Miracle Man (3 page)

"I suppose so."
Lahra did her best to avoid his intense gaze, but found that she couldn't.

"Well then the least
you can do in return is have dinner with me tonight. I'll cook. Think of it as
a kindly gesture between new neighbours. What do you say?"

So much for getting him on
the defensive. She'd only succeeded in provoking him into full scale attack.
Now what? "Well, I don't-"

"You can't turn down a
man who's saved your life twice in one day. Besides, I make a fantastic
vegetarian lasagne."

All Lahra wanted to do was
get indoors and get dry. Her teeth were on the verge of chattering. If she
stayed here another moment she'd either freeze to death or die of
embarrassment. She could see no quick way out other than to agree to his
request. "Fine."

"Great. Seven
o’clock." Marcus pushed himself backwards into deeper water and began
swimming away from her. "Dress casual." Lahra stood and smiled wanly.
She felt like she had a neon sign on her chest. She crossed her arms and began
to walk backwards away from the bank. "Of course, if you choose to stay as
you are I'm not complaining." Marcus thrust himself back through the
water, side-stroking against the current.

Lahra ignored his
provocation. She turned and walked quickly back up the hill.

Great, she thought to
herself, just great. Dinner at seven? What was wrong with her today? Maybe
watching all of those movies had finally caught up with her. Maybe she was
starting to act like a character in some B-grade romantic comedy. Verbal
showdowns on bridges. Spying on naked men from bushes. Accepting dinner
invitations from strangers, even if he had saved her from the river, and even
if he was her new neighbour, and even if he was incredibly good looking and
scrambled her brain just by looking at her with those amazing eyes. Maybe she
ought to just turn back and say she couldn't come to dinner, she had other
plans for the evening, and be done with it. Well, maybe she would have, but in
her mind she could already see his naked form climbing out of the water, as
slick and shiny as the car he drove, and she knew that to turn back and see
that would not be good, not good at all, because the things she'd already seen
had made her mind and pulse race like they never had before, and the last thing
she needed was a man to complicate her life, just when things were going so
well and she was feeling like she was finally beginning to achieve some of the
things she'd set out to achieve, but here she was and she couldn't go back and
she was supposed to be having dinner with him at seven o'clock and what the
hell did “dress casual” mean anyway, like he expected her to roll up at his
door in an evening gown or something, yeah right!

Lahra locked the glass
verandah door behind her and went back into the kitchen to get another glass of
water. Her hand trembled slightly as she looked out to the river. Try as she
might, she couldn't see him. Marcus was gone.

The Doyle River was a wide,
deep waterway that cut jaggedly through the expansive plains of the Charlotte
Valley, originating in the mountains to the east, and fed by the smaller
Severence River (or the Ulonga-Bola River, as the young Lahra Brook had dubbed
it). The two merged at River Fork, where the hills greeted the plains, and
Lahra steered the Jeep past the junction for the second time that day and onto
the main road that led into Riverbank.

Riverbank was a fifteen
minute drive from the foothills where Lahra's family home was nestled. A large
and growing town that was born during the gold rush and founded on the banks of
the Doyle River, it was now a regional centre of some importance. This was
largely due to the Riverbank Campus of Charlton University. Its influence on
the community ensured the town had a vibrant atmosphere; restaurants, cafés,
clubs, sporting facilities. As the Jeep rounded the campus, Lahra fondly regarded
the buildings in which her parents had lectured. It was a shame she never got
to
study at Riverbank.

Before long Lahra approached
Main Street, and she tingled with a resurgence of anticipation. She missed the
place even more than she thought. Everything about it. The interesting blend of
Victorian and Art Deco. The grassy strip that ran down the centre of Main
Street. The statues, fountains and pretty park benches. And of course, the
Miracle Cinema.

As much as Lahra was tempted
to drive straight to the other end of town and see the Miracle, first things
were first. Her fridge and cupboards had been without supplies for almost a
year, and the supermarket beckoned. She parked, gathered her purse, and headed
inside.

The first thing she noticed
was that the checkouts were all new. Streamlined, chrome plated, laser scanning
technology had replaced the old line of tills. A shame, she thought. The old
stuff had a certain charm about it. The shopping trolleys were all new, too.
She selected one and it veered unexpectedly to the left. At least some things
never changed.

Half an hour later, Lahra
had a trolley full of most of the things she'd need for her month in the
country. As she stood at the checkout listening to the 'blip-blip-blip' of the
scanner, something nagged at the back of her mind as if the shopping list
inside her head wasn't complete. What was it she'd forgotten?

A tinkling noise behind her
interrupted her thinking, and she turned to see a hand trolley being wheeled
by, stacked with boxes of local wine. It suddenly occurred to her. Dinner at
seven. She'd been invited to dinner and she had nothing to bring. Assuming of
course that she'd actually go. Would she go?
Should
she go? Now that
she'd begun to think about it the questions came at her like machine gun fire.
Who was Marcus Dean, anyway? What sort of person swam naked in freezing
conditions and asked passers by to dinner? What sort of wine might he like?

Lahra paid the pimply-faced
boy at the register and wheeled her fully laden trolley to the liquor shop
alongside the supermarket.

Even if she didn't end up
going to dinner—and she probably wouldn't—a bottle of chardonnay wouldn't go
astray. Or perhaps two, for later in the week. There were some excellent local
wines, so she went straight to the racks where they were on display. What
better way to help her settle in?

"Lahra?"

She turned to the strangely
familiar voice, and stared blankly for a second. The man before her was about
Lahra's age and very tall, with longish brown hair that didn't want to behave
and a chiselled, narrow face. He was dressed in jeans that were well past their
best days and a checked flannel shirt that exposed a hair-thatched chest. He
held a slab of beer cans under one sinewy arm. Recognition dawned. "Kurt!"

"Gee, Lahra, you look
fantastic!" Kurt's deep voice drawled. "I haven't seen you for, gee,
it must be getting on to three years or more. Back before the last flood."

"Yeah, three
years," Lahra confirmed, beginning to wish that it had been longer.
"You look... really well."

"Yeah, well, I like to
keep in shape," Kurt laughed, flexing his free bicep. "Your hair's a
lot shorter than it used to be. I like it on your shoulders like that. Same
colour, too. You must be the only girl from Riverbank who didn't dye her hair
blond and frizz it all up! You look great!"

"Thanks, Kurt."
The scattered jigsaw pieces of her past began falling quickly into place. Kurt
Carol used to be the shortest kid in primary school, and most of the other kids
teased him about his
Brady Bunch
surname. But come high school, Kurt
suddenly became the tallest kid in the class, and he didn't take kindly to
anyone who had a problem with the name Carol. And somewhere along the way Lahra
got the notion that Kurt looked a bit like a young Gregory Peck. To think that
all these years later, whenever she remembered her first kiss, she'd see the
very non-Gregory Peck face that was before her now.

"So what are ya doin'
in Riverbank? I thought you'd moved to the big smoke."

"Just here on holiday.
I like to get back every once in a while."

"You're a teacher now,
aren't you? Films, or something?"

"I lecture History of
Cinema and Film Appreciation at Charlton University in Sydney. And I do other
bits and pieces. A few independent film projects here and there."

Kurt smiled slyly.
"Yeah, you always did like your movies."

Lahra immediately picked up
the innuendo in his remark and ignored it, avoiding his stare.

"So, you married,
engaged?"

"Happily single,"
Lahra insisted. She waggled her ring finger as physical evidence of this fact.

"Yeah, same. Happily
single. Got mum on my back about it all the time."

"And what about
you?" Lahra quickly changed the direction of the conversation. "What
are you doing with yourself these days?"

Kurt held up the back of his
hand to Lahra. His fingernails were black. "Still doing what I do best.
Riverbank's growing pretty fast so there's always plenty of cars that need
fixing. I'm Johnno's head mechanic now, so I get to run the shop a few days a
week. I've got this afternoon off coz I worked through on Saturday when one of
the boys was sick."

Lahra nodded, feigning
interest.

"So how long you in
town for?"

“Couple of weeks," she
lied.

"Gee, great. We oughtta
catch up. Maybe come round for dinner sometime. Mum won't mind. Always plenty
on the stove. She'd love to see you."

"Yeah, I'll see how I
go. I've got a lot I want to get done while I'm here-"

"Still up at the
house?"

"Yep."

"Well I'll give you a
call soon, see what's happening. It'd be great to see you again."

Lahra was very uncomfortable
with the emphasis Kurt had placed on that last sentence. But she smiled a tight
smile and nodded. "Sure, call sometime."

"Well, I gotta run.
I'll talk to you soon, then. Seeya."

"Yeah, see you."

Lahra turned back to the
wine, watching Kurt leave out of the corner of her eye. Finally he was gone.
Kurt Carol. It was a name she hadn't thought of in three years. Two dates
almost ten years ago and he'd been keeping tabs on her ever since. She laughed
to herself as she contemplated the doggedness of the male species, and went
about making her selection.

*

Lahra switched off the
engine and just sat there, staring. Across the road the huge, gracious
structure that was the Miracle Cinema rose from the pavement.

Looking at it in the Spring
afternoon sun, Lahra understood the impact that the grand cathedrals of the
middle ages must have had on all those who saw them. To Lahra, the Miracle
was
a cathedral. And in truth her annual trip home was just as much an exodus to
this holy place. Its grand, Art Deco façade was the welcoming face of a dear
old friend. Its row of frosted glass doors smiled at her. Its long, square
windows gazed warmly upon her. And the neon 'Miracle Cinema' sign, even
switched off, was as much an alluring invitation to come on in as it had ever
been.

She stepped slowly out of
the Jeep and began walking across the road towards the Miracle, her eyes not
leaving it for a moment. Suddenly she was seven again, and her parents were
bringing her to her very first movie outing—a re-release of
Dr Zhivago
.
The movie itself was some three hours long, but to Lahra it seemed to finish
way too quickly. They were sitting in the first row of the balcony, smack in
the centre. Her father had bought her a large popcorn, but it was barely
touched. Once the film began Lahra forgot about the real world. Her young mind
was in a faraway land of romance and tragedy and danger. It didn't matter that
she couldn't understand all of the story. Just being witness to the spectacle
was magic enough. The big, bright screen, the loud, majestic music. Yes, the
music. The same beautiful music that her mother and father had danced to in the
living room from time to time. The same music her mother and father had had as
their bridal waltz. The music she herself had cried to almost a decade later
after hearing that her they had been killed.

Lahra stood before the
building and let her memories filter through her. The Miracle Cinema was where
her love for the movies began. It made her what she was today. It was indeed
the best friend she had ever had.

One of the six swinging
doors before her was half open, Lahra noticed, which was unusual for this time
of day. The Miracle screened double bills every night except Monday, beginning
at about seven o'clock. Sunday and Wednesday nights had always been her
favourite because they were the nights that the old classics –and not so
classics—played. It was now mid-afternoon on a Thursday and the cinema would
normally have been locked up tight for another few hours.

She took the three steps to
the open door and poked her head inside. A musty, ancient smell greeted her
nostrils, familiar and friendly. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the
dim light within, but it quickly became apparent that nobody was in the foyer.
She stepped into the stillness, and goosebumps ran up her arms.

"Hello, anyone
home?"

Directly ahead were the
doors to the stalls. They were shut. To her left the men's and ladies'
restrooms, closed and silent. To her right were the box office and candy bar
flanking the marble staircase which led up to the balcony. The lights were
switched off. The office doors behind were shut.

"Hello?"

Lahra moved to the stairs,
glancing around as if someone might emerge from the shadows at any moment. She
climbed up to the landing, then turned left and up again and emerged onto the
mezzanine. It was just as still up here. A large oval opening in the floor
skirted by railing allowed her to see back down into the foyer, but there was
nothing new to see. She moved along the wall to the balcony entrance, swung the
door open and entered.

It was as if the Miracle was
sleeping. Dark and still and silent, waiting to awaken that evening when the
front doors were flung open and the house lights were turned up. The rows of
low-backed leather seats faced a blank, darkened screen. The curtains were
open, but there was no show. Lahra moved to the centre of the front row, and
looked out over the stalls, the stage, and the strangely lifeless screen. If it
weren't for the fact that she knew that in a few hours’ time the place would be
alive with light and sound, she'd have said there was a distinct feeling of
sadness in the air.

A sudden burst of light
accompanied by an enormous noise made Lahra jump so violently that for an
instant she thought she might go over the balcony. The cinema had abruptly and
very unexpectedly awoken. Colourful images filled the screen and sound blared
from the speaker system. It took a moment for her nerves to settle enough to
recognise the film playing as
River of No Return
, a CinemaScope western
from the fifties. Marilyn Monroe was dressed in a shimmering orange and red
dress, singing a ballad to a saloon full of men in cowboy hats.

Lahra whipped around to look
at the windows of the projection booth, knowing that only one person could be
up there. A second later and she was bounding back out onto the mezzanine,
through the door marked 'No Entry' and up the narrow flight of steps that led
to the booth. She emerged breathlessly in the long, dim room and saw the man
she expected to see hunched over the projector.

"Knock knock," she
said excitedly.

The man turned to answer,
obviously surprised at having a visitor. But the surprise quickly turned to
delight when he saw the beaming face of Lahra Brook in the doorway. "Doc!
What the devil are you doing here?"

"Oh Wally," Lahra
said as they fell into a natural bearhug, "it's so good to see you
again."

"You're not supposed to
be here until tomorrow!" Wally exclaimed. "Not that I'm complaining.
It's been too long as it is."

They finally released each
other and stood holding hands between them. Lahra looked up into the happy,
wrinkled face with the trademark bushy moustache and soaked up the joy of their
reunion. Letters and the occasional phone call could only achieve so much.
She’d tried to introduce him to the wonders of email, but Wally wouldn’t have
it. The old ways were the best in his book, and standing face to face, in both
their books, was best of all.