Candelo (24 page)

The man in front of me shifted awkwardly, the single rose in his hand wilting, the petals brown at the tips. And as he
stepped forward to throw the flower into the grave, I tried to catch Simon's eye, because I did not want to stay here any longer. I did not want to be a part of this. This was not our mourning. This was not anything to do with us.

And I was alarmed at the bitterness still in me.

Because I didn't want to hate Mitchell. Not again. Not in the way I had at first, when I had learnt of Evie's death, when I had listened to Vi in disbelief; the accident.
She was dead before I got there
.

But it was not just Evie's death that had made me hate him.

It was that, but it was also knowing what had happened between us. Knowing that closeness, that invasion, him right there, in me, only hours earlier. Knowing it and wanting to scratch it out, scrape him out.

And I had told Vi that I hoped he rotted in hell. That I hoped he would die too. Seeing the look in her eyes as I had said those words and knowing there was a part of her that felt that way too, that despite all she preached, she, too, had felt nothing but hate and anger.

And as I said those words, I had seen him, Simon, standing by the door to my room, watching us. Him and Vi looking at each other for just a moment, a moment before Vi opened her arms towards him. Too late. As her arms had opened, he had turned and walked away.

I had hated Mitchell.

And then I had made him fade. Forced him into a series of vague disconnected images, the whole erased.

As I caught Simon's eye, I jerked my head in the direction of the car. I wanted to go now.

But Simon did not move. He stood, impassive, silent, staring straight ahead.

I turned, slowly, to look in the direction that he was looking, to follow his gaze across the small group of people, to where Kerry stood, there, on the other side of the grave.

In the quiet that followed the burial, they were all dispersing, walking back towards their cars, muttering low words to each other, some stopping to hug her, some kissing her on the cheek, one or two just standing awkwardly by her side.

I, too, turned to go, to walk away without him, when I saw her separate herself from the group that had gathered around her, when I saw her making her way towards us. In her hand, she still held a flower, a single white lily, pure and creamy, startling against the black of her dress.

Do I know you?
She looked uncertain, staring at each of us in turn.

I was about to tell her that she didn't, I was about to make up some story, when Simon began to speak, and as he spoke I found myself staring at him in disbelief.

He told her that she didn't. Know him. Looking down at his feet, scuffing his toes in the dirt, scratching his arm nervously.

But you knew Mitchell?

Clearing his throat, coughing, his voice dry and cracked as he told her that he did.
He came away with us
.

And she continued to look at him, not knowing what he meant. Not knowing what it was that he was trying to say.

On a holiday
.

And in the stillness of the morning, I could hear the cars starting, engines turning over, people leaving while we stood
there, the three of us, only a few feet separating us from the remaining mourners waiting to say goodbye.

With our family. Years ago
.

She did not take her eyes from his. She did not shift her gaze. And the slow crystallisation of awareness, of understanding, hardened.

I think I told Simon to go. I think I tried to pull him away. I do not remember. But I was dragging him, pulling him by the sleeve as she spat at our feet, as she hissed out her words, as she lunged for him, as she told him that he was a
fucking low-down bastard
, as she tried to hit him, restrained by someone, pulled back by another.

All I remember is my brother saying he was sorry. He was sorry. Over and over again.

And as I pulled him towards the car, as I made him get in the passenger seat, as I took the keys from him, I was shouting at him.

And he was crying.

I had no presentiment of disaster. I had no impending sense of trouble.

High in the branches of a peppercorn tree, I did what I had suggested we should do. I waited. With my back against the smooth limbs and my legs stretched out before me, I listened to the rush of the wind off the mountains, now blue in the distance, sighing over the paddocks, the grass gold and rippling in the late afternoon.

I was only fourteen years old.

I looked at my legs. They were thin like a child's. I looked at my fingernails. They were bitten down to the flesh. I looked at the scratches on my arms and the grazes on my knees. I lifted my shorts carefully and looked at the bruise inside my thigh. Deep purple now.

I looked out to where the boulders seemed to roll down towards where I knew the creek bed was, and I continued rewriting the story until it was strong enough to be held up in one piece. I was in love with Mitchell and he was in love
with me. And that was the way it was.

When I came back, Vi was sitting on the steps of the verandah, a sherry in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

There was still no sign of the car.

As I sat next to her, she put her glass down by her side.

It's getting dark
. She ran her fingers through my hair, picking out leaves, one by one.

In front of us, the shadows were lengthening, the bulk of the house slowly swallowing the lawn, and beyond, the mountains were purple with the last of the light.

I was thinking that maybe I should try and walk into the town
, and she stubbed her cigarette out against the cement beneath her feet.
How long do you think it would take?

I told her I didn't know.
Maybe an hour
.

She tilted her head back and swallowed the remains of her drink. I liked it when it was like this. Just the two of us. Alone. Her not at her typewriter, but here with me. I didn't want her to go.

She squeezed my hand in her own.

They'll be back soon
, I told her. And that was what I thought. That they would be back. Soon.

Maybe you're right
, and she got up slowly.
Maybe I'll wait a little longer
.

She stood for a moment and looked out across the garden to where the road began. Glowing against the darkening sky, twisting away from us, cutting through the paddocks, until it dipped out of sight into a bend. And as she bent down to pick up her cigarette butt, her glasses slipped, landing on the step next to my foot.

I passed them to her. One lens had fallen out. The other was already taped onto the frame.

I guess I need some new ones now
, she said.

And as she turned back towards the house, I heard her repeat my words.
They'll be back soon
, she said, drumming her fingers on the side of her empty sherry glass.
They'll be back soon
, talking more to herself than to me.

But they weren't.

They were not back by the time the sunset had darkened, deep red over the orchard behind us.

They were not back by the time night had slipped in, lavender blackening to ink.

They were not back by the time I gave up on my post and came inside.

And Vi became anxious.

I remember.

I could hear her typing, and then I would hear her stop, listening for the sound of the engine, for the sound of the door slamming, for the sound of footsteps down the hall. Anxious enough to knock the ashtray clattering from her desk to the floor, when we finally did hear it. The sound we had been waiting for: the purr of the motor, the lights through the open door, the footsteps up onto the verandah.

And then we heard the knock.

And as they called out Vi's name, she picked up her papers. She held them in her hands as she walked down that long corridor, while I watched her from the kitchen, the front door propped open with her foot as she talked to them.

The police.

There had been an accident.

Just out of Candelo.

Everything's fine
, Vi told me. But I knew she was lying.
I just want you to wait here
, and she had her cardigan, her handbag, and her papers, still there, tight in her hand, as she kissed me goodbye.
I won't be long. I promise
.

And she was gone. The door slamming shut behind her. The sound of the car reversing. The silence.

There was just me. And I was waiting.

Not sure what to do with myself in the enormity of that empty house, wandering from room to room, finally sitting out on the verandah, smoking Vi's cigarettes as I watched the night sky.

While somewhere, out on an empty road, the blue lights of the police car flashed, and Vi watched as they carried Evie's body up from where the car had rolled, tumbling down towards the creek.

And that was all I really knew. Not much, but enough for me to believe the picture that was presented to me. To hold it as truth. Mitchell was drunk. The car rolled. And Evie was dead.

Each stark fact.

Vi holding me tight in her arms and Simon standing at the door to my room.

Me screaming at my brother as he turned and walked away.

Screaming as Vi tried to comfort me, a sour sweet smell, perfume and sweat mingling together as she held my arms close by my side and tried to calm me.

Shhh
, she told me, over and over again.

I didn't ask her what had happened to Mitchell.

The flashing lights of the police car, Mitchell bundled into the back.

And as Vi tried to soothe me, I heard the front door slam and Simon walked off into the night.

Sitting by the side of the road with the flowers that he had bought for Mitchell wilting at his feet, Simon buried his head in his hands.

It was some suburban back street, any street in any of these suburbs. The indicator was still clicking, the engine was still on, and the sun was warm through the windscreen.

We were lost.

And as I tried to trace where we were, my finger running aimlessly down the map, Simon spoke.

Can't you see?
he said.
It wasn't Mitchell driving. It was me
.

I am not so surprised by the fact that Anton and Louise are moving as I am by the fact that I did not know. That they did not tell me.

Which shouldn't be so unexpected
, Lizzie tells me and she is right.

I have avoided Anton, and he has avoided me. He leaves whispered messages on my machine with less and less frequency as he has come to realise that I have no intention of returning his calls. We rarely pass each other on the path, but when we do, we talk politely. Any attempts made by him to vaguely allude to what has happened are so general that it is not difficult to avoid them.

And as for Louise – we do not speak. We have not said a word. Not since the afternoon of the funeral, not since I found her, there on my front step, when I came home. Sitting in the late afternoon sun, watching me as I walked down the path towards her.

When it began with Anton, I never thought about how it
would affect her. I never let myself see her as a person. Not really. She would knock on my door and I would open it to find her standing there, her hair falling into her face, her eyes refusing to meet mine as I would let her in, wanting to hear what she had to say, wanting to know, but not through any genuine concern.

But it was not just her that I failed to see. It was also him. I did not want to know. He would shrug his shoulders and sigh as he told me about each of his impossible love affairs: nights in the Siberian snowfields pining with love for a Russian interpreter, trekking through Sri Lanka with a beautiful married woman, stranded in a castle in Ireland with his best friend's girlfriend. I would hear his tales but I would not hear them. I refused to see myself as the next in line.

And that was not all I refused to see. Because I did not want to see, I did not want to know, that perhaps it was not just boredom that had made me turn towards him. That perhaps I had fallen, tumbled, headlong, into more than I realised.