My Private Pectus (11 page)

Roger opens his mouth and raises his eyebrows like it's the best news he's ever heard. ‘Christ, Jack. Who taught you to be so damn modest?'

‘Mind you, it was only at training,' Dad goes on.

‘You bring him up good, Brian,' he says, and leads us to the dining room table.

Roger pours some more wine into his glass, and then offers me some. I look at Dad, who shakes his head. Roger puts the bottle down, smirking. ‘And what about your old man, Jack? What's he like as coach?'

‘All right,' I say. ‘Better than I expected.'

‘He's being kind, isn't he, Brian?' Roger says. ‘Come on, Jack, tell us the truth.'

‘We haven't won a game yet.'

Dad rolls his lips inwards.

‘That so?' Roger roars. ‘Brian, you sly bugger! You were gonna let that one slip, weren't you!' He grins. ‘And how many have you played now?'

‘Four,' I say.

‘Four to zip!' Roger bellows. And throughout dinner he digs Dad about the performance of the team. Dad keeps looking at me to say I should've known better.

After dinner, Gloria gathers the dishes and heads into the kitchen. Wanting to get away from Roger, I help out with the washing up. The men head towards the lounge room. Roger says he has a bottle of red he's dying to try.

‘Joining the women are you, Jack?' he says. I turn and follow.

Roger and Dad keep drinking; each of them lazed back in a recliner. Roger holds his wine to his bulky chest; Dad sips on scotch and ice, which rests comfortably on his stomach. They talk about their old army days. From a sea of leather in the middle of the couch, I look at the photos on the wall, which are mostly of Roger. There's one of him and Dad, both in their fatigues with M-16s hung over their shoulders, in front of an armoured personnel carrier.

Roger gets up and goes to the bar. He tops up his wine and takes a decanter of scotch to Dad. He thumbs at me. ‘Can I give him a glass of something, Brian?'

I look hopefully at Dad. He raises his palms, then relents. ‘Just half.'

Roger clicks his fingers at me. ‘What would you like?'

Peering over the back of the recliner, Dad says, ‘Just give him a beer.'

Roger waves his hand. ‘Jack'd have beer all the time. Isn't that right, Jack? That's what you boys get into at your parties, isn't it? Beer, bourbon, or is it Bundy?'

‘Goon,' I say, watching Dad out of the corner of my eye.

‘Fair dinkum!' Roger goes. ‘Even I didn't stoop that low.'

‘What have you got?' I ask.

He ushers me behind the bar, which is jammed with all sorts of liquor: Kahlúa, Midori, Drambuie, Sambuca, and other liqueurs I've never heard of. In the bar fridge is a selection of local and international beers, and another bottle of something I've never seen before. It's green with a picture of a deer with enormous antlers and a glowing red cross.

‘What's that?'

‘Your boy's got an eye,' Roger says to Dad. He pours the brown-green liquid into an oversized shot glass. ‘Jägermeister,' he says.

‘Do I throw it back?'

‘However you want.'

I rotate the glass as he walks purposefully back towards the recliners. He takes Dad's scotch glass and marches off to the kitchen.

‘Just the one,' Dad tells me.

‘I'll only have a sip,' I say. ‘When we get home I've got to take the car. No blood alcohol.'

‘Good on you,' Dad says.

I sip the Jägermeister. It's sweet and strong. Liquorice. I want to slug it back, but I leave it instead.

Roger comes back, studying floating cubes of ice in the scotch. He hands it to Dad then resumes his spot on the recliner. As the men get talking again, I think about Sam and wonder how her little do is going, whether she's even thinking of me. I take my phone and check the time. Nine. I start writing a text, then stop, trying to think what to say.

‘Sending a love message, are ya?' Roger calls out.

‘No,' I say and put it away. ‘Hey, Dad, what time are we going?'

He smiles at me, his eyes glazed. ‘A little while yet,' he says.

‘You said we'd be home at ten, remember?'

At nine-thirty I go to the toilet. On my way back to the lounge room, Gloria calls me into the kitchen and gives me a bowl of chocolate mousse. As I eat she starts telling me about their holiday in Turkey and their visit to Gallipoli and the Anzac service.

‘There's actually not much there,' she says. ‘I mean, it's quite an imposing hillside when you stand and look. You can still see the trenches, but it's all quite dry, brown, not many trees. I wouldn't like to have been there.'

Thanks to Dad, I've always been surrounded by army stories, but with him having been sick for so long, it's hard to remember him as a soldier: strong, confident, determined. Roger might be a fair bit older than Dad, but he's still got it, still looks the part, and still acts like it. If it wasn't for childhood memories and Dad's photo albums, I'd struggle to believe that he was ever like that.

Gloria tops up my bowl then fills three more, which we carry out to the lounge room. I'm thinking that after dessert, we'd better get going. When I give Dad his mousse, it's clear he's feeling loose by his sloppy grin, showing off his compacted teeth. There's no way he's fit to drive. I glance at my shot of Jägermeister on the bar, relieved I didn't finish it off. Turning back to the men, I see Dad leaning forward, almost tipping off the couch, talking to Roger who's leaning back, absorbing whatever's being said.

‘So what happened?' Roger asks.

Dad starts describing the Cav Road team. Straight away I see where this is going and my immediate reaction is to head him off, so I attempt a distraction. ‘Can I have another shot?' I butt in.

‘Anything you like,' Roger says then signals Dad to keep going.

‘I'm gonna have another shot,' I call out to Dad, but he just waves his hand. He's on a roll.

I rub my eyes as he says, ‘At Cav Road they've got a Rugby League Centre of Excellence, so you'd think we'd get pasted, right?'

‘Did you beat them?' Roger blurts. ‘I thought you said you haven't won a game.'

Dad holds up a finger. ‘I'll get to that.'

Roger turns to me. ‘Did you beat them?'

‘Dad,' I say.

‘You can tell him if you like,' Dad says.

‘I don't want to tell him.'

Roger raises his hands. ‘Why not?'

‘C'mon, Jack, it's not that bad.'

‘No, I don't want to.'

Roger rubs his hands. ‘This is gonna be good!'

And then Dad tells him what happened. ‘So the scores are almost level, it's nearly full-time and Jack's running down the field, going hell for leather, and no one can catch him, right, but they didn't need to.' He puts his glass down and waves his arms about, describing how that mangy winger came at me and how the boys on the sideline screamed hysterically in support. ‘But when Jack planted the ball, everything—just for a second—went dead, like the world stopped spinning.' He cuts the air with his hands.

Roger looks at me, then at Dad. ‘Why? What happened?'

Dad's hands are on the coffee table now. ‘Jack put the ball down at the ten-metre line!'

Roger roars and claps his hands.

‘Jack planted it and raised his hands like he'd won us the game!'

Roger guffaws. ‘Ten-metre line? You're pulling my leg!' He looks up at me. ‘Jack, you didn't?' I stand there. ‘You did!' And he slams his palm on the coffee table, hooting and howling. Scotch spills from Dad's glass. I watch it trickle to the edge and drip onto the floor. Gloria gives me a sorry smile and leaves the room.

‘And then we all start screaming at him,' Dad says, ‘telling him to pick the ball back up, but the Cav Road kid, that winger, he just skims it off the turf and runs to the other end and scores. Just like that. Wins them the game. And the whole time Jack's standing there, hands raised, soaking up the glory like Willie Mason!'

They both peer at me through tear-filled eyes.

I go back to the bar and slug down my shot of Jägermeister. ‘I'm cabbing it,' I say and head towards the door.

‘You're what?' Dad gets up, and walks after me. ‘You're not doing that.'

‘I'm meeting a friend at ten, so I'm off.'

He swallows and grins, drunkenly. ‘Under whose command?'

‘Under my own command.'

‘You got money?' he asks.

I don't even have my wallet. It's on my bed at home. ‘Then I'll drive, you can cab it.'

I pat my pants for the keys. Then I realise they're on the bar. Dad follows my gaze and upon seeing them he turns and marches towards them. Running, I try to push past, but he just moves his bulk against me, sending me to the floor. He grabs the keys, jiggles them in my face as I look up from the floorboards. He throws them to Roger, who catches them, laughing.

Dad wanders over to me as I get up. ‘It's time you start showing me and Roger more respect,' he mutters then goes off and joins Roger. I slink off behind the bar.

For the next half hour they talk about coaching styles and tactics. Roger's a big one for hammering the forwards up the centre. Dad prefers a game that gets the little guys darting around the fringes of the ruck. ‘You won't win a game of league playing your way anymore,' Dad tells him. ‘Sure you need big forwards, but they've gotta be mobile.'

Time drags by. I call Sam. It rings out and I leave a message. Then another half hour. I send a text. Still no reply. So I fill my shot glass again and throw it back. The Jägermeister slides down my throat, thick and warm. I scan for anything else I can drink. I reach for a bottle of Drambuie, have another shot and wait for the feeling of the alcohol to move through my body. It doesn't, so I drink more.

I end up sitting on the floor behind the bar, leaning on the fridge. I shoot Sam another text, this time saying I won't make it. Then I just stare at my phone hoping for a reply, almost pleading.

Roger's voice booms from beyond the bar. ‘Hey, Jack!'

I peer over. ‘What?'

‘Your dad says you're gonna join the army. Congratulations!'

‘October's the physical,' I say.

He nods and looks at Dad. ‘I'm gonna go,' he says.

‘You don't have to,' I say quickly.

‘I'd love to,' Roger says. ‘How about it, Brian? We'll give the lad some moral support.'

Dad nods enthusiastically. ‘Jack would love that.' He turns to me with a grin. ‘Right, Jack?'

I drop back down behind the bar and fill my shot glass.

‘You know what else I'd like to do,' Roger says. He's as pissed as Dad now, which makes me nervous.

‘What's that?' Dad asks.

‘See him play.'

I stand up. ‘Oh, no, listen, Roger, I'm not that good.' And for once in my life I want Dad to say, ‘The boy's useless, don't bother,' but he doesn't.

Instead, he says, ‘He's pulling your leg, Rog. Jack goes great. We play every Wednesday afternoon.'

‘This week?' Roger asks.

Dad nods. ‘It's the battle for the wooden spoon.'

Roger smiles with an open mouth and bulging eyes. ‘What a ripper!' He leans over and punches Dad's arm. I flinch. It wasn't soft. ‘It'll be like the old days,' he says. ‘Back in the sheds again, Brian. You and me!'

Gloria comes back in. ‘What's going on?'

I lean against the bar and let my legs collapse beneath me. Surrounded by alcohol I reach for something else.

With Gloria joining in on their conversation, their voices drop and they talk more about their holiday in Turkey. I slug down shot after shot. After an hour or so, I try getting up but I hunch over and lean on the bar for support. I swallow, listen to the saliva in my throat: thick and sticky. The room rolls about and I loll my head, amazed at the looseness of my neck and the weightlessness of my head.

‘Jack, are you all right?' Gloria says. ‘Jack?'

I go to speak, but it's a mess of incomprehensible words.

‘You're not drunk, are you?'

I stop lolling my head and stand as tall as I can. I stagger.

Dad yells, ‘Oh, for crying out loud!'

Roger laughs. Gloria puts her hand to her mouth.

I slip, catch myself on the bar, regain my balance and stand tall again. Dad gets up and I start hurling. Just a small one at first, a dribble down my chin and a drip onto my shirt. Roger laughs even louder and starts drying his eyes. But he bellows in fury the moment I heave up over his mahogany bar. Green-brown acidic liquid: Jägermeister, Drambuie, Midori, the chocolate mousse. It bubbles and fizzes on the varnish, burns in my throat and nose. I hurl again, more violently this time. It clears the bar and sloshes onto Gloria's plush, ivory-coloured rug.

It's the hottest September day I can remember. Thirty degrees or more. It's half-time and we're sitting in the change room, throwing back Gatorade. If we had a commentator, he'd say the game has been played at a ‘feverish pace', that all the boys are ‘digging in', like soldiers in the trenches. It's the fight for the wooden spoon. Our last game is next week, but that's only because we can't make the finals. So this is the game everyone wants to win. But it's so hot I feel like I've got a brick lodged in my chest. Gez sits next to me, bent over, vomiting into a bucket. He's not the only one struggling with the heat, we all are.

‘Take your jerseys off, cool yourselves down,' Dad says.

Anyone who hasn't already, pulls theirs off. Everyone except me. I sit, drawing back rapid breaths, my jersey sticking to me.

Dad points his finger at me. ‘I'm not asking you, I'm telling you,' he says. ‘Take it off.'

‘It's all right,' I say, ‘I don't feel too bad.' But I feel rotten, feel like I'm going to hurl up all over the concrete floor. My head throbs and I wipe sweat from my eyes.

He eyeballs me like he would have eyeballed the opposition back in his playing days. Roger's nearby, pacing, revelling in the heat of battle. Even though I plastered his place with my innards he turned up just like he said he would. I was in the car park with Cuppas and Gez when his black BMW purred in. He got out and scanned for Dad. His dimpled face followed me as I went with the boys onto the oval. I walked as tall as I could, trying not to look intimidated, but I was packing it.

The day after dinner with the Pasks I had to go pick up the Pissan. I was in bed, still hung-over, when Dad thrust forty bucks at me before bundling me into a cab. Roger greeted me at the door wearing a Hawaiian shirt, boardies and slip-on leather sandals. He crossed his arms over his solid pecs and his jaw set like an All Black before the haka. He ran his tongue slowly behind his lips.

I thumbed over my shoulder at the Pissan. ‘I've come for the—'

‘Keys are in the lounge room,' his voice rumbled from deep in his throat.

I squeezed past him. Once inside, I waited for permission to go further, but he kept standing there, so I scurried off anyway. I paused at the bar, ran my hand over the varnish. There was no stain, but the rug was gone. The smell of spew and potpourri choked the air. I snatched the keys from the coffee table.

Roger was still at the door when I got back. Holding the keys up, I forced a smile and gave them a jingle. His breath wheezed through his hairy nostrils, his Adam's apple rose and fell as I squeezed through the space again. Then we faced each other, me waiting for him to say something, him probably waiting for me to apologise like a private grovelling to his superior.

But apologising to him would be letting him win, even worse, letting Dad win, so I said, ‘Guess I'll be seeing you,' then practically sprinted to the Pissan and reversed out, nearly collecting a palm tree on the way.

Dad keeps glaring at me. Several eyes head my way. Roger stops pacing, waiting to see if I'll do what Dad told me to do. He squints in disgust.

‘It's all right,' I tell Dad again. My head throbs. Beside me, Gez reaches forward and grabs the toe of his boot to stretch a cramping calf.

Dad gradually stands taller—his shoulders roll back. His chest rises beneath his chin as if being called to attention. There's a game at play here and the longer it goes on the higher the stakes will get. I failed him with what I did at the Pasks, and by me failing him, he failed Roger. I'm just a part of the chain whether I like it or not—his good fatherly image is now in ruins.

‘Jack,' Dad says through his teeth.

Gez turns to me. He knows what I'm afraid of. My shoulders ache. I don't want this to happen, not in front of everyone, not in front of Roger, but I should've expected something like this. Dad wants to crush my disrespect.

I didn't come straight home after the Pasks, but parked the Pissan at Kangaroo Point and sat at the cliffs until dark. I didn't care about the cold, or how hung over I felt. All I could do was think about Sam and how screwed-up it all had gotten. I tried calling her, but she didn't answer.

When I did get home, I copped a tirade from Dad. Screaming and yelling, banging of tables. I'd never seen him like that, never could have imagined it. He went spastic, like I did with Cuppas.

‘For all of my effort, this is what I get!' Dad yelled. ‘I can't believe you've been off gallivanting at Ryan's place, fixing up that bucket of bolts after what you did last night!'

‘I wasn't at Ryan's,' I mumbled.

‘Then where were you?'

There was no point arguing, so I walked past. Dad followed me into the lounge room, going on with his rant. ‘Over a thousand dollars, Jack. Over a thousand dollars is what that rug cost.' I kept walking away, now to the dining room, but he followed. ‘And to think Roger's given us so much with no flippin' thanks from you!' The table was covered with piles of paper. ‘And look at this. Jack, are you listening? See this? Roger doesn't have to give me this work, you know, but he does it out of the goodness of his heart. He could find someone more qualified, but this is what he does for me—for us!'

I pointed at the table and the piles of paper. ‘When are you going to do something about it then? When will you tell Roger you've done jack-all for three weeks? You told him my failings. What about yours?'

‘That's not fair! He knows I'm crook.'

‘What about those hours trawling the net, Dad? What about those, are you too crook for a bit of paperwork then?'

‘Jack!'

‘It's true isn't it? For weeks you do nothing, but whenever Roger comes around you brown-nose him like a high school nerd.'

‘How dare you!'

‘So what's your excuse, Dad? Why doesn't it get done?'

‘I do what I can when I can!' he screamed, his voice exploding from deep within.

‘Whatever you can to control my life!' I yelled.

‘You didn't even apologise to Roger,' he went on.

I groaned.

‘That's right, Jack. He called and told me all about it.'

‘Just let me through.'

But he shoved his hands on my chest and started pushing me. ‘You're going to the kitchen, picking up the phone, and calling Roger!'

I grabbed his wrists, pulled his hands away and tried to push him back, but I couldn't budge his bulk. As if packing a scrum, he locked me with his arm and shoulder. He trudged forward, forcing me backwards. I punched him between the shoulderblades, but he kept on going. ‘Let go!' I yelled.

‘You're calling Roger!' he boomed, his head down as he drove forward.

I looked at the scar on his neck. The failed operation. I decided to give him a headache he'd never forget. I clenched my fists together and raised them high. Then I drove them down onto his dodgy vertebrae.

He stopped. Went limp.

He dropped, his face cracking on the kitchen tiles. But then he rolled over, clutching his head. His eyes were clenched shut. ‘You bastard,' he said. He rubbed his temples. ‘Turn off the lights.'

I stood there.

‘Turn them off,' he pleaded. ‘Turn them off.'

I flicked the lights, put the house into darkness. I went back to him. ‘Your pills are on the table.' And I went to bed.

Sweat drips off my nose. I watch it fall, like a drop of rain to the floor. My eyes go from Dad's feet, up his legs then rest on his face.

‘Take it off,' he growls.

Everyone's watching, wondering what the deal is. I know what they're thinking—what a pussy, too scared to take his shirt off in public. They wait, questioning with their eyes. My fingers linger at the bottom of my jersey. I hope for Gez to put a reassuring hand on my shoulder and say, ‘You don't have to do it.' But he hangs his head and stubs his boot into a crack in the concrete.

I still don't want to lose. Dad thinks he's got me cornered and perhaps in a way he has, but there's more to it than he suspects. He has no idea how bad my chest is. Stuff him, I think, and Roger too, standing there with a satisfied smirk. So I start lifting my jersey, just slowly at first. Dad plants his feet, sneering. Bit by bit I pull it up and finally lay it across my knees, baring my concave chest. He reels back, his face white, his eyes bulging, his hands rising to his temples. There's a scattering of comments and intakes of breath.

‘What's that?' The P says, pointing at me.

‘Jesus, Sticks,' Steve says.

Greg has his face screwed and head tilted. ‘What is it?'

Dad drops his head. ‘It's nothing,' he says in a barely audible voice.

Everyone avoids my eye contact. I can feel their shame.

Roger baulks at my appearance, lifts his lip in disgust.

The P says, ‘No wonder you're useless.'

‘Shut up, P, you tosser!' I yell.

He stands up aggressively, and taps his chest with his palms, inviting a fight. But it's Dad who reacts. Like a dog released from his chain he lunges at The P. He plants both hands on The P's shoulders and thrusts him backwards. ‘Shut up, you hear me!' he screams.

Roger turns away. The P falls to his butt, somersaults backwards. His head crunches against the aluminium seat.

Dad turns to me. ‘Put your jersey back on,' he says.

But I push it off my knees and it drops to my feet.

Comments keep coming.

‘What are you mob staring at?' Dad roars.

They drop their heads and The P slumps over.