Peter Carey - His Illegal Self

Did you find the cat?

I don’t know, said Trevor angrily. Don’t interrupt.

What sort of cat was it, the boy insisted.

I had blue eyes, said Trevor. That was my curse.

The cat?

Me. I had blue eyes.

You still have blue eyes, said the boy.

Who gives a fuck these days.

Did the cat have blue eyes?

Trevor sucked in his breath as if he would explode and then he let it out again. The priests liked my blue eyes, can you imagine that? Would you say I was a pretty man?

I should go soon.

No, I’m not a pretty man, and I was not a pretty boy, but the brothers took a liking to my eyes and they left me in such despair I tried to beat my eyes out with a rock so they would change their color. You understand why?

The boy shook his head. He knew he could not leave.

Never mind, said Trevor. You didn’t want to hear all this. I understand. I’m sorry. He stood and hurled the remaining watermelon out beyond the edge of the garden and the boy saw it split and fly apart, white flesh broken in the bush.

Whatever a priest did was the will of God, he said. I’m sorry.

That’s all right, the boy said.

But they prepared me, Trevor said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, surveying his achievement-the big water tanks, the mud bricks they had made that morning now baking in the sun-I can survive anything now, Trevor said, and you’re lucky you have met me. Do you know why? Because I can teach you stuff she doesn’t know.

The boy looked out across the waving trees. Everything was hard and dry, dead leaves, cracking sticks, no mercy. He thought, This does not apply to me. You can teach my dad too, he said. You can teach us both together.

Trevor was staring at him. The boy did not know why. The olives in his hand were mashed. He wished he had not touched them ever.

Sit down, said Trevor when the boy began to move. Listen to me.

As a result he did not get back down the hill until maybe five o’clock. There was still sunlight in the treetops so she might not be angry with him yet. He heard three hammer blows as he came past the Peugeot and soon afterward he found Dial standing on a rickety chair.

Hi, she said, sort of frozen in position.

She was not mad at him but at a plank of wood. She had managed to pin it to a wall stud.

She said, Is it straight?

He did not want to get involved with mechanical. He said, Did you get a book?

Christ, she said. Just tell me. Is it straight?

You said you’d buy a book for tonight.

Well I did not get a book. Is this straight?

The oven was cold and sour with ashes. He unpacked his backpack and lay a pumpkin and an eggplant on the countertop. In his pocket he had another two Australian dollars and now they were secret in his hand, wet and balled up like a squishy plum.

Dial had a big white scarf wound around her head, three nails sticking out of her teeth, a rusty hammer in her hand. Just tell me is the string hanging straight, so I can put the nail in.

Dial, please, can I do it later?

Just tell me-is it straight?

Suddenly, violently, he wished all this was over.

Che!

Yes, he said, it’s straight. This was true-it was straight if you lined it up with the countertop. But also-it was crooked if you lined it up against the window frame.

Do you love my daddy, he asked.

I told you. Hold it steady.

She hadn’t told him anything. He took the end of the board and his eyes were burning. She held a nail against the board, a little silver nail. She tapped it in successfully.

There, she said, that wasn’t hard.

But of course when she stood back, she must have seen she had a crooked hippie house. The plank could not look straight compared with anything at all. She didn’t speak but went to the oven where he could hear her cleaning out the grate. Out among the tall grass he found some little sticks for kindling and brought them back to her.

Sorry, bubba, she said.

It’s OK, he said. He thought he meant it at the time.

Dial lit a mosquito coil and carried it out onto the deck where it sent up comic-strip curls of foreign stink which slowly fell among her yellow hair. As the sun left the ridges to their gloomy dark she breathed it in like perfume.

So why did you ask about your daddy?

He shrugged. She still hadn’t answered what he asked.

Your face is dirty.

When is my daddy going to come and get me?

She held out her strong brown arms to him but now he was angry and he looked at the plank on the wall and if he had ever felt safe it must have been a long, long time ago. She took her arms back and folded them across her chest and sat with her back against the open doorway, pretending to look at the poor crooked plank.

There’s nothing I can do about your daddy, baby. You know that.

Is he in jail?

Not as far as I know.

That wasn’t him, he said angrily. You lied.

Sweetie, that’s not nice.

I have a right to know the truth.

You have what ?

I have a right to know the truth.

Is that what you talk about with Trevor.

No. I have a right.

Listen to me, you spoiled little brat, she said. You go away all day long playing games with Trevor. What I have down here is Rebecca.

She’s taken care of.

Where did you learn to talk like that -taken care of? She is not taken care of. You know what she brought here?

And so she dumped all her fears in front of him.

This is your cat, she said. We have it because you wanted him. Now you take care of him, you hear me?

Or what?

Or we’ll have to go again, that’s what, she said. Do you want to do that? Do you want to go looking for another place to live?

I want to go home, he cried.

He expected her to reach for him, to fold him to her breast, but instead she ripped her scarf from her head and threw it on the floor.

Oh great, she said, you want me to go to jail. Thank you, baby, thank you so much.

He looked at her and hated her. Her big nose. Her hairy eyebrows. Her stinky sweaty smell.

I can’t believe you, she said.

Shut up, he said suddenly. Shut up. His mind was in a rush of temper. As he walked toward the door the cat rose from its hiding place beneath Adam’s bench. The boy rushed at him, stamping his feet.

Bloody cat, he cried, and ran outside.

He walked down to the road by himself. There were crows. Later in the gloom he heard Dial calling for him but by then he had found his way beneath the hut where he huddled up between two propane tanks and watched the dark come down.

Trevor came padding softly down the hill with his new flashlight, three feet long, two and a half pounds. It had been free of cost to him, thanks to the roomy overalls he wore when shopping.

His feet were bare, hard, the heels and balls buffed like saddle leather or polished concrete. He did not turn the flashlight on-darkness is your friend. The moon had not yet risen when he got through the last bit of guttered track and arrived at the cane toad territory down by the creek. He could hear the frogs as well, and the water passing over the dam Rebecca’s kids had made. Through the flooded gums he could see the candles flickering in her hut. She would be lying on the bed he built for her-he had told the boy about that misunderstanding with Rebecca, but the boy did not have a clue.

A little farther was the cutting into Adam’s land. It was not difficult to find. The American babe had a huge propane lamp. She was like an oil refinery. The lamp perched on a three-foot yellow pipe screwed directly to the brand-new gas tank and it spilled light out across the uncut grass, the mustard-yellow path leached white, winged insects rising by his knees.

Trevor called out to announce himself but he did not slow his pace. The boy watched from his hiding place beneath the hut. He saw Dial’s feet meet Trevor’s in the bright back doorway, two steps above him. She stepped aside and Trevor brushed past her.