Candelo (18 page)

Mitchell looked at her blankly.
Sure
, and he winked at Evie who was silently mouthing each of Vi's words, imitating her with her unerring accuracy.

Still by the door, out of Vi's sight, I rolled my eyes at Simon, who looked away quickly. Quelling the laughter.

It might be worth finding out more about them. I've come across a few kids who started young rock bands that way
.

When?
I asked, louder than I had intended, so that they all turned.

And as Mitchell looked straight at me, I blushed, hating myself for the slow rush of colour that began near my ears, moving across my face, forcing me to look down, away from him, away from all of them. Because I was sure they could see. They must have been able to see.

You, a famous movie star, and me, a rock star
, he stared at me.
Why not?

Exactly
, and Vi glared at me.

Later, Simon and I were imitating her, Vi, and her knowledge of music.

Your mum's not so bad
, Mitchell said.

I told him she was a dickhead.

Nah, she's pretty cool
.

We were putting away the dishes. Mitchell, unable to simply take plates to the cupboard, was spinning each piece of crockery in his hands, twirling cups on one finger, throwing bowls in the air and catching them, drumming spoons on the table edge, so that I found myself holding my breath with each dish I handed him.

What's your mum called?
Evie asked him, looking up from where she was colouring in at the table.

I watched as Mitchell put down the saucers he had been piling too high in his hands. One by one. Silent for a moment. Pausing before answering. Looking out the window as he spoke.
My mum's dead
.

And I was surprised.

No she's not
, I said, because I was sure he had mentioned his mother the night before. The flat where she lived.

Simon kicked me and I glared at him, wanting to protest, wanting to say that it wasn't true, his mother was alive, but I didn't. I didn't want to mention the conversation I had had with Mitchell, just the two of us, out there on the steps.

And I was confused. I didn't know what was truth and what wasn't.

When?
Evie asked, and with her face turned towards him, she waited for an answer.

Simon and I also waited. All of us waiting for him to speak.

He didn't.

When?
she asked again as he leant forward, and she pulled back, uncertain for one instant as to what he was about to do.

All of us uncertain.

Wanting her to shut up.

But she wouldn't. Not Evie.

When?
she giggled, as he seized her in both hands, as he picked her up and put her on his shoulders, her textas clattering to the ground as she screamed in delight.

And when he finally spoke, his words were not an answer to her question.

We're outta here
, he told her.

Outta here
, she agreed.

The noise in his throat like the throttle of an engine, slowly building to a roar, he ducked low under the back door, and then was off, gone, racing Evie out across the night black of the back garden, while Simon and I watched, both of us staring out through the cracked glass of the window.

See
, I said.

See what?
Simon didn't look at me, his eyes still fixed on the pair of them, only just visible out there without us. He seemed to have barely even heard me.

I opened my mouth, I was about to speak, about to explain that Mitchell hadn't even told us when she had died, that she wasn't dead, but then I stopped myself.

It doesn't matter
, I said, knowing he hadn't heard me, knowing he had already forgotten what I had been talking about.

And I let it go.

Until later, when I brought it up again.

We were playing cards. Pontoon in their bedroom. Simon, Mitchell and I. Evie with her own deck, dealing anything to herself as she imitated our game.
Hit me. Hit me
, until she had a pile in front of her.

Mitchell had brought in the rest of Vi's wine from dinner
and we drank from the bottle, passing it round, each taking long slow swills.

You can't bet all your matches
, Simon told me as I pushed the pile forward.

Why not?

Because if you lose, you'll be out of the game
.

He was banker, cautious, slow, building a pile. I had already been bankrupt three times, borrowing from him, borrowing from Mitchell, feeling the flush of the wine on my cheeks as I kept on bidding, up and up.

You can't keep borrowing
, he protested.
It makes the whole game pointless
.

Why?
I asked, belligerent with the alcohol.

Evie was now curled up at the foot of Mitchell's mattress, her thumb in her mouth, the deck of cards scattered around her. She stirred as we argued, shifting in half-sleep, until Simon picked her up and carried her through to the other room, leaving us alone.

For just a moment.

And we sat on the floor under the bare light of the globe. Side by side, facing the space where Simon had been.

Neither of us sure what to say.

Until, too confident from the alcohol, I spoke without thinking.
Why did you lie about your mum?
I asked him, dividing my matches up into piles and then re-dividing, smaller and smaller.

He wouldn't look at me.

I watched him butt out his cigarette, grinding it into the saucer. He was squinting, perplexed and awkward, jiggling his
knee up and down, up and down. I could see where the ash had stained his finger, smudged grey across the white of the scar. I could see the smooth line of his calf muscle, the fall of his hair across his cheek, the full width of his mouth.

And I was aware of the strangeness of his silence. Because it was not like Mitchell to be this quiet.

But I didn't stop.

I told him I didn't understand. What he had said about his mother's flat. The night before. It made no sense. I told him he could tell me. I told him I wanted to know. I kept talking, not realising, not straightaway, that it wasn't impossible. To talk about her flat and for her to no longer be alive.

And then I closed my mouth. Mid-sentence.

I saw his face, and I looked away.

Outside, the evening breeze was lifting the leaves in the courtyard, sending them scuttling across the stone flagging and in through the open door, brushing against our backs as we sat side by side, our knees almost touching, our elbows almost connected, our eyes on the carpet, unable to look at each other.

And as I was about to speak, as I was about to try to tell him I was sorry, I heard the sliding door between our rooms, the glass rattling for a moment and then still.

It was Simon.

Standing there and looking at us.

I moved away, shifting my leg from where it touched Mitchell's, as he, too, moved as he stretched, knees cracking as he pulled himself up from the floor.

All of us speaking at once. Asking Simon to deal. Asking me to move over. Mitchell's voice louder than either of ours as
his words crossed over, as he asked Simon where the dope was.

Here
, and Simon tossed the bag to him.

Let's go
. He turned to Simon. Speaking to him alone.
Take this
, waving the bag in the air,
another bottle, and check out the scenery
.

I watched as Simon started putting on his shoes.

I watched as Mitchell licked the paper flat on a joint.

And I watched as they made their way to the door.

Leaving me alone. Surrounded by cards and piles of matches.

See you
. It was Simon who looked back into the room. Just for a moment. Not even long enough for me to say goodbye. And as the front door clicked softly behind them, I was still there, on the floor, next to Mitchell's bed, knowing that I had been left once again, that even if I had attempted to follow, it would have soon been made clear that I was not wanted. That this was different. That I would not be able to rely on Simon's goodwill. That something had changed.

I got up slowly, my head pounding from all we had drunk, and I slid the glass doors between our rooms open. Trying to be quiet. Trying not to wake Evie. Stumbling towards my bed. Closing my eyes and wondering if Mitchell would knock on my door later that night, hoping that he would. Hoping that I hadn't wrecked everything. Whispering my name in the stillness. Just he and I.

Because if he did, I knew I would go out there again. I knew I would follow him out to the step. I knew that I wanted to kiss him. And I wished I hadn't been so stupid. I wished I hadn't kept talking about his mother.

I wished I hadn't upset him.

Once when I asked Vi why she hated it when people called her a lesbian, she had looked at me, incredulous.

Because I'm not
, she had said.

But you live with Mari, you love Mari, you sleep with Mari
, I had protested, and she had simply shrugged her shoulders.

So?
she had said.

Her ability to shift categories, to place that line wherever she believed it should be and then to justify it with utmost vehemence used to infuriate me.

Now I sometimes find myself envying it.

I wish I could just say:
This is the way it is. This is right and that is wrong
.

But I can't. I just do not know. I stand weighted by the possibilities, the endless justifications that could be used to tip either side of the scales, the infinite definitions that could be given to a single term.

There is no right and there is no wrong.

That is complete and utter rubbish
, Vi would tell me, the spark
from the end of her cigarette flying out the open window, brilliant for a moment, and then dissolving into ash.
That is what life is all about. Taking the plunge. Drawing the line. You have to
, and she would look at me, fierce, concerned, intense, before being distracted by the telephone ringing somewhere inside the house, or perhaps a knock on the door, or a note she suddenly remembers that she wants to write.

This is the way Vi lives her life. She marks up her territories and she refuses to even glance across to the other side once the fence has been put up.

Now as I try to understand her, as I try to come to terms with decisions that I now know she may have made, I am constantly confronted by this fundamental difference in who we are.

I make my choices but I always seem to have one leg still hanging over the other side of the fence, one eye turned back to what I might have done, what could have been, a cloud of possibilities trailing, twisting, behind me. I think of the decision I made just before the funeral and I have to stop before I am lost in the myriad of options I could have taken, maybe should have taken.

I am different from Vi.

I cannot look back and feel certain. I cannot even define what has passed and is unchangeable. I cannot say,
That is what it was
. I am filled with doubts. Perhaps it was something else, perhaps it could be defined in another way?

Do you think about him often?
Simon had asked me.

And I had told him I did.

Sometimes. And then months would pass before he slipped,
stealthy, sure, into my consciousness.

I stood by the window of my flat and found myself trying to say his name out loud.
Mitchell Jenkins
.

The long grass twisting up around his calves, arms folded across his chest, looking out towards the dusty road and then back to me, daring me to follow him, challenging me to jump down and run after him.

He had killed himself.

Mitchell Jenkins killed himself
.

I watched myself form the words, my reflection in the window mouthing each syllable, salt smeared across the glass so that my face was cloudy, indiscernible, as I tried to gauge what that sentence actually meant to me.

And I didn't know.

I just didn't know.

I once told Marco about Mitchell. Years ago. We were swapping stories. First loves. Remembering the twists and curls of my stomach, small tendrils of delight, when he had looked at me. Remembering the slow brush of his hand along my leg. Remembering this and not the rest.

Because I had made up a new Mitchell.

I had made up someone whose only place in my life was one of smoky kisses in the darkness.

I watched, sitting high on the cement wall that bordered the verandah, the red paint chipped and flaking beneath my bare feet, shading my eyes from the glare of the morning sun, as Simon carved out Evie's path.

And again
, she screamed, as he ran from one end of the
garden to the other, with her perched precariously on his shoulders.
And again
.

And he did.

Cutting his way through the grass. Flattening it as he had flattened it the day before, as he had promised he would do again the next day.