Max (5 page)

Every week morning, Max would pass by the Tan Dai grocery and glance at its small bronzed Buddha sitting in the gloom at the back of the shop, fat sticks of incense sailing their aroma onto the street.

A woman shopkeeper hosed off the footpath. Max stepped onto the road, dodging the spray. Horns of the morning traffic warned him off, reminding Max of the other night, of Fatman's blood and spittle, the sour stink of Fatman's body, the fall into darkness, the screeching train staring him down, its lights rushing up the line, searching for those words.

Those words still simmering in his brain.

‘The words... those words on the wall... they belonged in my brain. They were meant to remain in my mind. Silent. All wrapped up. Mine. ‘I thought you were my friend'... Yeah mate, I thought you were. But you didn't hang around, did you? Some friend! But you were, weren't you? My friend? It's just you didn't talk much. Some of the kids even thought you were mute. You know that, mate? Deaf and dumb. Dumb – no talk! Dumb – stupid! You weren't either of them mate, I know that. You were just locked up in yourself. God! Imagine what was locked away in your brain. Should go to the cemetery and ask for your head. Maybe get some answers. Two heads are better than one, eh.'

Max laughed out loud and startled a man with a vinyl shopping bag standing in front of a Chinese restaurant, its steaming windows hung with red glazed ducks.

‘I'll tell you another thing, Lou. It was bloody scary the other night. Bloody scary. But I wished I could have seen Fatman's face when I jumped off the bridge. His face looked like a balloon already but his eyes must've been out on stalks when I went over the rail.'

Max broke into a run. And laughed all the way to school.

The school's main attraction was that it lay next to the Maramingo River, the same river that was at the end of Max's street. He had often dreamt of paddling to school for the sheer joy of it but other kids would have thought he had tickets on himself. Besides, The Falls were halfway between his house and the school. They were nothing like Niagara but still, going over the two metre drop in a lightweight kayak wasn't something you'd normally choose to do.

This was his first day back at school since Lou's death. He was not sure how he felt and he had no idea how he should act. Should he be cool? Maybe silent? Angry? Where was the guidebook for these situations? Had he ever been told things like this might happen?

One day your mate was here and the next day he's vanished. Gone to who knows where. But in the past week there had been many times when Max felt as though Lou was at his elbow, mooching along, saying nothing, smiling every now and then at Max's comments. Memories of secret exploits.

God, what times they'd had. Climbing onto the tops of carrier trucks. Hanging on for about eight blocks while they sprayed their tags before they jumped down and ran off into the night. What a time! But now, as he approached the gates of the school, Max began to worry about the geeks at school.

The kids who hated Lou would say nothing – unless they were complete arseholes. Then there'd be the professional soapie stars who could barely remember what he looked like, probably didn't even know his name. They'd be looking forlorn and rushing off to the girls' toilets or sick bay to weep their crocodile tears. And of course there were those who loved him and they'll have a hole in their life where he once graced them with a smile walking down the corridor or standing in line at the canteen. Few of them would've had a conversation with Lou. He was your silent type but silence has its own seductive charms.

School was school. Old, two storey brick built in three sections. It could have passed for a factory or a knitting mill but it was a school of about a thousand students and eighty teachers. And on this day, a decision had been made. A decision not to dwell on the subject of death.

The Deputy Principal stood in front of the early morning staff meeting.

‘If it's raised by the kids, discuss it by all means but let's leave most of it up to the experts. Extra counsellors have been assigned to the school if the students want someone to talk to. I suggest we watch out for signs of high drama and any kids who insist on talking about suicide. Let matters die down of their own accord. And Miss Turner, watch out for that boy, Max Fairchild. The dead boy was his best friend. Oh, and Miss Turner! Would you mind steering away from poetry for a day or two, until things blow over...'

Max sat in the classroom, rolling his ruler around in his closed hands. He stared at the feet of the students sitting opposite. The teacher was late. Teachers could afford to be late to senior classes and this class was more docile than most. It was Home Economics Theory. ‘Materials and technology in Food' was its official title but the kids called it ‘Cooking'. Max had chosen the subject with Lou. They needed an extra unit, so they took it because it looked not so much easy, as relaxed. In any case, you got to have a good feed at the end. That was a big plus.

Around the room kids were doing their normal catch-up work. Terry Griffiths over there, drawing his eight hundredth car for the year, picking at his flaming red pimples. Silvana reading her fiftieth book. Chris, Mark and Tien checking off their footy tips, belting Mark on the arm because he'd picked six winners. Guy and Kirsty, heads together, whispering their array of insults, taunts and vicious gossip. It didn't pay to overhear or get too close.

In the midst of all this were hushed conversations and surreptitious looks over shoulders at Max. And at the spare seat next to him.

Mai, one of Vietnamese girls, was doing her homework. She put a hand to her head to think for a moment, and, glimpsing Max through her black, black hair, she looked at him and didn't turn away until Miss Turner walked in.

Miss Turner taught English and Home Ec. ‘These days teachers teach anything,' thought Max. ‘Next she'll be teaching astro physics.'

‘Morning, ladies and gentlemen.' Janet Turner looked steadfastly at Chris, Joe, Kirsty. Anywhere but at Max. ‘Now. Where were we up to? We were looking at grain and cereal products and the effect of different types of flour on things like bread, pastry, thickeners and sponge cakes.' Janet gazed at her class and realised that wheat or any other topic remotely connected to her subject was irrelevant. She forgot the admonitions of the meeting before school. Forgot them or ignored them.

‘But before we get on with things as though everything's normal, I'd like to say how sorry we all are about the death of Lou Petrocelli.' The class fell silent. ‘Dealing with the death of a friend, somebody you're used to seeing day in and day out not being here anymore, well...' She perched herself on the edge of the desk. ‘It's... it's more than difficult.' She stood up, clasping her hands before her. ‘My own mother died two years ago and I still sometimes forget. Something happens and I go to the phone to ring her and tell her some news.'

She halted. Terry looked hard at his drawing. Silvana ran her fingers over the cover of her book. Max stared at the floor. Guy looked at Max, like he was searching for something in his face.

‘Sometimes I even begin to dial and then, and then...' Janet Turner didn't know how she had arrived at this point and wasn't sure where she was headed. She was trying, somehow, to say something to help. Especially to help Max but here she was again, lost in her own mother's death.

‘Look. I wanted to say a few simple things, but if I was to be honest, there's nothing simple about death. And nothing simple about life, for that matter... Would any-one else like to say something?'

Mai looked softly at Miss Turner and then at Max. Chris folded and unfolded his tipping sheet. Tick, tick, tick. Max could have looked anywhere but he didn't. The rhythmic roll and flick of the ruler in his hand continued.

‘How'd he do it, Miss?' Guy fashioned his face into something approximating sincerity. The students swivelled, looking at Max and then a soft voice dropped into the pit of silence.

‘I think it's one of the saddest things I've ever heard', Mai said.

‘Yes it is, Mai.' There was a long silence. Miss Turner felt herself becoming anxious.

‘To tell you the truth, Miss, it's so sad I don't even feel like being here. I mean, what's the point?' Mai's voice was barely audible. Janet Turner could hardly stop herself from agreeing.

‘Would you like some time to yourself, Mai? Go and have a walk outside?'

‘How come she gets to go?' Kirsty blurted out. ‘Geez, Miss – I mean, we're all sad but you gotta keep going. You can't just fall in a heap.' Her words fell with a thud. ‘Well you do!' She looked around at her classmates for support but was met by stony silence. Feeling under pressure, Kirsty clutched at straws. ‘In any case, he shouldn't have done it. You know. He did it to himself. It's a sin to take your own life.'

‘Some people think so', Miss Turner said.

‘I think that's crap', said Max.

‘Whoa, the ghost who walks', laughed Guy. ‘For a minute there, Max, I thought you had old Lou's disease.' He mimicked his mouth being zippered up.

The class looked at Guy and then at Max. Max didn't want to snot the idiot but he sure felt like it. He wanted to go over and spread Guy's nose across his face. The bastard had no respect for anything.

Max tapped his ruler on the desk in front of him. ‘Doesn't matter how he did it. He did it. That's all. ‘

‘So why'd he do it?' Guy didn't know when to stop.

Janet Turner had been lost in her own sea of sadness but Guy's question dragged her back into being a teacher. ‘That doesn't concern you, Guy. I think it would be a good idea if we went on with our work. Why don't you continue with the revision I set you last week.'

Guy's face reddened. Max thought that at that minute he bore a striking resemblance to Fatman.

‘I was just discussing it Miss, like you said.'

‘Yes... well', said Miss Turner. Turning to her desk she wondered whether the Deputy Principal's warning hadn't been right after all.

M
AX AMBLED HIS WAY out of school at the end of the day, scuffing his runners on the loose gravel of the play-ground. Most of the students had left. He had waited behind in the toilets to avoid the stares and whispers.

He walked in a daze towards the small gate at the end of the school. Cinnamon leaves were scattered over the path and piled in the gutters. He felt a presence, heard a soft tread just behind, like a cat trailing him.

It was Mai. As she drew level, she glanced at him, murmured something, then walked quickly past. Max watched her quicken her step, watched her black black hair falling down her shoulders.

‘Mai!' he called.

She slowed and turned, lowering her head.

‘Yes?'

Max wondered what it was he wanted to say. ‘That was good today. What you said.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Well, – it's kind of obvious, isn't it?' she said. ‘He was young, we're all young... Only a little while ago he was here at this school, walking along this path... it's the saddest thing.'

Max stood forlornly, his bag slung over his shoulder. He smelt a stale afternoon wind come up off the river. Nearby a crow flapped its wings and settled on the remains of a discarded lunch.

‘Waste not, want not', Mai said, looking at the crow.

Max watched the bird peck and tear at its meal.

Silence.

‘I guess I'll see you tomorrow then.' Mai searched for the right words, helpful words, any words would do. But none came. She turned and continued her way home.

There was a rush of tyres behind Max. A hand clipped him over the back of his head as a bike rushed by.

‘Getting on with the slopes now, are ya, Max?'

Guy laughed and sped on, his bulky frame leaning this way and that, swerving from kerb to kerb. Max stood and watched him go. He looked at Mai as she dawdled her way towards Wellington Street. The crow, finished with his dinner, flew off. Leaving Max standing there alone – feeling lost and stupid.