Catherine Jinks TheRoad (4 page)

‘Harry might be in trouble,’ Cyrene growled, ‘but Bit should be back.’

‘What coulda happened?’ Grace kept her voice low, because Nathan was fiddling around with Harry’s plastic bone, and she didn’t want him to hear.

‘Maybe they got onto the highway,’ Cyrene suggested. ‘Maybe they got hit.’

‘Both of ’em?’

‘Or they ate poisoned bait.’

‘Oh no.’ Grace was shocked. ‘Round here?’

Cyrene shrugged. ‘Not my land, most of it. If Ricketts wants to bait cats or foxes, it’s nunna my business.’

Suddenly Nathan joined in. He tapped his mother on the hip.

‘Can we look for ’em?’ he piped up. ‘Can
I
go? Mum?’

Grace shook her head. ‘It’s too late,’ she replied. ‘It’s gettin dark.’

‘But they might be
lost
!’ Nathan protested.

‘You do what your mum says. They’re my dogs, I’ll look for ’em.’

‘Now?’ asked Grace.

‘I’ll take the car down to the road. See if anything’s been hit.’

‘I’m sorry, Cy.’ Grace felt bad. ‘I thought Bit was headin home. I shoulda kept an eye on ’em.’

‘It’s not your fault. Bit’s an old dog. And Harry’s a menace.’

‘I love Harry!’ Nathan bleated.

‘Yeah, well...’ Cyrene glanced at Grace. ‘He’ll be back.’

Cyrene returned to the house, where he put on his hat and boots. Then he climbed into his white ute and disappeared in a cloud of red dust, heading west towards the highway. Grace took Nathan inside. First she gave him a wash, running half a bucket of water into the bottom of Cyrene’s big old bath, which Nathan didn’t like. (There was a black patch at the bottom of the bath where the enamel had worn away. Nathan refused to sit on it, for some reason.) Next, having scrubbed the grit out of her son’s hair, she dressed him in his Pooh Bear pyjamas and let him loose. She was just about to pull a packet of frozen mixed vegetables from the tiny freezer compartment of Cyrene’s pus-coloured fridge when she heard Nathan shriek from the back door.

‘Mum! Mum! Listen!’

‘What?’

‘Come here! Quick!’

Sighing, Grace turned off the cold water tap. She went to join her son. Dusk had settled, deadening the red glow of the earth and blurring the spiky outlines of the surrounding scrub. A faint breeze tugged at Grace’s hair as Nathan grabbed her skirt and pulled her across the wire doormat. She could hear a noise – a whining noise. Anxiously she squinted in the direction of the garage, which was a dim grey shape looming to her right.

‘Is it Harry, Mum?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Harry!’

‘Wait.’ She yanked him back. ‘Put your shoes on.’

‘But
Mu-um
...’

‘There’s
snakes
, Nathan, and ya can’t bloody see. Now put your shoes on!’

‘Look! Mum! It’s Harry!’

He was a pale shape moving slowly – very slowly – towards the golden light that spilled from the doorway. Grace knew at once that he was sick. His back legs were dragging, he lurched and staggered, his head hung low. He was crippled and failing – blind, perhaps. His ribs laboured. His tongue flapped like a torn rag.

‘Get back inside,’ said Grace.

‘Why?’

‘Just do it.’

‘But I don’t wanna!’

‘Bloody
do
it, Nathan! He’s
sick
, all right?’

Instead, Nathan darted forward. The dog was closer now, his matted coat and drooling jaws clearly visible. The whining was ceaseless, high-pitched, plaintive. He swung his head.

‘Nathan!’
Seeing her son falter, Grace smacked him on the rear. ‘Didja hear me, ya little bugger?
Get inside!
’

Nathan burst into tears.

‘What’s wrong with ’im?’

‘I dunno! I’ll find out! Just get inside!’

Nathan retreated; Grace advanced. She didn’t know much about dogs – not the way Mark did. She didn’t know what happened when they ate pesticide or got bitten by ticks or were hit by cars. Had Harry been hit by a car? Had he fractured his spine, or something?

‘Hey, Harry,’ she murmured. ‘Whassup, boy?’

Harry yelped, lunged forward, and fell. He struggled to rise again on shaking legs. Grace heard the rattle and roar of an approaching engine; she straightened, and sighed.

‘Cyrene’s back,’ she said. ‘Go get him, Nathan.’

‘What’s wrong with Harry?’ Nathan sobbed. ‘Poor Harry!’

‘I dunno what’s wrong. Cyrene will know.’ Seeing Nathan head back into the house, she added, ‘Don’t go out front till he’s turned the engine off! Nathan? Didja hear me?’

It occurred to Grace that Harry might have rabies. Didn’t dogs drool and stagger when they had rabies? She couldn’t recall. She took a step back, trying to remember where Cyrene kept his gun. He had one, she was sure of it. An old rifle.

Harry fell down – and this time he didn’t get up. He just lay there, panting like a marathon runner.

After a while, Grace heard heavy boots on the linoleum behind her. Floorboards creaked, and she smelled tobacco – Cyrene’s favourite brand. Pattering footsteps told her that Nathan was also coming down the hall.

She turned.

‘Harry’s back?’ asked Cyrene.

‘He’s sick,’ said Nathan. ‘Real sick, look! Poor Harry.’ He wriggled between them, all knobs and joints. ‘Is he gunna die?’

‘I dunno.’ Grace glanced at Cyrene. His eyes were lost in the pouches and creases that surrounded them. He walked down the back steps – thump! thump! – just as Harry’s limbs began to twitch.

Cyrene stopped in his tracks. ‘Ah, bugger,’ he said.

Then he sent Grace to get a blanket.

lec ‘Dozy’ Miller lay in a Mildura motel, thinking about his sister-in-law.