You Belong Here Page 6

  She sat silent. Blinked at an increasing rate, shook the feelings off as best as she could. The tears finally came when she could no longer keep it together.

  ‘I would have given anything, Adam. Anything to save them from what I had to go through.’

  Adam leaned forwards. ‘Give your kids some credit,’ he said. ‘They’ve made it this far.’ He paused, looked at her warmly. ‘None of this is easy. And you did your best, you know that, right?’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ said Jen, rubbing at her eyes with the palms of her hands. ‘I know Alex likes peanut butter on his sandwiches, and Jay likes thick-pan pizza. Emily won’t eat carrots unless you shave them thin. Jay’s favourite colour is green and Emily likes pink.’

  ‘What about you? What’s your favourite colour?

  ‘It’s blue,’ she said. ‘The same as Alex.’ Her eyes darted left, as if finding something: a thought, or memory.

  ‘Alex is hooked, just totally obsessed, with Masters of the Universe,’ said Jen. ‘Sketches in his exercise book, story after story about Eternia. The laws that govern magic and science there are interconnected. Nothing’s final or irreversible. A world split into two hemispheres, light and dark. One, home of the noble and good. The other best avoided.’

  She paused. ‘But you can’t always choose.’

  Girls Don't Cry

  On 15 July 1986, Emily reacquainted herself with the weeds that so often climbed up between the pavers in the driveway. She would have asked her dad to sort it out, but he was inside packing boxes.

  Just weeds, she thought. It was not as if you couldn’t kill them, wet them, drown them in the good spray, waiting patiently for their imminent departure, but by then they’d be back, and you’d have to start over again.

  That day, she pulled out the weeds with her hands, while inside her father packed up photos, files, and certificates. She picked at the hardier weed stumps, but they wouldn’t budge. In the end, she threw the stems behind a run of geraniums and headed inside.

  ‘Spring-cleaning?’ said Emily.

  ‘Baby,’ said her father.

  ‘What you said last night, about leaving, you were joking, right?’ said Emily.

  ‘We’ll still see each other.’

  ‘You’re staying close?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ he said, and she wondered why he’d said that about seeing each other, if he didn’t know. You could say all kinds of things, but it wasn’t as if they would necessarily come true.

  He lifted a box, all back and no knees, and took it to the front door. She watched boxes fill, shelves that had gone winter white, with only a light coating of dust that remained, trace marks left from a series of Encyclopaedia Britannica.

  Jen had taken Alex and Jay out for ice-cream, but Emily wouldn’t leave the house. She didn’t scream or swear, she just sat, in a bright pink polo and denim shorts, knees up against her chin. Shook her head when asked, and crying as quietly as possible. Back to sitting legs out, her back against the wall, feeling safer with Alex and Jay out of the house.

  ‘You can keep your stuff in my room,’ said Emily.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Steven.

  ‘If you’re leaving, you don’t . . . I mean . . . it doesn’t have to go.’

  ‘You’re sad,’ he said, and that set her off. Her head fell between her knees. He put back the box he was carrying and kneeled down in front of her, a makeshift game of peekaboo.

  ‘I hate you,’ she said.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ said Steven. ‘You know I’d never want to hurt you.’ He pulled away her arm so that they were eye to eye. ‘I don’t want you to be sad.’

  ‘Then try,’ said Emily.

  ‘I did,’ said Steven. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what went wrong.’

  But then you never do, thought Emily.

  Her father’s music, silenced. Songs that aged like pre- sliced bread: Stewart, Scaggs, and Ronstadt. She lost him sometimes when he hit a favourite—‘You’re No Good’ or ‘Maggie May’—with eyes closed and fingers tracing, shaping air.

  She would endure her father’s absence, but she didn’t have to like it, and in time she would ask many questions: what he had done to keep them together; how, given all they’d meant to him, he had boarded a plane, found work, and life, on the other side of the country. Moments formed from here like Polaroids: strangers staring, first kiss, body shaping up and out, thinking, Women’s work is knowing when you’re safe and when it’s time to run.

  At around eleven, Jay and Alex returned with Wendy’s thickshakes, Jay’s one a baby compared to Alex’s bucket of a cup.

  ‘Where’s mine?’ said Emily.

  ‘You don’t come, you don’t get,’ said Alex. ‘Just kidding.’ He pulled out a soft serve, choc-dipped with walnuts on top, from behind his back. ‘Because I’m nuts about you!’

  She appraised it, left and right. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Alex.

  ‘Then why are you giving it to me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Alex. ‘I mean, sometimes you can be annoying.’ He walked down the hall, yelled, ‘See you, Dad!’ but his father didn’t answer, so he faked a drop-punt, signalled ‘goal’ with his hands, and walked to his room.

  Jay had found a teaspoon and had taken to portioning out shake hits, the cocoa-coloured milk capsized in choc-ice sludge.

  ‘You can have some of mine,’ he said. He looked at the spoon, saw the serving had melted, and trawled it from the bottom of the cup.

  ‘You’re a dag,’ said Emily.

  ‘It’s okay to be sad,’ said Jay, and he didn’t have much to say other than that, although a tiny smile surfaced when she finally took the spoon and had her share.

  Jen came in with hot dogs for the kids and a handful of napkins.

  ‘I thought you’d be gone,’ said Jen.

  ‘You want me to go?’ said Steven.

  She sighed. ‘I want you to care.’

  Steven motioned to Emily and Jay, sitting in the corner.

  ‘I couldn’t give two fucks,’ said Jen. ‘It’s not like they don’t know, or aren’t going to find out once you go and don’t come back.’

  ‘Do you care? Or does it switch on and off?’ said Steven. ‘There when you want to win a point, or you need a hug, but not so much when it’s time to pull the bedsheets back and throw your marriage away.’

  And again, it had begun.

  Emily was shocked, but not that shocked. After a while, she’d started to spot the lightning flash. To see it coming on the horizon. She counted thunderclaps, wandered through the lyrics to ‘Wouldn’t It Be Good,’ while her parents kept arguing.

  ‘You know what you don’t do?’ said Steven.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Jen.

  ‘Like they don’t already know,’ said Steven, mocking his wife. ‘The thing you don’t do, whatever else, is fuck for things instead of fighting for them. I mean, it’s not a bad plan of yours, it’s just that usually you’d do it with your husband.’

  ‘Stop,’ said Emily.

  ‘And what did you do?’ said Jen. ‘You want me to list it off?’

  ‘I want you to stop,’ said Emily, louder this time.

  ‘It’s done,’ said Steven.

  Jen started to tear up, kneeled down to her daughter. ‘So who do you want to live with, Em? Your mum or your dad?’

  And Emily didn’t know. She hadn’t planned on choosing a parent, or taking sides. She thought they’d both be there, that nothing would ever be so bad or irreparable that it couldn’t be cured by a timeout, talk, or family hug.

  Once the boxes were gone, with Jen out back, Jay plugged in to his Commodore 64, and Alex in his bed, throwing the Sherrin over and over against the wall, it was just Emily and Steven.

  What she heard, once her father had made his way up the hall, were goodbyes from the boys’ room. Solider talk, it seemed like. Jay said, ‘See you soon!’ way too loud, and Alex laughed, said, ‘Come on, Jay, I’ll kick your arse at Track & Fiel
d.’

  What she saw, from her corner, was her father’s face coming into view, an envelope in his hand. The envelope slipped onto her kneecaps, tilted, fell onto her lap.

  ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ she said.

  ‘I’m going to miss you,’ he said. ‘You’re going to miss me, too. Maybe one day you’re angry, and it doesn’t feel like love. Read the letter.’

  ‘You have to go?’ said Emily.

  And this time, he nodded. There was nothing left to give that had not already been packed away. They hugged, her knees still up, with him, almost impossibly angled, held up by her arms, and then he cried, but not too much, a tear or two at most.

  He reached out a hand, pulled her up, and they hugged again, a stronger hug, and then it was done, and he patted her on the arm, checked his pockets for keys and pointed to the letter.

  ‘Always,’ he said. He turned, walked to the hallway; from there, only footsteps. A shapeless silhouette, first so close and then farther away, until the click of the front door.

  Jay came out, stopped, saw the envelope in her hand. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, which wasn’t exactly true, but it was easier than telling the truth.

  The First Test

  At nine-thirty on a Saturday morning, Hamer Park was pretty quiet, whereas other parts of the suburb were already bustling. The Mount Lawley Inglewood Junior Cricket Club had taken bat at the start of play, at around eight o’clock, and had reached seven for eighty-seven, with thirteen overs gone and seventeen to go. Still seventy- six runs behind Maylands, who had spent the previous Saturday knocking Walker, Clement, and Benjamin all over the park.

  It was the Duncan brothers, mostly, a quick fifty from their skipper, Chris, and a handful from Murray. Wearing blue caps and white pads, dispatched overpitched pace over the rope as though they were smacking a tennis ball. Pretty impressive to watch from the sidelines, guessed Alex, who had spent the previous Saturday running off the ground and into the car park to fetch the many boundaries hit throughout the day.

  By ten o’clock, Mount Lawley was well into its tail, with Walker ambling in. At the other end was Alex, not quite Terry Alderman with the bat, but not exactly Dean Jones. He was first-class with his forward defensive, having practised the stroke on the back veranda, a scuffed-up Kookaburra wedged into one leg of his mum’s pantyhose.

  Alex made his way to the pitch, trying not to notice his family, who had arrived earlier to cheer him on. It didn’t fit, their presence. As if the world had shifted for a day, and they’d again become an impenetrable unit. And though his mother’s hat was more Melbourne Cup than junior cricket, and though Jay was more intently focused on his Gameboy than the match, and though Emily looked bored—as in parliamentary-question-time bored—Alex was grateful to again have a family.

  Maylands not only had the best batsmen, but also the best bowler: blond-mulleted giant Jason, who fired missiles from the bowler’s end. Rumours abounded: he was really eighteen; he drank, smoked, and worked in Welshpool; he drove trucks in the mines; a kid had got hit by one of his beamers and could no longer tell his left foot from his right.

  Jason was already waiting when they reached the pitch, a red streak down his trousers, never to be washed out or questioned once he’d bowled six straight and was four for seventeen.

  Alex held his bat in front of the stumps, wanting centre from the umpire. The umpire nodded, and Alex marked the spot in the pitch, thinking, Just don’t bowl it there, as Walker wandered to the striker’s end.

  ‘You all right?’ said Walker.

  ‘Not really,’ said Alex.

  ‘Just bat it out. I’ll get the runs.’

  ‘Who’s in after us?’

  ‘Cole,’ said Walker. ‘But he has a busted ankle. Can’t bat. And not like usual LBCole style, golden duck. This time, he’ll be struggling to stand.’

  Alex grimaced. ‘So it’s us, then.’

  ‘We lose, we lose,’ said Walker. ‘Not going to, but.’

  They knocked gloves, and Walker ambled back up the pitch.

  Alex got his bearings. Hamer Park, second home. And you know this ground. You’ve done this in the nets, not exactly tearing up the place, but no-one’s going to get you as an easy wicket. Impenetrable defence. Measured approach. First this over. Then the next.

  A fair crowd by the clubrooms, maybe thirty, forty people, deckchairs on the boundary for the diehards, with Rich hidden away in the canteen, doling out cold cokes and warm pies, his ‘canteen’ more a hole in the wall for when and if it ever bucketed down, the concrete overcrowded, bustle of a mini-mob. On a hot day, though, horse door open, walk right in, or out, if Rich was keen to catch an over or two.

  A couple of girls from school near the clubrooms, Penny and Trish, for some reason. Alex had a crazy crush on Penny. He’d watched her through tute, seen her walking North Street, headed home from school, getting all buzzed up, and his breath had gone shallow.

  ‘Go, Alex!’ yelled Jen.

  ‘You can do it,’ said Jay, not looking up from his Gameboy.

  Alex looked for his sister, who, although quiet, stood there smiling. She pointed a finger, gun style. You’ve got this, she mouthed, half proud, half embarrassed.

  He set his bat, banged the turf. Jason ran in, zinc cream swatch across his nose, gaining speed, each step quicker than the last, the leap, ball held up, and his front arm arced, as though about to strike, and shit, oh shit, he’s going to——

  Alex’s bat came down, a heavy thunk, and the ball cannoned into his thigh. It felt like a buckshot and he hopped away from the pitch and jogged a quick circle, distracting himself from the pain. Jason stared back, smiled.

  ‘Five more,’ said Walker, not realising how ridiculous that sounded, how if each ball had even half the mustard on it as the last one, then Alex would no longer be able to walk.

  ‘Got it,’ said Alex, not knowing if it was a lie, the truth, or something in between.

  For the next five balls, he got it. Hit by two, one in the same spot as the first ball, and the fieldsmen ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed,’ as Jason stared back fiercely.

  Alex wasn’t fazed. It only hurts if you let it.

  He hit three back. Found bat with the next six. And the next six after that, two overs later. And then, over after over, it was as if the balls were no longer being hurled down the pitch, more the lob of bombs in a video game, and provided you had your aim right you could get bat to ball. Which was not to say that Alex wasn’t frightened, or that he’d removed his box. He liked his nuts, and had no desire to see them shattered by an errant pace change.

  That second session, Alex was as close as he’d come to feeling at home. Walker, too, seemed calmer. Hadn’t got many runs, was missing shots, nicking balls through slips, only for them to coast between the fieldsmen. But he seemed at home, revelled in the gentle walk from end to end, the two of them clueless but clever, biding time, feeling buoyed by the inherent unfairness of being sent in so clearly behind the eight ball.

  Another over started, spin this time from Ryan Maclean, the red-headed, baby-faced giant from east of the railway line. When he let out cries of frustration, he looked like an infant, post-wee, all shook up and fractious.

  Over a day’s play, his ivory skin would turn pink from the sun, the bowling, the sheer exertion of cracking a major sad with each near miss, and it wasn’t the first time Alex had cursed ‘cryin’ Ryan’ and his dollop balls, with no spin there, just a whole lot of flight.

  Walker made a motion of eating ice-cream, licking his spoon and all, and Alex laughed. In turn, Alex mocked tears, pretended to plop his pants, and they struggled to keep it together.

  ‘Watch it,’ said Maclean, knowing something had been said, but unable to pinpoint the exact insult.

  ‘Aw, chook, you need a nap,’ said Walker.

  ‘Boys,’ said the umpire, clicking his ball counter for the next over, six more to come.

  The initial morning shadows, cast
long and wide by the resident eucalypts, were now long gone. Alex’s box was starting to shift, and he wondered who on earth had a package this big that it needed this huge a receptacle.

  At the morning break, Alex looked over to his mum, yelled, ‘Dad coming?’ But she shook her head. She put her hand to her ear, mouthed, Tonight? and he nodded, as though she’d told him they needed some bread.

  ‘You okay? Jason got you good a couple of times,’ said Walker. He was sitting down, knees half-bent, as he sipped his water. He’d seen Tom Moody do it once in a Sheffield Shield match, and thought it looked cool.

  ‘Hardly even touched me,’ said Alex, who’d been refraining from putting weight on his leg. ‘Your dad ever see you play?’

  ‘A couple of times,’ said Walker. ‘Got bowled once, LBW the other time, totally plumb. Wanted to show him I could bat, and one time did, five wickets bowling, and then thirty-six not out vs Dianella. Best game, but a bit late.

  ‘Still, maybe he saw it. I mean, if it’s there, if they really go, you know, up high into the clouds, then there’s no better spot to look down on Hamer Park, right?’

  ‘I bet he loved it,’ said Alex. He didn’t know if that was how things worked, but he hoped it was; maybe you could make a truth if someone needed it.

  They sat for a bit, Alex’s legs stretched drainpipe-straight, and Walker slipping gloves back on, clenching and unclenching his grip on the bat, as if he could match his strokes for every possible dip in speed or deviation of the ball.

  As the overs passed, people came and went, from the lady whose two dachshunds had stopped dead-centre of the park to a car full of hoons, AC/DC blaring out, and the clink of stubbies dropping from the driver’s and passengers’ windows, before they drove off with a fishtail-skid down Learoyd Street.

  Walker left nothing, slashing at every ball, and occasionally finding the boundary. Alex defended everything anywhere near the stumps, sometimes hitting the ball directly into the pitch, as if to say, ‘Stay there.’ It was a little odd, slasher and bunt boy, with neither much to watch . . . which only made it all the more frustrating when they reached their fifty partnership at eleven-thirty, with five overs still to be bowled.