my underwear, my hair towel-dried, close my eyes, and listen.

Music down the hall. Cinnamon’s in her room. Downstairs, Karen and Shane giggling and Mrs Rowles talking. Some clattering kitchen noises, then a squeal from Karen and Shane. Mrs Rowles has some sort of a trick flipping pancakes in the pan that kids like. No noise at all from Lyyssa’s study. Sometimes Lyyssa hangs around after Mrs Rowles gets here, reminding Mrs Rowles about curfew times and fretting about Karen’s medication, even after Mrs Rowles has pointedly told her, ‘Very good, Lyyssa, we’ll be just fine, enjoy your weekend.’

I look at my watch. Eight-thirty. Probably Mrs Rowles will be busy for the next half hour making pancakes for Karen and Shane and then doing the dishes. I’m hungry, but I’ve got a small bottle of long-life juice and a muesli bar, so I have that and read, keeping my ears tuned to the buzz of the house.

When I hear noisy cartoon sounds, I know that Karen and Shane, stuffed full of pancakes, have migrated to the lounge room and are pythonising in front of the TV. (Pythonising is a word of Daddy’s. It means to lie around doing nothing after you’ve eaten a big meal.)

Daddy, Ernie, and Ernie’s new girlfriend are pythonising in the lounge room. I’m lying on a camp bed on the back porch where it’s cool. The porch is screened in, but I still have to light a mosquito coil to keep the mozzies away. Reggie is dozing on the floor next to me.

I’m supposed to be asleep, but Daddy and his friends are talking. They’ve forgotten I’m here. Daddy’s in the armchair drinking a beer; Ernie and his girlfriend are sitting on the couch. The bong is on the coffee table. Ernie’s girlfriend has a razor blade and is scraping white powder into a line on a mirror. Then she rolls up a hundred-dollar note and sniffs the powder up her nose.

Ernie is telling a funny story. The last time he came over, it was a funny story about his dog Lily, who had a litter of pups last year with our dog Reggie. Lily smelled banana cake cooking in the kitchen. Being a dog, Lily had no way of knowing that the banana cake had dope baked into it, so she sneaked into the kitchen and ate it when Ernie and his missus were gone. They came back home and found the banana cake gone and the dog out cold on the kitchen floor. Lily stayed stoned for two days — they had to carry her outside morning and night so she could go to the toilet.

Tonight, the funny story is about Ernie’s ex-missus, who moved out and took his car with her. He saw her driving into town and ran her off the road.

‘So the stupid bitch files an assault charge and I had to front up to the district court. This old goose of a judge is wearing a sheep’s arse on his head and Dame Edna glasses.’

Ernie does an imitation of the judge. He picks up Daddy’s sunnies and pushes them halfway down his nose like grandpa glasses, and puts someone’s beanie on his head like it’s a wig. Then Ernie picks up the paper, screws up his mouth, and pretends he’s the judge reading from some document.

‘He says to me, “Mr Antonelli, in this affadavit, the plaintiff has stated that in the course of this incident, you called her a — ahhhegggmmm — a ‘dirty slut’. Did you in fact call Ms Gribble a — ahhegggmmm — a ‘dirty slut’?”

‘And I said to him, “No, Your Honour, that is a lie. Those are not my words. I did not call Tanya Gribble a dirty slut”.

‘So Old Beaky up there on his throne says, “Well, then, Mr Antonelli, will you please inform the court what you did say to Ms Gribble on this occasion?”.

‘And I said, “I called her a FAT dirty slut! I want that word FAT put on the record!”.’

Daddy laughs himself limp; the blonde lady giggles hysterically until she has mascara tears running in black streaks down her face. Ernie takes off Daddy’s sunnies and his beanie-wig. ‘The bastard told me I was in contempt,’ Ernie grumbles. ‘Fined me eighty bucks.’

I put on my clothes and walk downstairs. Mrs Rowles is in the kitchen, scrubbing the frying pan clean with a piece of steel wool. The dishes have already been washed and put onto the drying rack. ‘Good morning, Len,’ Mrs Rowles says, looking over her shoulder as I come in.

‘Good morning, Mrs Rowles.’ I’m always polite and formal with Mrs Rowles. We both prefer it that way. I speak to Mrs Rowles the same way I would speak to Clarissa Hobbs, if I ever met her.

‘I’m taking Shane and Karen to the zoo in about an hour. Would you like to come with us?’

The zoo. I would like to go to the zoo, but not if Shane and Karen are coming along.

‘Actually, I have other plans for the day. But thank you for inviting me.’

Mrs Rowles could make me go along if she wanted to. But she knows I’m not going to get into any trouble on my own. Cinnamon, on the other hand, could get into plenty of trouble. But I guess that as long as Cinnamon is back inside by curfew, Mrs Rowles’ arse is covered.

Mrs Rowles smiles a little. ‘Not interested in the zoo? Well, I won’t force you to go. But you know the rules. Back here before six-thirty.’ She says this pleasantly, but firmly.

‘I know,’ I assure her. No sense in antagonising someone who’s basically on my side.

Mrs Rowles takes off the rubber gloves she’s been using to wash the dishes, then hangs them carefully from two pegs on the wall over the sink. ‘I’m making chicken casserole for dinner. Will you be having some?’

I would like some of Mrs Rowles’ casserole. She puts cooked chicken and broccoli in a big pan, then covers it with a mushroom sauce and cheddar cheese. She usually makes roasted potatoes and salad to go with it. So why is my first instinct to say no, thank you, I’ll make myself a vegetarian stir-fry?

‘Yes. Yes, I will, please,’ I manage to say.

Mrs Rowles tries not to smile. ‘Good. Dinner’s on the table at seven. I’ll expect you to help with the dishes afterward.’

Fair enough.

It takes Mrs Rowles about an hour to get those two morons Shane and Karen out the door to go the zoo. Shane took forever deciding which T-shirt to wear, then Mrs Rowles made him change because it was the one with a picture of a pro wrestler giving the middle finger, then Karen cried because Mrs Rowles told her she had to wear proper shoes, not her pink flip-flops. Then she cried some more because she couldn’t find bobbles for her hair that matched her outfit. ‘Both of you go to the front door and stand next to it while I go to the ladies!’ Mrs Rowles yells, muttering under her breath as she passes by the lounge room on her way to the toilet. I’m channel surfing. Nothing much interesting is on.

In a few minutes, Mrs Rowles comes back calm, powdered and lipsticked. ‘We’re going in my car,’ she announces. Karen makes a whining noise. ‘NOW!’ Mrs Rowles barks. The door closes firmly, and Karen whimpers about something. ‘I
told
you, your medicine is in my handbag!’ Mrs Rowles says, exasperated. How she’s going to put up with Karen all afternoon is beyond me. I hear Mrs Rowles start up the car and drive off. I breathe a sigh of relief.

My relief quickly turns to boredom.

Everything on TV is crap, so I switch it off. I notice the picture hanging on the wall, some awful piece of donated ‘art’, is crooked, but I can’t be bothered straightening it. I look at the painting on the other wall. This one was obviously done by some kid who used to live here. It’s just a bunch of words painted in black on a red canvas.

A SHELTER is someplace

you can feel SAFE.

A SHELTER is someplace

where you are PROTECTED.

Woohoo, IWYR has talent. That’s just sooo good. I bet whatever idiot painted that ended up going to art school.

They used to call this place the Inner West Youth Shelter, but then someone decided that ‘Shelter’ sounded ‘pejorative’, like someplace people dump stray dogs and cats, so they changed it to ‘Refuge’. Now some of the dickheads that Lyyssa talks to are starting to say that ‘Refuge’ sounds pejorative and want to change it to ‘Home’, but some other dickheads say that’s pejorative because it implies that the kids here don’t have homes, and that it should be called the Inner West Youth Sanctuary, but the first group of dickheads says that ‘Sanctuary’ is pejorative because it sounds like a place for endangered animals, and it’s also discriminatory because ‘Sanctuary’ has religious connotations.

Pe-jor-a-tive. I couldn’t find that word in the dictionary because I thought it was
per
-jorative, so I asked Miss Dunn.

I look at that dumb painting again. A SHELTER is someplace where you are BORED OUT OF YOUR BRAIN is what I’d paint.

I don’t want to read. I don’t want to study. I look out the window. It’s a fine day, but I can’t think of where I’d go except to the zoo.

The zoo. The zoo. The zoo.

Two hours and about twenty dollars later, I’m inside the zoo. If I’d gone with Mrs Rowles she would have paid, but then I would have had to put up with Shane and Karen. At least I remembered to bring bottled water and put on sunblock before I left. The sun must be more bitey here than anywhere else in Sydney.

I take the cable car to the top. At first I’m annoyed because I have to share with three other people, but it turns out they’re tourists and they start talking in German. On the way to the top, we see an orangutan or baboon sitting in a tree house with his shaggy back to us.

After an hour of walking around, I realise why that ape won’t come down from his tree.

Children with sticky ice-cream faces run around screaming at nothing. Mums push enormous prams loaded with bags of oranges and boxes of disposable nappies and boxes of muesli bars and cans of drink and enough Tele-Tubbies to stock a toy store. Asians take photos. Some clown takes off his Akubra and puts it on the head of a wombat that’s acting more like a pet dog than a wombat. Some kid pats a wallaby that’s lying in the sun like a lazy old cat. The wallaby has a chunk missing from its ear, like it had a tag there but it got ripped out. People pay to have their picture taken next to a mangy koala that’s sitting too low in a fake tree. There’s a miniature farm-zoo and some granny is squawking at her grandkids to come look at a stock saddle and an old tin of saddle soap locked up in a glass case.