Tim Winton - Eyrie

You mind, Doris? asked Gemma.

Go ahead, said his mother. I’m not going anywhere.

*

By the river the air was still and thick. Gemma prattled excitedly. There was no relief from the heat, his sense of entrapment. Under the trees the foreshore smelt of fallen figs, cut grass and dog shit, and from the narrow beach came the sweaty low-tide odours of brine, algae and stranded jellyfish. The moon hung above the towers of the city. It shimmered on every bend and reach of the river.

She does look like an old movie queen, don’t you think? You probably can’t see it cause she’s your mum.

Whatever you reckon, he said.

And what about me? Who did I look like?

I don’t remember.

Bullshit, she said.

The mown grass was soft underfoot. Tiny waves lapped and sighed onshore.

Mate, I’m not really in the mood.

Come on, she said, who did I remind you of? Would it kill you to say a name?

Fine, he said ungraciously. I thought you looked like Farrah Fawcett.

Gemma gave a little moan of satisfaction.

I guess I wanted every girl to look like her, he said. It was a long time ago.

But Doris still looks like Julie Christie.

Keely sensed he was expected to say something here, pay Gemma some courtly comment, but the idea irritated him. He didn’t understand why her happy mood should irk him so.

The grassy riverbank ended at the limestone bluffs. In the moonlight, the pale fingers of stone shone through the shadow-patches of trees. The track was narrow but white enough to be distinct. They wound on through the undergrowth.

Nico says I look like Brigitte Bardot.

And who’s Nico?

New bloke at work, the French one. He’s a real card. They’re gunna sack him for sure. He opens stuff, food packets. Like chocolates and things. Last night he’s trying to get me to eat em, says I deserve it, says he wants to build me up, says it makes him feel good watchin me eat. There’s cameras everywhere and he’s got me duckin down behind the shelves and the trolleys, and he’s stuffin things in me mouth, the dirty perv. He’s like twenty-eight or somethin.

I guess you’d better be careful, then.

Tired of bein careful, she said. Where are we goin, anyway?

Keely said nothing until they were beneath the great silver trunk of the dead marri. Under moonlight it was stark, smooth, impossibly beautiful, like a stylized theatre prop. It looked dreamy there amidst the dark presences of living trees. The way it glowed. Cantilevered over the water, owning the night. Hard to imagine an ordinary bird alighting on it.

He sensed her beside him, craning to stare. He felt her hand in his.

It’s not there, he said, almost relieved.

She yanked on his arm. He remembered then, she was on at nine. But she dragged him further into the bush, away from home. Was suddenly facing him, stepping in to pull him close. Her tongue was hot in his mouth.

Hey, he said. You’ve got work.

There’s time.

For what?

I need to draw you a picture?

No, he said.

Carn. I’m goin fuckin mental.

She kissed him fiercely and took handfuls of his hair. Their teeth clashed and she laughed.

But there’s nowhere, he said.

She lifted her skirt and guided him down urgently. The stones bit into his knees and a dog barked somewhere as he nuzzled deep between her thighs. She twisted her fingers in his hair and pulled him away and he knelt there, looking up uncertainly into the pale cascade of her hair.

Say somethin nice, she panted. Nothin dirty, just somethin nice.

But Keely could barely speak at all. He was breathless, mindless with lust.

Christ, she said too loud. They used to beg me. Couldn’t you say I’m pretty? Is it so bloody hard to say?

You want me to stop?

You think I’ll let you stop now? she said, stepping out of her pants.

I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting anything.

Just shut up, she said, grabbing his hair again.

He didn’t dare pull away. He stayed where he was until his knees felt lacerated, until she cursed him and whimpered and smacked the back of his head and began to sob.

Gemma wasn’t long gone when Doris emerged from her room to fill the kettle and set it on the hob. Keely was still at the table. Stuck. Just following his hands. Watching the jangly pattern of his own fingers. Pressed them down in the end, those hands. To manage the tremor.

Hot, said Doris.

Keely felt his mouth move. But nothing came. He didn’t want this. To be here. In this bloody tangle.

You okay?

He nodded.

Such a shame, she said. She was in such good spirits at dinner. Felt like we’d — I don’t know — broken through, a little.

He clamped his hands together. And then Doris dropped something onto the table. At his elbow. Kai’s sketchpad.

We need to talk about this.

She opened it about halfway though. The kid had been busy. There were a lot of new drawings organized in crude panels like storyboards. Each sequence featured a rudimentary superhero, a bearded, bear-like colossus. Fists swinging against all comers, legs planted wide, his boots black as his whiskers.

No prizes for guessing who our hero is, then, he said.

And this later one, the fellow with the sword?

Doris leant close. Turned a few more pages. She smelt of coconut shampoo. Tapped the page with a gnarled finger. And there he was himself. A man with a black eye. Like a half-masked Zorro. Dishing out the same rough justice as Nev. With a weapon, no less. The boning knife had become a scimitar and pools of blood lay about, black as Keely’s cartoon shiner.

He showed you these?

Let’s just say they came to my attention.

You don’t miss a trick.

Don’t even start me.

Mum, I don’t know what to do.

Perhaps you should think about why you’re doing anything at all. Whether you’re a fit person. In any sense.

What’re you talking about?

I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.

No, he lied.

Oh, Tom.

I told you the situation.

Which situation?

Well. Gemma’s situation.

Even with that you can’t be straight. You think I enjoy saying this, seeing you do this? Wake up, Tom. Look here. Right in front of you. This anxious little boy. Just look at his pictures.

What the hell do you want me to do? What’m I supposed to do to fix this?

You could start by paying attention.

Jesus. I’m fighting for this kid, Doris.

I think your mind is elsewhere.

That’s a disgusting thing to say.

Maybe after you’ve been to the bathroom and washed your face you’ll come back and still feel the same way.

Keely lurched back from the table and as he stood the chair capsized behind him.

Don’t, said Doris as he headed for the door. Please. We need to discuss this.

He was past listening. He wanted darkness. To be unseen. But there was moon out in the yard, light in the street, the sky bulging at him like a milky eye, and he just kept walking.

Still scratching his bites, Keely rode the six-thirty to Fremantle.

He’d woken radioactive on the back deck with Gemma squatting beside him. He knew how it must look. Him lying there on the boards in last night’s clothes. As if he’d gone out and got trashed. Then been locked out by Doris. But it wasn’t like that. He didn’t think so. Because although there were gaps he knew there’d been no booze. No pills. He had no money, for one thing. He’d just been walking. Barefoot. Along the river, the leafy streets, under drooling lights. Moth trails. Electric flashes of sky. Until his legs gave out. And then he was in warm sand by the river. Ferry lights, red and green. Then some bastard kicking him awake. Shitheads sporting with him in the cold glare of high beams. Running through gardens. Dogs. Patches of wild bush. He fell, lay a long time. Awake. In the wailing air. And when he finally tottered up the steps to the back door he found Doris had locked it. Prudent, that; he wasn’t taking it personally. He didn’t dare bang on the door. Just lay on the warm deck, waiting for morning. To die. To sleep. Dreaming of dogs streaking from the dark. And waking there, sore, stiff, mozzie-flogged, flayed like a Filipino penitent. With dawn in the wings. Gemma there. Confusing, the way she stroked the thin shell of his head. Like a girl with a horse about to be taken out and shot. She produced a tissue. Blotted his eyes.