Hunter walks back to the whiteboard and points at the word, STEALING.
‘One week’s detention for stealing Harley Rae’s iPod. No-one believed I found it over by the wattle trees where stupid Harley dropped it.’
Hunter points at the next sentence. ‘Kendrick just fell over my foot. It’s not my fault he’s clumsy.’
He writes the word, SMOKING on the board. ‘Oh yeah, it wasn’t me that got caught for that was it Mr Jones?’ He draws a line through the word.
He points to the last sentence. ‘Threatening.’ He scoffs. ‘Not actually hitting anyone, just threatening. Pretending. Ha! Detention for doing nothing. I’d have been better off actually hitting hyphen-Harry.’ Hunter flops down in Sarah’s chair and puts his feet up on her desk. I look toward the door, expecting Sarah to walk in at any moment.
‘Come on,’ says Hunter. ‘Relax.’
I check my watch. We have another twenty minutes of detention.
‘Why were you threatening Harry?’ I ask.
Hunter shrugs. ‘Some people just ask to be annoyed.’
‘And some people are just annoying,’ I counter.
Hunter looks up. ‘You’re pretty smart …’ He’s trying to think of a new name.
I suggest, ‘Brainboy?’
Hunter looks back at the whiteboard, without answering. He gets up and writes, in large letters:
CALLING PEOPLE NAMES
He laughs to himself, then adds two exclamation marks in bold type.
Satisfied, he sits down again at Sarah’s desk.
‘It’s called bullying,’ I say.
‘Ha!’
‘Haboy!’ I respond.
‘You see,’ says Hunter, ‘that doesn’t hurt me!’
‘But … But for some kids, it does,’ I say.
Hunter rolls his eyes, as if he’s heard it all before. Which he probably has.
‘What do your parents say,’ my voice is a little shaky, ‘when you get in trouble?’
Hunter stares at his shoes on Sarah’s table. He doesn’t answer.
‘If Mum and Dad found out I got detention, they’d—’
‘That’s your parents, not mine,’ says Hunter.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I guess they’ve got other things—’
‘Don’t talk about my parents!’ Hunter smacks the desk hard with his hand.
I shake my head, too scared to speak.
Hunter pushes back Sarah’s chair and stares out the window. I notice his hands are shaking. All of a sudden, he doesn’t look so tough, just sad.
We sit in silence.
I lean back on my chair and clumsily put my feet on the desk.
Hunter looks at me and almost smiles.
I whistle, trying to appear more relaxed than I feel. I tilt back my chair until it’s balancing on two legs.
‘My dad lives in New Zealand,’ Hunter says.
I stop whistling.
‘Do you visit?’ I ask, nervously.
‘He hasn’t asked me.’ Hunter shakes his head. ‘He’s never coming back.’
I picture waiting in my bedroom every afternoon for Dad to arrive home and give me a hug. How I’d feel if that suddenly stopped. I imagine Mum and Beth and me at dinner, all of us eating in silence, remembering Dad’s bad jokes. How quiet it’d be around home, as if all the life was sucked out the front door one morning, never to return.
‘Jesse, tell me what’s bad?’ Hunter asks.
‘Pardon?’ I don’t understand.
Hunter gets out of the chair and picks up Sarah’s ruler. He points it toward the whiteboard and calls out, in a teacher’s voice, ‘Stealing, bad’. He taps the whiteboard with the ruler. ‘Tripping people, very bad.’ He waves the ruler over the next word. ‘Smoking! Very, very bad.’ He points down the list. ‘Calling people names!’ He turns to look at me. ‘A week’s detention and a note home to your parents, Hunter Riley.’
He taps the ruler against his leg. ‘You are a misguided boy, Hunter. You are disruptive in class and rude and—’
Suddenly he throws the ruler, with every ounce of his strength, toward the window. It sails through the air, making a weird whirring sound before clattering against the pane and landing on the floor. Hunter is flushed with anger. ‘Tell me what’s worse.’ He points at the board. ‘All of these things,’ he takes a deep breath and flops down on Sarah’s chair, his fists clenched on the desk, ‘or a father who runs away.’
We sit in silence for a few moments.
‘Maybe my dad should be on detention, not me,’ Hunter says, bitterly.
Suddenly, all his actions make sense.
I understand. But, there’s no way I can tell him that. So, I do the next best thing.
I say, ‘Your dad’s a …’ I swear, a rude word I never say. I’m shaking, not sure how Hunter will react.
Hunter looks surprised, even a little shocked.
I blush and say it again.
He stands up and walks to the whiteboard. In big letters, he writes another word:
SWEARING!
Hunter smiles.
‘Your dad’s a …’ I repeat the rude word.
‘My dad’s a …’ swears Hunter.
We look at one another and together, start laughing.
‘Rudeboy!’ I say.
‘Ha!’ Hunter laughs.
Sarah opens the door and walks into the room. She glances at the whiteboard and frowns. ‘What’s this?’
I answer quickly, ‘Sorry, Sarah. I … I was getting Hunter to list the things he’s done lately and …’
‘And Jesse was telling me how to improve,’ adds Hunter.
Sarah looks from Hunter to me and back again, not sure if we’re serious. She eventually smiles and walks to the whiteboard, erasing each of the words slowly. Hunter looks back at me and flashes a grin.
When Sarah has finished, she turns and says, ‘Wiped clean, Hunter. Let’s forget all about the past shall we?’
‘No worries, Sarah,’ says Hunter, before heading toward the door.
Sarah looks at me. ‘Thank you, Jesse.’
31
HUNTER
After school, Hunter walks to Elkhorn Park and sits on the bench seat, waiting for the woman and her personal trainer to arrive. He wonders if Les will pass by on his way home from the shops. He hopes so.
A tiny grasshopper lands on the seat. Hunter cups his hands around the insect. He gently carries it to the nearest shrub, giggling as the grasshopper jumps around his hands, tickling his skin. He places his hands amongst the leaves and opens them slowly. The grasshopper hops to the nearest branch. Hunter watches it for a few minutes before returning to the bench seat.
This morning before school, Hunter had shut himself in his bedroom and typed ‘Dating Hearts’ into Google. Thousands of listings came up. He typed, with shaking hands, ‘Man forty years’. He added the local area into the advanced search listings. A screen popped up with all the available candidates. If only he could remember the man from the cafe, who thought Mum was someone called Diane. Perhaps they could meet again.
ScubaBen was forty-eight years old, one hundred and eighty-five centimetres tall and his byline read, ‘Willing to open jars and assemble IKEA furniture. No babysitting required.’ What did that mean? In the photo, his eyebrows were too close together. Hunter clicked forward.
Marty42 looked younger and had wavy red hair. ‘Easy-going happy-go-lucky every-day single-guy.’ Too many hyphens! Hunter shook his head. This could be harder than he first thought.
Paddy2 was thirty-eight years old, wore a suit and tie and was balding. ‘Fun-loving, extrovert, independently wealthy.’ Hunter clicked on the profile. ‘I love sailing, football and long walks.’ Mum likes to walk and I like football, thought Hunter. ‘Seeks genuine woman under the age of 30.’ Hunter shrugged. Mum lo
oked younger than she was. ‘Definitely, no kids!’ Hunter sighed and said, ‘Goodbye Paddy2.’
He stared out the window. Mrs Betts was watering her roses along the front fence. Occasionally, she’d lean down and pull up a weed. When she did, she’d keep the hose spraying, without looking where it was pointing. While Hunter was watching, she’d sprayed the driveway, just missed the postman and unwittingly soaked Mrs Ainsworth’s dog.
Jeff50 smiled at the camera and emphasised that age was not important. ‘Friendly, educated traveller along life’s highway seeks humanist fun-seeker with kind mien.’ Hunter frowned, what’s a mien?
Barry48 wanted three things in a relationship. ‘Eyes that won’t cry, lips that won’t lie and love that won’t die.’ Oh yeah, and, ‘NO KIDS!’
Hunter clicked forward and came face-to-computer-profile with Donald45, otherwise known as the man in the cafe. He couldn’t believe he’d found him so quickly. It was meant to be, thought Hunter. Donald liked ‘movies, food and holidays’. Tick, tick, tick, thought Hunter. He scanned the profile. ‘Genuine, optimistic, loyal. Seeks the same.’ Hunter copied the web address to an email and sent it to his mum. Donald was just one click away, if Mum wished. She’s better than any Diane, thought Hunter. Donald smiled from his profile, waiting patiently.
Hunter sees the exercise woman walking along the path beside the creek with her personal trainer. The woman is wearing a dress and high-heeled shoes. The trainer is wearing an open-necked shirt and jeans. They are holding hands and walking very slowly. Neither of them is sweating. The woman says something to the personal trainer and he laughs. He leans across and kisses her on the cheek.
‘Young love,’ says a voice behind Hunter. Les is sitting on his scooter, a bag of groceries in the basket.
‘Okay for some,’ says Hunter.
Les reaches into his pocket and takes out a stick of chewing gum, unwraps it and pops it into his mouth. He offers the packet to Hunter. Hunter shakes his head.
‘I chew on ten of these a day now, instead of,’ he sighs, ‘instead of the quiet enjoyment of my pipe.’ He scrunches the wrapping paper up in his hand and tosses it into his basket, alongside the groceries.
Hunter smiles, despite himself.
Les moves the scooter closer to the bench seat. They both watch the woman and the trainer walk by, holding hands, peering off into the lover’s distance.
‘You’re quiet today, son,’ says Les.
Hunter is surprised by Les’s words. He wished his dad had called him son instead of Hunts. He doesn’t want to think of his father now. He looks at the old man’s hands, brown and aged with sunspots. He thinks about Jesse and swearing in class. Jesse trying to drag him from the thunderstorm, trying to be his friend.
‘Do you miss your wife, Les?’ he asks.
‘Only when I’m awake,’ Les says, his hands reaching into his pocket in reflex, searching for the pipe that isn’t there anymore. The old man clears his throat. ‘Fifty-two years we were together.’ He sighs.
‘Do you visit … Do you go to where she’s …’ Hunter doesn’t want to say the word.
‘We made a deal, before she passed,’ says Les. ‘She didn’t want to be underground.’ Les takes the chewing gum from his mouth and rolls it in a tight ball, putting it into the plastic grocery bag. He licks his lips as if trying to remove the taste of the gum. ‘We decided on cremation,’ he says. ‘I kept her ashes with me, in an urn on the kitchen bench for months. We’d talk every night.’ Les looks at Hunter and smiles. ‘I did most of the talking, you understand. We’d agreed beforehand on where I was to place her ashes, but I needed time. Finally, I scattered them at the foot of the pear tree in our backyard. Our daughter is under strict instructions to place mine there when I cark it. So we’ll be together.’ The old man leans back on his scooter, as though the words he’s spoken have exhausted him. He closes his eyes to the sun.
Hunter studies the old man’s face: the lines and wrinkles, the grey stubble, the upturned mouth as though he’s spent a lifetime smiling.
‘My daughter says I should get married again,’ Les scoffs. ‘She means well, of course. But my wife was … It’s better to keep her memory close than to try to replace it.’
The woman and the trainer walk toward Hunter and the old man. In the hands of the trainer is an iPhone. He holds it out. ‘Would you mind taking a photo of us?’ he says to Les.
Les laughs and takes the phone, handing it on to Hunter. ‘My boy here, he’ll do a better job.’
Hunter takes the phone and stands. He looks at the screen and sees the couple, each with an arm around the waist of the other, smiling. He pushes the button.
When he hands the phone back to the trainer, the woman eagerly looks at the screen to see the result. She smiles at Hunter and says, ‘Thank you.’ They walk off, holding hands.
32
HUNTER
In the early evening, Hunter stands outside the house, looking over the flowering hedge to the screen door. Hunter looks down the street from where he’s come. He didn’t think he’d catch Les on his scooter after he left the park, but Hunter ran as fast as he could and spied the old man just as he turned into Rochedale Street. He hears Les inside the house talking to someone. Hunter turns to leave, then remembers Les has a dog. He walks nervously to the front gate and pushes it open. It squeaks, loudly.
A voice comes from behind the screen door. ‘Looks like we have a visitor, Deefer.’
Hunter steps forward and closes the gate behind him. Too late to run away now. Les opens the door.
‘My boy,’ he says. ‘Did I leave something behind in the park?’
Hunter is not sure why he’s here.
Les seems to understand Hunter’s nervousness. He says, ‘I tell you what, Hunter. Go round the back and you’ll see a garden seat under the pear tree. I’ll be right out. You can meet Deefer, after he’s had a feed. That way he won’t mistake you for dinner.’ The old man winks.
The screen door slams and Hunter hears the old man shuffling down the hallway. Hunter walks along the overgrown garden path beside the house, careful not to hit his head on the electricity box jutting out from the side wall.
The backyard is neatly mown, with raised corrugated-iron garden beds where lettuce, spinach and tomatoes grow in the rich dark soil. A net is haphazardly strung over a cherry tree in the corner. Hunter looks toward the back door. He sees a pair of green wellington boots covered in dirt on the top step. He walks over to the cherry tree and reaches under the net to pick a ripe berry. He takes a tentative bite. It’s sweet and juicy.
In the centre of the garden is a shady tree, with a bench seat underneath. Around the base of the tree is a circular garden of bright orange flowers. Hunter walks to the seat, but doesn’t sit down. He leans close to the tree and sees the little green fruit starting to grow on every branch. In a month, the tree will be loaded with pears. He wonders if the birds will eat them, or if Les has a bigger net for this large tree. Against the side fence is a garden shed, with a single wooden chair near the door. Hunter walks over to the chair and carries it back to the pear tree. He sits on it.
The rear door slams. Les holds a tray with a plate of Anzac biscuits and two glasses of frothy drink that looks like beer. ‘Can you carry this, Hunter?’ Les asks. Hunter jumps up and takes the tray. The old man reaches for his walking stick beside the door. A shaggy, droopy-eared dog, coloured dirty brown with black spots, walks beside them.
Les flops down on the bench seat and Hunter sits on the wooden chair. Les takes the tray from Hunter and puts it on the seat. The dog sniffs Hunter’s fingers and licks his hand.
‘Deefer and I never have visitors, Hunter,’ says Les. ‘So, I opened the good stuff.’
Hunter eyes the glass of beer.
‘Don’t worry, lad, it’s ginger beer. Brewed it myself. Guaranteed no alcohol, but still lots of kick.’ Les takes a glass and has a long
swig. Hunter does the same. When he swallows, he hiccups. Les laughs.
‘I warned you!’
Deefer lies down at Les’s feet and closes his eyes.
Hunter takes another sip, slowly this time. He looks again at the small fruit on the pear tree.
Les notices and reaches behind the seat to touch the tree trunk. ‘When the fruit ripens this year, I’m going to make pear cider.’ He looks at Hunter. ‘Alcoholic and much tastier than beer!’ A siren sounds in the distance and Deefer whines. Les reaches down to rub his neck. The dog settles immediately.
Hunter remembers the joy he felt riding Les’s mobility scooter. How Les seemed to know that he would. He recalled the smile on Les’s face when he sped back to the seat in the park. He knows he can trust the old man.
‘I don’t see my dad anymore,’ Hunter says. He looks down at his shoes before continuing, ‘He ran away’. Hunter thought it was only children who were supposed to run away. And, even then, only for a few hours. Not forever.
Hunter feels his knees shaking. He reaches for the glass to calm himself and takes a quick sip. He dare not look at Les, even though he feels the old man is watching him, waiting.
‘I hate him,’ Hunter says. ‘For leaving. And for hurting Mum.’
A fly buzzes above Hunter’s glass of ginger beer. The old man sighs, reaches for the plate of biscuits and offers them to Hunter. He takes one and looks at the old man in thanks. They each eat a biscuit, slowly.
After what seems like ages, Les shifts in his seat and says simply, ‘We miss what we don’t have, without being thankful for what we’ve got’.
Hunter imagines his mum applying lipstick and make-up in front of the bathroom mirror, wearing a new dress, with stockings and shiny shoes, waiting for her lunch date to arrive. How excited she’ll be. He smiles to himself. Maybe making Mum happy is the best way to be happy himself. He’d never thought of that before. Such an easy solution.
Hunter reaches for the glass of ginger beer and takes another sip. He pictures his mum again, walking around the house in her new dress, expecting a knock on the door. The man from the cafe with the nervous smile, standing on the verandah.