Black Painted Fingernails (14 page)

Michael looks at Angela across the dinner table and wonders why she was so insistent on coming to this restaurant. He arrived home from work to find her sitting in the lounge room wearing a red silk dress and silver sandals. She kissed him quickly on each cheek and told him they were going out for dinner in precisely forty-five minutes, enough time for a shower and a change of clothes.

He wonders briefly if she’s brought her phone to the restaurant.

When the waiter tells her the duck isn’t on tonight, he hesitates, then half-heartedly orders the poached salmon. Michael chooses the lamb and pomegranate salad, and a good bottle of pinot gris in the hope of cheering her up. The waiter fills Angela’s glass, but Michael accepts only water. Angela doesn’t seem to notice.

They talk about work and shopping and gardening, as if any of it matters.

When the waiter brings their meals, Angela picks at her salmon, pushing the pink flesh away from the skin and taking small bites. Michael’s lamb is perfectly cooked and falls from the bone in tender fatty morsels. He finishes his meal long before his wife and watches her eating, sipping her wine, glancing at the other diners.

‘I hate to see you unhappy, Angela,’ he says.

A piece of salmon topples from her fork.

‘I feel like I’ve lost a child,’ she says at last, her voice almost a whisper. She places the cutlery on her plate and wipes her mouth.

He notices the faint dark rings under her eyes. There are so many things he could say but he’s not sure what would help.

So he reaches for the wine bottle and tops up her glass, then half-fills his own. To hell with abstinence.

‘Aren’t you worried who he’s with?’ Angela says.

‘No.’

‘No?’

Michael sips his wine and wonders how to tell her what he’s thinking.

His wife pulls her chair closer to the table and sits up stiffly, gazing out the window at the lights on the water of the bay, the ferry cruising past in the distance.

Michael remembers the waitress at the café this afternoon. He reaches across the table and takes Angela’s hand. ‘I don’t think our son wants to be a teacher.’

He feels her tense.

‘Angela, remember when Jim asked if he could have a gap year?’

‘Are you saying it’s my fault?’ she says sharply.

‘No. No. Of course not. But . . . we didn’t let him choose. Neither of us.’

She pulls her hand away from his and reaches for the napkin, twisting it tightly between her fingers. ‘He couldn’t choose for himself, he needed guidance.’

Michael shakes his head. ‘No. He needed time.’

They both turn to look out the window at the stars, the beam from the lighthouse sweeping the harbour, the bobbing fishing boats.

Angela’s voice tightens in her throat. ‘He’ll phone tomorrow. From the school.’

Michael sees a man casting a line on the beach below the window. The fisherman is wearing a long jacket, much like the one his own father wore fishing in the highlands.

‘Let’s make a deal, Angela.’

The line of the fisherman straightens with a bite. The man reels it in slowly.

Angela raises her eyebrows, waiting for Michael’s proposition.

‘Whenever Jim rings, we accept what he says, without argument. No matter what it is.’

How will his wife react to all this? In his mind, he sees the waitress at the café wiping the table, smiling, telling him to invite James over.

‘Michael, he’s only a day late. That’s all. We . . .’

‘Maybe, maybe not,’ he says slowly. ‘But what I’m saying is, we should let
him
choose. For a change.’

‘Without saying a word?’

Michael smiles. ‘Let’s accept what he says, whatever it is. And wish him good luck.’

The waiter hovers. Michael quickly shakes his head and they’re left alone. A tiny fish dangles from the fisherman’s line. He carefully removes the hook and tosses the fish back into the water.

‘To not say . . . to not ask anything?’ Angela’s voice wavers. ‘I don’t know if I’ve got it in me.’

Michael shrugs. ‘He’ll tell us, if he wants. But if we argue, he’ll hang up and switch off the phone.’ The fisherman skewers the bait on a new hook. ‘Everyone needs to win sometimes.’

The colour rises in her cheeks, only this time her voice is playful, mocking, ‘Are you calling him a loser, or me?’

‘Darling . . .’

After a long silence, she reaches across and takes his hand. ‘Let’s order dessert? The chocolate trio. Something wicked.’

The fisherman casts his line into the harbour, then sits back in his folding chair, placing the fishing rod into a hollow plastic tube he’s pushed into the sand. He reaches down to his esky and takes out a bottle of beer.

We drive west on a rutted single-lane road with thick stands of ghost gums on one side and pastures of ploughed ground on the other. A flock of galahs swoop low over the soil. Sophie points me down a dusty track and I steer carefully over a cattle grate. A sign on the fence reads
Lake Moogera
. In my rear-view mirror a dust cloud follows our car, coating the trees along the road in a fine grit. The day’s rain has yet to reach here.

The lake shimmers. From under a stunted willow, we gaze across the expanse of water. In the shallows, a cuddle of ducklings nudge behind their mother, who leads them into the bullrushes and safety.

Sophie reaches down and unlaces her boots, peels off her socks and wriggles her toes.

We walk to the lake’s edge where Sophie lifts her dress and dips her feet into water the colour of ginger ale. A distant tractor ploughs a field on the far side of the lake.

Sophie swirls her toe in a wide circle. ‘Dad used to bring us here. He’d lie on a blanket and cover his face with his hat while we swam.’ Her voice glides easy like the ducklings on the lake’s surface, their feet churning wildly underneath. ‘My brothers took turns throwing me in. I’d call for Dad to tell them to stop and he’d wave a hand and say, “Stop that, boys.”’ She reaches down and cups her hands in the lake, offering it to me. ‘It’s clean enough to drink, filtered by the tea-trees.’

She splashes it over her face. Water runs down her neck, across her bare shoulders.

‘As we got older, Dave brought a girlfriend along. They’d swim off to the far side of the lake together. That left Brad and me.’

Sophie picks up a rock and skips it across the surface, then steps out of the lake and walks to where I sit. She laughs bitterly. ‘I’d swim out to the middle of the lake to get away from Brad, because he’d always want to wrestle, or pretend to drag me under. I’m a good swimmer — I had to be.’ She leans back and looks up to the sky. ‘Lie down next to me,’ she says.

The grass tickles my neck. I close my eyes, intent only on Sophie beside me.

‘I’ve read a bit about reincarnation and law of karma,’ she says, ‘but in the end I don’t believe.’

A Coke bottle floats past, dancing on the lake, a partner to the wind.

‘Maybe what stays alive . . . is what we carry inside us,’ I say. I picture my grandfather, standing in a cold mountain stream, casting his line across the water. ‘What we keep is more than just memory. It
has
to be.’

Sophie’s mutinous hair falls across her face and tangles at her neck. She brushes it aside. ‘God is too random, too unpredictable for me.’ She tries to smile.

‘I hope the spirit of those departed hear . . . feel us . . .  without the middleman of God. Just you and your dad, Sophie.’

A tear rolls down her cheek. She comes close and snuggles into my chest.

‘I’m sorry, Sophie,’ I whisper.

The afternoon unwinds like a ripple on water.

‘My dad said, “You can tell what a person’s like, by looking into their eyes.”’ Sophie pauses. ‘When I was a child, I’d stare into the mirror, trying to see . . . inside.’

‘You’re a good person, Sophie.’

She rests on one elbow and looks at me. ‘James.’

‘Yes?’

‘Stop talking, okay?’

She leans down and kisses me. My hands wrap around her waist, a vein pulses madly in my temple and suddenly I think of being naked beside Sophie.

I pull away, flushed with embarrassment. Sophie opens her eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Sophie.’

Her hair tumbles across her eyes. She ties it back, leaning close, the silk of her cheek on mine. ‘Swim with me?’

She stands and quickly undresses, dropping her underpants and bra in a pile with her frock, and runs into the lake. She dives underwater and surfaces a few metres out, her hair like whorled seaweed.

I take off my shirt and trousers but pause in my boxers. Sophie smiles.

‘Did your mother buy them?’

I pull them off and twirl them around my head, tossing them on the breeze. ‘See ya, Mum.’

I race to the water and leap in feet first, my heart hammering. The chill shoots from the soles of my feet up my spine, prickling the hair on my neck. I splutter, halfway between laughter and fright.

The windblown waves rock against my chest. Under the water, my skin shines copper gold. Sophie swims languidly, and I splash beside her. She rolls on her back and floats, studying the mystery of clouds.

‘I’ve never been on a plane. Can you believe it?’

I shake my head, too aware of being out of my depth in the lake to answer. The bank is an eternity away. Sophie swims towards me and reaches for my hands. My arm hooks around her body.

‘James, put your feet down.’

‘What?’

‘Stand up.’

‘It’s . . .’

My feet sink into the sandy bottom. The water is only up to my chest. Sophie laughs and cups the water, throwing it high above us. Then she opens her mouth and drinks the tea-tree shower. I do the same. When she turns to face me, water trickles like silver over her breasts. She looks at me with a serious, concerned expression.

‘It was tails, James.’

‘Pardon?’

‘The coin-toss at the service station. It was tails, not heads. I needed the lift. Will you forgive me?’

My laughter is long and loud. ‘You lied . . . 
and
you owe me a dollar!’

I feel both weightless and heavy. My feet anchor in the sand and my arms circle Sophie. Her hair coils around my neck like a lasso until I’m sure it will drag me under. I
want
it to drag me under. My knees buckle; my hand reaches for her hips, stroking along the curve of her back. She rests her hand on my chest.

The wind niggles across the surface of the lake. Sophie holds my hand and kisses my palm, strokes my fingers. I nuzzle her neck as drops of water slide off her shoulders. She wraps her legs around my waist and pulls me close.

Sophie kisses me and I kiss back.

Sophie glides back to the shallows, while I alternate between clumsy breaststroke and walking. She dives low and brings up cradles of sand, tossing it high on the breeze.

There’s a movement on the bank, a blur of shadow.

Standing guard between the lake and our clothes is a huge goanna, head raised, sniffing the breeze and the smell of scared humans. We kneel in the water, goosebumps fresh on our skin.

‘Off you go, James,’ says Sophie, tilting her head towards our clothes. The goanna looks me in the eye.

‘He – he’s rather . . .’

‘He’s just a lizard.’

‘A big lizard, on steroids.’

His tongue is very long and he seems to enjoy poking it at us.

‘Sophie?’

‘Yes, my hero?’ She giggles.

‘Can goannas swim?’

‘You mean like crocodiles, alligators and snakes?’

We both sink low in the water, only our heads exposed. The goanna bows its long neck and flicks its tongue.

‘I don’t suppose he’s catching flies?’ I venture.

‘He has a very long tail.’

‘And a very, very, very . . .’

‘Please don’t say something bad!’

‘. . . friendly face – if you like that sort of thing.’

The goanna walks ponderously towards the water, its skin weathered and spiny.

‘Sophie, lizards
can
swim. I’m sure of that.’

‘So?’

‘So, a goanna is just a big lizard. Right?’

As if on cue, the goanna barrels towards the bank and plunges into the water.

Sophie and I glance at one another for a split second and then run as fast as we can, staggering up the bank towards our clothes. We scoop them up in one movement. I frantically search my pockets for the car keys as I run, pointing the key and pressing the electronic lock again and again, sure I can feel the breath of the monster at my back. Sophie races past me. We fling open the doors and leap inside onto the soft warm leather.

We look at our wet snail bodies and the clothes bunched on our laps and laugh. Sophie leans across and kisses me on the mouth, long and slow enough to steady our breathing, and forget the monster lurking outside. She touches my cheek. ‘James.’

I open my eyes. ‘Yes?’

She barely suppresses a smile. ‘Your pants. You dropped them outside.’

My trousers are a sad heap in the grass, halfway between the car and the lake. The goanna is nowhere to be seen. My knees are shaking from the cold of the water and what I have to do now, in broad daylight, with the goanna lurking. How fast can I run?

‘You could always leave them there,’ she says. ‘Just drive around in your boxers.’

‘Do you think he’s close by?’

‘Maybe.’ Sophie’s eyes roam to my pants. ‘Maybe not.’

I quickly pull on my boxers and open the door noiselessly. ‘If he comes back, start the car and run him over.’

‘I couldn’t do that. He’s such a beautiful animal.’

With cartoon exaggeration, I creep to my pants, eyes keen, every sense prickling. In the anxious silence, Sophie sounds the car horn and I jump in fright. She opens the door and wolf-whistles. I turn around, a stick figure in bright underwear, and give her the finger, then pick up my trousers and stroll nonchalantly back towards the car. Suddenly, Sophie’s expression changes to alarm as she points at something behind me. I sprint the remaining few metres and dive inside.

‘I thought I saw something . . .’ Sophie pokes me in the ribs. ‘I did. It was a big chicken!’

We can’t drive away, not yet. We’re worn out by the funeral, the lake, the goanna. ‘My dad used to say this was the quietest place on earth,’ says Sophie. ‘He’d boast that he could sleep here better than in his own bed.’

Our breath drifts like memory.

‘I’ll remember the day I farewelled Dad. And it will be good, thanks to you, James.’

She reaches across and pushes the recline button on my seat. ‘I’m glad
you’re
in the passenger seat.’ In one slow movement she is on top of me.

Afterwards, Sophie cuddles close as we look up at the foggy windows. She draws something elaborate with her fingernail.

‘What’s that?’

‘Can’t you tell?’

‘A whale?’

‘It’s got four legs!’

I click my fingers. ‘Of course. Our friend, the goanna.’

‘You know, what?’ says Sophie. ‘I almost chose the Impreza.’

‘Pardon?’

‘At the service station. There was a silver Impreza filling up behind you. The driver had gel in his hair.’ She puts a hand up to my curls. ‘But I’ve never liked gel.’