Louis Beside Himself (19 page)

‘See, Singo mightn't be the tallest guy in the team,' he said, ‘but he's like that Mohammed Ali guy, you know, the boxer. Ali was great at dodging, he had such fancy footwork. What's that thing he used to say?' Bobby turned to me.

I sighed. ‘Dance like a butterfly, sting like a bee.'

‘Yeah, that's it!'

By the time the bell went for the end of lunch, we hadn't finished arguing about whether you could even compare boxing to basketball, and, if Mohammed Ali was the greatest boxer ever in the world, then who was the best basketballer? So no one had a chance to bring up Cordelia, or ask what anyone was planning to do that night.

‘You're coming to the match tomorrow?' asked Singo. ‘Two o'clock at the courts. Get there early or you won't get a seat.' He grinned anxiously and cracked his knuckles.

‘We'll be there,' said Hassan, looking at me. Then he whispered, ‘We'll sort something out after this weekend, okay?'

I nodded,
N
ONCHALANT
, as if I had nothing more heavy to think about than the history homework I hadn't done.

I GOT
detention for not knowing what Blaxland, Lawson and Wentworth discovered in Australia. I had thought it was the plough, but apparently that was another guy. Normally I had a book in my bag for detention, which helped me escape the classroom in a Russian train to Prague, or a leaky boat across the dangerous Timor Sea. But this afternoon, I'd forgotten to bring a book. You weren't allowed to make a sound in detention, and even though there were nine other kids in the classroom not a word was said. It was torturous. I stared out the window at a lunch paper blowing around the bins, and tried not to think of the night ahead.

As I walked home, I thought about Hassan's quiet worry with Elena, and Singo's basketball game. Everyone was on their own journey, as Gus often told his brother Roy, so sometimes you just had to pick your own street and walk it alone. But, as Roy told his brother Gus, if everyone did that
all
the time, then wouldn't we all be walking alone?

I WAS
still arguing in my head when Dad got home. His presence didn't seem to make any difference. I felt as if I was in a glass jar, like the bugs I used to catch and observe. Dad and I exchanged some words, I suppose, but everything seemed muffled, as if sounds were coming from a long way away. Rosie drifted in and out like the tide, draped in a seaweed-green skirt.

When Dad suggested dinner, I said I wasn't hungry. It was the truth. I thought he'd be going out on a Friday night, as he'd done last week, but instead I watched him get into his old flannel pyjamas and make a cup of hot cocoa, even though the radio said it was twenty-nine degrees. This was a problem – an extra one I didn't need. Where would I say I was going?

Dad wasn't hungry either. He sat in his pyjamas and flipped through the TV guide. He looked old, and kept running his hand over his bald head as if to comfort himself, but it wasn't working. My stomach turned over.

‘Aren't you going to Doreen's?' I asked, even though I didn't actually want to have this conversation.

He shook his head. He was looking for his reading glasses. But then he stopped, his arm still outstretched towards the coffee table, as if he'd forgotten it was there. ‘I'd
like
to go,' he said wistfully, ‘but I'm not sure she wants me there.'

‘Well, why don't you just ask her?' I said.
Der
. ‘You could bring her that Thai takeaway left over from last night.'

Dad shifted on the sofa. ‘She's probably had dinner by now.'

‘Well, maybe she just wants company. You two could listen to Bruce Springsteen or something. You seemed to be having a good time the other night.'

Dad nodded. He almost smiled. ‘I thought so, too. But then she didn't ring.'

I rolled my eyes. ‘She rang only a couple of nights ago.' I tried to make my voice calm and gentle, not impatient and exasperated. ‘And you talked to her for ages. Why would anything have changed since then? Maybe she's waiting for
you
to pick up the phone. Maybe she got really busy with work, maybe Agnes is being difficult, maybe a hippopotamus climbed in through the bathroom window and now it's stuck and angry and very dangerous and Doreen's in the doorway facing the big, angry, stuck hippopotamus and she's wondering what on earth to do.'

‘You're probably right,' said Dad absently. ‘But I don't want to put her in the position where if I ring and suggest something and really she doesn't want me there then she might have to say yes just to be polite, and I'll race over and sit like a lump on her couch and she'll be wishing she or I were anywhere else but she can't leave because she's already home.'

‘Mm,' I said. I retreated. What else can you do in this kind of situation?

I sat on my bed and tried to refocus on my job at hand. Maybe, with the mood Dad was in, he wouldn't question me too closely if I went out now. I'd tell him I was going to Hassan's. That would sound normal for a Friday night.

I thought I should probably dress up a bit to make a good first impression. If I wore my best jeans and changed my shirt, I might look trustworthy, like someone who takes hygiene and good personal habits seriously.

But as I was looking for a belt, I suddenly imagined Hassan ringing here. What if he wanted to talk about Cordelia and The Situation?

As I picked up the phone I noticed how easily the idea of lying had come to me, without a twinge. This is what happened when the words for the truth flew away.

There was no answer on Hassan's home phone or mobile, so I left a message. ‘Hi, this is Louis. Don't ring me at home, whatever you do. I'm telling Dad I'm coming to yours, but really I'm going to Cordelia's. It's just across the park in Fort Street. It'll be all sorted by tomorrow, don't worry. See you at the game.'

I went into Rosie's room for a final check in the mirror. When I looked at my reflection I could have sworn I looked taller.

‘Bye, Dad, just going over to Hassan's,' I called from the hall.

‘Oh, okay,' he called back. ‘Are you staying the night?'

That was a good idea – he wouldn't worry if I was late back.

‘Yeah, see you tomorrow morning.'

‘Okay, have a nice night.'

‘Thanks.' But as I closed the door behind me I had a brief
P
RESENTIMENT
, meaning
vision of the future
, that these might be the last words my father and I ever exchanged. And really, when you examined them, weren't they disappointingly flat?

I had to go back.

‘And you have a
spectacular
night!' I called.

16
BREAKING IN

I entered the park as the last light was fading to a golden trace beneath the clouds, like the line of light under a closed door.

At the far edge of the cricket pitch I stopped to look across the road. Lemon lollies of light had come on in the houses, and one window flickered television-blue. For a moment I wished I was home, with Dad and the TV guide, sitting cosily in front of the box. I wished, too, that I'd brought the street directory with me, or made a map. But no, if I closed my eyes a moment, I could see it in my mind – didn't I just need to cross this road, walk a few metres down to the next street, and follow it up to Fort?

I tried to whistle as I strode along. Dinner smells wafted through the air – barbecued steak, maybe, or sausages. My stomach gurgled. But I was too tense to be really hungry.

When I came to the corner I squinted up at the sign. Funny, this part of the suburb was so near my place and yet we'd never explored it much. There were no Welcome Marts here or newsagents.

At what I hoped was Fort Street, I turned right. No street signs here. Tall, hairy paperbarks lined the footpath and the black shapes of birds – or bats – rustled and fought in their branches. The houses didn't have fences with numbers. And didn't these people have letterboxes, either? I began to panic. But then I saw a letterbox carved in the shape of a little boat, painted with a silver 16.

The house beside it was set so far back from a garden of sprawling shrubs and lantana that I could see nothing but its dark shadow rearing up against the navy sky. Above it, a handful of stars had come out. I walked past the wilderness towards the pool of light dropped by a streetlamp. In the sudden glare I saw a gate and the number 22. Good. If I kept going in this direction, I'd come to 124.

That was when a flare of panic hit. This was real. It's one thing to imagine, even rehearse an event – it's another thing to actually place your body there in the fire to experience it. Strange, you're supposed to become more sure of yourself as you grow older, aren't you? It seems the reverse with me. A year ago I would have had more confidence. I was always hoping that my words might change things, that the truth told with kindness and consideration would bring out the best in people. But now I didn't know. And I didn't feel tall or grown-up. I felt like I did in Grade 2 when I went to stay the night at a new friend's house, and Gus hadn't been introduced to me yet, either, so I didn't know there was anyone else like me.

The houses were thinning out, here, and the grass growing longer in between. My good jeans were sticking to my legs. I wiped my face, shook out my shirt. The street ahead sloped down into a well of shadow.

In the light of the next streetlamp, brass numbers gleamed on a letterbox. 120.

Only two more houses to go. I dragged my feet. 122 was a vacant lot. Scraps of newspaper drifted over its scrubby dirt. A couple of ice-cream wrappers lapped onto the footpath. I took another few steps.

My heart banged so hard it was difficult to breathe. I closed my eyes and took deep mouthfuls of air.
You can
do this, Louis
, I whispered.

Or you could go home
, I whispered back.

There was a fence, and a rolled-up newspaper poking out of the letterbox.

124.

This was it. I peeped over the fence. A vegie garden surrounded by chicken wire was laid out at the front, but the lettuces had wilted over wonky sticks propping up a frayed tomato vine.

Further up was a balding lawn, and then the house. Cream fibro. The front windows were closed, like eyes. Blind.

My hand hovered on the latch of the gate. A squeal of tyres and the gunning of an engine made me jump.

Oh, what was I doing? I hadn't checked for Jimmy's van! I leapt back and peered up and down the street. There were only three parked cars on this side. No blue van. Jimmy wasn't home.

No excuse now
. Still I stood there, my hand on the gate.
You're stalling
.

I know
.

This is your only chance
.

I know
.

My heart was beating so fast I was afraid I'd pass out. Maybe this time I'd really hit my head on the concrete and wouldn't know anything for hours and when I woke up,
if
I did, there'd be no more last chances and somehow it would have all worked out with Cordelia, one way or another, and Doreen and Dad and Rosie and Miles would all be living happily together with enough people to look after Agnes and everyone would be fine . . .

I opened the gate and walked up the pebbly path. The front door had a panel of stained glass at the top, pale blue and yellow.

Very nice – now look at the door knocker and use it
.

It was a big brass ring with a snorting bull in the middle where you put your hand. It made me think of Grandad quitting wrestling and going to see the bullfights. It must have been hard for him at first to speak up. Wrestling was the only thing he'd known. But if he hadn't, he probably would have gone to an early grave with a bunged-up head and no good memories, instead of to sunny Spain.

So speak up!

I took the ferocious door knocker in my hand and banged it down.

No one answered.

Yay! I can go home to the telly
.