Pig Boy (22 page)

THE TV IS UP SO loud it sounds like the host is running the game show from our living room. The scent of stale urine wafts around the couch where the old girl is sleeping. Three mugs and an empty bottle of Coke sit on the carpet and a fingertip away is her address book open on Aunty Yvonne's name.

It's like I can't move, can't tear myself away from the sight. This woman lying here is my mother. She gave birth to me. She gave me half of what she has. Yet the distance between us is immeasurable. You could start at the beginning but you would never find the end.

When I pull the blanket off my bedroom window the banished light spills into my room. I spread the fabric out on the floor for Sara to sleep on.

I sit on the bed and wait, although I'm not sure what for. My room has been a waiting room and nothing else. It's just like I left it, untouched, like I've died.

I stand up, turn my face to the ceiling, and stare as if I'm seeing it after a long absence.

The paint around the light fitting is cracked. In the corner near the window hang threads of a spider web. Black splotches where I've squashed mosquitoes with a pillow stand out in the afternoon sun. I stare and stare until my neck aches.

I walk over to the wardrobe and touch the padlock. The anger awakes in my blood. I'm not expecting it. It burns my skin like I've been dipped in acid and hung out to dry in the wind.

But today is Monday and I have made a pledge. There's only one thing to do to keep myself calm, to keep my intention inside, to keep a lid on what wants to explode and get out.

I go to the bottom drawer, take out my book of lists and press so hard that the nib of the pen makes a hole through the paper as I write:

‘Damon! There's a dog in'a kitchen!'

I walk out of the bathroom to see Mum pressed up against the fridge. ‘What the hell is a dog doin' in the kitchen? Is it yours? Did ya go'n buy a dog?'

‘Sara!' I sing and obediently he walks over to me. ‘Were you introducing yourself to my mum?'

The old girl sits at the table now, ripping the cellophane off a new carton of cigarettes.

‘Sarah, is that its name?' she asks.

I say ‘yes' because at the moment that's the simplest answer.

‘Did ya buy'a?'

Obviously Mum hasn't noticed she's a he. But she's not stupid so I tell her. ‘It's a boy. He's called Sara. He's not mine. I'm just looking after him for a while. He's got a bad leg.'

‘Yeah, I can see.' She takes a Ventolin puffer out of her bra and sucks on it.

‘So, how are you?' I ask, taking a seat at the table. ‘How was the weekend?'

Mum doesn't answer. Sitting opposite her with only a towel around me and no conversation makes me self-conscious. I take a cigarette out of the packet, light it then pass it to her. ‘Here,' I offer.

She takes a long drag. The end sizzles and sparks orange.

‘Did ya buy me them Tim Tams in the fridge?'

‘Yeah.'

‘I don't eat the dark chocolate ones, they give me a tummy ache. See, ya don't even know what I like.'

‘Oh? I meant to buy the milk chocolate. Sorry, Mum.'

‘Must have stuff on ya mind?'

‘Not really. Just a bit tired from the trip.'

‘I seen ya taken the blanket off the window,' she says. ‘Is the dog gonna sleep on that?'

‘Yeah.' I nod. ‘That's okay, isn't it?'

‘Don't know why ya askin' me now.'

‘How about I get some pizzas for dinner,' I say. ‘My shout.'

When I stand up she stands up too. I walk down the hall to my bedroom and she follows, her nylon stockings squeaking behind me. She comes right into my room and sits on the bed. Mum being here isn't right. It's been more than ten years since I've got dressed in front of her.

Her eyes flick over to the padlock on the wardrobe and she asks, ‘Ya got clean clothes?'

‘Yeah. Thanks.' I pull the edge of the towel tighter around my gut. ‘I wouldn't mind a bit of privacy. I don't want to shock you!' I force out a half-chuckle but she doesn't smile back. Instead she cocks her head and looks at me. Looks at me the way Pascoe does, like she can't believe a thing I say.

‘Mum?'

‘Ya know I wanted to clean ya room while ya was away …' My hands feel for the desk behind me. ‘… cause I found half ya clothes dirty unda the bed.' I start to count my breaths. One, two, three. Less than an hour ago my fingers touched the padlock. Ten, eleven, twelve. It was locked, secure. I am certain of it. ‘But I couldn't get into ya wardrobe, could I …' Twenty-three, twenty-four. ‘Is there anythink ya wanna tell me, 'cause now's the time not next week …' Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four. ‘Hey? I'm not happy. I'm just not happy! What's goin' on? I know …'

Suddenly I see black and the numbers jar in my head. Mum's off the bed slamming her fists into my chest, slapping her palms against my cheeks and screeching, screeching. ‘There is no plane that go to Cromer on a Sunday. So ya tell me what the hell's goin' on. I'm not happy …'

I nudge my bum onto the desk so I've got something to hold me up while she hits and grabs at my shoulders. Of course the old girl's been snooping but just not in my room. What an idiot I am. I should've checked if there was a Sunday flight to Cromer.

‘Ya know what they sayin'? Ya know what they sayin' around the town? Do ya?'

This is not the way I wanted to tell her. But it really doesn't matter any more.

‘Yes! Okay! So you've heard,' I say. Mum's hands fall to her side. ‘Yes, it's true. It's true I've been working with Mi–, the Pigman.'

She drops onto the bed, crosses her arms and huffs like a cranky girl.

‘So ya are? When was ya goin' to tell me?'

‘I was planning on telling you tonight, Mum. I was.'

‘He's a creep, that man,' she says. ‘And ya don't like huntin'. So what's the story?'

‘Mum.' My hands cover my face. I'm trying to put my thoughts in order. Now is definitely not the right time to tell her everything. It's better to feed her bit by bit. She digests things better that way. ‘Mum, I really needed to get away from Strathven. I, I can't explain. But that's why I was working for him. It's nothing. Nothing.'

‘Why didn't ya tell me that in the first place? Why'd ya lie?'

‘Because I knew you wouldn't like the idea.'

‘You bet!' she suddenly barks. ‘He's scum. Ya know what he done? I do. Dora tell me. Ya should ask 'a …'

‘I know all about him. He's a good man, Mum. He is.'

‘Is there anythink else ya wanna tell me? 'Cause they're talkin' about ya in town again,' she says. ‘Just like after camp, they're talkin' again.'

‘Mum, stop it. It's just talk.'

‘Why, why would ya wanna play a game like that nasty Liberty High? Ya tell me, son.'

‘Hey?'

‘I seen it. So ya tell me …'

‘It's just a computer game …'

The springs of the mattress begin to sing as the old girl rocks back and forth.

‘Mum? I try to touch her shoulder but she slaps my arm away. ‘Mum? It's just a game. Why on earth are you asking me that?'

But she's not listening. She's in her own world, rocking back and forth, back and forth each time a little faster. ‘Ya father was a bastard. That's why he left. But it was me that made Archie go. I knew he'd never get rid of his guns.' Her eyes are closed like she's having the conversation just with herself. ‘I musta seen it comin'. I never felt comfortable havin' me son in a house fulla guns.'

‘Mum, stop it. Stop it.'

Suddenly she springs to her feet. She's looking at me like Miranda did, her eyes popping as though she's seen something that's terrified her.

‘I don't know nothink about ya.' She's backing away from me. ‘Ya me son and I don't know nothink about ya.'

Mum is in her room and I am in mine. I feel the silence floating between our doorways like cold air on a sunless afternoon in winter. So that's why she let Archie go. Why she didn't follow him, convince him to unpack the car and come back inside.

I remember the arguments they used to have. The hissed and muffled words coming from inside their locked room. The outcome was always the same. Archie'd cancel his hunting weekend and stay home. When the old girl whined, ‘Sell ya gun collection, Arch. Think of the holiday we could go on. Or one of them spa baths we could buy', I'd assumed she was being childish, a demanding girlfriend. And when Archie put a stop to me hunting with him, I'd been sure it was because he thought I was a sissy.

‘You always told me to choose.' That's what Archie'd said when he left. ‘But now you've gone and done it for me.'

I roll over onto my side and hug the pillow hard against my chest.

STRATHVEN FAMILY PIZZA IS SHUT. ‘Closed Monday' the sign tells me. I give the bottom of the door a kick and the glass rattles. I'm reminding myself of my Monday pledge when I see the reflection of Andrew Parker's black Mazda stopping in the middle of the road.

I start to walk back to where I'm parked. Parker trails me along the street, the engine purring as if voicing his pleasure at cornering me. He drives in time with my stride but I don't look at him; I can see him mirrored in the shop windows. He has one hand on the wheel and he faces the footpath where I walk.

Parker reaches my car before me. He stops just in front, blocking it so a quick getaway would be impossible. I'm quite happy to sit in a parked car for the rest of the night.

I think Parker got his taste for power after the Year 10 camp. These days he can't handle being ignored. It incenses him. But he's not going to get a rise out of me tonight.

He winds down the window. I don't know why, but I turn to face him. The first thing I notice is that the hair on his chin is shaped like a teardrop.

He stabs his finger at me. His eyes are mean. They sit far back in his head like a fighting dog's. ‘We're watching you,' he spits. ‘Me and the boys. Don't think we don't know your every move.'

‘I've been told that you're following me,' I reply. ‘But I can assure you, contrary to popular belief, I'm really not Strathven's most interesting citizen.'

‘Let Strathven be the judge of that.'

Then he hits the accelerator and screeches away, leaving a cloud of fumes for me to choke on.

When I arrive home the old girl's still in her bedroom with the door shut. A splinter of light peeks from under the door and Rod Stewart's singing her love songs.

‘Mum?' I knock gently. ‘Mum, I went to get pizza but it was closed. I should've remembered. It's Monday. But I got a McCain's one out of the freezer so I'll whack it in the microwave. Okay? It's a meatlover's.'

I wait for an answer.

‘Mum?' I knock again. ‘Mum, are you all right?'

‘Leave me alone, Damon.'

‘Come on. At least have some pizza.'

‘Do ya really think I can eat?'

‘Of course you can eat. When have you not been able to?'

‘Ya don't get it, do ya?'

‘Working for the Pigman isn't the worst thing in the world. Don't tell me you're turning into Mrs La-di-da and thinking it's a national disaster?'

‘Go away, Damon. Leave me alone.'

‘Why are you putting on such a big sulk? I told you the truth.'

‘Did ya?' she says. ‘Did ya really tell me the truth about what ya doin'?'

Whatever I say tonight won't matter. I'll have to wait till tomorrow when she's lying on the couch, eating leftover pizza and watching the soapies. By then it'll be forgotten and it won't matter to her what I'm doing. ‘Mum, look I'll …'

‘Leave me
alone
.' She spits it with such force that I almost expect her door to fly open.

Maybe it's a reflex to that. Maybe it's not. But I slam the front door hard and from inside I catch the smallest tinkle of glass breaking.

By the time I turn into Miro's road I'm almost regretting that I just left and didn't bother trying harder with the old girl. Perhaps I should've talked to her. Perhaps I should've just walked into her room and sat on the bed like she did with me.

But I know for a fact that Mum – or anyone in town – would find it hard to understand why I wanted to work with Miro and why I still do. Mum says he's scum. Like the rest of the town Mum probably views him as the strange foreigner, the outsider with no ties who doesn't belong here. But they don't know him. Not like I do.

If I was close to Mum, if there wasn't this ocean of distance between us, I'd tell her how much I like Miro. I'd tell her that she should like him too because he's good to her son. With Miro, I count.

Miro and Slatko walk towards us like an official welcoming party.

‘Boy and dog?' Miro says. ‘I not know you two come so soon for visit. You no like your mother's cooking. Am I right?'

‘I didn't come for dinner,' I tell him, knowing that won't make a difference. Food and Miro go together. You can't have one without the other. ‘Mum wasn't feeling well so she went to bed. But now you mention it, I haven't eaten.'

A plastic bottle of degreaser lotion is tucked under his arm. He wipes his hands on a candy-striped piece of rag. ‘As they say, good timing.' Miro jokes. ‘I just now finish taking gutses from salami pig.' He rubs his hands together and grins. ‘He in special chiller waiting for tomorrow.'

Making the salami will be a gala. We'll probably share a bottle of brandy while one by one, Miro reveals his prized cooking secrets. The moment of dread is when I have to actually put a piece in my mouth, chew then swallow it.

But I will because the idea of making salami makes Miro so happy. When he talks about it, he gets a lightness about him almost like he's lovesick.

‘Come, I have beef stew for dinner,' Miro says, linking his arm through mine. ‘I think it rain tonight, what you think, Demon?'

‘No. It's just teasing.'

‘Maybe,' Miro says.

I follow him into the kitchen. Standing upright against the wall are my and Miro's rifles. When I give Miro the AK-47, will it be lined up too or will he lock it safely away? Miro says I must be patient and wait. I will because I trust him. But the day I unlock the wardrobe and get rid of that black gym bag will be a cleansing one. It'll feel like the best scrub of my life.

Lying on the kitchen's dirt floor is a mattress covered with the same candy-striped sheeting that Miro used for his hands.

‘Are you sleeping in here now?' I ask.

‘This yours,' Miro says. He pulls out a chair. ‘Sit.'

‘What? The bed?'

‘Of course. And chair.'

‘I didn't know this stuff was for me.'

‘Pfff.' He shakes his head. ‘Remember I buy this.'

‘Did you?'

‘I think tonight …' Miro says as he clears the table of a coffee pot, some jars and a newspaper. He drops it all onto the kitchen bench and returns with an orange cloth. ‘Tonight we eat here,' he announces. ‘First time.' He shakes the fabric out like a matador then lays it over the laminate. He pulls at each corner until the cloth hangs perfectly straight. ‘Yes! You like? I also buy. For table.'

‘For the table.'

‘I say this.'

‘But you need to insert what's called the definite article,' I tell him.

‘I no understand.'

‘You say some words – we call them nouns – on their own. For example, “we sit at table”,' I explain. ‘When it's really “we sit at the table”. “The”. That's what's called the definite article.'

‘You think my English no good.'

‘No, no your English is really good,' I say.

‘When I get here to Australia, I have only one, two English lesson with teacher. I learn all myself. Very hard for me.'

‘Did you know anything about Australia? I can't imagine we'd have a very big profile in Yugoslavia.'

‘We love TV show from your country. It, it in English …' Miro says, tapping his knuckles on the orange tablecloth trying to recall its name. ‘In English you say
Return to Eden
. You know?'

‘No, but I bet my mother would. Was it a soapie? You know, like a drama?'

‘Oh yes, big drama,' he replies. ‘When I meet your mother, Demon, we will remember together
Return to Eden
. I look forward to this.'

‘Oh, I forgot,' I say, digging around in my back pocket. It's the truth, I had forgotten but I am grateful for the diversion. I will never tell Miro what my mother thinks of him. It would be hurtful. He doesn't need to know. They will never come face to face. ‘Here we go. I bought you some more of the Ships tobacco this afternoon. But I forgot to give it to you.'

‘Thank you, Demon. And in return I will give you one bottle of
rakija
for your mother. I think this fair deal, yes?'

‘So did you come to Australia because you liked the look of it from the TV show?'

‘Demon, get bottle – get
thee
bottle of
rakija
,' he corrects. ‘Inside caravan. You see under bed,
thee
bed.'

It's hard to imagine Miro and my mother sitting in a room together discussing a TV soap. Would it take place here or at our house? It'd be impossible to get the old girl here, so it'd be at our place in the living room. Perhaps Miro would bring freshly baked
burek
. Mum'd like the way the buttery pastry melts on your tongue. I imagine her closing her eyes and moaning with delight before helping herself to another.

A chuckle escapes as I wonder which one of them would do the talking. That's what Miro and my mother have in common, the never-ending battle for the last word.

The door of the caravan needs a firm push to open. Then I almost trip on the stiff green carpet that's peeling off the floor. There are two rooms, or rather one room plus what I'd describe as a toilet cubicle, like a rentaloo, shoved into the corner.

This is my first time inside the caravan. It's not made for a man the size of me or Miro. It's hard to manoeuvre two arms and two legs without bending and squeezing and sucking in the gut.

Miro's clean washing is laid out on his bed. Jocks, flannies and t-shirts are divided into neat piles. I try to make myself small as I get down on my knees and feel under the bed for the brandy. My hand touches the glass neck of a bottle. So I reach in further, pull it out and rest it on the bed while I fold myself back up, being careful not to put an arm through the wall.

‘What a job,' I puff.

I pick up the bottle and am about to squeeze my way back to freedom when I notice one of the t-shirts on the bed. It's a Rolling Stones shirt. The signature red lips sit against a washed-out background of grey.

I take the bottle of brandy out to the kitchen. But part of me suddenly feels half-baked, like I'm meant to remember something but I have no idea what.