The Road by Catherine Jinks
‘I can’t come back until they find him,’ she said. ‘I can’t, Mum.’
‘Well . . .’ Her mother sighed. ‘How’s Nathan, anyway?’
‘Good. He’s good. He just found a skull ta play with.’
‘Trust Nathan.’
‘We’re gunna put some food out for the kangaroos. Cyrene says the ants’ll get it first, but Nathan wants ta see kangaroos. They won’t come inside the fence cozza the dogs.’
‘Say hello to Cyrene for me.’
‘I will.’
‘Give Nathan a kiss.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Gotta go, love. Meter’s runnin.’
‘Yeah. Right.’
Grace hung up. Cyrene was listening to the radio in his bedroom; he spent a lot of time doing that. Grace went to bring in the laundry, before moving all the bread crusts and apple cores and potato peelings from the rubbish bin into a big plastic bag. She and Nathan took this bag to the other side of the fence, where they emptied its contents onto the ground near a scattering of fresh pellets.
‘Tonight,’ she promised, ‘we’ll come out with a torch, and see if we can spot some roos. Before they hop away.’
‘What about the dogs, Mum?’
‘We’ll keep the dogs inside.’
‘Where are the dogs, Mum?’
‘I dunno.’
‘I wish they’d come back.’
Grace shaded her eyes and peered at the horizon. The squat clumps of saltbush were casting long shadows. Invisible birds were beginning to chatter and chirrup in the groundcover. There was a touch of coolness in the air.
‘Here, Bitbitbitbitbit!’ she cried. ‘Here, boy!’
‘Whistle, Mum.’
Grace whistled. Nathan tried to whistle.
‘Harry!’ he called.
‘Harry! Here, boy! Here, Bitbitbitbitbit!’
They didn’t come. Grace told Nathan not to worry – they would come for their dinner. She went inside, leaving Nathan to call their names, and opened a can of dog food. After scraping its contents into the two battered dog bowls that sat by the back door, she began to rattle a spoon around inside the empty can.
‘Hee-yar! Hee-yar!’ she cried.
‘You feedin the dogs?’ Cyrene remarked, from behind her. He gave her quite a scare. Turning, she saw that he was bleary-eyed, his yellow face creased and his white hair tousled. He had been asleep, she decided.
‘They won’t come home,’ she said.
‘Dogs?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Bit?’
‘Yeah.’
Cyrene blew air through his dentures, and produced a piercing whistle. Then they waited, listening hard. But there was no response. No distant bark or howl.
Cyrene tugged at his waistband. He shuffled out into the yard, his old slippers flapping. Standing with his hands on his hips, he whistled again.
Nathan covered his ears.
‘You check the shed?’ Cyrene asked Grace.
‘No . . .’
Cyrene grunted. Nathan followed him around the side of the house, past the brand-new aluminium garage. Behind it stood the dogs’ shed. It contained a dirty plaid rug, a shredded tennis ball, a plastic bowl full of water and a couple of teething toys – but no dogs.
‘Harry might be in trouble,’ Cyrene growled, ‘but Bit should be back.’
‘What coulda happened?’ Grace kept her voice low, because Nathan was fiddling around with Harry’s plastic bone, and she didn’t want him to hear.
‘Maybe they got onto the highway,’ Cyrene suggested. ‘Maybe they got hit.’
‘Both of ’em?’
‘Or they ate poisoned bait.’
‘Oh no.’ Grace was shocked. ‘Round here?’
Cyrene shrugged. ‘Not my land, most of it. If Ricketts wants to bait cats or foxes, it’s nunna my business.’
Suddenly Nathan joined in. He tapped his mother on the hip.
‘Can we look for ’em?’ he piped up. ‘Can I go? Mum?’
Grace shook her head. ‘It’s too late,’ she replied. ‘It’s gettin dark.’
‘But they might be lost!’ Nathan protested.
‘You do what your mum says. They’re my dogs, I’ll look for ’em.’
‘Now?’ asked Grace.
‘I’ll take the car down to the road. See if anything’s been hit.’
‘I’m sorry, Cy.’ Grace felt bad. ‘I thought Bit was headin home. I shoulda kept an eye on ’em.’
‘It’s not your fault. Bit’s an old dog. And Harry’s a menace.’
‘I love Harry!’ Nathan bleated.
‘Yeah, well . . .’ Cyrene glanced at Grace. ‘He’ll be back.’
Cyrene returned to the house, where he put on his hat and boots. Then he climbed into his white ute and disappeared in a cloud of red dust, heading west towards the highway. Grace took Nathan inside. First she gave him a wash, running half a bucket of water into the bottom of Cyrene’s big old bath, which Nathan didn’t like. (There was a black patch at the bottom of the bath where the enamel had worn away. Nathan refused to sit on it, for some reason.) Next, having scrubbed the grit out of her son’s hair, she dressed him in his Pooh Bear pyjamas and let him loose. She was just about to pull a packet of frozen mixed vegetables from the tiny freezer compartment of Cyrene’s pus-coloured fridge when she heard Nathan shriek from the back door.
‘Mum! Mum! Listen!’
‘What?’
‘Come here! Quick!’
Sighing, Grace turned off the cold water tap. She went to join her son. Dusk had settled, deadening the red glow of the earth and blurring the spiky outlines of the surrounding scrub. A faint breeze tugged at Grace’s hair as Nathan grabbed her skirt and pulled her across the wire doormat. She could hear a noise – a whining noise. Anxiously she squinted in the direction of the garage, which was a dim grey shape looming to her right.
‘Is it Harry, Mum?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Harry!’
‘Wait.’ She yanked him back. ‘Put your shoes on.’
‘But Mu-um . . .’
‘There’s snakes, Nathan, and ya can’t bloody see. Now put your shoes on!’
‘Look! Mum! It’s Harry!’
He was a pale shape moving slowly – very slowly – towards the golden light that spilled from the doorway. Grace knew at once that he was sick. His back legs were dragging, he lurched and staggered, his head hung low. He was crippled and failing – blind, perhaps. His ribs laboured. His tongue flapped like a torn rag.
‘Get back inside,’ said Grace.
‘Why?’
‘Just do it.’
‘But I don’t wanna!’
‘Bloody do it, Nathan! He’s sick, all right?’
Instead, Nathan darted forward. The dog was closer now, his matted coat and drooling jaws clearly visible. The whining was ceaseless, high-pitched, plaintive. He swung his head.
‘Nathan!’ Seeing her son falter, Grace smacked him on the rear. ‘Didja hear me, ya little bugger? Get inside!’
Nathan burst into tears.
‘What’s wrong with ’im?’
‘I dunno! I’ll find out! Just get inside!’
Nathan retreated; Grace advanced. She didn’t know much about dogs – not the way Mark did. She didn’t know what happened when they ate pesticide or got bitten by ticks or were hit by cars. Had Harry been hit by a car? Had he fractured his spine, or something?
‘Hey, Harry,’ she murmured. ‘Whassup, boy?’
Harry yelped, lunged forward, and fell. He struggled to rise again on shaking legs. Grace heard the rattle and roar of an approaching engine; she straightened, and sighed.
‘Cyrene’s back,’ she said. ‘Go get him, Nathan.’
‘What’s wrong with Harry?’ Nathan sobbed. ‘Poor Harry!’
‘I dunno what’s wrong. Cyrene will know.’ Seeing Nathan head back into the house, she added, ‘Don’t go out front till he’s turned the engine off! Nathan? Didja hear me?’
It
Harry fell down – and this time he didn’t get up. He just lay there, panting like a marathon runner.
After a while, Grace heard heavy boots on the linoleum behind her. Floorboards creaked, and she smelled tobacco – Cyrene’s favourite brand. Pattering footsteps told her that Nathan was also coming down the hall.
She turned.
‘Harry’s back?’ asked Cyrene.
‘He’s sick,’ said Nathan. ‘Real sick, look! Poor Harry.’ He wriggled between them, all knobs and joints. ‘Is he gunna die?’
‘I dunno.’ Grace glanced at Cyrene. His eyes were lost in the pouches and creases that surrounded them. He walked down the back steps – thump! thump! – just as Harry’s limbs began to twitch.
Cyrene stopped in his tracks. ‘Ah, bugger,’ he said.
Then he sent Grace to get a blanket.
CHAPTER 2
Alec ‘Dozy’ Miller lay in a Mildura motel, thinking about his sister-in-law.
He had been thinking about her all day, off and on. During the long haul from Broken Hill, down the Silver City Highway, there had been nothing much else to think about. And after dumping his load of blue metal aggregate, he had found himself at a loose end, with a lot of empty hours to fill. (The company was putting him up in Mildura for the night because he’d had to leave his Mack Super liner, ‘Diesel Dog’, with Kenny for repairs.) He probably could have gone to a pub, or looked up his cousin Pat, but he hadn’t done either. Instead he had walked down Eighth Street to Deakin Avenue, bought himself a big, sloppy hamburger with chips, stopped in at a bottle shop to pick up a sixpack of beer, and returned to the motel. There he had drunk his beer in bed, wondering what to do.
He couldn’t get away from it: he had a crush on his sister-in-law. Maybe it was even more than a crush. Maybe it was the real thing. Because how could you tell the difference? Alec couldn’t. He was always thinking about Janine. He had fantasies about her. Every time they were in the same room together, he would light up like a Christmas tree – he bloody well knew it. He couldn’t understand why Darryl hadn’t noticed, though he probably would soon. They all lived in the same house, for fuck’s sake; something was bound to give, and it would probably be Alec’s self-control.
He felt so bad about it. After Michelle had finally chucked him (‘Why do I have to think of everything? Why do I have to do everything? I’m sick of it! I’m sick of the sight of you, sitting around on your arse!’), Alec had been feeling like ten kinds of shit. He had been chased out into the street by a screaming girlfriend in the middle of the night, completely shell-shocked, and Darryl had taken him in. Lent him a toothbrush and a pair of pyjamas. Gone with him back to Michelle’s place the next morning, where they had collected all his stuff (most of it from the front yard) and where Darryl had given Michelle a piece of his mind, accusing her of being a crazy cunt. Then Alec had moved into Darryl’s third bedroom.
And how had Alec repaid his elder brother for these generous acts? By falling for Janine.
The funny thing was, Alec had never thought much about Janine before moving into her house. His other brother, Mike, had always badmouthed his sister-in-law (though not to Darryl’s face). He’d always said that she was pushy. Whenever Alec remarked that Janine was, as far as he could see, the quietest and most retiring of women, who hardly opened her mouth at family get-togethers, Mike would point out that, while she might come across as shy, she actually thought herself a cut above the rest of them. You only had to look at the house she had made Darryl buy. Brand new, double brick, three bedrooms and a study, ensuite, landscaping, automatic garage door – the works. She had Darryl out all weekend – mowing, fertilising, handwatering, while she went about spending his hard-earned on fancy curtains, bird baths, porcelain dolls (she collected them) and all kinds of other useless shit.
‘She might look like a puff of wind would blow her away,’ said Mike, ‘but I tell ya, mate – she cracks the bloody whip in that house.’
Alec had his doubts about that, because Darryl was a confident sort of bloke with firm views on things. He had to be: he owned his own business. After moving into Darryl’s house, Alec quickly saw that his instincts had been right. Darryl was no henpecked husband, and Janine was no ball-breaker. It was more complicated than that. Darryl wanted to be a success, and in many ways he was. But as far as his house and garden were concerned, he wasn’t quite sure what success should look like. He relied on Janine to tell him what to do with his floral plantings, his wallpaper, his dining room suite. He trusted her taste – her instincts – because she came from Adelaide, and was a trained florist, with a diploma. Everyone agreed that Janine had a bit of style about her. Even with a two-year-old kid in tow, she always looked neat and tidy. She was a little woman, small-boned, with nice legs and clean skin, blonde highlights, narrow shoulders, not much chest. She favoured delicate gold jewellery; her clothes were carefully chosen and beautifully laundered. She wore mostly pale colours – pinks and mauves, primrose yellow, cream, beige, stone, saltbush grey – and she smelled good.
She was a terrific housekeeper and a reasonable cook, but Alec had thought her a bit dull at first. A bit bland. He’d thought that fucking her must be like fucking a stick of chalk. Gradually, however, he had begun to change his mind. It had started with the realisation that the kind of house Janine kept, with its spotless surfaces and nice smells and pleasant atmosphere, took more than just a knack. It took relentless organisation, a huge amount of work, which Janine tackled without making a big thing of it. He admired her for that. He also began to see that while she wasn’t constantly well groomed – while she did have mornings where she slopped around in a dressing gown with her hair in her eyes – she remained all soft around the edges, like a rabbit. And she did have a sense of humour. Alec didn’t catch it for a while, because it was so subdued, so deadpan. Occasionally he would see her eyes glint, or her lips twist. Occasionally she would drop a casual remark, in her little bird’s voice, that would make him do a double take before he started to laugh.
Gradually, he had found himself waiting for her to come home, watching her as she moved around, helping her to lift Ronnie. And then – bang. It had happened. And now he was well and truly fucked. Because there was nothing he could do about it, was there? Except move out. Even if Alec had been willing to betray Darryl, he couldn’t exactly compete with him. All Alec could boast was a ten-year-old hatchback, a few garbage bags full of clothes, and a truckie’s job. And his looks, of course – no one could deny that he was the best looking of the Muller boys, though he wasn’t very tall, and was starting to lose a few hairs off the top. Even Janine had said something about wishing that Darryl had Alec’s eyelashes. But what good did it do, having the longest lashes and the thickest, curliest hair in the family, when Darryl had a name, a business, a house, two cars, a wide-screen TV, a massive DVD collection, a two-year-old son and his grandfather’s old short-wave radio set? Alec had nothing to offer that could even come close. He knew that. Hell, he accepted it. He didn’t know what he would do if Janine ever did turn around and look him in the eye, and start unhooking her bra. He liked to imagine it – he often did when he was lying in bed – but fantasy and reality are entirely different things. He was old enough to realise that. Anyway, if Janine ever started to behave like a Playboy centrefold, she wouldn’t be Janine any more. That was the whole point. She was so pale and pretty and wholesome, like something off the Beatrix Potter plates that she kept in her lounge room; she had charmed Alec for that very reason. He didn’t want her to start strutting around in red satin teddies and fish-net stockings. At least . . . well, not very often.
No. He was stuck, all right. He loved her but he didn’t want to spoil her marriage. He was ashamed of himself but he didn’t want to leave her house. He wished to
It was obvious, though, that he couldn’t go on living with her – not if he didn’t want the shit to hit the fan. He had an inkling that she was fond of him, that she liked having him around, but her attitude could change if she got scared. He just wasn’t sure how she really felt. Sometimes she could be a bit flirty, but only in a sister-in-law kind of way. At other times she treated him like her two-year-old, scolding him gently for getting tomato sauce on his good T-shirt, or telling him to comb his hair. Maybe, he thought gloomily, I’m just a little brother to her, the way I am to Darryl.
Heaving himself off the bed, Alec shuffled into the bathroom, peeled the paper strip off the toilet seat (‘Sanitised for your convenience’) and emptied his bladder. Then he washed his hands. The face that stared back at him out of the mirror was creased, scrubby, sullen. It looked at home among all the exposed brick and mouldy grouting in that bathroom. Janine’s bathrooms (both of them) were light, airy and spotlessly clean, full of pink porcelain and fluffy white towels. They also smelled, subtly, of Janine.
He was so infatuated with her that he even found himself mooning over things like her almond bath salts and her electric toothbrush.
But he would have to get a grip on himself. He knew that. The trouble was, he didn’t have much else to think about. For the last three years, his plans had been all tied up with Michelle. They had talked about buying a house together, taking a trip to Fiji, maybe getting married and having kids. The usual sort of thing. Michelle had taken the lead, and Alec had drifted along behind her, agreeing with everything she suggested in the certain knowledge that if Michelle was around, he would have the ability to make all those dreams come true. They had been her dreams, rather than his dreams, but he had liked them. He had liked having goals more substantial than saving for a car; he had liked being part of a recognisable unit. Before meeting Michelle, he had been drifting around, living sometimes with his dad, sometimes with his mates, skiving off to Adelaide occasionally, organising the odd pool tournament, working at all kinds of part-time jobs: removalist, cab driver, bar tender, bricklayer’s assistant. In other words, his life had been a dog’s breakfast, and he had rarely looked ahead further than his next pay-day.