Underdogs (21 page)

How much longer it would take for Rube to get rid of Octavia.

If Steve clung to the memory of the look we’d exchanged on Monday night as often as I did.

How my sister Sarah was doing lately. (We hadn’t spoken for a while.)

Whether or not Mrs. Wolfe was ever disappointed in me or knew that I had turned out such a lone figure.

And how the barber was feeling above his shop.

I also realized as I walked, then began to run, that I didn’t even have any bad feelings toward the couple who’d abused me. I knew I should have, but I didn’t. Sometimes I think I need a bit more mongrel in me.

THE CEMETERY

There’s a cemetery in my mind and I can see my own grave, on a blue-sky day with cotton clouds and angry sun
.

People pass by that grave
.

They speak and turn and wilt under the heat of the horizon and the scattered voice of death
.

I can see fear churning in their hearts, as they build fences around what they say and believe, and what they

tell the people around them. Only things make it out, onto the heated grass
.

I write and hope — to stand in this vision long enough to see a shadow emerge over my grave
.

No flowers
.

No spoken words
.

Only a person
.

Remembering
.

“This dog’s an absolute embarrassment,” said Rube, and I knew that some things would never change. They would only slip away and return.

After the whole bus stop issue, I got home, and after dinner, Rube and I were taking Miffy, our neighbor’s midget dog, for his usual walk. As always, we wore our hoods over our heads so no one could recognize us, because in the words of Rube, the sight of Miffy was an absolute shocker.

“When Keith gets another dog,” he suggested, “we’ll tell him to get a Rottweiler. Or a Doberman. Or at least something we can be seen in public with.”

We stopped at an intersection.

Rube bent down to Miffy.

In an over-friendly voice, he said, “Aren’t you an ugly little bastard, Miffy, ay? Aren’
t you? Yes you are. You are, you know,” and the dog licked its lips and panted quite happily really. If only he had some idea that Rube was giving him a good mouthful. We crossed the street.

My feet dragged.

Rube’s feet ambled.

Miffy pranced, and his chain jingled next to him, in time with his breathing.

Looking down at him, I realized he had the body of a rodent and the fur of something that can only be called stupendous. Like he’d gone a thousand rounds with a spin dryer. The problem was, we happened to love that dog, in spite of everything. Even that night, when we got home, I gave him the piece of steak Sarah couldn’t finish at dinner. Unfortunately, it was a bit too tough for Miffy’s pitiful little teeth and he nearly choked on it.

“Bloody hell, Cam,” Rube laughed. “What are y’ tryin’ to do to the poor little bastard? He’s gaggin’ on it.”

“I thought it’d be all right.”

“All right, my arse. Look at him.” He pointed. “Look at him!”

“What should I do, then?”

Rube had an idea. “Maybe you oughta get it out of his mouth, chew it up a bit, and
then
give it to him.”

“
What
?” I looked at him. “You want me to put
that
in my mouth”

“That’s right.”

“Maybe
you
should.”

“No way.”

So basically, we pretty much let Miffy choke a bit. In the end it didn’t sound all that serious anyway.

“It’ll build his character,” Rube suggested. “Nothin’ like a good choking to toughen a dog up.” We both watched intently as Miffy eventually finished off the steak.

When he was done and we were sure he hadn’t choked himself to death, we took him home.

“We should just throw him over the fence,” Rube said, but we both knew we never would. There’s a big difference between watching a dog half-choke and throwing him over the fence. Besides, our neighbor Keith would be pretty unthrilled with us. He could be a bit unpleasant, Keith, especially when it came to that dog of his. You wouldn’t think such a hard man would own such a fluffy kind of dog, but I’m sure he probably just blamed it on his wife.

“It’s the wife’s dog,” I can imagine him telling the boys at the pub. “I’m just lucky I’ve got those two shithead boys next door to walk him — their old lady makes ‘em do it.” He could be a hard man, Keith, but okay nonetheless.

Speaking of hard men, it turned out that Dad did want our help on the upcoming Saturday. He pays us quite generously now, and he’s always pretty happy. A while back, like I’ve said before, when he struggled to get work, he was pretty miserable, but these days it was good to work with him. Sometimes we went and got fish ‘n’ chips for lunch, and we played cards on top of Dad’s small, dirty red cooler, but only as long as we all worked our guts out. Cliff Wolfe was a fan of working your guts out, and to be fair, so were Rube and I. We were also fans of fish ‘n’ chips and cards, even if it was usually the old man who won. Either he won or the game was taking too long and he cut it short. Some things can’t be helped.

What I haven’t mentioned is that Rube also had another job. He left school last year and got an apprenticeship with a builder, despite getting an abysmal result on his final exams.

I remember when he got them delivered.

He opened the envelope next to the slanted, slurred front gate of our house.

“How’d y’ go?” I asked.

“Well Cam,” he smiled, as if he was thoroughly pleased with himself. “I can sum it up in two words. The first word is
completely
. The second word is
shithouse.
”

And yet, he got a job.

Straightaway.

Typical Rube.

He didn’t need to work with the old man on Saturdays, but for some re he did. Maybe it was an act of respect. Dad asked, so Rube said yes. Maybe he didn’t want anyone to think he was lazy. I don’t know.

Either way, we were working with ol’ Cliff that weekend, and he woke us nice and early. It was still dark.

We were waiting for Dad to get out of the bathroom (which he’s always likely to leave in a pretty horrendous state, smell-wise), when Rube and I decided we’d get the cards out early.

As Rube dealt the cards at the kitchen table, I recalled what happened a few weeks earlier, when we had a game during breakfast. It wasn’t a bad idea, but I managed to spill my cornflakes all over the deck because I was still
half-asleep. Even this week there was still a dried cornflake glued to a card I threw onto the out pile.

Rube picked it up.

Examined it.

“Huh.”

Me: “I know.”

“You’re pitiful.”

“I know.” I could only agree.

The toilet flushed, the water ran, and Dad came out of the bathroom.

“We go?”

We nodded and gathered up the cards.

At the job, Rube and I dug hard and talked and laughed. I’ll admit that Rube’s always good for a bit of a laugh. He was telling me a story about an old girlfriend of his who always munched on his ears.

“In the end I had to buy her some bloody chewie. Otherwise I wouldn’t have my ears anymore.”

Octavia
, I thought.

I wondered what story he would have about her in a few weeks’ time, when it was dead and gone and thrown out. Her searching eyes, ruffled hair, and human legs and nice feet. I wondered what quirks of hers he’d have to talk about. Maybe she insisted on him touching her leg in a movie, or liked turning her fingers in his hand. I didn’t know.

It was quick.

I spoke.

“Rube?”

“What?”

He stopped digging and looked at me. “How much longer for you and Octavia?” “A week. Maybe two.”

There was nothing for me to do but continue digging then, and the day wandered past.

At lunch, the fish was greasy and great.

The chips were sprayed with salt and drenched in vinegar.

When we ate, Dad looked at the paper, Rube took the TV guide, and I started writin words in my head. No more cards today.

That night, Mrs. Wolfe asked me how everything was going at school, and I returned to my earlier thoughts that week of whether or not she’d had cause lately to be disappointed in me. I told her everything was all right. For a moment, I debated whether I should tell someone about the words I’d started writing down, but I couldn’t. In a way, I felt ashamed, even though my writing was the one thing that whispered okayness in my ear. I didn’t speak about it, to anyone.

We cleaned up together, before dinner’s leftovers had a chance to get stagnant, and she told me about the book she was reading called
My Brother Jack
. She said it was about two brothers and how one of them rose up but still regretted the way he lived and the way he was.

“You’ll rise up one day,” were her second-to-last words. “But don’t be too hard on yourself,” were her last.

When she left and I was standing alone in the
kitchen, I saw that Mrs. Wolfe was brilliant. Not smart-brilliant, or any particular kind of brilliant. Just brilliant, because she was herself and even the wrinkles around her aging eyes were the shaded color of kindness. That was what made her brilliant.

“Hey Cameron.” My sister Sarah came to me later on. “You feel like goin’ out to Steve’s game tomorrow?”

“Okay,” I replied. I had nothing better to do.

“Good.”

On Sunday, Steve would be playing his usual game of football, but at a different ground from the local, out more Maroubra way. It was only Sarah and me who went to watch. We went up to his apartment and he drove us out there.

Something big happened at that game.

THE COLOR OF KINDNESS

I’ve thought once in a while about the color of kindness, and I realize that its shades and contrasts are not painted onto a person. They’re worn in
.

Have you ever stood in your kitchen and felt like falling to your knees
?

I don’t know
.

There are very few things that I know for sure
.

I know that when I eat fish and chips, my fingers and throat get greasy. The gorgeous ugliness of it slithers to my stomach, but it’s all forgiven when my old man smiles at me, and I wouldn’t trade that grease for anything
.

When I look in the mirror, I see the color of awkwardness and uncertainty and longing
.

If there was an expert amongst these pages, they’d say that I just want to belong somewhere
.

But the truth is, I’m not sure I want to belong
.

Not like everyone else
.

That’s what scares me
.