When Dogs Cry (10 page)

The world was silent and I turned again to look up at a girl who stood completely still above me.

She crouched down, placed her harmonica amongst the money and picked up the shell.

She held it in her hand.

She pulled it to her lips.

She kissed it, softly.

Then, with her right hand, she pulled me towards her by my jacket and kissed me. Her breath went into me, and the softness, warmness, wetness and openness of her mouth covered me, as a sound from outside us burst through my ears. For a moment, I wondered what it was, but fell completely into Octavia again as her spirit poured through me. We both kneeled, and my hands held onto her hips. Her mouth kept reaching for mine, touching me. Connecting. Her right hand was on my face now, holding me, keeping me close.

The roaring sound continued around us, forming walls to make this a world within the rest of the world. Suddenly I knew what it was. The sound was clear and clean, and magnificent.

It was the sound of humans clapping.

 

clapping hands

‘What is it about the sound of clapping hands?' I ask.

The dog continues walking but I don't care. I just keep talking.

‘Why does it seem like an ocean of sound, breaking like waves on top of you? Why does it make a tide turn in you?'

Now I just think about it.

Maybe it's because it's one of the most noble things humans do with their hands.

I mean, humans make fists with their hands. They use them to hurt each other and steal things.

When humans clap, it's the one time they stand together and applaud other humans.

I think they're there to keep things.

‘They hold moments together,' I say quietly, ‘to remember.'

The dog isn't too impressed, and the darkness crouches down.

I shut my mouth and keep walking.

‘I
T'S THE BEST THING ANYONE'S EVER GIVEN ME,' SHE SAID,
holding it up and looking at me through the hole. She kissed me again, lightly on the mouth and once on my neck. She whispered in my ear. ‘Thanks Cameron.' I loved her lips, especially when the sun hit them and she smiled at me. I'd never seen her smile like that when she was with Rube, and hoped it was a smile she'd never been able to give to anyone else alive. I couldn't help it.

The people were gone now and we collected up the money from Octavia's jacket. It was just over fifty-six dollars. In my left jacket pocket, I still held all my words, including what I'd just written when she'd returned to playing. My fingers held them tightly, guarding them.

‘Let's go,' she said, and we started walking along the water towards the bridge. Shadows of cloud lurked in the water, like holes the sun forgot about. The girl next to me still looked at the shell, and my heartbeat seemed
to be climbing over my ribs. Even when it slowed down, there was still a force to it. I liked it.

Under the bridge, we sat down against the wall, Octavia with her legs outstretched, me with my knees held up to my throat. I glanced over at her and noticed the way the light touched her skin and handled the hair that fell into her face. It was the colour of honey. She had ocean-green eyes, like saltwater on an overcast day, and she had tanned skin and a straight-teeth smile that got crowded on the right side when she opened her mouth further. She had a smooth neck and the shins of her legs wore a few bruises. Nice knees and hips. I like girls' hips, but I liked Octavia's especially. I . . .

It was there again.

Between us.

The silence.

There was only the sound of water throwing itself against the walls of the harbour, until finally, I looked over at Octavia and said quietly, ‘I just wanted to . . .'

Pause.

A long pause.

She wanted to speak, I could sense it. I noticed it in the pleading of her eyes, and the slight movement of her lips. She was dying to say something but held back. I finished the sentence.

‘I just wanted to say . . .' I cleared my throat, but it remained cracked. ‘Thanks.'

‘For what?'

‘For . . .' I hesitated. ‘For wanting me.'

She looked over and placed her eyes in mine for just
the briefest of seconds. Her fingers touched my wrist and made their way down to hold my own fingers in hers. She then said something very deliberately.

‘I'd want you even harder if you'd tell me more about who you are.'

The words opened me completely.

I could have pretended not to understand what Octavia was talking about, but I knew that all the waiting was done now. She would have waited. I knew that, but no-one can wait forever.

So I said, ‘What do you want to know?'

She smiled a moment and calmly said, ‘I like your hair Cameron. I like how it sticks up no matter how hard you try to keep it down. It's the one thing you can't hide.' She swallowed. ‘But the rest of you is hidden. It's hidden behind your measured walk, the crushed collar of your jacket and your awkward, nervous smile. God, I love that smile, you know that?'

I looked over.

‘Do you know that?' she asked again, almost accusingly.

‘No.'

‘Well it's true, but . . .'

‘What?'

‘Can't you see?' She squeezed my hand. ‘I want more than that.' A tough kind of smile fought its way into her eyes. ‘I just want to know you Cameron.'

Again, I noticed the sound of the water.

Rising.

Bashing against the wall before diving back down.

Finally, I nodded.

‘Okay,' I answered her. It was a whisper. Almost half a voice.

‘The only problem is,' she mentioned after a while, ‘you've gotta tell me. You have to speak.' She searched my face for what I was about to say, or for what I was going to do next.

I did it.

I stood up and walked to the water.

I turned around.

The bridge towered over me and I started talking as I crouched down maybe ten yards away and looked into her.

Words flew from my mouth.

‘My name's Cameron. I've always said that I wanted to drown inside a girl, inside her spirit, but I've never even come close—I've barely even touched a girl. I don't have friends. I live in the shadow of both my brothers—one for his single-minded focus on success, the other for his brilliance, rough smile and ability to make people like him. I hope my sister won't just be another slab of flesh that some guy just picks up and throws a few dollars at to buy cheap lipstick but don't forget the beer. I work with my father on weekends and my hands get dirty and blistered. I've hired movies that have sex scenes in them and I've touched myself thinking about girls from school, model girls, a female teacher or two, girls in ads, girls on calendars, girls on TV shows, girls in uniforms or corporate suits who sit on the train reading thick books with perfume smothered on their throats and perfect make-up. I walk around the city a lot and when I do, it
feels like the soul of home. I love my brother Rube but I hate what he does to girls, especially when they're real girls like you who should have known better than to go out with him in the first place. I idolise Mrs Wolfe because she keeps us together and works like hell. She works harder than she should ever have to and one day I want to do something brilliant for her like put her in first class on a plane to wherever she wants . . .' I remembered to breathe but forgot what I was saying next.

I stopped talking and stood up, because my legs were getting sore from the crouching down. Slowly, I walked towards Octavia Ash whose bruised shins were now held up by her folded arms.

‘I—'

Again, I stopped, as I walked to her and crouched down in front of her. I could feel the blood collect again in my legs.

‘What?' she asked. ‘What is it?'

For a few seconds I wondered if I should do it or not, but before I allowed myself not to, I reached into the pocket of my old jeans and pulled out clumps of paper and held them out to her, as if I was offering her my soul. On the paper were the words.

‘These are mine,' I said, placing them in her outstretched hand. ‘These are my words. Open them and read them. They'll tell you who I am.'

She did as I asked, opening the small piece of writing that was my first. The only thing is, she only read the start of them. Then she handed the paper back to me and asked, ‘Would you read them to me Cameron?'

My thoughts kneeled down.

The breeze wandered between us and I sat next to her again and began reading the words I wrote back in Chapter One of this story.

‘Nothing comes easy to a human like me. It's not a complaint. Just a truth
. . .' I read the page slow and true, exactly how it felt to me, as if it was oozing from me. I read the last part just a touch louder.
‘I know I've found the heart of me in a shadow-beaten alley, in a back street in the somewhere of this place. At the bottom, something waits. Two eyes glow. I swallow. My heart beats me. And now I walk on, to find what it is. Footstep. Heartbeat. Footstep
. . .'

When I was finished, a final silence gripped us both and the sound of the paper folding up again sounded like something crashing. Or maybe it was the sound of the tear that tore down Octavia's face.

She waited a while, before gently speaking. ‘You've never touched a girl before?'

‘No.'

‘Not till me? ‘No.'

‘Could you do me a favour?' she asked.

I nodded, looking at her.

‘Could you hold my hand?'

Feeling every part of it, I took Octavia's hand, and she came closer and rested her head on my shoulder. She put her leg over mine and hooked her foot under my ankle, linking us.

‘I never thought I'd show anyone my words,' I said quietly.

‘They're beautiful.' She spoke softly in my ear.

‘They make me okay . . .'

Soon after, she moved in front of me, crossed her legs and faced me, making me read everything I'd written so far. When it was over, she moved my hands across her stomach to hold her on her hips.

She said, ‘You can drown inside me anytime Cameron,' and she put her lips on mine again and let herself flow through the inside of my mouth. The pages were still in my hands, pressed against her as I held her hips, and I could feel her on top of me, breathing me in.

 

the bridge

‘I am not crossing
that,'
I tell the dog.

He looks at me as if to say,
Oh yes you bloody well are.

‘Look how rickety it is!' I protest, but the dog just isn't interested. He steps onto it and begins walking across. Gingerly, I step onto it as well
. . .

It's wooden.

It's cracked, and my hands burn from gripping the rope so tightly.

I look down.

Down to what looks like an abyss.

Yet, gradually, I'm making my way across, sometimes getting down on all fours to make it.

It feels like spoken words, this bridge. I want it but fear it. God, I want so desperately to reach the other side
—
just like I want the words. I want my words to build bridges strong enough to walk on. I want them to tower over the world so I can stand up on them and walk to the other side.

Sometimes you crouch down to build a bridge.

It's a start, I guess.

W
HEN
I
GOT HOME THAT
S
UNDAY NIGHT
, R
UBE AND
I
DID
the usual deed of walking Miffy. The hound was in even worse shape than usual. The coughing sounded deeper, like it was coming from his lungs.

When we got back I asked Keith if he was going to take him to the vet.

‘I don't think this is fur balls,' I said.

Keith's reply was pretty short and simple. ‘Yeah, I think I'd better. He looks shockin'.'

‘Worse.'

‘Ah, he's been like this before,' he explained, more out of hope than anything else. ‘It's never been anything too serious.'

‘Well let us know what happens, okay?'

‘Yeah, bye mate.'

I thought for a moment about the dog. Miffy. I guess no matter how much Rube and I complained about him,
we knew we'd sort of miss him if something happened to him. It's funny how there are things in this world that do nothing but annoy you, but you know you'd miss them when they're gone. Miffy, the Pomeranian wonderdog, was one such thing.

Later, when I was sitting in the lounge room with Rube, I missed many opportunities to tell him about Octavia and me.

Now,
I told myself.
Now!

No words ever came out though, and we just sat there.

The next night I went up and paid Steve a visit. It had been a while since I'd been to see him, and in a way, I missed him. It's hard to pinpoint exactly what it was, but I'd grown to like Steve's company a lot, even though very little was ever said. Sure, we spoke more than we used to, but it still wasn't much.

When I got there only Sal was home.

‘He should be here any minute though,' she said, in a not too thrilled voice. ‘You want something to eat? Drink?'

‘Nah, I'll be right.'

She didn't make me feel too welcome that night, like she just wasn't up to tolerating me this time around. Her expression seemed to throw words down to me. Words like:

Loser.

Dirty little bastard.

I'm sure that at some point, a while ago, before Steve and I gathered an understanding of each other,
Steve probably told Sal what a couple of loserous bastards he was the brother of. He'd always looked down on Rube and me when we all lived together. We did stupid things, I admit it: stealing road signs, fighting, gambling at the dog track . . . It wasn't quite Steve's scene.