Cooper Bartholomew Is Dead

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Bravery implies some kind of choice. I had no choice and if I did I would never have chosen cancer.’ He spun dramatically on his heel. ‘Anyway, I must to the bar and fetch us a beverage.’

  The ‘bar’ was a desk against the wall. He got two glasses and a bottle of tequila and took them to the coffee table. He poured two big shots, sat on the sofa and looked at me expectantly.

  I went and sat next to him. He handed me a drink.

  ‘Bottoms up.’

  ‘Really? Atticus, are you supposed to?’

  ‘Supposed to what?’

  ‘Drink this stuff?’

  ‘Why the hell not?’

  ‘I don’t know. Health?’

  He gave me a scathing look.

  I peered at my glass. There was an oily smear near the rim.

  ‘Is this even clean?’ I asked him.

  ‘Who knows?’ He downed his drink and gasped. ‘Probably not. Just drink. A bit of bloody dirt won’t kill you.’

  I followed his lead, drinking the shot in one swallow. It tasted like liquid fire at first, burning all the way down, taking my breath away. But after a while a pleasant warmth spread through my belly, and in another moment I started to feel all soft and woolly. I sank further into the sofa. ‘Mmm. That was quite nice.’

  ‘Quite.’ He lifted the bottle. ‘Another?’

  ‘Why not?’

  After the second I felt even smoother, sank even deeper.

  ‘So what was it like?’ I asked him. ‘Being in hospital for so long?’

  ‘It was both worse than I imagined and better,’ he said. He told me about his time there. The indignity of some of the treatments – the chemo and the transfusions, the resulting fevers and nausea. The nightmares he’d had as a side-effect of the meds. He told me how lonely and scared he’d felt even though he was surrounded by people all the time.

  ‘I had no idea you were lonely,’ I said. ‘You should have told me. I would have visited more.’

  He shook his head. ‘It was kind of an existential thing,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t have helped. In fact, having visitors sometimes made me feel worse. Like I was missing out.’

  He told me funny stories about the nurses who kept him company and cleaned up his messes and made him laugh, even when he felt like death warmed up.

  ‘You learn stuff about people, and about yourself. It’s scary, but it’s also interesting. I most definitely have a newfound respect for nurses.’

  ‘Because of the good work they do?’

  ‘No. Because so many of them are so bloody hot.’

  We giggled. Atticus poured us each a third shot. Somehow we got closer – close enough for our legs to touch.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘The doctor rang this afternoon with my latest test results.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘All clear. Prognosis is excellent, apparently. I won’t be shuffling off this mortal coil anytime soon.’

  ‘Really?’ I straightened up and put my hand on his knee. ‘Really, Atticus? You’re not bullshitting? The doctor said that?’

  ‘I’m not bullshitting.’ He laughed. ‘Why would I?’

  I was so happy for him I leaned closer to give him a congratulatory peck. I meant to kiss his cheek but maybe he moved, or maybe I misjudged things, but next thing I knew our mouths were together and Atticus had his hands on the back of my neck, in my hair.

  I closed my eyes, let it happen. I even enjoyed myself for a moment. But when Atticus started leaning closer and pressed his weight on me, as though he wanted us both to lie down, I baulked.

  I liked Atticus a lot, but strictly as a friend.

  I pulled back, turned away.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry.’

  ‘Hey.’ His hand was on my knee. ‘Libby.’

  I turned back. I tried to smile, but made some kind of graceless grimace instead. ‘I think I should go.’

  ‘What?’

  I stared down at my hands. ‘I’ve got so much work to do. Assignments, essays . . . you know . . .’

  Everything felt suddenly very awkward. Kissing him had been a mistake. A stupid and unfair mistake. I took his hand and squeezed. ‘I’ll see you soon?’

  He gave me a very curt and very thin smile. ‘You’re going? Just like that?’

  I nodded. ‘I think I should. I’m sorry, Atticus. I shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘Kissed you.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,’ he said coldly. ‘But you didn’t kiss me. We kissed each other. It was a mutual thing. Don’t patronise me and don’t you dare feel sorry for me. When I kiss a girl it’s because I want to.’

  ‘Of course. I know that. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry sorry sorry. Enough fucking sorries.’

  I left soon after that. I was desperate to leave on a friendly note, but Atticus would barely look at me and responded to my attempts to appease him in short, clipped sentences. He refused to say goodbye properly. There was nothing to do but leave.

  I walked home feeling miserable and dumb.

  14

  COOPER

  That week I worked extra hours to make the easel, staying back on Friday to finish it. Luckily everything had gone smoothly, and the finished product was – as Cameron liked to put it – a thing of function and beauty.

  Libby had left me her number, so I texted to let her know the job was almost done and that she should come and pick a stain. She answered straight away.

  Wow. That’s fantastic! Thanks so much. What’s it like? Can I come and take a look?

  Sure. Anytime.

  Right now? I can be there in ten minutes.

  I loved my job but by the end of the week I was usually sick of the dust, the smell of oil, the hot, close air of the shed. A few minutes earlier I’d been desperate to get down to the beach for a cleansing surf, but suddenly the thought of hanging around the shed a bit longer didn’t seem so bad.

  No problem. I’ll wait. Just come straight through when you get here. I’ll be down the back.

  While I waited I continued working on another personal project: an oval dining table, a present for my mother that I’d been working on for months. A small table that would fit in our small house.

  I was sanding the top when I heard the showroom door open and close. Footsteps on the concrete floor.

  ‘Back here!’ I called.

  Libby appeared a moment later. Customers weren’t really supposed to come out the back. It was an occupational health and safety regulation, but all the large machinery was switched off and there was no potential for danger, so I wasn’t worried. But the rule meant I wasn’t used to seeing anyone out here except for me and Cameron and the blokes who delivered timber and maintained the saws. Seeing Libby among the slabs of timber, the concrete floors, the squat machinery was like bathing my sore, dusty eyes in clean water.

  She had her hair out, loose and long around her shoulders. She was wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt, which showed off her surprisingly awesome body. She wasn’t hot in an obvious way like Claire, but she was definitely very sexy.

  ‘Hey.’ I smiled.

  ‘Gorgeous table,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Is that a job for someone?’

  ‘Actually, it’s for my mum.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. There was no way of explaining why I was making it without sounding soppy, or even worse, bitter. The thing was, Mum had never had a nice piece of furniture. Everything in our house was second-hand. Mum did her best to make it comfortable and warm and inviting – and to her credit it was all those things – but there was no denying it was a little bit shabby.

  This was my way of making it up to her.

  Libby stepped closer and put her hand against the top. People always wanted to touch timber, I’d noticed. They’d brush their fingers along the grain, trace the notches and grooves. I reckoned timber was so appealing because it had once been a living
organism. It had warmth and life. It made people happy.

  I watched Libby walk around my table, her fingertips leaving a trail through the fine layer of sawdust.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What kind of wood?’

  ‘Red cedar. Same as the sample you were looking at the other day. It’s excellent for furniture, easy to work with but not too soft. And I like the way it polishes up.’

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks. I like it.’

  ‘It’s the most lovely table I’ve ever seen. And the fact that you’ve made it for your mum is just . . .’ She stopped and bent down to press her face against the timber. ‘It even smells good.’

  When she looked up she had a smear of timber dust on the tip of her nose, and I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I should show you the easel.’

  I expected her to be as enthusiastic about the easel as she was about the table, but she was far more subdued. She ran her fingers over one smoothly polished leg and nodded her approval. When she smiled it was only lukewarm.

  ‘It’s great,’ was all she said. ‘Perfect. Atticus will love it.’

  I showed her the different stains I could apply. She chose the lightest one, with a low-sheen polish.

  ‘Thanks so much. It was so nice of you to do this.’

  ‘No problem.’ I frowned. ‘But you sure you’re happy with it? You seem a bit disappointed.’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s just . . .’ She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. Don’t worry. Honestly. It’s all good.’

  ‘Have you changed your mind? Is that it? You want to get him something else?’

  ‘No. That’s not it at all.’ She sighed, shifted from one foot to the other. ‘God, how do I even put this? I just . . . the thing is, I think Atticus is a bit pissed off with me.’

  ‘He is?’

  ‘Well, actually, I don’t think, I know. And he’s more than a bit pissed off,’ she said. ‘And for good reason.’

  I didn’t ask what had happened, but she told me anyway. A story about drinking tequila and an unwanted kiss. She spoke in a rush, getting all breathless and shiny-eyed. Her cheeks grew redder and redder until they were like two hot balls of fire. ‘I don’t like him that way,’ she said eventually. ‘I mean, he’s great. I love him to death. He’s fantastic. But I don’t fancy him. I never have. Not in the least. So now I feel like the worst kind of idiot. One of those people, you know? One of those people who goes around breaking hearts for fun. Know what I mean?’

  I knew exactly what she meant.

  ‘He probably hates me. And I don’t really blame him.’ She talked on, explaining how she didn’t want to be that kind of person, how Atticus had been sick and was such a great guy and didn’t deserve to be treated badly. I only half-listened. I was busy thinking how pretty she was. I was glad she didn’t like Atticus. I watched her mouth. I thought how I’d like to kiss her myself.

  ‘So?’ she finally asked. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Sorry? Think about what?’

  ‘Do you think he’ll get over it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t. But you could lie. You could just say of course he will. That’s what most people would do.’

  ‘Right,’ I said agreeably. ‘Well. Of course he will. That better?’

  She flashed one of her smiles. She had the kind of smile that spread all over her face, her eyes two deep pools of warmth.

  ‘You know what?’ I said. ‘I’m going for a surf. Why don’t you come? It’s the best way to clear your head.’

  She hesitated. ‘I haven’t surfed in years.’

  ‘But you have surfed?’

  ‘I used to.’

  ‘So come with me.’

  I was surprised by how much I wanted her to come. I usually preferred to surf alone, and I didn’t even know if Libby could swim properly. But for some reason I didn’t care. ‘Cam’s got a spare board out the back,’ I said. ‘And there’s even an old wetsuit that might fit. He wouldn’t mind if you borrowed them. We can drive out to Bradley’s Reef. South end. The break is usually pretty tame out there.’

  She thought about it for a minute.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I will.’

  After a few minutes out the back, Libby appeared, adjusting and pulling at the stiff suit. She looked good in it, her body stretching the rubber in places it had never been stretched before. We got in my mum’s Mazda and drove to the beach: Libby had offered to take her old Volvo, but I didn’t want to fill it with sand and water. As I drove, I asked her when she’d given up surfing.

  ‘High school. Year 8, I think. Or about then.’

  ‘How come you stopped?’

  ‘Not sure. Something to do with growing up, I guess. Got busy with my friends. The debating team. Concert band. Other stuff.’

  ‘Concert band, eh?’ I grinned. ‘Sounds dangerous.’

  ‘Shut up,’ she said, punching my arm softly.

  ‘So, what instrument did you play?’

  ‘Clarinet.’

  ‘Yeah? You still practise?’

  ‘Not much. I should, though. I feel guilty about it all the time. I don’t think I’ve even got any reeds at home. Probably couldn’t even play if I wanted to.’

  I nodded as if debating teams and clarinet practice were an everyday part of my life. As if the words were familiar and comfortable. I felt like a fraud.

  Bradley’s Reef was on the edge of town. It was a popular unpatrolled surf beach. The north end was for the hardcore surfers. It could get some pretty big shore breaks and was awesome fun if you were in the mood. At the southern end the waves were smaller, the swell more regular, conditions safer.

  When we arrived the sun was low in the west behind us, but there was a decent enough windswell. The air on the beach was full of salt tang and I was suddenly desperate to get out there, get my hair wet, push my face under.

  Libby was better than I thought she’d be. It was obvious that she’d surfed before. She slid onto the board, gained her balance, and we paddled out side by side. She kept up with me easily, pushing her board under each wave.

  When we got out past the break she sighed. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. And it was beautiful. The ocean spread endlessly to the horizon, a carpet of dark blue, decorated with random dancing specks of light.

  We stayed out for over an hour. The waves were small but well formed, and I caught one after the other, riding them in to shore. Libby kept losing balance and falling in, but I was surprised by her determination. She didn’t quit and she didn’t complain, she kept paddling straight back out, trying again.

  After we’d been there for a while and she’d had no luck I paddled close.

  ‘Had enough?’ I asked. ‘Want to go?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not before I get up.’

  I stayed where I was and watched her catch the next wave. She popped up, stood for half a second. Fell in.

  She paddled straight back out, not looking at me, not saying a word, staring towards the growing swell with a fierce look on her face. Her hair was wet and plastered to her face, her cheeks and nose red with cold.

  And that time she got it right. She stood up and got her balance and rode the wave right in, yelling out in triumph. When she finished she went back out and did it again. She looked like she’d never stopped surfing.

  By the time we decided to leave it was getting cold. We walked slowly up the sand towards the car, carrying our boards. Libby helped me load them into the back.

  ‘You’re shivering,’ I said. I closed the boot and put my hand on her shoulder as if the weight of it could make her stop.

  ‘Yeah. I always do.’ She flashed a shaky smile. ‘Just like a baby.’

  ‘You should take that off.’ I lifted the shoulder of the wetsuit. ‘Put your dry clothes back on.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Y
ou were pretty good out there.’

  ‘Thanks. You too.’

  ‘We should probably get going.’

  But neither of us moved. We just stood there looking at each other, and I had a sudden urge to kiss her. Warm her up. Warm us both up. I didn’t stop to think about what I was doing or what it might mean, I stepped closer and leaned down. But she made a sudden movement and our faces crashed. Her forehead. My nose. It hurt so much I swore and turned away.

  ‘Oh, god. Sorry, Cooper. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault.’ I sniffed and laughed. My eyes were watering.

  ‘You must think I’m a hazard,’ she said. ‘First I throw glass at your feet, then I head-butt you.’

  I waited in the car while she got changed. We didn’t say much on the way back to the shed, but the lack of conversation didn’t feel uncomfortable. I think we were both on a post-surf high. And though my attempt at a kiss had been a disaster, I was pretty sure she didn’t mind that I’d tried.

  She touched my arm as I turned into the shed driveway.

  ‘Thanks, Cooper,’ she said. ‘That was the best fun I’ve had in ages.’ And I felt stupidly proud, as if I’d created the waves myself.

  15

  SEBASTiAN

  When Sebastian got home at five o’clock on Friday afternoon and saw his father’s Jaguar in the driveway, his heart sank. He felt a definite sense of unease and an even stronger sense of resentment. It might be unreasonable – it was Leonard’s house and he had a right to be in it – but Sebastian couldn’t help it. He considered turning around and driving away, but couldn’t think of anywhere to go. Most of his friends were working. Plus he needed to shower, wash his hair, put on clean clothes.

  His father imported luxury cars. He had showrooms all along the south coast of New South Wales. His business, Boccardo’s Auto, consumed most of his time. He left the house early every morning, got home late at night. That suited Sebastian. And though his mother wouldn’t actually say so out loud, he knew it suited her too. Life at home was much more pleasant when Leonard wasn’t home.