The Best Australian Stories (55 page)

‘There, there, my angel,' she'd said to him as she ran her fingers through his hair again. ‘My sweet little angel,' and she'd tucked him into bed as if he was a child. ‘Lena will look after you.' He'd felt her soft lips against his cheek and resisted the urge to nestle into her.

Then it is dark again and the numbers float before his eyes. He drifts into uneasy sleep and wakes with the headlights to see the shapes of people moving outside his room. Their shadows are thrown up on his wall. Lena's shape is there. He wakes in the middle of the night to see her, surrounded by light, floating in front of him, shedding a yellow glow across everything in the room. He watches as she hovers above him then drifts away. And when he slides into unconsciousness again he takes her image with him – a shining figure watching over him as he sleeps.

*

Angelo comes to recognise the cars that pull in each day to the Morning-Star Motel. He recognises the particular sounds their tyres make on the stones and the slamming of their doors. He knows which ones will leave their engines running outside room seventeen while their drivers disappear inside; which ones will park around the back and leave an hour later, nosing innocently out into the traffic. He knows the men and women who arrive in separate family cars for the afternoon; the women who arrive in taxis, dressed as though they're going out at night. He knows the sales reps' cars with placards in the back which park outside reception, waiting for Lena to unlock a room and slip inside, leaving the phone unanswered for half an hour or more. And he knows the sound of his father's car. Once a week he hears it pull into the carpark to check that things are working out.

He smooths the bed and waits for his father to come into his room. Sometimes his father comes before he visits Lena. Other times he goes to reception first and Angelo hears the rattle of the key in one of the empty rooms. He turns the television on and waits for the two of them to walk into his room together. His father puts whatever he has brought onto the bed – a magazine, a tube of shaving cream, a box of handkerchiefs – and sits down on the couch.

‘You're happy,' he says, and Angelo is never sure if it's a question or an order. ‘You have everything you need.'

‘Of course he's happy,' Lena says. ‘You're happy, Angel, aren't you?' and she holds his hand or strokes his arm. ‘He likes it here.'

His father looks uneasily about the room. There are no pictures on the walls, no photographs, nothing to suggest it's his son's room. He knows that if he opened the wardrobe door, the shirts would be hanging in a neat row, the bags would be where he'd left them. He thinks about bringing something from home, something of Angelo's, but he can't think what. His son's not the boy he used to be.

‘What would you like me to bring?' he asks, but Angelo doesn't answer. He acts as though his father isn't there. ‘Talk to me, Angelo. Don't do this to your father.'

They sit, the three of them on the couch or Lena will lie across the bed, and struggle for conversation. Eventually, his father stands and walks towards the door.

‘I'll come next week,' he says. ‘I'll bring some socks for you.'

Lena brushes Angelo's hair when he's gone and wipes a mark from his cheek with a tissue. When it doesn't move, she rubs it with her tongue. Angelo feels the moist strokes against his skin and a tightening in his groin.

‘Your father loves you, Angelo,' she says. ‘He comes all this way to see you. You should talk to him.' He feels her hair fall across his shoulder and reaches out to touch it. ‘You should make more of an effort, you know.' And she steps away from him. ‘You really should, my angel boy.'

In the mornings, Angelo watches her move from room to room. She drags the linen from the beds and piles it by the doors for the laundry service. Her hair is pulled back and he can see the fine lines of her face as she goes about her work. When she's finished she changes into bathers with shorts pulled over them and Angelo sees her walking towards the beach with a towel across her shoulder. Every day, she goes there. He sees her cross the highway and walk past the empty monument, down towards the shimmering water. When she returns in the early afternoon, there's already sales reps' cars waiting by reception and she walks past them with her hair shining wet and the towel wrapped about her waist. She waves her shorts at them and disappears inside.

Sometimes when the cars have gone, he'll see her knock at the door of number seventeen, of Victor's room, and hand him money or go inside with him and draw the blinds. He knows then that she may not come to him, or if she does she'll lie on the bed with her eyes glazed and unfocused, giggling at him, saying stupid things.

‘You should talk to Victor, Angelo,' she'll say. ‘He has some medication for you. Victor has all sorts of medication.' And she'll roll about on the bed, teasing him, rubbing her hands along her thighs. ‘Give me an angel kiss, my Angelo. Come and show Lena how you love her.'

Angelo stays on the couch. He doesn't like her when she acts like this. He knows it's Victor who does this to her. He's seen him standing by his door with his shirt undone, showing the thin tattooed chain around his neck. He's seen the blue stars on the knuckles of his right hand. He's seen him blinking into the sun with the same dazed expression on his face that Lena has when she's been with him.

On those days, Angelo thinks of her as she appears to him each night, shining outside his window, filling his room with light. Sometimes she's no more than a dim glow in the distance. Other times he wakes to find her hovering above him, so bright he feels the room might suddenly erupt in flames. He lies there, letting the light wash over him, knowing he's safe with her.

One day she comes to him, late in the afternoon, from Victor's room. Her pupils are dilated and she stumbles in, rubbing herself against him, drawing him towards the bed.

‘My baby,' she says. ‘My angel baby. Come to Lena. Come and lay with Lena.' She brushes her lips against his ear and he can feel her warm body pressed against him. ‘How old are you, Angelo? How old do you think you are?' And she laughs at him, pulling him towards the bed and falling onto it. ‘Are you old enough, Angelo? How much has your daddy told?'

She opens her blouse and rubs her hands across herself, across the soft, brown skin which Angelo can't help but look at. He watches as she pushes herself towards him.

‘Come, my baby. You're just a baby, aren't you? Come, my darling angel boy.' And she laughs again, pulling him onto the bed with her.

She pushes his lips to her nipple and Angelo does what he is told. He feels her fondling his groin, rubbing her hand along the inside of his leg.

‘You're just like your daddy, Angelo,' she says. ‘Just the same. Has he shown you one of these?' She pulls a plastic envelope from the pocket of her skirt. ‘Has he shown you how to use it?'

Angelo watches her draw the rubber thing from it and feels himself being rolled onto his back. She sits astride him and fumbles with his zip.

‘Lena can show you, angel. Lena can show you lots of things.' He feels the soft touch of her fingers as she slides the condom over him. ‘Yes,' she says. ‘You're just like your father. Just the same.' And she slips back off the bed, crying with laughter as she does her buttons up. ‘Look at you,' she giggles. ‘All dressed up. All dressed up and nowhere to go.'

She closes the door behind her and Angelo hears her laughing all the way back to reception. He lies on the bed with his trousers down, convinced that he's in love.

*

Each day, he watches her walk across the highway to the beach. He waits for her to return, wondering what she's doing there, imagining her brown limbs sliding through the water. He remembers her touch and thinks of following her down, past the monument, just to watch her swim. Through the winter months she wraps herself in heavy clothes and folds the towel across her arm. He can't see the shape of her body as she jogs across the carpark and he imagines her taking the clothes off, layer by layer on the cold beach.

When summer comes again, he's surprised to see how her shape has changed. Her stomach has swelled and the bathers stretch tight across it. She walks with her back bowed against a weight which wasn't part of her before. When she comes to his room to make the bed, he sees how awkwardly she smooths the sheets, leaning across to tuck the corners in. When she's finished she seems to glow. Her face is flushed as she sits on the couch to catch her breath.

‘Do you like me, Angelo?' she says. ‘Do you like the shape of me?' She stretches her dress across her swollen belly and splays her legs. ‘Is it attractive to you, Angelo?'

Angelo doesn't answer. He walks away from her and turns the television on.

‘No. Your father doesn't think so either. He doesn't want to know.' He pours her a glass of water from the fridge and hands it to her. ‘You're good to me, Angelo. You're better than the others.'

He's noticed how his father's visits have become less frequent. Sometimes a whole month passes without the sound of his wheels on the carpark stones. And he's noticed how few cars pull up outside reception. Only Victor has a constant stream of visitors.

Lena continues to swim. ‘It's good for the stomach muscles,' she tells him. ‘I don't want flab.' He watches her struggle with the laundry then wrap her towel around her for the walk.

One day, he follows her down. He waits till she's out of sight then closes his door and walks into the heat. He can hear the television from Victor's room and hurries past his door. The monument towers above him as he crosses the highway and makes his slow way towards the shining water. Lena is almost at the bottom of the hill. He passes the old convent with its driveway over-run with weeds and hears the piercing whistle of cicadas in the trees. By the time he reaches the beach, Lena is already standing by the water.

All along the beach he can see the naked bodies of men and women lying in the sun or standing at the water's edge. Most of them are elderly. He sees them ease their withered bodies into the water, as though waiting for miracles to happen. Lena's bathers are draped across the towel behind her on the sand. He sees her swollen breasts and the brown skin of her stomach as she slowly immerses herself and swims away from shore. Fifty metres out she stops and rolls onto her back. Her distended abdomen rises from the water and he sees her floating, absolutely still in the warm water.

When she strokes back into shore, he turns and hurries up the hill again. Victor is standing by the door of seventeen, smoking.

‘Been for a perv,' he says. ‘Not much worth looking at down there.'

Angelo ignores him and closes the door of his own room, knowing that Lena will soon be back. When she comes to him it's late. He knows she's been with Victor and waits for the teasing to begin. She puts the tray on the television and lies across his bed. Her dress lifts and he can see the white triangle of her pants beneath it.

‘Whose do you think it is?' she says. ‘Whose baby do you think is in there?' She pulls the dress up to reveal her stomach and rubs her hands across it. ‘Do you think it might be Victor's? Victor doesn't think so. Perhaps it's your father's, Angelo. Or yours.' She reaches out for his hand. ‘Perhaps it's yours. The Immaculate Conception. My Angel Gabriel. Did you do this to me, my angel?'

She puts his hand against her belly and Angelo can feel something hard beneath the skin. ‘Feel it. Feel your baby, Angelo.' He can feel the wriggling limbs inside her and the soft skin around her navel. ‘Come and listen to its heart.' She pushes his head down against her and he can see the mound of pubic hair beneath her pants. ‘Listen to it Angelo. It's alive. It's like a miracle.'

He pulls away from her and takes the tray from the top of the television. Next to the plate of food there are two white tablets and a glass of water.

‘Don't forget your medication,' she says. ‘Take it before you eat.' But the tablets are not like the Panadol she usually brings. ‘You have to take your medication.' She gets up from the bed and takes the tablets in her hand. ‘It will make you more relaxed.' She rubs her index finger around his lips and when they part, she pushes the tablets in. ‘That's a good boy,' she says. ‘Now eat your tea.'

*

That night, he wakes to the sweep of headlights across his room and the familiar thrum of his father's car. He hears a slamming door and the motor left idling in the driveway by reception. The digital clock tells him it's 10.15 a.m. It could be any time at all. It's dark outside. He doesn't know how long he's slept. An hour? The best part of the night? It could be early morning with the sun about to rise, except that his father is here. He hears his voice over the thrumming of the car – urgent, angry – and drifts back into something close to sleep. When he wakes again to the bang of Victor's door, the car is still running and he hears Lena's voice arguing with his father, then Victor's footsteps hurrying across the stones. There is shouting; another slamming door. 10.35 a.m. He feels he's slept for hours.

The muffled voices keep him half-awake – drifting – then his father is there, standing in his doorway, switching on the light.

‘Angelo,' he says. ‘Get up.'

There is no one else. His father takes Angelo's suitcase from the wardrobe and packs his belongings into it. He takes the shirts from their plastic hangers and folds them roughly into squares. He empties each of the drawers.

‘Put these on,' he says. ‘We're leaving.'

He tosses Angelo's trackpants to the end of the bed. A T-shirt, a pair of socks. Then he's in the bathroom, scooping his tablets and toothbrush into a plastic bag.

Angelo's head feels thick and heavy. His eyes won't adjust to the fluorescent light. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls the track-pants over his pyjamas.