Inbetween Days (17 page)

Nobody seemed surprised. I heard Ma open the front door and speak quietly. Seconds later, Meredith Jolley was standing uncertainly in the doorway with Jeremiah behind her. One of his big hands rested on her frail shoulder.

‘Merry Christmas,' Jeremiah said. ‘Thank you for having us.'

Meredith slid into the closest empty chair as if her legs were about to give way. Her long fingernails bit into the edge of Ma's table. She wore an oversized shift dress, a hospital band around her wrist and rabbit slippers on her feet.

Jeremiah took the seat next to me. The last time I'd seen him he'd lugged my passed-out body home, and I hadn't bothered to call and thank him.

‘Got plans for New Year's Eve?' he asked.

I shook my head. No Luke—no plans. No life.

‘Roly and I are going to camp out and watch the fireworks at Burt Oval,' he said. ‘Do you want to come?'

‘Okay,' I said. ‘I haven't been for a couple of years.'

‘Hey, I didn't recognise you the other night,' Trudy told Jeremiah. ‘Sorry if I was a bit funny. I thought—'

‘No problem,' he cut her off. ‘Understandable.'

‘Who's for champagne?' Dad asked and uncorked a bottle.

I pushed a champagne glass in his direction but he skimmed over the top of it and poured for the others.

Meredith Jolley eyed me steadily, obviously under the influence of some heavy medication. She seemed mesmerised by my green dress and orange hair. I gave her a theatrical twitch in return and her expression softened.
Oh, hello, other crazy person
, her eyes seemed to say, which left me feeling uncomfortable and ashamed.

Trudy said, ‘I'll see if Ma needs help in the kitchen.'

Dad jerked his head in my direction, which I took to mean that I should offer, too. I shredded my bon-bon instead, half-listening to the drone of conversation.

‘How are you, Meredith?' Dad.

‘…better.' Meredith.

‘I like your slippers.' Thom.

‘Sorry, her feet are swollen from…' Jeremiah.

‘…home for good?' Dad, changing the subject.

‘Not yet. Just a day pass. She needs more rest.' Valiant Jeremiah.

All the time I was attuned to Ma—flitting in and out of the corner of my vision—the way you can be acutely aware of a spider on the wall. She passed trays of steaming food to Trudy, who brought them to the table. Thom's hand reached out to touch Trudy each time she passed.

‘…Jack?'

‘Sorry? I wasn't listening.'

‘What have you been up to?' Dad.

The room fell quiet. Everybody looked at me.

I lost my job. I lie on the couch all day. Turns out I'm not much of a drinker.

‘Trudy and I brought prophylactics,' I said.

Blank stares.

‘They exploded.'

‘What?' Thom said, laughing.

‘They should be okay, though, they're just a bit oozy.'

A dazzle of zebras, a wake of buzzards, a bevy of swans—there was probably a collective for just about anything, but I couldn't think of one for a group of hostile humans. A fury of…something? I squirmed. Under Ma's heritage table, my leg caught on a splinter—it pierced my skin like a hot needle.

‘Oh, just…
fuck
it!' I said.

Ma slammed down a plate of pork crackling. I couldn't tell if the spitting sound was Ma or the pork. ‘Out!' she said in a cold and furious voice. ‘Just…out!'

‘Ma, calm down, please. It's Christmas.' Trudy's new soothing tone was so out of character it made my skin crawl.

I left the table and went outside to sit on the verandah. I blamed the insects—they were humming at screaming pitch. I blamed Trudy—she had taken my corner in a decisive coup. I blamed Thom for being nice. I blamed Dad for asking stupid questions and Jeremiah for just being there and Meredith Jolley for bringing more crazy into a house that was already way overstocked. I blamed Ma for being unreachable.

The front door opened and closed quietly behind me.

Without turning around, my first guess: Trudy, the new peacekeeper. Second guess: Dad. Third: Jeremiah, for reasons I can't even begin to rationalise, except that he was eminently sensible and kind. Thom: no, he wouldn't pick a side. Ma: no way, not unless she planned to sweep me off the verandah with her broomstick.

‘Go away,' I said, which covered all guesses.

Meredith Jolley sat down next to me. She kicked off her rabbit slippers and flung them onto the lawn. The elastic had left marks on her swollen feet. She pulled out a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her dress and offered me one.

I shook my head. ‘No, thanks.'

‘You're missing out on your presents. This one is from your mum and dad.' She handed me a rectangular package wrapped in silver paper.

‘I have no presents for anyone,' I said. I slid my finger under the tape and opened one end of the present. Turquoise leather. A purse. I tore off the rest of the paper. It looked classy and smelled expensive—the last thing I wanted or needed. Ma had put a ten cent piece in the coin compartment—she'd always told me it was bad luck to gift an empty purse. I laughed.

Meredith leaned across and squeezed the splinter out from my thigh with her sharp fingernails. ‘That must have hurt,' she said, wiping the splinter—and a drop of my blood—onto her dress. ‘I'm not a big fan of pork,' she continued. She lit a cigarette and dragged on it. ‘Do you think we should go back inside and keep pretending?'

I didn't reply so she answered her own question.

‘Fuck it,' she said. Barefooted, she crossed the street and sat in the tyre swing.

After a minute I joined her and together we stared at our houses.

‘I'm thinking of becoming vegetarian,' Pope said when I handed him a foil-wrapped package of leftover pork.

‘How about some soggy roast vegetables?' I offered a second package.

He unwrapped it and sniffed. ‘That smells like duck fat.'

‘It is. Okay, then.' I tore open the foil and flung the contents of both into the scrub. The pieces scattered, hitting the trees with wet slaps.

‘Great.'

‘The feral pigs will get to it before it stinks up the place,' I said. ‘It's Christmas day. Did you even know that?'

‘You don't find the idea of a starving wild pig eating the dead flesh of its obese, corn-fed, caged brethren offensive?' He smiled. ‘Of course I know it's Christmas. I haven't thought about anything else for days.'

‘We had lunch at our parents' house,' I told him. ‘It was a disaster. You're probably better off up here by yourself—all this peace and quiet and nobody to tell you what to do.'

‘That's dumb,' he said. ‘That's not even close to the truth.'

‘You're not the first person to call me dumb.'

He roughed up his hair in frustration. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't say that. I like the peace and quiet but I would happily trade both for somebody to tell me what to do.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘Forget it.' He put up his elbow as if to fend me off.

‘How long are you going to stay up here?'

‘As long as it takes,' he said resolutely. ‘Not a day more or less.'

‘Why are you doing this?'

‘Penance.'

‘For what?'

‘For being alive.' He sighed. ‘There—now you have it. You can start your countdown.'

‘I'm done counting,' I said. ‘I've given up trying to control things. I can't change anything and I can't stop everything from changing.'

‘That's life,' he said. ‘Counting change.'

I chose my next words carefully. ‘Sometimes I think you're not real. I wonder if I'm going mad like Ebenezer and you're just a ghost. Every time I walk up that path I think about the time my goldfish died and I wouldn't go near the tank for two days. He was lying on his side on top of the water and his eyes were bulging and he was covered in whiteish slime—I could see that from a distance. But as long as I didn't go near the tank he wasn't really dead.'

‘What happened?'

‘On the third day he was gone. Ma probably flushed him.'

‘Why am I like your undead goldfish?' He laughed.

I looked at him square on. ‘Because I wonder if I would do the same thing if I found your tent zipped up one day and you were nowhere to be found? Would I look inside? Or would I keep on walking?'

Pope slowly stretched out a hand. He grabbed one of mine. His was cool and rough. ‘Am I real enough for you?'

He let go.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

‘You guys are early,' I said through the door crack. ‘It's only four. You told me half past.' My hair was dripping. I had dressed for the dust in old denim cut-offs and a black tank top, but I hadn't put on any make-up or packed an overnight bag.

Jeremiah and Roly were on the doorstep, grinning. Gypsy snuffled happily at their feet.

Roly groaned. ‘You don't need much. We've got two tents and a full esky. If we don't get there early we won't get a good spot.'

‘Come in,' I said and slid the door open. ‘There's nobody else here. Have a seat.' I gestured at the couch.

I hauled Gypsy away by her collar and grabbed some female flotsam from the couch and the floor. I threw it in the laundry sink without bothering to check whose it was. Trudy and I used to borrow each other's clothing but, now that she was shrinking, she was inching closer to Mads's size ten than my fourteen. Between the three of us, all messy, the house constantly looked like we were having a car-boot sale.

Jeremiah went straight over to the movies on the bookshelf. Roly spotted a photo album, sat down and spread it out on his lap.

‘Help yourself,' I said.

I did my hair and make-up as quickly as I could. It was humid already—the oval would be packed and steamy. I threw some trackpants and a thin jacket into a bag and took the pillow and quilt from my bed. The moment the bed was stripped Gypsy began nesting on the mattress. The older she got the more she behaved like a human. I laid some newspaper down in the laundry and filled her food and water bowls. She wouldn't miss me at all.

‘I was hoping for some bikini shots,' Roly said, flipping through pages of photos. ‘But these are cool.'

I leaned over his shoulder. ‘These are old,' I said. ‘Nobody in my family takes photos anymore.'

I squinted at a blurred shot of Trudy and me, aged around five and eleven, frozen in the middle of star-jumps on the trampoline; the two of us, skating on a homemade waterslide in the backyard; sticky fingers in a bowl of chocolate cake batter; Princess Leia bun-heads.

I snapped the album shut and put it back on the shelf.

I knew the photo on the last page of the album had a picture of us both, eleven and seventeen, scowling, turning away from each other. It was fitting: after that was ‘The Gap'. After that was ‘Trudy's Adventures in Europe' and ‘Jack-Missing-Trudy Years' closely followed by ‘Jack Flying under Ma's Radar' and ‘Riding in Cars with Boys'.

Jeremiah had only reached the ‘L' section of our vast movie collection.

‘Shall we go?' I grabbed my keys and stood by the door. Resentment made my throat tighten.

Jeremiah took the pillow and quilt from me and carried them to the car. He had to stoop to get through the doorway. Roly jiggled around like a five-year-old.

‘Can I drive?' I asked.

‘No!' they answered at the same time.

‘Shouldn't you leave a note?' Roly asked.

‘I don't answer to anybody,' I said. Why bother? Trudy didn't care. I hadn't forgiven her at all. I knew those years would still be missing even if we had pictures.

Burt was a sprawling town built on the flat—a dustbowl in summer, more civilised but less pretty than Mobius. It was where we got our fix of fast food, mall shops and out-of-town bands at the Crypt, a dingy club in the basement of the old Bank. We passed right by the area school on the way in and I felt strangely nostalgic for a place I never wanted to see again. Jeremiah had been subdued on the ride, leaving it to Roly and me to pick music and chatter. I wondered if he regretted inviting me along. If that was the case he didn't have to worry—I wouldn't be cramping his style, whatever style that was.

We parked a few streets away and lugged our gear under a row of pine trees outside the perimeter fence, a long way from the action but quieter if we did eventually try to sleep.

Burt oval was already becoming a tent city. The grass was flattened and the centre looked like a giant patchwork quilt, almost completely covered with picnic rugs and blankets. Most were unoccupied, set up early to reserve the spot. A two-person band played country twang on the main stage but nobody was paying much attention—the real band and the real party wouldn't start until eight. Until then it was a case of holding on to our spot, finding food and pacing the alcohol intake.

‘Need help? Jeremiah asked.

‘I'm good, thanks.' I set up the tent I'd borrowed from Roly and stuffed my bag inside.

‘I never get used to this—it's past six and still light,' Jeremiah said.

Roly said, ‘How many people do you think there are? Two thousand?'

‘Thereabouts,' Jeremiah said. ‘And more to come. Do you want to stake out a spot in the middle while we get food?'

Roly agreed to guard our two and a half metres and we left him, sitting cross-legged on a tartan blanket. An evening westerly blew in, stirring up more dust but taking the heat with it. Jeremiah and I lined up for half an hour for lukewarm hotdogs and burnt chips from a van. Jeremiah offered to pay and I was secretly relieved to put my last ten dollars back into my pocket.

‘Do you have a job back in Melbourne?' I asked.

We zigzagged back across the oval, juggling food, trying to spot Roly through the growing crowd. I jogged two steps to Jeremiah's one.