The Hands (4 page)

He turned off the shower and stepped out and she'd gone. Dried himself and put on the fan and lay naked on his bed, airing the cracks and crevices, the dampness of his scrotum, the undried water in the creases of his fingers.

Then she returned with a slice of beef on a fork. She held it to his mouth. ‘Taste this.'

And he did. ‘Nice.'

She sat beside him. ‘You okay?'

‘I bet Dad gave him that suit.'

‘No,' she replied, placing her hand on his leg. ‘He's had it in his wardrobe for years.'

‘Why?'

‘
Why?
Chris?
'

He sighed, aware of her eyes on his skin. ‘Could you give me a hand with that spreadsheet tonight?' He could see his stomach, and leg, and the hand that wouldn't move. ‘I can't get it to add up. If I could just do it on paper.'

She ran her hand up his leg and side, and retreated. ‘Wait for Aiden,' she suggested, hovering between two worlds.

Then he thought, Now, now's my moment, but for some reason, couldn't move. Maybe, he thought, he had to deal with this issue too. He had to hold her down and tear at her clothes. Instead, he sat up. ‘Right, what's next?'

5

The next morning it started to blow. A north-westerly at first, smelling of dry grass, and Murray telling them they were in for a blasting. ‘You should put the ute in the shed,' he told his son.

As they sat drinking tea the wind picked up, gusting, gently sandpapering their windows and bluestone walls. Trevor could hear the bottle tree; he went to the laundry door to look. A few plastic bottles skidded across the compound before tumbling down the hill onto the flatlands. Two or three beer bottles dropped and smashed and a few shattered on their strings, hanging like broken limbs. Trevor saw that it blew flat and fast. ‘Harry!' he called.

Harry came out. They ran across the compound into the chook yard and chased the hens into their house. Trevor fastened the latch and tried to secure a plastic tarp over the windows.

‘Washing,' he said to his son, and Harry walked, leaning into the wind, towards the line. As he went he shielded his eyes and spat sand from his lips. He wasn't tall enough to un-peg the clothes so he pulled on them and pegs went flying. He looked down the road and saw his father chasing Yanga, cornering her and carrying her in.

They stepped into the laundry, shaking sand from their hair and clothes, and Harry asked, ‘Do you reckon it will be a bad one?'

Trevor shrugged, using his foot to keep the dog away from the door. ‘Probably.'

They went back into the living room and Chris watching a war movie. Trevor just looked at him, then at Fay, and settled for the smallest shake of his head.

‘Someone sealed the doors?' he asked.

Carelyn emerged from the hallway carrying a couple of wet towels. ‘All done.'

Murray, still out on the porch, finished his cigarette and came in. Sat on the lounge and looked at the movie. ‘This isn't gonna help,' he said.

‘What?' Carelyn asked, sealing the kitchen window with a wet tea towel.

‘Young steers.' He didn't say any more, didn't need to. He was out there with them, standing in the blue-bush, his eyes closed and his legs tense against the gale. He could feel the sand in his ears and on his skin. I'll just stand here until it blows over, he was thinking. Two days, three, whatever it takes.

‘Oh, Christ,' Fay moaned, as she lay back in her chair. ‘I gotta get to the shops before they close.' She sat up, leaned forward and rocked back and forth.

‘What is it, Fay?' Carelyn asked, looking at Trevor and Harry.

‘The shops.'

‘What shops?' Trevor asked.

But she didn't seem to know.

‘I can see now,' she said, ‘he's starting to put things away.'

‘Who is?' Carelyn said.

But again, she didn't seem to know.

‘There's no bloody shop,' Murray explained. ‘She's off with the fairies again.'

Carelyn wasn't so sure. She came over and felt her forehead. ‘She's hot,' she said. ‘Harry, get the thermometer.'

Harry came back and they took her temperature. A few minutes later Carelyn said, ‘Nearly thirty-eight.'

‘And she's dreaming,' Murray said. ‘Is it Sauers, the baker?' he asked her, but she just continued rocking.

‘Are you feeling sick, Fay?' Carelyn said.

‘No, there's nothin' wrong with me.'

They put her to bed. Chris didn't notice she was gone, or even know there was a problem. He was busy digging a tunnel under the wires. He knew, from his dozens of viewings, that he'd come up short. At one point, he looked out the window and noticed the sandstorm. ‘Wow, that's bad,' he managed, looking at Trevor.

Who, by now, had consulted the satellite image. He'd seen the front moving east, darkening everything in its path; Bundeena descending into days of blight; day turning to night, and the generator taking over from the solar panels (themselves sandblasted clean); moods darkening, supplies of DVDs taken out of the cupboard and most of all, like Murray, he'd seen his stock sheltering beside the skeletons of gidgee trees, waiting.

By evening the storm was shaking the eaves, coming in and under the house and up through the gaps in the floorboards. Trevor stood looking out of the front window and saw sheets of iron blowing across the flats. Waited, consulting his watch. Saw the hazy, dot-dash yellow lights of the Indian Pacific. Watched it moving, consumed and spat out by the storm until it was gone, in the dust.

They went to bed and fell asleep to the accompaniment of rattling iron. ‘I should go look,' Trevor said to Carelyn, as they settled into bed.

‘Leave it,' she replied. ‘We'll pick it all up tomorrow.'

And still, the sound of
The Great Escape
from the lounge room.

During the night they were woken by Fay. ‘Mr Whitmore,' she was saying. ‘I'm over here.'

Trevor and Carelyn went in to her. In the next bed, Chris was still asleep. Carelyn took her temperature, looked at Trevor and said, ‘She's still hot.' Then gently shook her. ‘Fay, have you got any pain?'

Fay just looked at her. ‘Gee, I need a pee.' They helped her to the toilet. She sat and waited but nothing came. Carelyn stood beside her. ‘Can you go?'

‘Soon,' Fay said.

She didn't go, and they helped her back to bed.

‘You alright now?' Trevor asked, bringing in a glass of water.

‘Fine. Go on, everyone back to bed.'

Then Murray was behind them, hovering in the dark. ‘She still going?'

‘She's got a temperature.' Carelyn glared at him.

‘She's just confused. She's getting old … aren't you, Fay?'

They all crawled back to bed, to fading thoughts and visions that chased them through the storm. Murray watched as sand blew in under his sleep-out door. Lying in bed, Trevor asked his wife, ‘Should we give her something?'

‘Let's wait and see how she is in the morning.'

The next day it just kept blowing. The wind dropped then returned, dragging the morning and early afternoon towards a premature dusk. Trevor could see from the satellite that the storm was nearly over, but it didn't feel that way. He returned to his front window and watched the landscape ebb and flow towards and away from the railway line. Went out and saw the bottle tree was nearly bare. Sand had banked against nearly every wall and door. He made it out to feed the chooks but returned and told his son, ‘Your veggies are all gone.'

‘The lot?' Harry asked.

‘Well, you can see the top of the tomatoes.'

It continued blowing during the afternoon. Sand had climbed halfway up the outside of the windows. The laundry door had blown off its bottom hinge and a four-metre length of gutter hung loose from the sleep-out. Fay started off better but by mid-afternoon she was hot again. This time Murray helped her back to bed, saying, ‘You just gotta sweat it out.'

Around five o'clock the wind dropped and dragged its belly across the desert. Harry and Trevor put on their boots and went out to fix the shed roof. As they were finishing they heard Carelyn call from the house. ‘Trevor!' They went in to find Fay back on the lounge, a rug across her lap, calling out above a soundtrack of Bruce Willis machine-gun fire. ‘Steady,' she was saying. ‘Steady so it doesn't collapse on yer.'

Chris was sitting beside her; he didn't seem concerned. At one point he blocked his ears. Murray just said, ‘Come on, old girl, wake up, you're having another dream.'

‘It's not a dream,' Carelyn said, kneeling beside her. ‘You alright, love?' Her lips dry despite the fact she'd been sipping water all day.

They put her back to bed and returned to the lounge room. Trevor made a coffee and noticed Harry snuggled into the lounge.

‘You might need a shower,' Trevor told him.

But Harry had entered the world of the hijacked office tower.

‘Harry,' Trevor barked. ‘Shower.'

‘Now?'

‘Yes.'

Harry stood and left the room, dragging his feet.

‘She's still hot,' Carelyn told her husband.

‘Right,' Trevor replied, stirring his coffee. ‘I suppose we better call in.'

‘Why?' Murray asked.

‘She's ill,' Carelyn said.

‘It's just the storm. The weather affects her, you know that.'

‘Dad, you don't run a fever because of a dust storm.'

‘It's old age.'

‘It's not.' Trevor stood looking through the front windows. The topsoil had settled and he could see beyond the railway line. The air looked smoky. It was the light stuff, he guessed. He knew it would settle in a few hours. Still, he would have to check the bores—all of them.

Murray found the satellite phone and dialled. He sat in a nook beside Harry's lounge-room classroom. It shared the same chairs and desk but had a different purpose. There was a poster on the wall: an asexual human with dotted lines dissecting its body into small, meaty parts. Like the chart of beef cuts on a butcher's wall. And inside these segments, numbers 1–63, defining every part of the bilateral carcass that needed diagnosing. So they could call and speak to a doctor and say, Yes, Doctor, number thirteen … a shooting pain that comes and goes.

Trevor waited and eventually spoke to a registered nurse. He told her about his aunt and explained her dreams and how she always needed the toilet.

‘Does it burn when she pees?' she asked.

‘Does it burn when you pee?' he called to Fay.

Fay looked at her brother. ‘What's he saying?'

‘Does it burn when you pee?'

‘Yes.'

‘Yes,' Trevor told the nurse, who explained that it was probably a urinary tract infection.

‘A urinary tract infection,' Trevor said aloud, so they'd all know. ‘Right … how do we deal with that?' He listened as she took a few minutes to move papers and fiddle with her computer. ‘She's not allergic to penicillin?'

Trevor asked Fay, who asked Murray, who asked her again, before she said, ‘No.'

Trevor told the nurse.

‘Good. Trimethoprim, three times a day, for … seven days should do it. If she's not better after two or three days, call back.'

Trevor found a pad and pen and asked, ‘What number's that?'

‘Sixty-two.'

‘Sixty-two, three times a day, for seven days?'

‘Yes.'

‘Okay, thanks.' He hung up.

Carelyn already had the medical kit out. She was sorting the ointments, dressings and plastic vials full of dozens of types of pills; checking the bold numerals designed to make sure no one gave the wrong medication. She found the pills: 62. ‘Right.' After checking the name with Trevor she closed the box, relocked it and put it back in the cupboard. Went to the kitchen, filled another glass of water and sat beside Fay. ‘The nurse thinks you have a urinary tract infection.'

Fay just shrugged. ‘How did I get that?'

‘You just get it. Here, take this.' She handed her the first of the yellow pills. Fay placed it in her mouth and Carelyn helped her with the water.

‘Yes, I'm feeling better already.'

‘You will.'

And Trevor said, ‘It's just as well the storm's gone, Fay, cos that probably caused it.' He looked at his father.

‘What?' Murray said.

‘Nothing.'

They pumped diesel from a drum to the ute. Harry worked for twenty minutes, until fuel spilled from the tank. ‘Dad,' he called, and Trevor came out with a small esky full of food.

‘Thanks, old boy,' he said, ruffling his son's hair, and Harry asked, ‘Why can't I come?'

‘You need your beauty sleep.'

‘Please?'

‘No.' He climbed in behind the wheel. ‘Your mother needs your help.'

Harry retreated, convinced, but not happy. What would be more fun? Bush-bashing or wiping dishes? Cleaning out troughs or mopping piss from the toilet floor?

Trevor drove north. The track was all sand but he knew if he stayed on the ridges he wouldn't get bogged. Bore number one, an hour and a half from home, the water in the trough warm and soupy but the pump still working. He unscrewed the bung and cleaned the trough before refilling it. Kept going: numbers two and three, the same story. Now he was nearly three hours from home.

He took out his swag, unrolled it and sat eating chicken and drinking warm Coke. Sand was blowing over from a dry turkey nest dam. As he napped, the desert, his farm, was still and silent. It'd had enough of blowing. He was woken by kangaroos coming close then jumping off into a distance of small, nocturnal spirits. He sat up and ate biscuits and drank the rest of his Coke; then shook out his swag and rolled it up.

He drove towards number four. Passing a big group of steers, his heart sank when he saw ribs and hips and loose skin. Although he saw them as animals (with fear, and pain, reflected in their big brown eyes) they were also meat, living kilograms, dollars and cents per unit, Dry Sheep Equivalents. He could only start paying his mortgage and school fees when they stood on the scales at the abattoir.

After lunch, six hours of driving, thirteen bores, he headed home. On and on, as one of Carelyn's talking books read itself out and he retreated into his own thoughts, again. Late in the afternoon he started drifting off and the ute wandered into soft sand and bogged itself. He gunned the accelerator but realised he was just digging himself in. ‘Fuck.' He got out, removed the tailgate and slid it under one of the back wheels. Getting back in, he started the engine and slowly inched out of the sand. The clutch shuddered and he stalled; his ute rolled back, settling, deeper, as if the land was alive, and hungry.

He got out. ‘You bitch!' Kicked the tyre, and felt his toes crushing in his steel-capped boots. ‘Christ!' he growled, leaning on the cab, noticing the sun settling on the western horizon.

It was after 11 pm when he came through the back door. Murray was the only one still up. ‘How are you?' he asked.

He didn't see the point of answering. ‘How's Fay?'

‘She's cooled down … and she's stopped rambling.' He looked his son over. ‘Problems?'