Hours later, I’m relieved to hear the final siren of the day. My attention has been waning since English class. I can’t get a certain girl out of my head. I pack my books into my bag and head for the school exit. Rhonda is hanging about with a group of her friends. When she sees me, she says her goodbyes and approaches me with a big smile on her fresh young face. It dawns on me that youth is beautiful. Without warning, an image of Nanna’s face flashes through my mind. It’s lined with history and wears the mask of death. My heart starts thumping. I feel Bruce edging in. But he’s not needed now. There’s no threat. The only thing that is causing me any distress is the thought of Bruce turning up at an inopportune time. I close my eyes for a second. I will Bruce to not appear.
Don’t you dare show up now. I don’t want you. It’s not how it’s meant to work, Bruce. Stay away!
I feel Bruce retreat. He’s not happy. I can sense it. I’m going to have to give him a talking to – remind him how it is. I’ve never had to do that. He used to understand. He used to know to be there only when the time was right. But that’s clearly changing. It sure as hell isn’t acceptable for him to chuck a sad when he wants in and I’m not having it. Rhonda is standing right before me. I hope I haven’t said anything out loud. I glance around quickly to make sure Bruce has behaved himself and has kept away. He’s nowhere to be seen.
‘Can I walk you home?’ My question needs no answer. We fall into step beside one another and make our way across the oval.
‘I liked your haiku today.’
‘Thanks.’ I take Rhonda’s soft little hand in mine and we walk together in silence. We pass the cricket pitch where I first met her; it seems like a century ago. Not being able to shake the feeling that Bruce might intervene, I scan the trees that surround the oval. But he’s not sitting on any of the branches, waiting for the perfect moment to jump down in front of us and mess things up. I push him from my mind. We continue off the school grounds and enter a small playground.
‘You want a swing?’ I ask. Rhonda gives me a doubtful look. ‘Come on, I’ll push you.’
She puts down her bag and reluctantly seats herself on the swing, ensuring that her skirt is tucked securely beneath her. I grab the swing, gently pull it back and then release it. Soon Rhonda is swinging by herself.
‘This is fun. You get on the other one,’ she says, smiling.
I jump on the other swing and vigorously work my legs until I’m swinging at the same height as Rhonda.
‘Let’s go higher,’ she says.
We both swing as high as we can, while laughing giddily. The swings start jumping out of control, so we slow down. I leap off and do a commando roll on the ground. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
‘I can’t do that!’
‘Sure you can!’
Rhonda slows her swing right down and manages a small leap, landing squarely on her feet. ‘Ta da!’
‘Hooray, hooray!’ I rush over and pick her up, spinning her around. I boldly kiss her; it turns into a fervent tongue-seeking-tongue kiss.
She pushes me back. ‘Wait. I want to show you something.’
She takes me by the hand. I can hear my heart pounding as we walk along. She leads me to a fence, which has a hole in it. We climb through – my shirt gets snagged, but I pull it free. We then navigate our way through a section of coarse bush. The bush thins and we step out into a clearing. I’m surprised to find that we’re standing in the local cemetery. I’m a bit disorientated – I’ve only ever come through the main entrance.
‘I love this place,’ Rhonda says, visibly moved. She catches my eye. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m not some crazy kook. I just adore cemeteries.’ She takes me by the hand again and weaves me through the gravestones, pausing every now and then, sighing. ‘There’s so much history here. This person died at the age of thirty-two. Isn’t that sad?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘They probably had a family. Maybe they were in love. I mean, doesn’t it make you stop and think about
now
, and how precious
now
is?’
I can see what she’s getting at. It does make you stop and think. We’re lucky to be alive and sharing this moment.
Rhonda leads me to a small shelter in the middle of the cemetery. It’s not unlike a bus stop. It is painted brown and has a white, decorative spandrel. Rhonda sits me down on the bench. I realise that it’s an old church pew. We start kissing again.
She draws away for a moment and places a hand on my chest. She says to me very seriously, ‘I love the smell of your sweat. It’s very distinctive.’
Abruptly, we start kissing again. I put a hand on the outside of her shirt and play with her breast.
Suddenly, we hear a twig snap. We gasp and look up. An elderly man is standing beside a wheel barrow, about ten meters away. He is leering at us. His hand is down the front of his pants. While we stare at him, taking in what is happening, he advances, his hand still down his pants. We scream and run away. We clamber through the hole in the fence; it’s a bit more difficult this time round, now that we’re running for our lives. It’s like we’re caught up in a scene from a horror movie, where a deranged killer is chasing the main characters. They’re at their front door, fumbling about helplessly for their keys. But you know that they’ll make it inside at the last possible second, even though the last possible second has being stretched out for an inordinate amount of time. We continue running until we reach the park and then we stop and catch our breath, doubled over with our hands on our knees.
‘Did you see the look on his face?’ I gasp.
‘Yeah! What a dirty old man! I’m gonna have nightmares about him.’
‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’ I put an arm around Rhonda’s shoulder and we walk home in silence, feeling like the king and queen of our own secret land.
It’s Saturday morning. The school week that just ended flew by like it was in a hurry. Rhonda and I now meet up every day after school; we go to the cemetery and make out with unabashed passion. Thankfully, we haven’t seen the dirty old man again. Our make-out sessions are getting more and more intense. Rhonda now rubs my pants with her hand and she lets me fondle her breasts over her shirt. Once, things got a bit too much for me and I had to run off into the trees. At school, during lunchtime, we try to find private spots where we can make out, but we’re not always successful; by the time the end of the day comes around, we’re well and truly ready for each other.
I’ve set myself up in the backyard with a beach towel and I’m lying back reading
The Outsider
by Albert Camus. But I’m not really taking any of it in. I’ve read the same paragraph at least eight times now. Meursault is swimming with Marie. He’s turned on and so my thoughts drift to images of Rhonda in a bathing suit. She would look incredible. Her snow white thighs would be unbelievable. I was gonna have to take her swimming soon. Then my thoughts meander on to, of all things, memories of pet goldfish. I had fish when I was younger, but they all died of various causes, with varying degrees of discomfort. One of the more harrowing deaths I can recall is Crispin’s.
I came out of my bedroom one morning to find Crispin lying on the floor in front of the fish tank. I quickly picked him up and placed him gently back into the water. To my distress, all that poor Crispin could manage to do was to drift backwards on the pathetic current generated by the filter. I thought I could see the sadness in his little eyes. He looked to be in a lot of pain. His scales were all worn from flipping himself over and over on the carpet during the night. I wondered how long he’d been out of the tank and tore myself up for not having got out of bed earlier. When the rest of the family woke up, I told them about Crispin’s ordeal.
Dad looked at Crispin drifting backwards in the tank and told me that he’d have to kill Crispin to put him out of his misery. A split second later, without giving me any time to consider the situation, Dad pushed up his sleeve, plunged his hand into the water and grabbed Crispin’s tiny ravaged body. He took him outside, leaving a trail of water all the way to the wood block. He put him on the block, grabbed the axe and chopped his head off. Just like that. There lay Crispin in two parts – decapitated. I saw everything from inside. Dad began to make his way back to the house. Just as he did so, Bruce came out from behind the shed, picked up the axe and swung it at him. He missed by centimetres.
I was so damn angry. Who would do such a barbaric thing? Dad came inside, grabbed me by the shoulders and said, ‘I’m sorry, Stan. It’s for the best, though.’ He ruffled my hair, sat down at the breakfast bench and picked up the paper. I stood where I was, unable to move.
About half a minute later, Dad said, ‘So, what’s for breakfast, Peggy?’
‘Bacon and eggs.’
‘Terrific!’
I was appalled at how my father had killed poor Crispin in such a violent way and I was equally appalled about his blatant disregard for my feelings. He acted as if the whole thing was nothing out of the ordinary and I was expected to get over it straight away. I went to my bedroom, where I could cry and cry and cry. Bruce was there. ‘Your father is a savage! One day, we’re gonna teach him a lesson!’
On that day, I swore I’d never get any fish ever again – there were just too many deaths to deal with. But that was then and this is now. Now that I’m older, I can look after them properly. I think I want some Japanese koi. Koi are bigger than goldfish and they’re more robust too, with a longer life span. A koi could just about take care of itself. Two of them would do. I could put them in a huge tank and watch them grow.
I get so caught up in the idea of getting some fish that I decide to call Rhonda and tell her about it. I dash inside and pick up the phone. I realise that someone else is already on the extension in the study. I freeze as I recognise Father Ryan’s voice.
‘I can’t stop thinking about you. I know God is disappointed in me, but it’s a force so strong that I just don’t know what to do. I need to see you. Can you come over right now?’
‘Oh, Jerome, I don’t know. I’m scared.’
I replace the receiver and steady myself on the breakfast bench. I feel dizzy and short of breath. Hearing Mum’s voice was like a swift punch in the guts. Jerome? His name is Jerome? What a
slimy
old bastard. What a hypocritical old fuck! I hear movement from the study. I decide to busy myself by making a sandwich. Mum emerges a couple of minutes later.
When she sees me, she gives me a big guilty smile. ‘Oh! Hi, Stan. I didn’t realise you were home.’
‘Yeah, I just got in.’
She turns a conspicuous red.
‘I-I was just talking to your Aunty Gaynor. She’s coming soon … to Middleton … to visit … for a while.’
‘Oh, cool.’ This is the first time I’ve ever witnessed my mother blatantly lying. It’s horrifying. She’s not meant to lie – she’s my mother, for Christ’s sake! She isn’t any good at it, either.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m making a sandwich.’
‘Oh. That’s nice.’
I wish she would just leave the room. She’s talking gibberish and I don’t like it.
‘I’m going shopping in a minute. Is there anything you want?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
She finally leaves the room. I sit at the breakfast bench and eat my sandwich. I’m not hungry, I just don’t know what else to do. Considering all the shit that’s gone down, it’s a surprisingly good sandwich. As I’m taking the last bite, Mum comes back into the room. She’s changed her clothes and is wearing a revealing top, which sits tightly around her breasts. She’s applied fresh make-up too.
‘So, there’s nothing you want from the shops?’
‘No, Mum.’
‘OK. I’ll be off, then.’
‘OK, Mum.’
The minute she leaves the driveway, I race outside, jump on my bike and peddle like crazy to the shops, using every possible short cut. I find a spot behind a tree, where I’m concealed from the shopping centre car park. Mum has parked her beige Commodore near the entrance. I’m instantly relieved. But she doesn’t get out of the car. I creep closer, moving from tree to tree. I try to focus on what she’s doing. She’s talking to herself in the rear view mirror. She places her head in her hands and then she straightens up. She fixes her hair and gets out of the car. She takes her time closing the door. She’s clearly struggling with making a decision. But then, instead of walking towards the shops, she backtracks and makes her way briskly towards the presbytery next door. I dash to another tree to get a better look and watch as she approaches the front door. She knocks and is let in.
I’m trembling. Bruce places his hand on my shoulder. ‘Your mother is turning into a real slut.’
‘Don’t talk that way about my mother!’
‘She’s fucking the
priest
!’
‘Shut the fuck up, Bruce!’ I tear myself away from him and ride off with a jerky recklessness.
I arrive home and raid my parents’ liquor cabinet. I find a bottle of port, take it into my room and start hoeing into it. I spill a bit on the carpet and rub it with my foot. The stain spreads.
‘I can’t believe that fucking arsehole!’ Bruce is very opinionated. He rarely holds back. ‘What is it with Catholic priests? They can’t keep their dicks in their pants. They think they can go around screwing whomever they like and get away with it!’
‘Just shut up, Bruce. I can’t hear myself think.’
‘I won’t shut up. He’s meant to be a model citizen. He’s meant to be setting an example of how to live a pure life. But what does he do? He lets his dick lead him down a satanic path. He breaks one of the ten golden rules!’
I swig from the bottle, dripping port down my chin. Bruce is worked up, pacing about the bedroom. In fact, I’m enjoying his passion. Everything he says is true.
‘You know, some people are just born arseholes. And this guy, Father Ryan, is a two-faced showman. I’ve seen him deliver sermons. He’s a fucking actor. Why, I ought to burn his playhouse down!’
‘You can’t just go around burning things down, Bruce.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because you just can’t, that’s why.’
Bruce grabs the bottle off me and pours port over his head in a bid to dramatise his anger. With the dark liquor dripping down his face, he looks at me coldly. He holds my stare until the dripping ceases. ‘You’ve got some growing up to do and I’m getting impatient,’ he says in a quiet, controlled voice that scares the shit out of me. ‘Don’t make me make you grow up, Stan. Step up. Be a man. There’s no room in this world for lame-arse pussies.’ Bruce thrusts the bottle back into my chest. ‘Now, drink. And if you don’t get with the program soon, Stan, there’ll be hell to pay.’