Max (11 page)

The May sun had shifted west, covering the island in mottled shadows. Nick waved goodbye from the tiny beach. The crows squawked above the trees as clouds began to gather. A headwind blew, buffeting the canoe.

‘You OK, Max? Thanks for trusting me – and for taking me. You feeling alright?' Mai kept her head to the front.

Since telling them almost everything, Max had drawn a protective covering around himself. Spilling his guts had made him feel better and more foolish all at once. ‘I suppose so. I mean, I'm not going to kill myself or anything.'

‘It seems like that's what you've been trying to do. Is that what you were trying to do when you went through the tunnel?'

It was a good question, and made him stop for a minute.

‘I'm not sure what I've been doing, to tell you the truth. When I did the graffiti, I guess I was doing the things I did with Lou, but they just got out of hand. And the tunnel – it seemed like a good idea at the time. I was angry, all messed up in the head. I just did it, thought it might help.'

‘Did it help? Did it make you feel better?' Mai asked. ‘Y'know Max, I don't want a dead boyfriend.'

He stopped paddling and rested his paddle across the deck. ‘Boyfriend?'

Mai giggled. ‘Sorry. Can't you take it? Am I being too pushy?'

‘No. No!' He could hardly conceal his delight. ‘It surprised me, that's all. Boyfriend, eh? Sounds good. Does that make you my girlfriend then?'

‘Not if you're dead, it doesn't.'

The canoe moved through the water as sweet as honey.

‘Sometimes you feel like you can go forever, all the way down to the Falls,' Max said.

‘Is this where this part ends up?'

‘Yep, sure does.' A crow cawed downstream and a light rain began to fall, pin-pricking the water's surface.

‘It was interesting, that stuff he said about crows,' Mai was enjoying the rhythm of their movements. ‘My father told me that a crow sat on their boat when they were escaping. Sat on top of the cabin where they steered the boat. He said some people were superstitious, thought the crow was bad luck. But one time they were chased by pirates and the crow flew off. Soon after, the pirate's boat broke down and they got away.'

‘So?' said Max.

‘So the crow came back and they all believed it made the pirate boat break down.'

‘Really?' Max said, feeling a genuine sense of awe. ‘Did your parents come here like that?'

‘Yep. Refugee boats and camps in Malaysia – all that. So I suppose I can understand why they want me to do well.'

‘A crow?' mused Max.

Needles of rain began to fall, soaking their clothes and running down their faces. For years after they would both remember the kiss they gave each other, standing on a pile of muddy autumn leaves as the rain pattered. The canoe resting in the thick dark green creeper that grew along the path.

They would both remember their bodies' first touch, that first pressure of breasts and bellies, of mounds and thighs – a kiss that allowed Max to forget for a moment.

F
OR A WEEK OR SO, life became increasingly pleasant. Dave spoke to the principal and the police and officially backed up Max's story, for which Max was eternally grateful. Woody had been happy since he learnt that he was to visit his mother in the next holidays. Max had spoken to his mum on the phone and, as usual, the conversation had tumbled along nicely.

‘No, I don't think I'll come up as well. There are a few things I have to do,' he said.

‘Oh. You mean you've got a girlfriend?'

‘What do you reckon, Mum?'

Despina came over and cooked a meal. Moussaka and rice in vine leaves. Woody had been disappointed that she was not into bottling jam and wasn't exactly crazy about ants either. But when she said she would teach him all she knew about Greek cooking, that sealed her place at the table.

Mai was allowed to go to the movies with Max. He met her father and, although one was extremely uncomfortable and the other, extremely suspicious, Max had managed to appear like a normal, polite young man, not a crazed graffiti artist.

Max was riding on a smooth spring current.

An unknown car was parked outside the house. Although the well-cared-for little white car rang some bells.

Walking in the front door Max heard his father talking to someone in the loungeroom. He saw Dave sit forward, looking intently at whoever.

Max walked in. A black-haired woman with grey at her roots and temples, dressed in a sensible dark blue work suit, sat opposite Dave. She smiled wanly at Max, dabbing her eyes. Those eyes. Yes, he knew those eyes.

‘Mrs Petrocelli,' Dave said.

‘We met once or twice, didn't we, Max? At home. Not as often as he came here, apparently,' said the woman.

Max sat down in an armchair, holding a pillow on his lap. ‘Yes. Hello, Mrs Petrocelli. How are you?'

Immediately he felt pathetic again. How are you? What was the poor woman supposed to say? I'm terrific, except I've just got this little problem of my son killing himself. I'm OK except that I can't sleep too well because I keep on imagining my boy, all blue in the face, hanging gently in the breeze while emergency crews try to haul him up from dangling in mid-air. What could she possibly answer?

‘Not bad,' she replied, tugging pitifully at her sodden handkerchief. ‘Mr Petrocelli, he didn't come. Couldn't. Can't face it, really. He just sits – doesn't understand. He's a good man but he doesn't talk much. Can't let it out. But he did do things for the kids – Lou and his sister, when they were little.'

‘I'm sorry,' said Max.

‘No. You shouldn't be sorry – about Lou's dad, I mean. He never understood Lou or the graffiti and Lou never tried. Well, he wasn't too talkative himself.' Mrs Petrocelli smiled bravely. ‘Like father, like son?'

Dave touched her arm and offered her another cup of tea.

‘No, thanks. I really should be going. Thought I should drop over and say thanks for coming to the funeral. We saw more of Lou's friends there than we'd ever seen before. Not that he had many. Although we did meet his girlfriend Mary at one time. She stayed out on the footpath and wouldn't come in. Lou kind of introduced us from the front porch. She was a strange girl. Looked as skinny as a rake. She paced up and down smoking cigarettes like they kept her going. I found all that very hard too.'

Lou's mother caught a sob and swallowed. She turned her head quickly and looked out the window, sitting in a room where her son had once been.

Max followed her gaze. He saw the little funeral once more. A few kids from school, their year level co-ordinator, a couple of graffiti writers they knew, Mrs Petrocelli, and Mr Petrocelli, all stiff and grey, somehow holding in all that grief that must have been like a wild sea inside him. Lou's sister wasn't there and Mary the space cadet couldn't make it – her next hit was probably more important. The best thing that happened was Woody, who walked over to the grave and threw in a favourite old blanket of his – ‘To keep him warm on his journey,' he said. Nobody laughed. But in some ways it made as much sense as anything else.

Lou's mother stood up. ‘In any case, I shouldn't keep going on like this. I actually came to give Max something.' She unclipped her large black handbag and pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘Lou wrote this a couple of years ago. I'm sure you know about it. You were such good friends. He would have liked you to have it. I didn't get a chance to say anything to you at the funeral. Wasn't in a good state, really.'

Max held the leaf of paper in his hands, as though it would dissolve if he clasped it too tightly.

‘So there. Drop in if you're near us sometime. I'd – we'd – love to see you.'

They said goodbye to her out in the street. Just before she got in, Mrs Petrocelli turned to Max, hesitated, then threw her arms around him, her words coming in great heaving sobs. ‘I don't understand. It's not the way it's meant to be,' she cried. ‘Parents aren't supposed to bury their children. It's meant to be the other way around. If only he'd talked to me – if he had problems or felt worried – that's what you're supposed to do, isn't it, talk to your mother?'

Max and his father stood and watched the little car make its way up the street. Dave put his arm around his son's shoulders and pulled him close. He began to say something, but the words drifted away...

Max went inside to his room. Lou's piece of writing lay on the bed, fluttering in a breeze that blew through his open window. He picked it up and looked at it. Yes, he remembered the time when Lou wrote this:

Lou Petrocelli

Year 10 Green

English

Topic: Something burns within me

It's a dark balmy summer's night. There is the coolest of breezes whipping up the dust in the carpark. We have spray cans in our bags. A factory wall, clean as a washed blackboard, stands before us. We have no ladder. We are alone. We don't know what to write. But our cans are full and we have a blank wall. It is 11:45 p.m. Something burns within us.

I ask my mate if he wants to start. He doesn't. I raise my hand, my finger poised on the button. Fear gets the better of me for a moment, in the same way it does when you are about to write the first line.

The fear ebbs, then vanishes like a magician's rabbit as soon as I begin. The first spray hits the wall and at the same time any resistance in my head flies away.

I work quickly. Tonight we work in blue and black, rounded swirling fat letters, intertwined and buried in big blocks of yellow. I drew the sketch of this piece in art and I know it like the back of my hand.

We chose the letters ‘ESP' because we think it would be great to be able to do it. But mainly they were chosen because they're great to paint, great to experiment with.

I stop and my friend takes over. Some nights you don't work well together but tonight we are like twins on the same team. He bends the ‘S' around, making it look very relaxed. Then I throw the ‘P' up, only to bury some of it in thick layers of deep blue. Meanwhile he's busy at the other end, doing a touch-up.