Tim Winton - Breath

We strewed the contents of the box across the bench and clawed through them to find other images of Sando. There he was, in Maui in 1970, in Morocco in the winter of '68, and at the Hollister Ranch in '71. I found him in aviator shades and a Billy Jack hat in a full-page ad for Dewey Weber boards. There was even an old picture of him as a jug-eared kid in sandshoes, noseriding a longboard with his back arched and his arm and head thrown back like a matador: The urchin and the urchins — Australia's Bill Sanderson, Spiny Reef. For an hour and more Loonie and I tried to piece together a story from all these disparate captions and photos, but all we could really glean was the fact that Sando — for a time, and in places that were legendary to the likes of us — had briefly been somebody. I felt stupid for not having known, and somehow the shame of this, and the realization that Sando had kept it from us, dampened the excitement of the discovery.

Then the dog mysteriously deserted us and a moment later the VW lurched up into the clearing. We hurled everything back into the cardboard box but before we had it stowed beneath the bench Sando was in the doorway. The smile slipped sideways from his face.

Loonie and I spent half an hour sitting on the bottom step while Eva and Sando bickered and squalled up in the house. We looked dolefully at our bikes, longing to escape this scene, but neither of us had the nerve to defy Sando whose request for us to stay and wait was delivered with the gravity of an order.

What game are you playing? he yelled at her. What was the fucking point of that?

Well, you're their guru, aren't you? Eva screamed. Don't they get to touch your holy relics, read your scriptures? Deep down, didn't you secretly want me to reveal you to your disciples?

You know what I think about that shit. I don't understand you.

Well, right on, Billy. You finally got there on your own; you don't understand me at all.

Don't be bitter.

You don't have the goddamn right to tell me not to be bitter.

You're only like this —

Like what, honey? Nasty? Don't you like nasty no more?

Jealous isn't just nasty, Eva. It s sad.

Then she was crying. A tap began to run and when it stopped the pipes clanked. In the fresh quiet, the dog came back downstairs to sniff at us and spread its rank meat-breath around. I couldn't help but think of the too.

Shit, said Loonie. They're gunna kiss'n make up. Let's go.

No, I murmured. Wait.

I thought of the look on Sando's face, how instantly he'd read us. Before he'd even seen the mags he'd sensed something different in the way we looked at him. It was hard to believe that we'd been so obvious. But it was true. Our admiration for him had enlarged; it had metastasized. I remembered how we leapt out of his way as he lunged for the box. He stood back with it under his arm like a man holding something dangerous and unstable and I had the queerest feeling of having transgressed. His gaze was more wounded than fierce, not unlike the queasy misunderstood look old soldiers gave you from the pub verandah.

But when he came back downstairs he'd lost that look. He just seemed exhausted and stood there a moment while the dog licked his big bony feet.

Didn't mean to piss anyone off, said Loonie.

Oh, it's just old crap, he murmured. Forget it. Load up and I'll drive you back into town.

For a good mile on the way home there was no talk. The cab always felt pretty snug but now it seemed way too small for the three of us. I was conscious of Sando's clean animal scent and the size of his fist on the gearstick.

Listen, he said at last. Eva's doin it tough, just now. It's a hard time for her.

Neither Loonie nor I knew quite what to say to this.

And I've been away a lot. So.

We puttered along the edge of the estuary where the sloughing white skins of melaleucas spilled onto the road.

Is it the pills? asked Loonie.

I glared at him in surprise. I'd never seen any pills.

She takes pills, said Loonie defiantly. I seen her.

There was a long pause. No, said Sando. It's not really the pills. I sat there in a funk. Loonie hadn't even told me. She's always bloody cranky, said Loonie. I just figured it was them, that's all.

Just shut up, I hissed. It's none of our business. And it's not what you think, anyway, said Sando. Loonie shrugged. The gesture was defiant, so emphatic in that tight space it hoisted my shirt an inch. He was sullen the rest of the way back and when it became clear that he was being dropped off first, his mood darkened further. Outside the pub he got down, pulled his bike off the tray and wheeled it away without a word.

The mags, I said to Sando. They were just there. On our boards.

All in the past, mate. No worries.

How badly I wanted to say something about the photos then, just a gesture of esteem, but it was clear this wouldn't be welcome. There was something about Sando that wasn't settled. He wasn't fixed like my father, and intrigued as I was I found this aspect of him confusing to the point of anxiety. It was as though he wasn't quite as old as he looked, as if he hadn't yet finished with himself. Tell Loonie not to be too uptight about the pills, he said. They're just painkillers.

We can leave our boards somewhere else, I offered. Nah. It's cool. Really. Okay, I said, unconvinced.

And listen, there's a little spurt of swell coming. Day after tomorrow, if it's blowing offshore, get up early.

Early?

Sparrowfart. I'll pick you both up. We'll go somewhere. .

discreet.

Secret.

Yeah. I think you're ready.

We trundled on up to my place and I climbed down and grabbed my bike. As I pedalled up the choppy drive in the last light of day I could hear the VW labouring back out of town towards the coast, and the sound of it still clattered through the trees when I reached the house in its tufty paddock and its aura of roasting smells and radio.

The next day Loonie and I had a job pulling down a shed behind the butcher's, and while we twisted out nails with pinch bars and claw hammers, I tried to engage him in speculation about Eva and Sando. Personally I found the tears and arguments enthralling. Nobody blued like that over at my place and it was as exciting as it was disconcerting. I was curious about what it was between them that set them off, but I couldn't interest Loonie in anything beyond Eva's many shortcomings. He saw the whole scene as evidence that she was nothing but a stuck-up pain in the arse. She was a drag, a bitch, a stupid Yank, and a junkie.

Painkillers, my arse, he said.

But, what about that limp? There's something wrong with her.

Yeah, she's a whingein female.

Still, I said. You notice how she always wears jeans? You reckon people still get polio in America?

Jesus, who cares? I wish she'd go back there.

She's not that bad.

You saw those mags. He was famous, mate, and maybe if it wasn't for her he still would be. Chicks, Pikelet. They drag you down.

I thought you fancied her, I ventured.

You're full of shit.

I let it go and kept working in the grit and mildew of the old shed. I knew I was on dangerous ground here with Loonie, yet his bluster made me smile because I'd seen him look at her — all those sidelong glances, the way he took in the heavy swing of her braid and the solid curve of her breast — but since the day she drove us back in the rain, his dislike had been implacable. It was as if his contempt for her fuelled his devotion to Sando. For in Loonie's mind, Eva would always be the millstone around our hero's neck. Her smooth American skin and blue eyes seemed to enrage him. He hated her acerbic talk and slanting mouth. She was in his way. She always stood between him and Sando and she knew it, came to enjoy the fact.