Black Painted Fingernails

  ‘You’ve never heard of John Steinbeck?’

  He shook his head, then turned back to his computer screen and the certainty of figures. She thought of her father and his collection of Steinbeck books stacked neatly on the shelf beside his bed, the covers worn from being read on the back of a tractor during long hot breaks from his job with the shire council. While the other workers slept in the shade, he travelled the backroads of America with his favourite writer.

  During her first three months with Carlos, Sophie took extended walks along the beach, caught the 382 bus to the city and spent hours curled up on the State Library lounge reading every Steinbeck in their collection, leaving him to his insider tips, his financial projections and his calculated search for profit.

  When Carlos cashed in shares, he ran down to the strip and brought home a bottle of Jim Beam and a cube of hash. The bright lights of the beach promenade sparkled temptingly a few blocks away as Carlos blissed out on the couch, reggae playing in a fog of smoke. He made love like he worked: taking what he could, giving just enough. Sophie felt the smell of dope infesting her skin, her hair.

  When the offer of a night shift at the pub came along, she took it. It allowed her to sleep under an umbrella at the beach all day with the sound of waves and children cleansing her. Sometimes she swam out past the breakers and drifted, wondering how long she could stay in water so deep and cold.

  And Carlos proposed marriage. As if she could be acquired on a hunch, like bank shares.

  The moment she steps aboard the bus, there’s no going back.

  The bus driver raises his hand to touch his Cityline cap in a welcoming gesture. He has a ponytail and wears silver chains on his wrist. Sophie punches her ticket into the machine and sits where she can see him in the mirror, wondering if he has a spare room. She rides the bus through the hill suburbs, watching the old ladies with walkers struggling aboard, the young schoolgirls with iPods chewing gum and dreaming, the men in suits standing close and looking down at her tight top. The bus is never empty. The driver never offers.

  Sophie gets off at the train station. She walks around the corner to O’Driscoll’s, through the dark entrance and across the red-patterned carpet to the bar with the rows of spirit bottles, where Nigel is watching a football game on the television.

  ‘I gotta quit, sorry.’

  Nigel shrugs.

  ‘Can you pay me now?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘Please?’

  He walks to the register and unlocks it, pulls out some notes and counts them, making an issue of finding a rubber band and tightening it around the roll. If Sophie wants to check the amount, she’s going to have to make a scene.

  ‘How much are you paying me?’

  ‘One hundred and thirty.’

  ‘It should be one hundred and fifty.’

  ‘Less twenty for . . . tax.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Nigel looks up at the television. Sophie is dismissed.

  She shoves the roll of notes into her bag and silently counts to ten. Nigel scratches his beard. She leans over the bar and grabs a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Nigel makes a lunge, but he’s slow and on the wrong side of the bar. Sophie steps away, holding the bottle aloft, and calls back, ‘Tax.’

  She stops at the first chemist to buy more nail polish.

  Her mobile buzzes. A text.

  From Carlos? In between buying stock options, he’s asking her to come back?

  She walks slowly along the footpath, a tide of people heading towards the station and the train to the mountains and beyond. She sees a young man in a café with a coffee and a laptop and goes inside, sitting near him, not really wanting to repeat her mistake, just avoiding the rush outside. She orders an espresso and rummages in her bag for the phone. She reads the message.

  Her breath catches in her throat.

  It’s not from Carlos.

  She remembers when she was a child, waiting at the school gate for her mum to pull up in the station wagon and wave for her to climb in.

  One day she waited so long after school even the principal was ready to leave. He noticed her sitting on the fence as he nudged his car over the grate, and wound down the window. ‘Sophie, where’s your mum?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you want a lift?’

  She shook her head. It wasn’t about stranger danger – he was the principal, after all. She was just hoping her mum would turn up.

  Mr McCluskey switched off the engine and got out of the car. He walked over to her, and sighed. ‘I’ll wait for a bit, shall I?’

  She noticed he was wearing old riding boots. ‘Do you live on a farm, sir?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘A farm. With chickens and goats and cows and . . .’

  ‘You’re a very insightful young lady.’ He grinned, a wide ruddy-faced smile that made her want to giggle.

  ‘Do you have sheep?’

  He laughed. ‘Lots.’

  ‘What are their names?’

  ‘Far too many to name, I’m afraid,’ he said, scratching his chin. ‘But we have dogs.’ He held up four fingers. ‘Maisy, Daisy, Lazy and Chuffle.’

  ‘It doesn’t rhyme!’

  ‘We couldn’t think of a suitable one.’

  ‘Crazy?’

  The station wagon braked in a rush of dust. Her father leant across to open the door and nodded at the principal. Mr McCluskey lifted Sophie’s backpack onto the bench seat and she climbed in beside her dad.

  ‘When the dogs have another litter, I’ll ask you for suggestions, okay, lass?’

  Sophie smiled in answer. Her father reached over to fasten her seatbelt. She wished they had a dog.

  Her father’s eyes were tender blue, as if the sun had drained the colour away. He stared at her for a long time, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gearshift.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Ummm?’

  ‘What’s insightful mean?’

  Her father put the car in gear, checked his mirror and slowly pulled out.

  ‘It’s when someone sees things for what they really are.’

  ‘What else?’

  He shrugged. ‘I guess it’s when people know stuff you don’t expect them to.’

  ‘I know Dave kisses Lisa Becker.’

  ‘Does he now.’

  She looked closely at her father, waiting for him to laugh. She always made him laugh. His eyes were fixed on the road, his voice drained. ‘And have you seen this with your own eyes? Or only in your mind?’

  ‘Both. But I saw it in my mind first. It looked better in my mind than on the couch.’

  She screwed up her face, her long ponytail twisting behind. Her dad hardly ever picked her up from school. Sometimes when her mum was visiting Aunt Julia’s, and on her eighth birthday as a surprise. Sophie’s brothers both rode their bikes home. Sophie was promised a bike when she turned eleven.

  When they arrived home, her father turned the car into the driveway and switched it off, but didn’t get out. Sophie reached for her schoolbag and waited.

  ‘Sophie.’ His voice sounded strangled.

  She looked up into the lounge room; the windows were open, the curtains tied back.

  ‘Has Mum gone to Aunt Julia’s again?’

  The look on her father’s face made her feel the same way as when she fell out of the tree last month. He wound down his window and slowly shook his head.

  Sophie scrambled out of the car and ran upstairs, flinging open the front door and calling for her mother.

  She knew there wouldn’t be an answer.

  In the kitchen, her father made her a tall glass of orange juice, tossing the wrung-out orange halves into the sink.

  The juice tasted bitter and
tart, the pulp stuck to her teeth.

  They sat together at the table, waiting for her brothers to return from football training.

  Sophie looked at her dad. If he wouldn’t cry, neither would she.

  Angela packs her swimming costume and towel in her sportsbag. She locks the back door of the house and walks to her car, glancing up at James’s bedroom window. The cicadas in the trees along the fence start their chorus. She tosses the bag in the back seat and vows to give her son’s room a good dust and vacuum, for when he returns.

  Six weeks.

  She steers the car carefully out of the driveway and sets off for the pool. Three days a week for the past two years, Angela has swum twenty laps freestyle, twenty breaststroke.

  At the first intersection, on a whim, she turns left towards the shopping centre, instead of right to the pool. She needs a coffee first. And a chat.

  She parks underground. At the top of the pedestrian ramp, a girl with cropped hair and a nose-ring plays guitar, a beret at her feet. She would be the same age as James. Angela drops a few coins into the beret; one bounces out and rolls along the ramp, then off into the dirt. The young woman and Angela stare at each other until the girl smiles and says, ‘Karma.’ Angela supposes that means they should both leave the coin where it is.

  She reaches inside her handbag to check that she has her mobile, in case James should ring.

  She imagines . . . a flat tyre? He has a spare.

  Lost? He has GPS.

  Second thoughts? He’d ring his father.

  She looks at the phone.

  No messages.

  Inside the mall, she strides past Donut King and Girls Gear towards Rumours Café. She orders two strong lattes to take away. She takes a sip from one and carries them both into Vivianna’s Boutique.

  Inside the shop, an assistant stands behind the counter. Angela looks past her into the back room, hoping to see Vivianna.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asks the woman.

  ‘I was wanting . . . is Vivianna here?’

  ‘No, sorry. It’s her grandson’s birthday. The whole family is going to the zoo.’ The woman steps out from behind the counter. ‘Can I help?’

  Angela remembers taking James to the zoo when he was young. He pointed at the pelicans, laughing, ‘Pekilan! Pekilan!’

  The assistant looks at the coffees in Angela’s hands. Angela offers her one.

  ‘Oh, thanks! Without Vivianna here, I’d have to close the shop for my caffeine hit.’ The woman takes a sip and grimaces.

  Angela glances across the mall to Rumours Café and the sachets of sugar at each table. ‘I’m sorry, Vivianna doesn’t take sugar,’ she says. She places her coffee on the counter and strides out of the boutique, the woman’s voice behind her, calling, ‘No, it’s okay. Really.’

  Angela picks up two sachets from the table and returns to the boutique. The woman accepts the sugar and tips both sachets into the cup.

  Angela takes a sip of coffee and looks around the shop. It seems smaller, less exotic, without Vivianna’s presence. The woman goes behind the counter and sits on a stool near the cash register. ‘Are you friends with Vivianna?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, I suppose,’ says Angela.

  The boutique usually has a floral fragrance that soothes Angela’s nerves. She wonders if Vivianna picks the flowers on the counter fresh every day from her own garden. Or whether she buys them, or barters, from the florist next door. Angela imagines that one piece of jewellery is worth a week of fresh roses. She wishes she could trade items so easily. But what could she offer?

  Cooking tips?

  A tennis partner?

  Swimming lessons?

  Parenting advice?

  Angela notices that the flowers on the counter are drooping, and a few petals have fallen onto the floor. She walks across and picks them up. They feel like the skin of a child, of her James when he was young.

  ‘Do you have children?’ she asks the assistant.

  The assistant laughs. ‘No way!’

  Angela blushes. She stands in the centre of the shop, holding a coffee and some rose petals, wondering what to do, or say, next.

  The phone rings. The woman reaches across to answer it and Angela seizes the opportunity. She waves goodbye and walks across to the rubbish bin in the mall, dropping the coffee and petals inside. Of all the days Vivianna has to be absent, she chooses today.

  At the pool, Angela struggles to do her usual distance and finds herself gripping the lane rope at the deep end. She deliberately ducks under the surface for a second to wash away her tears, overcome with the thought that if she doesn’t finish her forty laps something bad will happen to her son. Her breath comes in short sharp puffs. The lifeguard is watching her from his highchair; he’s already removed his hat. She attempts a smile and kicks away from the rope, slowly ploughing down the lane.

  For the last few laps she rolls on her back and uses her legs to kick along, keeping her eyes closed. She veers into the rope twice but rights herself quickly enough, hoping the lifeguard has gone back to watching the young woman in the fast lane. The woman with the golden tan who never needs rescuing.

  The garish blue light of the bug-zapper above the roadhouse doorway twangs as a fly fries at two thousand volts. A tired-looking woman leans against the counter, chewing gum. Her hair is pulled in a tight bun and she has a pen tucked behind her ear. High in the corner a television is tuned to Oprah and the latest weight-loss guru. Oprah holds up a book called Eat Yourself to Freedom. The television audience applauds and the woman at the counter scribbles something on her pad.

  Sophie and I are the only customers. We choose a tea-stained formica table by the window. A copy of Women’s Weekly is open at the recipe section. How to budget ten dinners for less than fifty dollars. The woman comes over with laminated menus that are greasy to touch.

  Without warning, Sophie reaches across and strokes my wrist. I jump in fright, my knees hitting the underside of the table. Her fingers track goosebumps on my arm.

  The woman waits, tapping her pencil on the pad. ‘We don’t have chicken today.’ She stares vacantly through the front window at another truck blowing by.

  There’s a wild look in Sophie’s eyes. She’s up to something.

  Sophie leans forward, her fingers roaming up to my elbow. ‘I’d like a burger, with lots of beetroot, please. And a cappuccino.’

  At least she didn’t ask for lentils.

  The woman looks at me, eyebrows raised. My throat is dry. The menu slips from my flubby grip. ‘The same, please.’

  She writes the order and looks at Sophie’s fingernails.

  I wriggle uncomfortably in my seat and say the first thing that comes into my head. ‘She’s my sister.’

  The waitress sniffs in answer. Another fly zaps. Oprah cuts to a commercial. The woman walks out the back, slamming the door. I picture her in the kitchen with cockroaches scurrying along the benchtops, preparing to spit on our burgers.

  I pull away from Sophie’s touch and hide my hands under the table, deep in my pockets. ‘Why are you teasing her?’

  Sophie bites her lip and stares out the window. ‘I didn’t like the way she looked at me. As if she knew who I was, how I felt.’

  From the kitchen, I hear plates being stacked roughly, the sizzle of the grill and the slam of a screen door.

  The glass counter blushes with jellybeans, liquorice allsorts, milkbottles, sour jubes, red raspberries and honey bears. Six flavours of potato chips are stacked near the cash register. There’s a commercial on Oprah for a milk supplement: you can drink yourself thin.

  Sophie’s hands are clenched in tight fists on the table.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask.

  Sophie looks at me for a long time before speaking. ‘Do you ever feel like screaming in public, b
ut stop yourself, because of what people . . .’ She looks in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Because of what people you don’t know and don’t care about might think?’

  ‘I’m scared of what everybody thinks,’ I answer.

  ‘You’re different, aren’t you?’ says Sophie.

  ‘Different from what?’

  ‘From . . . other men.’

  ‘I’m—’

  ‘You’re not trying to impress me.’

  I shiver at the thought. ‘I couldn’t.’

  The waitress slides the plates towards us. I wait until she turns away before lifting the bread roll. Meat, margarine, soggy lettuce, tomato sauce. No spit, as far as I can tell.

  ‘You worry too much,’ mocks Sophie. She takes a reassuringly large bite and chews loudly. ‘Who cares if she thinks we’re perverts.’

  She scrapes away the onions from her burger and adds extra sauce.

  ‘Incest is illegal,’ I say.

  Sophie wipes her mouth with a serviette. ‘It’s illegal . . . and sick. But we’re not related. And we haven’t had sex.’

  She takes another bite and swallows without chewing enough.

  The woman returns to our table with the coffees. There’s something that smells like nutmeg sprinkled on the froth. I hesitantly take a sip. Nutmeg, hot milk, not much coffee. Sophie spoons the froth into her mouth and licks her lips.

  ‘I dare you to say something about the nutmeg,’ I challenge.

  Sophie raises her hand, like a naughty schoolgirl. ‘Excuse me, miss?’

  The woman walks back to our table.

  ‘Could I have extra nutmeg, please?’

  The woman looks from Sophie to me. ‘Do you want more as well?’

  I shake my head and Sophie gets up, holding her coffee, to follow the woman back to the espresso machine. The woman sprinkles nutmeg over the froth, the saucer and Sophie’s hand holding it.

  Sophie can barely suppress her smile as she walks back to the table.

  ‘You’re going to have to finish that . . . concoction now,’ I say.

  She takes a long sip and pretends to be satisfied.

  ‘James?’