The old man.
Clifford Wolfe.
'Time to get up,' said his voice, through the darkness. 'Wake that lazy bastard too.' He jerked his thumb over at Rube, but I could tell he was smiling. With Dad, Rube and me, calling each other bastards was a term of endearment.
The job was right on the coast, at Bronte.
Rube and I pretty much dug under the house all day, listening to the radio.
For lunch, we all walked down the beach and Dad got the obligatory fish 'n' chips. When we were done, Rube and I went down to the water to get the grease off our hands.
'Friggin' freezin',' Rube warned me about the water, but still he pooled it in his hands and threw it on his face and through his thick, sandy hair.
Along the shore, there were shells washed up.
I started shuffling through them and picking up the best ones to keep.
Rube looked over.
'What are y' doin'?' he asked.
'Just collectin' a few shells.'
He looked at me in disbelief. 'Are you a bloody poofter or somethin'?'
I glanced at the shells in my hands. 'What's wrong with it?'
'Christ!' he laughed. 'You are, aren't y'!'
I only looked over and laughed back, then picked up a shell that was clean and smooth and had a gentle tiger pattern on it. In the centre there was a small hole, for looking through.
'Look at this one,' I said, holding it out to him.
'Not bad,' Rube admitted, and as we stared over the ocean, my brother said, 'You're okay Cameron.'
All I could do was stare a few seconds longer before we turned back. The old man had already given us an 'Oi' to get us back to work. We walked over the sand and back up the street. Later that day, Rube told me some things. About Octavia.
It started innocently enough, with me asking how many girlfriends he reckoned he'd had.
'I wouldn't know,' he answered me. 'I never counted 'em. Maybe twelve, thirteen.'
For a while, there was only the sound of the digging, but I could tell my brother, like me, was going over the girls in his head, touching each girl with the fingers of his mind.
In the middle of it, I had to ask him.
I said, 'Rube?'
'Shut up--I'm tryin' to concentrate.'
I ignored him and kept going. I'd started now and I wasn't going to stop. I asked, 'Why'd you get rid of Octavia?'
He stopped digging. The answer.
'Simple,' he began. 'Because that girl's probably the strangest person I've ever met. Even weirder than you, if you can believe that.'
'Why?' I focused all of my attention on Rube's mouth, as he told me about Octavia Ash. I could even see his breath exit his mouth with the words.
'Well, for starters,' he began. 'One day you could touch her all over and the next she wouldn't let you near her.' A moment's thought passed his mind. 'It's impossible to get her clothes off her too.' He grinned at me. 'Trust me--I tried.' Yet, I could still sense Rube was saving something. He said it. 'But strangest of all, that girl never let me into her house. Not once. I wouldn't even know what colour the front door was . . .'
'That why you let go of her?'
My brother looked at me, thoughtfully, truthfully, then smiled. 'Nah.' He shook his head, slightly.
'Then why?'
'Well,' he shrugged. 'To tell you the truth, Cam. She broke up with me. That night when she came back I was expecting her to cry and carry on like some of the others.' He shook his head now. 'But I was wrong. She just came and really gave it to me. She said I wasn't worth the effort.'
What confused me most was how he could be so calm about it. If it were me in his shoes, the agony of someone like Octavia breaking up with me would have left me in strips and pieces on the ground. It would have broken me.
But that was me.
For Rube, the next best thing came along so he took it, and I guess there was nothing wrong with that. The only problem for Rube now, it seemed, was that this Julia girl came with some excess baggage. She'd come at a price.
'Apparently she was still with some other bloke when she started up with me,' he stated matter-of-factly. 'And apparently that guy's after killin' me for it. I don't know why. It's not like I did anything wrong. I can't help it if the girl doesn't tell me she's already taken.'
'Just be careful,' I told him. I think he could tell by the tone of my voice that I wasn't a big fan of this Julia girl. He asked me straight-out.
He said, 'You don't like her, do y'?'
I shook my head.
'Why not?'
You hurt Octavia to get her, I thought, but I said, 'I don't know. I've just got a bad feeling about this one, that's all.'
'Don't worry about me,' Rube responded. He looked over and gave me his usual grin--the one that always says everything will be all right. 'I'll survive.'
As it turned out, I kept just the one shell from the beach. It was the one with the tiger pattern. At home, I held it against the light from our bedroom window. I already knew what I'd do with it.
It was in my pocket the next day when I walked down to Central and caught the train over to Circular Quay. The harbour water was a rich blue, with the ferries trudging over it, cutting it, then allowing it to settle. On the docks, there were people everywhere, and plenty of buskers. The good, the brilliant and the hopeless. It took a while, but I finally saw her. I saw Octavia on the walkway to the Rocks, and I could see the people milling around her, drawn to the powerful voice of her mouth organ.
I arrived when she was just finishing a song and people were putting money into her old jacket which was spread out on the ground. She smiled at them and said thanks, and most of the people moved slowly on.
Without noticing I was there, she went straight into another song, and again, a crowd began to gather around her. This time it wasn't quite as big. The sun surrounded her wavy hair and I watched intently as her lips slid across the instrument. I looked at her neck, her soft flannel shirt, and stole visions of her hips and her legs through gaps in the crowd. In the song, I could hear her words, 'It's okay Cameron, I can wait.' I also heard her calling me big-hearted, and hesitantly at first, then without thinking, I moved to the crowd and made my way through it.
Breathing, stopping, and then crouching, I was the closest person in the world to Octavia Ash. She played her harmonica, and before her, I was kneeling down.
She saw me and I could see the smile overcome her lips.
My pulse quickened.
It burned in my throat, as slowly, I reached into my pocket, pulled out the tiger shell, and placed it gently onto the jacket where all the money was strewn.
I placed it there and the sun hit it, and just as I was about to turn around to make my way back through the crowd, the music stopped. In the middle of the song it was cut short.
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.
br /> '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.
11
'IT'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.'
&n
bsp; '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.
12
WHEN I GOT HOME THAT SUNDAY NIGHT, RUBE 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.'