Black Painted Fingernails (6 page)

‘I can drive, you know.’ Sophie looks at the soft glow of the dials on the dashboard.

My fuel tank is half-empty. I should have filled up at the roadhouse. The boy and his bike made me forget.

‘Do you have a licence?’

Sophie turns in her seat, her green eyes intense. ‘Let’s make a deal, James. Until you drop me off, we’ll both speak only the truth. An experiment, right here in your car.’

‘The truth is, if you crash the car my mother will kill me,’ I say.

‘Good, now you’re getting the hang of it.’

‘The truth is—’

‘James, you don’t have to say the word
truth
every time, okay?’

‘But . . .’

‘Now, are you going to deny me the chance to drive a car I’ll never have enough money to own in my entire life, or do I have to cast a spell on you?’

As if on cue, there’s a petrol station up ahead. I cruise in and park alongside the bowsers.

Sophie quickly pulls on her socks and starts lacing her boots. ‘This should be fun!’

‘Only for you.’

‘Think of it as the first step away from your parents, you rebel.’

‘I know what they’d say.’

‘It’s what
you
say that matters, James.’

As I get out to go to the bowser, I hand her the keys. ‘Yeah, I’m a born anarchist.’

Sophie jumps out, running around to the driver’s side before I can change my mind. She sits behind the wheel, adjusts the seat and fiddles with the electric mirrors. Then she hops out and cleans the windscreen, humming the whole time. She sees me staring and says, ‘I’m short-sighted – legally blind.’ She walks around to clean the back window.

‘Sophie, you’ve still got nutmeg on your hand.’

‘You could lick it off, if you like?’ She offers her hand.

I bow towards her while removing a handkerchief from my back pocket. She raises an eyebrow as I take her hand in mine. Then I wipe the nutmeg with the hankie.

Sophie snatches it from my hand. ‘A hankie? I bet it’s—’ She unfolds the hankie and holds it up for inspection. ‘Just as I thought, embroidered with your name!’ She can barely contain a smirk.

‘Mum buys them for Dad and me. So they don’t get mixed up, after washing.’

Sophie drops the windscreen washer back into the bucket, then opens the car door and rummages in her handbag. She brings out a tube of lipstick and elaborately applies it to her full lips, then kisses the hankie, leaving a big red pout above my name. She hands it back to me. ‘Don’t wash it. Leave it for your mum. She’ll be . . .’

‘Horrified?’ I suggest.

Sophie rolls her eyes. ‘I was going to say
impressed.
’

She returns to the driver’s seat, looking at me through the side-mirror.

After I’ve filled up, I walk to the roadhouse, aware of Sophie’s gaze. Or is she waiting until I’m in the shop before gunning the car and leaving without me?

I push the door. It won’t open. I push again. Then I see the sign.
Pull.

The man behind the counter stands waiting, his beefy arms crossed. I deliberately don’t look out the window. The shopkeeper glances from the car to me and says, ‘You want anything else?’

I shake my head and hand him the money. He points to the chocolates on display. ‘Two for four dollars. One for your girlfriend, one for you.’

I shake my head. ‘She’s not my girlfriend.’

‘Doesn’t stop her eating chocolate, does it?’

‘She’s . . . on a diet.’

‘Yeah. Aren’t we all.’ He hands me the change. I’m careful to push open the door.

As I adjust the passenger seat for more leg room, Sophie revs the car, just enough for me to look up at her glowing, round-cheeked smile.

‘The speedo goes up to two hundred and eighty!’

She puts it in gear and slowly pulls away, her fingers light on the wheel. ‘If I cruised at top speed for three hours, we’d be home!’

‘No. We’d be wrapped round a tree.’

I glance across to check: exactly 100 kph. She catches me looking. ‘Trust me!’

‘The shopkeeper just tried to sell me chocolates and I told a lie to avoid buying them.’

‘It’s okay – you can lie to him, just not me.’

‘How will you know?’

Sophie gives me a look that says it all.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Sophie checking the mirrors, perhaps suspecting the police will discover her gliding along the highway in the sleek red M3. I have time to look at her closely.

She enjoys driving; the creases around her mouth are deeper, more pronounced. Her hair falls in tangled dreads across her shoulders and down her back. Her skin is smooth and pale. Below her left ear is a slight scar, a thin pink line.

‘Why are you watching me? Don’t you trust me with your car?’

The blood rushes to my face. ‘Your hair is . . .’

She grabs a handful of locks. ‘. . . my crowning glory!’

She slows for a semitrailer, checking along the side to overtake, flicking the indicator and pulling out, changing down and accelerating to pass.

‘My last boyfriend kept getting his fingers caught in it. He wanted me to cut it short. Can you believe that?’

A farmer stands in a paddock beside a pile of blackened logs. In the distance is a windbreak of pines, bent on an angle from battling the westerly. Beside the track is a dam, puddle-empty, the soil cracked and eroded. The farmer wipes his arm across his forehead and tosses another log on the fire before heading for his ute.

‘Do you have a girlfriend, James?’

I snort.

Silence.

‘Truth, James. I won’t laugh, I promise.’

‘A few years ago . . . I kinda had a . . .’ My voice drifts, not wanting to remember.

‘What was her name?’

‘You . . . you won’t believe it.’

‘
Sophie
? No! Please don’t tell me she was blonde.’

I wince. ‘Sorry.’

‘It was dyed.’

‘She went to the girls’ school on the hill.’

‘A rich blonde Sophie!’

‘Do you want to hear this or not?’

She elaborately mimes zipping her lips.

‘The rich Sophie knew stuff I didn’t.’

Sophie clamps a finger between her teeth, mocking me.

‘I know, I know – everyone knows more than me. Her parents’ house had a terraced garden all the way down to the harbour. She’d raid their liquor cabinet and her brother’s stash of dope.’

She raises an eyebrow at me.

‘Yes, I coughed. In the week we were together, we got high every afternoon. I wondered what she saw in me. Maybe she mistook shy and bumbling for strong and silent?’

‘You’re . . .’ Sophie smiles. ‘Sorry, keep going.’

I take a deep breath to get it over with. ‘One day it was just me and her walking down to their pool. She wore sandals, a towel around her hips. In the water . . . she kissed me. I almost . . .’

Sophie purses her lips and says, ‘Romantic,
very
– oops, a vow of silence!’

‘We kissed and . . . I fumbled.’

There’s a hand-painted sign near the highway.
Fresh Fruit 500 metres
. I picture ripe strawberries, apples and watermelons so crisp the juice would run down my chin. The fruit stand never appears. The sign was faded, on a crooked lean. The country is too parched and dry for fruit.

Sophie coughs, theatrically, to bring me back to the story.

‘Where was I?’

‘In a million-dollar pool, groping.’

‘
Fumbling
. Groping implies I knew what I was doing.’

‘Come on, tell more.’

‘That’s it. Kissing in a pool.’

‘James. Remember our deal.’

‘Okay, okay. We went upstairs to the back deck and all the time I’m hoping something might happen – you know, she’d lead me to her room, or . . .’

‘And?’

‘She dumped me.’

‘The bitch!’

‘She fed me corn chips and guacamole dip.’

‘The doomed man’s last meal.’

‘Yep. Then she told me she was seeing someone else.’

‘The two-timing peroxide-blonde bimbo bitch!’

‘She said I was special – just not special enough. And that I should go home before her parents returned. She checked the bus timetable. At her front door, she kissed me the way you kiss a grandparent.’

I’m embarrassed to have admitted so much.

‘Sophie was probably her middle name,’ Sophie says. ‘Her first name was Tiffany. Or Paige. Or Kristal. Something crass – she’s
unworthy
of such a beautiful name!’

‘So ends my sexual misadventures.’

Sophie reaches across and touches my elbow.

‘Sex is always a misadventure, James.’

Cardigan had a deep toke on the spliff. ‘It makes me randy.’

‘
Randy?
What a strange word!’

‘Horny. Excited. Dad giggles and eats too much when he’s high. Me, I want to . . . you know.’

‘The word is
fuck
, Cardigan. And we’re not doing it. Not yet.’

As if on cue they looked to the paddock across the creek where the bull was stalking a cow, his tail flapping, his erection as strong as a . . . bull.

‘Is it rape, with animals?’ he asked.

‘Nah. If she didn’t want it, she’d just kick him. Imagine the power in those hooves.’

‘Hoofs?’

‘Definitely
hooves
.’ Sophie drew one last toke and flicked the butt into the water. It floated downstream towards the weir, where the town kids swam in summer – their own Bondi Beach without the sand, the shops, the pavilion, the bikinis, the skate ramp, the ballgames. Just country kids in daggy swimmers swinging from a rope and dive-bombing.

‘What’s the slang word for gay men?’ Cardigan asked.

‘Pardon?’

‘
Poof
. Right?’

Sophie nodded.

‘Two poofs does not make a poove. So it’s hoofs, not hooves.’

‘You should ask Ms Tranter in English. Use that example, I dare you.’

‘I’d end up at the principal’s office. My parents have been in twice already. I’ve only been here five months.’

Sophie wondered if he’d stay long enough for them to get close, really close.

Cardigan picked up a rock and tossed it into the creek. ‘I know what you’re thinking. You reckon me and my family will be leaving soon.’

Sophie stayed silent. No need to admit it.

‘Even if we leave, I can come back when I’m older.’

‘To this place?’

‘Everywhere’s the same if you’re only staying awhile.’

Sophie sighed. ‘I’ve been here my whole life.’

Cardigan shrugged and picked up another rock. The bull wandered off, his tail swinging listlessly. Afraid of the hoofs. Hooves.

Sophie looked at Cardigan’s hands, wanting to feel them on her body, wondering how long they’d have together before he left. She lay back in the grass. ‘Cardy, come here.’

He glanced down at her and smiled, tossing the rock over his head, not caring where it landed.

They closed their eyes and searched for each other’s mouths, pressing close, breathing in unison. Cardigan Madrigal had soft lips. He didn’t poke his tongue in where it wasn’t wanted. He kissed like a girl, like Sophie imagined a girl would kiss.

His hands wandered underneath her shirt and she was glad she didn’t wear a bra. His fingers were gentle. Together they held the kiss, but everything was focused on his hand, on the pressure between their bodies. Sophie wrapped a leg around Cardigan’s waist.

How soon could they have sex?

And where?

She wondered what planet spun out of alignment and tossed a boy like Cardigan her way. He rolled away and she asked, ‘Where did you come from?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Before here?’

He propped himself on one elbow. ‘Melbourne. A community squat in Fitzroy.’

‘Really?’

‘True. Guess how many stashes I discovered in one week? Four. I took a little bit out of each and mixed it together. It was like rocket fuel!’

‘What happened?’

‘I got so stoned it . . .’

‘No, why did you leave?’

‘Oh. Dad and a woman named Layla.
The Buddhist with the breasts
. That’s what Mum called her. Mum and Dad had the wildest argument. She threw a hookah at him, twirled it above her head with the hose pipe and then flung it. Deadly.’

‘But they’re still together?’

‘They decided the squat was too close. They wanted a farm, with goats and chickens. Dad bought a book on self-sufficiency.’

‘And?’

‘The foxes took the chickens and the goat wandered off when I left the gate open. Now Dad’s looking at growing vegies. He reckons all you need is water.’

‘It hasn’t rained in months.’

‘Yeah.’

Sophie rolled back into Cardigan’s arms. ‘If you stay until Christmas, we could give each other . . . a present.’

Cardigan kissed her. ‘I’d like that.’

As Sophie walked to school on Monday, the Kombi pulled up alongside, Cardigan hanging out the window, grinning. ‘You want a lift?’

Sophie looked questioningly at Cardigan’s dad.

‘Hop in. Always room for a fellow traveller,’ he said.

Cardigan swept the organic gardening magazines and empty tobacco packets onto the floor and wriggled across the bench seat.

‘Thanks, Mr Madrigal.’

‘Whooaa, the name’s Lenny. All that
mister
shit will do my head in.’

Cardigan’s dad had matted hair, a goatee, piercing pale-grey eyes and a habit of scratching his arms, his elbows, his chest and his crotch.

‘Cardigan says you’re growing vegies at home, Mr . . .  Lenny?’

‘Sure am. Among other things.’ He winked.

Sophie saw her brother Brad ahead on the footpath, pushing his bike with a flat tyre. Cardigan noticed him as well. ‘There’s room in the back.’

‘Let him walk.’

‘Siblings, hey,’ Mr Madrigal laughed. ‘I’ve got a brother in Sydney who works in an insurance company. Can you believe it? I guess there’s a black sheep in every family.’

Sophie dangled her hand out the window and gave Brad the finger as they passed. On the dashboard was a book with a vivid orange cover, titled
Yoga for Beginners
. Sophie suppressed a smile at the vision of this hairy man scratching himself like crazy, trying to achieve peace and stillness.

Mr Madrigal pulled up outside the front gate of the school. He leant across Cardigan and said, ‘How about you coming over for dinner soon, Sophie? I’ve mastered lentil and black bean soup and the wife cooks up a beaut mushroom pasta.’

‘That’d be great . . . Lenny.’

He put the Kombi in gear. ‘No worries.’

The van blew smoke all down Main Street and Sophie wondered how she’d ever convince her father to drive her out to Cardigan’s place and leave her there.

Three days later, the fire truck raced through town, sirens blazing, men shrugging into oversized yellow jackets as the driver cursed the roundabout and drove straight over it, bouncing, helmets clunking together like walnuts. Swearing filled the cabin. It took ten minutes to reach the house and they drove through the gate, not stopping to open it. A woman was standing in the driveway, sobbing frantically.

They knew their drills.

Pete was on the hose, Ernie the pump. Gerry had the mask and breathing kit, axe loose in his gloved hands, taking the risk. Barry stayed with the truck.

‘How many inside?’ Gerry asked.

The woman moaned in shock, her whole body starting to shake.

‘How many?’ Gerry’s voice was calm.

She held up two fingers. Gerry turned and looked towards the driver, Barry. Anguished women and burnt pets, that was his job. Barry left the truck idling and sprinted forward, reaching for the woman.

When the axe hit the front door, the roof collapsed in an explosion of sparks and ear-splitting cracks. The timber shrieked and the woman howled in pain. Barry gripped her a little tighter in case she was tempted to make a run for it and enter the house – what was left of the house. Gerry dropped the axe and pointed to where Pete should direct the rush of water. Not enough pressure. Never enough pressure, not with a truck this old. The woman fell to her knees, pulling Barry with her. Ernie checked the gauges and crossed himself, grateful he only had to deal with instruments and taps and equipment that didn’t have a heart, didn’t have a pulse.

It was a small town. They all knew there was a husband. And a son, in the same class as Rachel, Gerry’s daughter. A long-haired kid with funny clothes, given to tying his hair in a ponytail like a girl.

Ernie increased the pressure and heard the rattle of the complaining pipes. Bugger it. If it burst, the CFA could buy them a new truck.

Gerry axed his way into the front room and saw the body on the bed. His first impulse was to step across the smoking beams and drag him out of there, but he knew it was too late, that the smoke would have killed Lenny Madrigal by now. But he wanted to rescue something. He turned to Barry and jerked his head at the truck. Barry helped the woman to her feet and that was when it happened.

The miracle.

Ernie crossed himself every morning for the next month in thanks.

The kid, that bloody hippie kid, climbed out of the Kombi parked under the wattles, barefoot, wearing nothing but a stupid T-shirt with a drawing on it and ragged pants torn at the knee. Rubbing his eyes as if he’d slept in too long.

Gerry glanced at Pete, knowing what was going to happen next. Gerry played football, so he was confident he could stop the kid before he reached his father. But it was a near thing. The boy dodged sideways at the last moment and Gerry had to tackle him. He hated to hurt a kid that way, when all the boy wanted was his dad.

The mother rushed to her son and they collapsed together in the dirt. The boy finally registered her voice. The firefighters readied themselves, just in case.

The howl from the boy sent shivers through each of the men.

They emptied the truck of water and removed the body from the house. It didn’t take long; it took much too long.

Two ways of looking at everything.

Two lives saved; one lost.

Was that a victory?

The mother and the boy, both in shock, were driven back to town in their Kombi by the police sergeant. The kid took some convincing to leave the yard; the sobs rattled in his chest and his shoulders heaved.

After they left, the four men relaxed. Gerry passed around a packet of Marlboros and they grimaced at the tired joke of firemen giving up smoking. Anything to relieve the tension, to stop them thinking of the body burnt beyond recognition lying on the stretcher, covered in a sheet. The morgue sending a team. The investigators travelling from the city.

The surrounding bush was silent, as if the birds knew.

Four grown men, firemen, directed to wait and clean up. Clean up for what? Each of them thought of that kid sleeping through the noise, stepping out of the Kombi. He’d have a bruise on his shoulder from Gerry’s tackle.

In town, the cops questioned the boy and his mother. They were taken in for the night by the pastor and his wife, people who knew what to say and when to say it.

In the morning, Mrs Madrigal said she wanted to go to relatives in the city and she led her son slowly to the car before driving off in a puff of exhaust smoke. Harmless blue smoke. The charred remains of the body were taken by the undertaker to the city, where an inquest would be held.

The town newspaper led with a story about the boy’s survival. His picture was on the front page, taken from the school photos. A handsome kid. Hair too long, and he never played footy. He had a funny name. The editor rang the school to check the spelling – no point in upsetting anyone.