Peter Carey - His Illegal Self

Our trailer tipped over, the boy said.

You bet, he said. Of course.

Trevor hopped about the floor, found a wooden-handled clasp knife in his trousers and drew its blade around the papaya which opened like a book-a color plate Carica papaya. Trevor scooped the black seeds in one swift movement and held them dripping in his fist.

I hurt my arm, the boy said. I fell out of my bed.

Eat food, the man instructed.

Trevor threw the seeds over the rail.

Just put your face in it, he told the boy, giving the other half to Dial. He did not look at her but as she took the dripping fruit she felt some double entendre which she did not like at all. It made her hesitate, but at the same time she found herself thinking about her appearance, that her hair was oily and flat on her head. My nose is huge, she thought, before she gave in to the papaya. But when this was finished there was nothing else, no plan, no strategy, and when the postmaster arrived to open shop she saw how he looked down on her, her face wet with papaya, her great Greek nose sticking in the air.

The boy ate six small bananas, maybe eight, and his belly was tight as a drum. There was a water tap down the steps and when he washed his hands he saw the black seeds shining in the dirt. He dug them up and washed them too, setting them on the concrete sidewalk. When he had ten of them he turned them over to dry their undersides and then he put them in his back pocket with his stuff. There were also little creepy bugs with lots of legs.

Back on the veranda he poured more milk for Buck, who sniffed it and then walked away, preferring the hem of Dial’s long hippie dress. In the Best Western in Seattle the boy had watched Dial sew up that very hem, purple with blue-green waxy thread. That had been in the days after Bloomingdale’s, but they had moved on to White Fang already. He had a passport. His hair had been buzzed and dyed and he believed his mother’s hem was now everything, not only to her, but to him as well. At customs he thought he heard its contents shiver. Most likely it was beyond adult hearing, but now Buck definitely heard something, like a deck of whispery cards being dealt, perhaps, or two green leaves sliding face-to-face. His gray-striped ears pricked up. He stepped delicately out across the post office veranda floor. He batted once at the hem, but Dial’s hand swept down like God’s from heaven, circling his pet life and his organs.

Buck peed. The boy poured him milk so he would know he loved him just the same, but the cat cocked his head, and watched it drip away.

Buck, Buck, Buck. He grabbed. Buck feinted left and then leaped on the hem.

Now Dial grabbed. Then Buck squawked. Dial unhooked his claws, and held him out toward the boy, who tucked the fierce little creature inside the cardigan and tied him in a friendly knot.

Take him for a walk.

He took Buck down the steps and showed him the seeds and washed two for him. He taught him to count. Buck tried to kill the bugs and then got puzzled and then he went back up the steps and the boy washed some more seeds and lined them up, about thirty, before he was ordered to take Buck away again.

Where can I go?

He meant, Don’t send me away from you.

There’s a very interesting war memorial, Trevor said.

I’m OK here, the boy said.

Go, called Dial.

He dropped Buck in the cardigan and slung the cardigan around his neck. At the far end of the street, in front of the Wild West bar, he could see a lonely statue ringed by long green grass. In the old chapel near 116th Street he had seen white marble slabs with the names of Columbia students who had died in the Civil War. His grandma took him. She said, These children want to make another civil war.

She had meant his mom and dad. He was old enough to know she should not talk to him like this.

They never think they’ll die, she said, her voice getting that catch to it, a sort of flutter she saved for stuff like this. She didn’t know how bad this felt. She didn’t know he listened to her breathing in the night.

I know, he said-to stop her being bohemian, to make her quiet.

As the boy came down the post office steps he had to jump over the Rabbitoh arranging his long brown legs.

The sky was gray and thick and furry. Steam rose from the blacktop. When he arrived at the memorial he saw a small bronze lizard cross the soldier’s dead blind eyes.

Yellow lights arrived flashing like a police car-a truck. The driver stared at him and raised a finger from the wheel. It was a local wave, but the boy did not know what sort of sign it was. He was not worried very much but he hurried back to the post office where Buck got free and jumped up to the railing. He was about eight inches long, all pink mouth and spiky hair.

Dial laughed at him so Buck flew through the air. His barbed-hook claws found the lovely purple hem, and when Dial jumped to her feet, he still hung there. No one imagined how confused he felt. Trevor was leaning back resting on one elbow but he hardly had to reach to get one hand around his milky middle. As he yanked, Buck screamed.

Let go, you silly bugger.

The claws were caught. Trevor pulled harder. The dress ripped. A flood of green hundred-dollar bills sliced through the gray cyclonic air.

The mother’s speckly eyes flicked up and down the street, then toward the dark open door of the post office. She lifted a single bill from between her long straight toes.

Trevor kneeled and unhooked the claws from the torn hem and then gave the cat to the boy.

Scram, he said.

The boy’s throat was dry. He moved closer to Dial, next to, and behind.

The Rabbitoh came forward across the floor like a squatting monkey in a dance, his long hands harvesting the spilled bills which he stacked and shuffled as he neared.

Don’t sweat it, he said. It’s cool. He passed his loot to the mother without expression. She protected the remainder of the injured velvet in one hand.

If you knew us, said Trevor, you wouldn’t look like that.

How do I look, the mother asked.

Like you just shat yourself, said Trevor.

Dial threw her head back and laughed all wrong, like a fat kid on the first day at school.

The boy could not see her face, only the bright light in the eyes of both the men.

As Trevor slipped his trousers on, he never took his eyes off the mother.

You better come for a walk, he said.

Dial did not move.

Little chat, Trevor insisted, his mouth opening on the left side.

The boy watched everything, his throat gone very dry.

The mother held up the broken hem, meaning the hundred-dollar bills would fall out if she stood. This money was their life and death; she had made that very clear when they received it from his father’s friends. With money you could pay the pigs, buy a room with a bath, a real hotel. If someone might hurt you, then you gave them something folded. It was just like Grandma paid the janitor, the super, Eduardo, an envelope every Christmas. Do you think they really like you?

Can’t walk, suggested Trevor.

Uh-huh. Dial’s cheeks were pink as bubble gum.

The boy thought, Give him the money. Make him go away. He wished they had found his dad in Sydney but the squat they went to was filled with junkies who did not know his name. He wished his dad would drive into the street, right now.

Trevor called, Hey, Rabbitoh.

Jean Rabiteau was once more seated on the post office steps, cleaning his fingernails with a silver clasp knife. The knife seemed sharp. He was paying a worrying amount of attention to such a simple job.

Want to get the vehicle, mate?

The Rabbitoh uncoiled himself. When he was upright he removed his hat, flicked his glossy black hair out of his eyes. He replaced the hat so the brim was low and hid his thoughts from view. Then he wandered off down toward the Wild West bar, not hurrying, but prancy in bare feet.