Claire Zorn - The Sky So Heavy

‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘Useless.’ She got to her feet and I watched her trudge away with a limp.

Max stood there, his mouth hanging open. ‘Starvos totally pushed that lady! I can’t believe he did that!’

I turned him away, my hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on. Let’s just get home. We’ve got stuff to figure out.’

Max sat on the kitchen bench with a pen and an exercise book on his lap. I stood in front of the open pantry cupboard, pulled each item out one by one, named it and put it on the bench: two cans of baked beans, one kilo of rice, one sachet of burrito seasoning, half a packet of almonds, almost-empty jar of Vegemite, almost-empty jar of honey, and on and on until everything had been listed. We then sat down at the dining table and worked out how much food we would eat each day and how long what we had was going to last us. Two weeks, at the most.

In the evening, after Max was already asleep, Lokey came back. He wandered into the living room and slumped on the couch.

‘I had to get out, man. My mum is driving me freakin’ nuts.’ He tilted his head back, closed his eyes.

‘You drove here?’

‘Yeah. Got chains on the tyres. Nearly outta petrol, but it’s not like I need to go anywhere. Your dad hasn’t shown up?’

‘No.’

‘He’s probably okay, the roads are just blocked.’

‘I’m trying not to think about it.’

We sat in silence. Eventually Lokey opened his eyes, yawned. ‘You got any cards?’ Lokey’s eyes roamed the room, his gaze landing on Dad’s liquor cabinet. ‘Actually, I got a better idea.’

The idea of numbness was appealing. The thought had crossed my mind before but I hadn’t wanted to get wasted on my own. It felt kind of pathetic. And desperate.

‘We can have a bit, Loke. Not heaps. If my dad ever comes back he’ll kill me.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

Dad collected booze like some people collected stamps – he would get all excited over a rare vintage. All I was thinking about when I selected the oldest, most expensive-looking bottle that I could find – and the bottle after that, and the bottle after that – was how he’d chosen to go after Kara that night and left us behind.

I drew Lucy. I drew her sitting cross-legged on the roof of our school bus while floodwaters rose around it. All sorts of objects bobbed on top of the water: toasters, television sets, computer monitors. I know they would have sunk in the real world, but I wasn’t sure the same rules applied any more.

Days passed. I didn’t touch the wine again.

Max and I were playing Monopoly when we heard it. The sound of the engine rumbled down the street like the low groan of a tired animal. We rushed to the front door, practically tripping over each other to get there.

People were crowded around the truck. Two guys in army uniforms stood on the back, on the tray, passing boxes down. The sight of them was almost overwhelming – just the relief of knowing that we weren’t forgotten gave me a lump in my throat. Max and I ran over to the truck, one of the officers gave us each a box.

‘Hey, is the snow radioactive? Is the air radioactive?’ I asked.

‘The levels are low,’ he answered. He wasn’t wearing a protective suit, so that was a good sign.

‘Will it get worse?’

‘Try to stay inside.’ He moved onto the next person.

We carried our boxes inside. Unpacking them felt like Christmas. There was dried fruit, some nuts, bags of rice, more cans of soup. Water. Matches. I added the new supplies to our list and worked out how to ration it.

I listened to my one iPod song while lying on my back with my head up against the lounge-room window, looking up at the grey ache of the sky. For those three minutes and forty-eight seconds the weight of the smog and cloud couldn’t touch me. I was free of it.

Two weeks passed. We began sleeping in the same bed, it was warmer that way. Even though I had been careful only to light the fire during the day, firewood began to run low. We cocooned ourselves in beanies and gloves.

I learned that if I could keep my thoughts about Dad focused on the afternoon when I found the letter from Mum, I could almost stem my anxiety about his absence. My anger formed a nice protective cushion. If I let it slide to the other things – those days when he would carry me up the hill on his back or my memory of him slipping me fifty-dollar notes under the table during childhood games of Monopoly – worry would fester in my gut and even though I was so, so hungry, I couldn’t eat.

As for Mum, I imagined her in some sort of command centre, consulting people in uniforms, pointing at diagrams. I imagined her safe.

And when I slept, I dreamed of Lucy.

Another knock at the door. Mid-morning. I was drawing while Max told me about a guy who survived a tsunami by ripping his front door from its hinges and surfing the wave. (He didn’t have a lot of concrete facts.)

I think we both assumed it would be the army at the door, back with more food. We were sticking to our rations and it seemed to be working pretty well, but I’d gladly accept some more, even just for a bit of variety. (Not to mention the hazards of continually eating baked beans in a confined space.) The figure through the peephole wasn’t wearing an army uniform. I opened the door and realised it was Mick from across the road, Ellen’s husband. It took me a moment to recognise him beneath the thick stubble that had swallowed up half his face.

‘Hey mate.’ He ran a hand over his shaggy hair. ‘How you going?’

‘Yeah okay.’

‘Any news about your dad?’

‘No.’

‘Right.’ Mick nodded, waited for a moment out of respect. ‘Look, I was just wondering if you had any food you could spare us. We’ve run out of that stuff the army brought around.’

‘Um, yeah so have we.’

‘You don’t have any spare?’

I didn’t even hesitate. The lie came straight out without a beat. ‘No. I mean I’ve got some for tonight and a bit for tomorrow but that’s it.’

‘Yeah, sure. It’s just we’ve run out of food for the kids.’

I hesitated. ‘I can give you some rice. Just, like a cup. We don’t have much left.’

‘Would you, mate? That’d be awesome.’

‘Sure, um, can you take off your shoes though?’

Mick slipped off his Volleys and stepped inside. I closed the door behind him.

‘Wait here if you want, I’ll go grab the rice.’ I tried to make it sound like I was saving him the trouble of coming into the kitchen rather than hiding our food from him. I went to the cupboard and measured out two mugs full of rice, poured them into a sandwich bag and tied a knot in the top. I brought the bag out to Mick.

‘Oh, man, you’re a lifesaver.’

‘No worries.’

Max watched as I handed the bag to Mick. It was a pathetic amount of rice. Max didn’t say anything but there was a question in his eyes. When Mick was gone he looked at me like I was thick.

‘Why did you do that? We don’t have enough!’

‘We do have enough. They’ve run out.’

‘What’s the point of rationing it and going fucking hungry if you’re going to give it away?

‘Oi! Don’t swear.’

‘It’s not fair, Fin. I’m not going with less tonight. That’s come out of yours.’

‘Whatever, Max.’

Later on, I drew Mick wading through chest-high water with a beanie pulled down over his ears. He held the little bag of rice in one hand.

The police came back. Rather, one of them came back. The CSI wannabe, no Constable Lund. I thought it was a bit weird that he was on his own as I assumed they travelled in pairs, like Jehovah’s Witnesses. He asked if he could come inside and, because of the cop shows on TV, I thought he was going to tell me they had found Dad’s car wrapped around a tree. It wasn’t supposed to be like that – he was the parent, I was the irresponsible teenager.