The next window is the Reject Shop, red signs plastered all over the glass, displaying one word, Sale.
I ask, ‘What sort of person shops here?’
‘Me!’
‘You?’
‘Yeah sure. Pens and paper. CDs of disco hits from the seventies. And where do you think Dad gets his garden statues from?’
We reach the corner and both look up at the night sky. The rain has stopped, a few stars are flickering. The road is shiny under the streetlights, a fingernail moon tilts behind a row of houses.
Audrey looks at her watch again. ‘I’d better go home.’
We walk slowly down our street. The grass on the footpath is wet and glistening. I’ve never noticed this before, but each house has a white painted timber fence, except mine and Audrey’s. My fence is painted light blue. Audrey’s house has a hedgerow of natives, low and dark green.
We stop at my gate.
Audrey reaches up and we kiss, long and slow.
As if on cue, we let go of each other’s hand.
Audrey smiles. ‘See you tomorrow. After I talk to my parents about you.’
I step over the gate and walk slowly along the path.
Audrey whistles, softly, ‘Darcy.’
She points at the letterbox. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’
I plod back to the letterbox and retrieve the packet, holding them up for her to see. She smiles and walks away.
Green is still my favourite colour.
Breakfast with the parents
Before sleeping, I lie in bed looking at the photo of Year Eleven on my dresser. Audrey is in the front row, third from the left, me and Noah on either side of the middle row, like gawky bookends. At the back, Tim is deliberately pulling a stupid face just as the photographer clicks.
We all laughed when we saw the photo a week later. Harris was called to the office and given a lecture about appropriate behaviour, just like last year, and the year before that.
I close my eyes and picture Audrey, in her bed, in green pyjamas.
Dad opens the door and pokes his head in early, way too early, in the morning.
‘You awake, Darcy.’
Silence.
‘You awake, son.’
Silence.
‘Breakfast is ready. Mum’s made pancakes with maple syrup.’
‘I’m asleep, Dad.’
‘Yeah, I know. But pancakes are too good to miss.’
He gently closes the door.
Blackhead inspection time.
Yep, still there. Larger and darker.
In the shower, the cool water wakes me. I dress quickly, smelling the sweet tang of the syrup and the extra butter Mum uses to get the pancakes crispy and light and golden.
Mum and Dad both smile inanely when I walk into the kitchen. Dad reaches across and turns off the radio. They look at me.
‘What?’
Mum pours a coffee, ‘Nothing, dear.’
Dad adds a heaped teaspoon of sugar to his cup and stirs noisily.
‘You were late home, Darcy.’
‘Yeah.’
I sit down and reach for the pancakes. The top one is golden brown.
Mum and Dad aren’t eating. They both sit, knife and fork poised, waiting for me to talk.
I repeat, ‘Yeah.’
Mum rolls her eyes. ‘Come on, Darcy. Your father wants to know what happened.’
‘Okay. I’ll tell him later.’
Dad snickers. He pats Mum’s hand.
‘Don’t worry, dear. I’ll report everything.’ Then he winks at me. ‘Unless Darcy tells me not to.’
‘Do you like the pancakes?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
She pushes the bottle of maple syrup closer to my plate, a thin smile on her lips. ‘I made them especially for you, Darcy.’
Better to get it over with now, so I can enjoy breakfast.
‘Me and Audrey went for a walk. That’s all. We sat in her backyard and...’
Mum raises her eyebrows.
‘And meditated.’
Dad nearly chokes on his pancake; he turns away from the table and coughs, holding his hand over his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut. Mum casts an exasperated glance towards him but he’s too involved in coughing to notice.
‘Okay, Dad. Don’t die. I made up the bit about meditating. We talked. Audrey’s cool.’
Mum looks from Dad to me and back to Dad.
‘Did you and your father have a constructive talk last night?’
Dad wants to cough again, but sees Mum’s steely glance and stops himself.
‘The sex talk?’
Dad now seems keenly interested in stirring his coffee cup.
Mum reaches across and touches Dad’s hand. He stops stirring. He looks out the window instead. This is almost as painful as last night.
‘Yes, Mum. Dad told me everything. He’s very knowledgeable.’
Dad sits up in his chair, like a schoolboy given a special award for Maths. He smiles at Mum, as if to say I told you so.
‘Love them and leave them. That’s what you said, didn’t you, Dad?’
He nods quickly, then realises what I’ve said.
‘I didn’t say anything of the sort. Did I?’
He looks pleadingly at me. Mum reaches for the empty plate in the centre of the table. She shakes her head and makes a clicking sound with her tongue, as if to tell us both to stop playing games.
‘It’s okay, Dad. You were very helpful.’
I look at Mum and say in my most sincere voice, ‘Nothing happened, Mum.’
She smiles weakly.
I add, ‘At least, not yet.’
‘Darcy!’
‘Great pancakes, Mum. Any left in the oven?’
Dad tries a weak joke, ‘That better be all in the oven, son.’
Mum makes the clicking sound again.
A do-gooder
Audrey wasn’t the only person I thought of in bed last night.
I’m not that shallow.
My mind dawdled over to Noah briefly. A vision of him leaning over his father asleep on the lounge chair, handkerchief tucked under his collar. Noah had a can of shaving lotion in one hand and a razor in the other. Should he wake his dad or try and shave him while he sleeps? Noah can’t decide. He looks at his dad’s chest, rising and falling lightly as he snores.
Then I drifted off into dribble-land and dreamt about Audrey. Nothing too pathetic or tragic. One dream had Audrey and me having a picnic underwater. Clown fish, turtles and dolphins cruised languidly by as we floated along on a shimmering carpet of seagrass waving in the current. Between us was a huge bowl of cherries. Every time I tried to eat one, a moray eel would poke out of the gloom and snatch it away. I got so frustrated I tried punching the eel on the snout.
That was about the time Dad woke me.
Thanks, Dad.
There is precisely three hours and fifty-two minutes before I meet Audrey. Time enough to phone Noah. He answers after one ring, like he’s been sitting by the phone waiting.
‘Noah?’
‘Hello.’
‘Hi, it’s me, Darcy.’
‘Darcy Walker?’
‘How many Darcys do you know, Noah?’
What a way to spend Sunday.
‘You want a game of chess, Noah? I have a spare...’ I glance at my watch. ‘Three hours and forty-nine minutes.’
Silence.
‘Don’t worry, Noah. We don’t have to play for that long. Just an hour, or two.’
Hell, I don’t really want to play at all. I just thought...
‘You don’t want to play, Darcy. You’re just trying to be nice.’
‘No I’m not.’
‘Yes you are.’
‘No I’m not...’
Silence.
‘...Okay, even if I am, what else have you got planned today?’
‘I got lots to do.’
‘Yeah, what?’
This is the second most childish conversation I’ve ever he
ard.
‘I’ve got to ... to do my homework.’
‘I rest my case.’
‘You don’t have to sound so smug, Darcy. You’re the one who rang me, remember.’
‘Come on, Noah. Just a quick game or two. I’ll even let you win.’
He laughs, despite himself. ‘You can’t stop me winning, Darcy.’
‘I’ll be over in twenty minutes, okay?’
Silence.
‘Okay?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
He’s acting weird this morning, even for Noah.
Mum and Dad are in the kitchen.
‘I’m off. I’ll be back for dinner.’
‘Don’t you have homework?’
‘Nah, it’s a homework-free weekend, Mum. The school’s worried about us getting too stressed.’
She points her finger at me, about to begin cross-examining.
I interrupt, ‘I’ll do it tonight.’
‘Be home by six.’
I mime putting my hand on a stack of Bibles. ‘Yes, your honour.’
The clouds look feathery and soft, like in television commercials for airlines where they want you to believe the plane could never crash and, even if it developed engine trouble, it would be held up, miraculously, by all that cotton-wool cumulus.
No-one dies on days like today.
Maybe I’m seeing things differently because of last night?
I’m living in my own ideal television commercial.
I stop for a second on the street corner and close my eyes.
A chorus of sparrows.
A gentle breeze.
The smell of freshly mown grass.
The sweetness of maple syrup lingers on my tongue.
Maybe I am in love? Really really seriously.
And it changes the way I see everything?
When I open my eyes, an Indian couple in a sports car have pulled up in front of me. The lady wears a sari and has a scarf wrapped loosely around her hair. She holds a map out of the window and points at it.
She says, ‘The Three Sisters, please?’
It’s one of those useless tourist maps that show the main street and have little drawings of all the attractions, clumped together, as if everything you need to see is in town.
The driver leans across. He’s wearing a shiny gold watch and has lots of silver chains hanging around his neck. He must jangle and clink when he walks.
He says, ‘We’ve been driving in circles.’
The car smells faintly of incense, sweet and clingy.
The woman smiles.
I want to ask them how long they’ve been together. If they’re married? In love? Ask them to describe the clouds for me. Are they really fluffy white, or just dull grey?
The woman repeats, ‘The Three Sisters?’
‘Oh, sorry. You take the next left, drive a kilometre, right at the roundabout ... and follow that for a little way. You can’t miss them. They’re surrounded by tourists.’
The man puts the car in gear. He checks his mirror to pull out.
The woman leans out of the window and says, ‘You looked like you were meditating, just then.’
A vision of Audrey and last night.
She waves as the car speeds away.
Man or amoeba?
Noah lives on a narrow street shaded by tall pine trees on both sides. The wind whistles through them constantly. When I was a kid I was scared of walking down here, believing the whole street was haunted. The trees cast long spindly shadows across the footpath. Noah’s house is painted light yellow and one side is covered in dark green creeper. He’s sitting on the front verandah, with his dad.
‘Hi, Noah. Hi, Mr Hennessy.’
Noah waves. His dad sits in a shiny steel wheelchair, with a pillow at his back. His legs are elevated, resting on a cane coffee table. Mr Hennessy’s face is slack and unmoving. His hands are hidden under a crocheted blanket across his lap.
‘Dad can’t talk yet. But they reckon he will.’
Noah and me sit on the top step. His dad wears red slippers and long dark blue pyjamas, on his wrist is a green plastic band, leftover from the hospital. His hair is neatly combed and he’s clean-shaven.
I look at Noah and rub my chin, afraid to say it out loud.
‘It’s okay, Darcy. The doctors say it’s good for Dad to hear voices. He needs...’
Noah struggles to remember the doctor’s words. ‘Social contact’.
‘Was it electric, or a razor?’
‘Electric. It was pretty easy. I do it every morning. First thing after Dad’s wash.’
He looks toward his father.
‘It’s been two weeks. The doctors say it could change at any time.’
Noah says this in a loud voice, so his Dad can hear. He clicks his fingers to emphasise the point. ‘Just like that and Dad could be talking again.’
Mr Hennessy’s skin is pale, almost translucent; one side of his mouth sags open, dragged down by renegade muscles. He stares at us for a few seconds, then his gaze falls. Noah gets up and walks to the cushions arranged beside a small table near his dad’s chair. The chessboard is open, pieces already set up for the game.
‘Me and Dad against you. Fair enough?’
‘Easy.’
Noah reaches over and pats his Dad’s arm. ‘We’ll let him make the first move, Dad. He needs all the help he can get.’
Sitting cross-legged on the cushions, I pick up the white knight and open with the Reti gambit, nothing too heroic. Not yet.
Or the next hour as Noah and his dad beat me three games in a row. Before each move, Noah looks up at his dad, to get his approval. Mr Hennessy’s eyes give little sign of understanding, but Noah keeps asking. Sometimes he changes his mind about a move, as if some subtle message has passed between father and son. I’m more involved in watching Noah and his dad than the chess.
Maybe that’s why I’m losing?
Maybe Noah’s dad really is helping?
Noah talks endlessly, sometimes to me, but mainly it’s a one-sided monologue on each move with his dad. The third game is the shortest, less than twenty minutes to checkmate. Noah leans across and wipes a small amount of spit from his dad’s lips with a hankie and kisses him quickly on the cheek, right in front of me.
‘You want a drink, Darcy?’
‘Sure. Anything’s better than another thrashing!’ The sun is streaming onto the verandah, high lighting the freckles on Mr Hennessy’s face. Noah reaches behind his chair and picks up a large white sun hat. He carefully places it on his dad’s head.
‘If it gets too hot, me and Darcy will bring you inside.’
We walk down a long hallway of polished wooden floorboards. There are no mats anywhere in the house and most of the furniture is pushed against the walls. To get the wheelchair around?
‘Where’s your mum?’
Noah walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge. He takes out a bottle of Coke and pours two glasses, watching the froth almost overflow before topping them up.
‘I don’t know.’ His voice is quiet. ‘She has trouble staying on the right side of hope.’
He glances down the hallway, as if his dad could wheel himself in at any moment.
I ask, ‘How about you?’
‘Me?’ He swallows hard. ‘I just want Dad to be normal again. That’s not so bad, is it?’
I shake my head and drink the Coke, quickly. The gas burns as it goes down, making me burp loudly.
Noah laughs. ‘Good comeback, Walker.’
We both look at the photo on the fridge door. It’s of the three of them, at the beach. A young Noah sits near his dad, who’s handing him a slice of watermelon in the shape of a smile. Noah’s mum is leaning forward, the juice dribbling down her chin.
Noah says, ‘Me and Dad would dig a hole in the sand and he’d draw a line with his toe, a metre away. We’d have a competition to see who could spit the most pips into the hole.’ Noah’s voice catches in his throat. ‘He’d let me win.’
A few tears roll down his cheeks. He stares at the photo. With one finger he reaches out to touch his father’s image.
I put my hands in my pockets and wait, feeling as useless and tongue-tied and frustrated and uncertain and scared as his dad must be, sitting alone out there on the verandah.
What would a real man do in this situation? Hug him? Put an arm around his shoulder? Pat him on the back? Say, ‘Cheer up, Noah.’
God, what’s a real man anyway?
I walk across the kitchen and wrap my arms around Noah. He sobs quietly. We stand like this for a few minutes, not moving. The photo watches us mutely from the fridge.
‘When my family went to the beach, Dad would kick a plastic soccer ball towards me and I’d watch it roll by, hoping the wind would blow it into the water. Stupid ball!’
Noah giggles and steps back, wiping his eyes. ‘Sorry, Darcy.’
He takes the hankie out of his pocket and blows his nose loudly.
‘No worries, Hennessy. Just wait until I tell Tim tomorrow!’
Noah laughs. ‘He’s scared of a plastic snake!’
We walk out to the verandah together. Noah stops before the door and looks towards his dad.
He whispers, ‘Nothing at school worries me anymore.’
We play chess for the next hour, this time with Mr Hennessy on my side. To make Noah feel better, I ask his dad for advice, pretending he’s involved. After a while I begin to notice little things, the flutter of his eyelashes when I make the wrong choice, the baleful stare when I make a really stupid crazy move, the flicker in his eyes when I choose well.
Maybe I’m imagining it? I study his face closely, sure I can pick the subtle differences. Noah notices. His dad is with us. We even won a game!
After I say, ‘Checkmate’, I reach across and touch his father’s arm.
It’s warm and soft and fleshy.
And alive.
When it’s time to leave, I kneel in front of Mr Hennessy. ‘I hope me and you can play each other next time I visit, sir.’
Again I notice the change in his eyes.
I stand up and give Noah another hug.
‘Don’t try and hug me at school, Walker or I’ll knee you in the crutch.’
‘No worries, Noah. See you tomorrow.’