Pat’s a boy no more than seven. It’s a good day to be proud; he’s been chosen. By God, no less. New clean shirt and a blue tartan tie. It’s hard to get the knot right, but important things take time. Pat cocks his head. Feels nice to have his dad so close without the smell of whisky on his breath and a cutting hand across the cheek. ‘Up and under, pull it tight.’ Makes it seem so easy. He takes a step back and says, ‘Smart, you are.’ And smart Pat feels. Mum’s not coming, that nerve in her back is pinched again and she’s on the couch, hand on her tummy like she’s trying to stop the pain from moving. But she’s made a cake, tells Pat to take it with him. There’ll be a special morning tea. What about Stu? He’s nowhere to be seen, more like a boarder than a brother. Maybe Pat and his dad will make a special day of it, get a pie on the way home. But when they pass the doggies his dad nips inside: ‘Gotta drop something off to a mate real quick.’ Pat thinks nothing of it because today he’s called into God’s service and taken into his care. Sits on the kerb and waits. And then he realises his dad’s not coming back. It’s not even race day but there’s always something going on inside. Blokes to see, bets to be lost and won. Monies owed collected, one way or another. So he walks to church himself. Peers in the window but can’t bear to go in alone. No one to place a hand on his shoulder with sentimental pride.
Pat legs it to the park round the corner, sits on the bench and opens the cake tin. He breaks a piece off and shoves it into his mouth, trying to let the sweetness take all the pain away. But it can’t cause he’s only seven and the world is unforgiving when you hurt like this. He leaves that cake on the bench and sits on a swing. Watches a swarm of seagulls scamper over and soon there’s only a mess of crumbs left. Pat pushes himself higher, higher, hoping that God will reach down out of the clouds and take him anyway. Just as he is.
New days don’t wipe the slate clean. Come morning, embers in the pit are still glowing under the grey powdery ash and I’m glad I didn’t jump into the fire, watch my skin melt together like the top of hot milk. Pat’s already awake, staring at me hard. For a moment all I see is that little boy pushing himself higher towards the sky.
‘Do you believe in God?’ I ask.
‘No matter what they tell you, we’re not all the same in his eyes. Some are chosen, some get left behind.’ I know that’s the end of that, ’cause he’s still thinking about what I’d done to get him out of jail. Some people say they have eyes on the back of their head but only so little kids don’t cause trouble. Pat has eyes on his ears. Even though he couldn’t see me pay dirty Darren, he’d heard me throw that bundle of money down on the desk. Even though we came from different family trees Pat was suffering from a kind of guilt only someone who shares blood can. Even though he’d cursed me under his breath a million times, we’d been threaded into each other’s story with the same needle.
‘You should’na done that. I can’t get it back. I just can’t.’
You know that snazzy toy some businessmen put on their desks to help them think? The row of silver balls suspended from thin wires? You pull the first ball back and let go, watch as the energy passes through and pushes the last one up in the air, then back again. Tap, tap, tap. That’s me and Pat. Pushing each other into the past and back again, just to slow the future down because we’re both scared of what’s to come. Bad things can suddenly happen. Time and love are always being lost and you can’t do anything about it. That’s how the wolf got inside of me: found a big gaping hole just waiting to be filled. I’d been lying to myself about where I am going. But only because I know it is going to tear me and Pat apart when we finally get there.
20 Trickling through the cracks
Next morning we sit in the McDonald’s car park eating our egg-and-bacon McMuffin. The girl had to cut it in half ’cause Pat only had enough coins for one. And a coffee; he has to have a coffee with milk and three sugars to kickstart his heart.
‘Dylan, you’re old enough to know that sometimes things don’t work out like you planned. So we gotta set things straight.’
Well fancy that. When it suits him, I’m too young to understand the lay of the land and the ways of the world, but now I’ve evolutionised enough to be let down, turned around and gutted like a fish.
‘It’s my birthday today,’ I say which isn’t true but when my head gets overheated with emotions I say it is and people usually forget why they were being mean or selfish or rude. Besides, I have a right in and outside of the law to be angry with Pat for what he is about to say.
‘I didn’t mean to let it get this far without telling you. But…the way you see things is complicated.’
The only thing I see is how spineless Pat has become, shifting blame instead of owning it. There’s a little river of runny egg moving south down Pat’s chin and he wipes it off with a napkin. Then, he folds the napkin as many times as he can.
Finally, he says, ‘What you imagine and what exists in real life are not always the same thing.’
I thought E.T. would come and visit me when I was ten just like the boy in the movie, and for my whole year of being nine I was so excited about turning into double digits. But he never came. So maybe Pat is a little bit right.
‘Dylan, you know when your mum went in the ground, she had to stay there. She can’t come out.’
I should have built a net with my words to stop Mum from falling: ‘I love you bigger and further than the moon, beyond time and past all eternity.’ But I said nothing. Heard the snap of her neck as it broke. Dead just like that.
‘There is no boat,’ Pat says. ‘You know there never was.’
I slap him hard across the cheek. Crack like a whip and it’s stinging red! He sucks his breath in fast, not quite believing I could do such a thing. Everyone wants the dream world to be real and the real world to be a dream. If you don’t then you’re lying. But when the worlds collide everything all falls apart.
I get out of the car and run towards the bush.
‘Maman, arrête!’
I want to change the story and choose another path; turn the wheels and cogs around again. Please, don’t leave me with him.
But then I stop dead in my tracks. It covers the sky, light as a feather. On a forty-one-degree day in the middle of Australia, snow is falling. And if that isn’t a miracle, I don’t know what is. I open my mouth and wait until a single flake lands on my tongue. So cold it feels hot, melts away quick into water. I swallow that little peace offering. No matter how many times grief cuts into my heart Mum saves me again. Spinning my arms round and round, the paddocks in the distance disappear under a blanket of white.
I step outside of my body and watch from afar. Watch as my skin sheds, falling to the ground behind me in strips like bark. Laid bare, the truth rises to the surface. A smaller version of Dylan crawls into the backseat of the car and lies down, legs tucked up to her chest trying to become even smaller. She puts herself to sleep under the longest of spells hoping that when her eyes open she’ll be back in Beyen. The bumps in the gravel road soothe like a lullaby and heavy eyes sink to the back of my skull.
•