Tom Houghton (18 page)

‘What ya got on for school today, then? Maths and shit?'

‘Lots of shit,' I said, strangely engaged by him. ‘You know, all the same shit on a different day.'

‘Tom!' Mum said. ‘Don't start.'

‘Nah, my fault, eh, Lana banana? Sorry.'

Mal looked not much more than a child himself. A boy in the last year of school perhaps, a truant. Lines of experience marked the corners of his eyes but the actual pupils counterbalanced them, the way they darted around the room looking for something of interest. He raised his eyebrows whenever he spoke, crinkling the skin of his forehead. His mouth was small, with tiny sharp teeth. He kept grinning silently to himself, winking at me over nothing in particular, staring at Mum's backside.

‘Never liked primary school, me. High school was all right, but,' Mal continued. ‘You any good at it, bro?'

‘He's the top of his class,' Mum said with pride. ‘Aren't you, Tom?'

I never knew how to answer questions such as these, never found the right mood to champion my own achievements. That didn't stop my mother waxing lyrical to any person who expressed a passing interest, it seemed, and she never did pick up on the fact that her pride made my cheeks turn scarlet.

We ate breakfast together, chatting over mundane things. Mal asked what I got up to last night and I tried not to blush again, lying that I'd read a biography. Mal spoke about the action at the pub, how some clown tried to pick a fight with him before his mate dragged him away. Mum made a joke about Mal's ex, calling her rough as bags. Then Mal regaled us with the story of when he first met Mum, how he knew they'd end up going on a date, even though she told him she never went out with a customer. This was news to me, but I let it slide. Mal said he thought Mum was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever laid eyes on, her beauty was going to waste behind a bar in this godforsaken place. It was unusual to see my mother spoken about so glowingly, but she smiled sweetly as she served pancakes (pancakes on a Monday!).

Eventually I excused myself from the table and got ready for school, noticing how when I left the table, Mal half stood to watch me leave, the towel around his waist doing little to conceal what lay beneath. Another image to haunt my lonely wonderings.

I got ready for school in lightning-fast time despite the fact that a dull thud of uncertainty weighed heavily in my gut. I felt I needed to get out of the house, far away from the man my mother would want to make love to repeatedly. I kissed Mum goodbye and shook hands with Mal.

‘I'm about to head off myself, fella. How about I give you a ride?'

‘It's okay, thank you. It's only five streets away.'

‘Nah, come on, bro, no sweat. We'll have a chat, eh?'

I sat in the front seat of Mal's delivery van, my hands clasped in my lap. By the time he got the car started, adjusted his mirrors, clicked his seatbelt in, I figured I would have just about been at school.

‘You got any kids?' I tried to sound adult.

‘No, I don't, eh? I was married before but. She couldn't have kids so neither could I, with her. But then she dumped me for some other guy.'

‘Do you want kids?'

‘I dunno, mate. My ex-girlfriend had some. They go to your school but I never really think about 'em for myself, so I guess I don't.'
Heh heh heh
, he chuckled. ‘Your mum's a really cool chick, eh? I dig her a lot.'

‘She's great,' I said, still not looking anywhere other than out the side window. ‘Would you like to come to dinner tonight?'

‘I'll check with your mum, bro. Tell me, what's happening at school? You got many friends?'

‘We've got a Hollywood day coming up in a few weeks. You've gotta dress up like a Hollywood star.'

‘Sounds fun. Who you going as,
Top Gun
?'

‘Nah . . . it has to be old Hollywood. I'm doing a Katharine Hepburn thing.' I had no idea this statement was anything out of the ordinary because I was so certain that what I was doing was fate, the most natural choice in the world. I was taking over from the incredible actress who'd become my namesake.

‘You're going as a chick, bro? Man, don't do that. You need to go as Heston or John Wayne, some big man like that, eh?'
Heh heh heh
.

‘You wouldn't really understand, Mal. She's our relative. I share the same name as her brother, and his birthday. It's just something I have to do.'

What I liked about Mal even in that first meeting was that he never showed any sign of judging. Other adults in my life, teachers for example, would speak to each other and give knowing glances. I was too smart not to notice them, an adult stuck in an awkward kid's body. There wasn't one teacher I was less intelligent than and this had often gotten me in trouble for the way I spoke to them, or how I'd point out their spelling or other errors.

It was a nice change to be dropped to school by Mal. He beeped his horn cheekily and raised a hand in farewell. I liked him more than any man my mother had brought home but I wasn't sure if I liked him for her, or myself.

Once Mal's van had disappeared from sight, I came back to the mundane and sensed almost immediately that things had changed. Spencer spotted me from across the playground but did not approach, deliberately turning his head away. He was sitting alone over by the canteen watching other kids, his eyes struggling to keep track of who was in, or being chased, or the king of the castle or whatever it was they were playing. I wanted to walk up to him, pretend that everything had returned to normal, but worried that acting oblivious might offend Spencer even more, so I did nothing. This was another mistake that would return to haunt me. Smart as I thought I was in the classroom, it never quite did extend to the street.

In class, Mrs Nguyen announced that the ten best of the Hollywood costumes would be allowed to parade before the entire school, who would then vote on the winner by way of a show of hands. This prospect sent butterflies racing around my belly. I knew making it to the top ten would be a cinch – I had a better than even chance of winning the whole competition. We still didn't know what the main prize was, but it wasn't about that. None of the other kids would really understand what this meant to me, to the name Thomas Houghton, but I didn't care much about that either. One day, they would all come to realise.

Tom Houghton, or Thomas Houghton Hepburn to be precise, was never far from my mind. It didn't matter what we were learning, what was being discussed, every sentence somehow managed to trace back to Tom, and my mission to replace Katharine Hepburn as the champion of Tom. New York, America, someone named Catherine, rope,
hang your work there
 . . . Always Tom Houghton came back into my mind along with a flash of his haunted face in black and white. It felt as though he was slowly, definitively, taking me over, and I did nothing to push him away, welcoming him instead, actively searching for connections and making clear cases out of even the most tenuous ones.

As recess neared, I tried surreptitiously to get Spencer's attention, but every time I made eye contact, he just looked the other way. I decided that begging forgiveness was the sanest path to tread. I hated to admit it, but I needed Spencer in my life, wanted him beside me. We hadn't done anything wrong, after all, hadn't seen each other in any adult way. My curiosity had just come out sounding wrong and if Spencer wanted to act pettily then it was nothing to do with me. But as soon as the bell rang, courage melted through me and I grabbed my bag indignantly, headed for my hiding spot behind the ball sports wall, safe in the knowledge that Spencer would never find me. I did the same thing at lunch, armed with three movie magazines.

It was a lonely day, though hardly different to how things were pre-Spencer. Just having the knowledge of an alternative to loneliness, knowing its relief had only been momentary, made returning to it that much more sorrowful. I was miserable about what had happened, I couldn't deny it, hated there was ill-feeling between us and that Spencer was now forced to sit on his own. I couldn't eat, found it difficult to concentrate on my schoolwork. I hatched another plan to patch things up after school, my body trembling with anticipation the closer it got. But this was foiled by Simon Harlen, who asked Spencer if he wanted to play soccer up at the oval. I heard Spencer accept excitedly and figured that would seal our fate as friends – or foes.

When I got home, Mum was still in a jovial mood. She was humming to herself as she pottered about the kitchen preparing an early dinner for three.

‘Hello, my handsome man,' she said after I'd put my school bag in my room. ‘How was your day?'

‘Good,' I lied, so accustomed to keeping her in the dark.

‘I'm making ham steaks with pineapple and salad for dinner, just something quick and light.'

‘So Mal's coming back then?'

‘He sure is!' She grabbed my hands and danced with me, making my head bob about.

I left her to the cooking and went to do my chores. I stuck my hand into one of the chicken coops without looking to hoist a warm bird posterior aside and grope around blindly for the never-to-hatch egg. I removed two of them successfully but was returning for the third when the bird pecked at my hand furiously. It was severe enough to cause an instant blood blister.

‘Bloody bastard!' I shook my hand before placing the injury to my mouth. ‘Bloody, bloody bastard!' I said around my aching flesh.

I stood up, my hand still in my mouth as though it would find a painkiller there, and kicked out at the coop, sending it hurtling. The angry bird, the victim of my lemon throwing, went scampering out of the wooden box dazed and confused. I approached it from behind and sized up its rump. I kicked it as hard as I could. The bird was catapulted through the air, half from the might of my foot, half from its own flight, and landed about four metres away. The action made me feel good, and strong. Once it hit the ground with a thump, the chook sat down in complete confusion for a second or two before rushing off around the far side of the garage to hide among Pa's building materials. It omitted a pathetic kind of sound as it went, a burbling, gurgling, drunken mumble.

‘Mongrel,' I said to the dust it left in its wake. ‘Teach ya.'

The sun was clinging to its last connection of the day by the time I finished all of my allocated jobs. Not quite dusk, but late enough for it to have lost all its bite. I entered the kitchen and went straight to the laundry to wash my hands and arms of the afternoon's hard work. I lamented the absence of Solvol since my pa had died and used instead one of Mum's Sunlight cakes.

‘Hey, fella,' Mal said. ‘You all done?'

‘How long have you been here?' The presence of Mal bathed me in a feeling I found difficult to name. It was like coming home.

‘Just long enough to have a shower after work, eh? I done all my deliveries and brung your mum some flowers too. Sweet as.'

Mal's hair was slick from the shower, or else greasy from his sweaty day. On the kitchen bench, an old vase of Ma's was filled with a bunch of predominantly wilted carnations.

‘See what Mal bought me!' Mum said as she entered the room holding a fresh tea towel.

‘Well I do get 'em for free, eh?' he said sheepishly. ‘But it's –'

‘The thought that counts,' she finished for him and giggled lightly, unencumbered.

Over dinner, Mal proudly announced that he'd brought two videos for me and him to watch while Mum went to work. I wished I'd been asked for a say in the titles but my mum was so full of gratitude I knew to keep my mouth shut. Besides, I'd enjoyed my alone time with Mal that morning and looked forward to more.

‘I reckon you need a bit more of a balanced view of Hollywood, eh, Tom? Your mum's been filling you with all chick stuff, bro, you need some of the testosterone shit, eh?'

Charlton Heston and Clint Eastwood were who Mal had in mind. I had already been making plans to return to the garage to sort through more of Pa's things, and test my resolve to stay away from the magazines that had sucked me in at inopportune moments throughout my day. I wondered for a moment what Mal would make of them but figured real men, or men dating my mother at least, didn't need photos to help them imagine what was already theirs to take. He drove Mum to work and returned no more than ten minutes later, buoyed by the promise of a boys' night in, genuinely pleased to be introducing me to two films I'd never seen before.

They lacked the glamour of films with strong female leads, which was disappointing, but they were shot competently enough and held my interest sufficiently for me not to fall asleep, even though it was approaching eleven by the time they'd finished. At the pace of about one centimetre per hour, I'd edged my way towards Mal on the couch but still we never touched. My continual (forced) yawning was meant to encourage an offer of lying across his lap, but it failed.

‘Man's man,' was all Mal said during the credits of
Magnum Force
. ‘And one of the best ever.'

I had expected Mal to be the type who talked all the way through a movie but had been grossly mistaken. He sat there in complete silence, barely moving a muscle as the plot unravelled, not even letting out a sound in the exciting or surprising parts.

‘You chose good,' I said to him, meaning it. ‘I didn't think I would like them all that much.'

‘My old man is a bit of a movie freak too, eh, bro? Loved the shit. I borrowed them off him last time I went home.'

‘Mum doesn't get many flowers,' I said, unsure why.

‘Well, I can't understand that, eh?'

‘I worry about her sometimes . . .'

Heh heh heh
. ‘But you're just a kid, fella, you should leave the worrying to us grown-ups.'

‘It's just us though, always has been, even before my Pa died. Mum's a bit . . . well she gets lonely. She can get a bit carried away, you know? Lets her mind take her to places she shouldn't go.'