Peter Carey - His Illegal Self

Trevor put his hands on his hips and pushed his nose toward him. What you got?

My dad, the boy said, surprising himself. He lay back on the mulch and drove his arm deep in the bag. He could feel the Uno cards, the poker pack, his ticket to Shea Stadium, a business card, a coin, three bills, a stone, and the folded page from Life magazine. He never showed this to anyone but he had to show it to Trevor now.

It’s sort of beat up, he said.

Trevor studied the page of Life. He could not read. What’s the matter with her? he said as he refolded it.

Does she hit you?

I know she’s not my mother, the boy said, tears welling up. I know, OK!

You shouldn’t eavesdrop, Trevor said.

You’re not fair, the boy said. You shouldn’t talk about me. You don’t know me hardly. He snatched back his father’s picture and pushed it down into his shorts, burning with the pleasure of destruction.

Here’s a story for you, Trevor said. There was a boy like you had a teacup handle. It was like a little bone, a bit of chicken bone, a wishing bone, the leftovers of a saint put in a wooden box. Reliquary, he said.

The boy did not care for Trevor’s stories anymore.

The boy with the teacup handle, said Trevor, told us his older brother had the matching cup and this was how they would know each other, because the brother would produce the cup and they would join and be made whole.

The boy was hardly listening. He was thinking how to purchase a ticket by himself.

I knew this fellow real well, said Trevor. He went around saying that his brother was ten years older and he was driving from Brisbane to Adelaide with the cup. Are you listening?

Trevor wanted the boy to look at him, but the boy sat with his cheek against his knees staring off into the bush. I’m going to Harvard, he said at last. You can’t imagine me. He was crying so hard he could hardly see. He tried to lie down on the dirt but the dirt just bit him back. He stumbled up the path, howling, and took the pallet and dragged it bumping along the path. In his mind he could see the teacup handle, the dried-out bones, the wooden box and the poor smelly orphan boy, dead of death most likely.

You come on home now, Dial said.

She was standing behind him, by the cabbages, an army coat around her shoulders, a hammer in her hand.

Against the current of his anger, the boy ran to her and pushed his face into her stomach and she wrapped the coat around him hard.

Carry me, he said. His face was wet and snotty and he buried himself in her smoke-dust hair as she carted him along the saddle where the oil drums stood, then down the jolting yellow hill. She crushed him so tight it nearly broke him. When he slipped down her body she hoisted him back up. He wrapped his legs around her waist but she did not finally give up his weight until her army coat dropped off her shoulders and fell to the dirt and lay there like a big old dog.

This was by the rusted Volvo, where the turkey lived. The boy had worse things than that to be afraid of now.

She kissed him on his dirty forehead and tried to look him in his eyes but he did not want her seeing what he thought. He grabbed the hammer from her hand and ran at the car, smashing its headlights. This took much longer than you might expect, but she did not try to stop him and when the lights were pretty much destroyed he bashed at the part of the car body that was wedged onto the road. It would not budge.

She watched him with her arms folded, her eyes sort of soft and vague.

He said, We can go get your wood. The wood you hit him with, he said, waiting to see what she would say. He picked up a pebble and threw it at the car. We could put the wood under the car and make it fall.

Sure, she said.

I hate the car, he pressed on. I hate that bird. I’m going to kill it.

To his surprise, she did not tell him he should not kill.

You wait, she said.

What did that mean?

You’ll see.

He imagined this meant she was going to show him photographs although when he considered this later he saw she gave him no reason to think anything at all. Grandma Selkirk had many old photographs she kept in shoeboxes, brown and dusty yellow. When the wind was bitter off the lake they would go through the pictures together by the smoky fire. There was an uncle who was crazy about Packards. There was an aunt who lost all her money drinking wine in Paris. This was his true history, in the box. Trevor could have no idea.

What will I see, Dial?

You wait, she said. You’ll see.

They set off down the washed-out hill, around the deep gutters made by storms and even deeper holes probably done by the orphan in a rage. There were crowbar marks like stab wounds in the clay.

You wait, she said, trying to make him laugh, but her hand was wet so he knew she was afraid and he was too. As they turned up the cutting into their driveway, the sun got swallowed by the clouds and there was a dull sad cast to everything. Shut your eyes, she said, they were only halfway up the track. His breath caught in his chest as she steered him by the shoulders along the thin clay path between the huts.

Now lift your foot, she said. One more step.

He smelled the sawdust before he opened his eyes and saw the fresh-milled wood nailed onto the walls, the yellow moisture barrier now a secret hidden like a letter in a book.

We’ll make it very beautiful, she said, it’s the only thing we can do. We’ll make a lovely home. Those crooked nails are there to keep the boards flat while they dry. After that we’ll cover the space between with other bits of wood.

Battens, he said. He could not live here.

Yes, they call them battens. Then we’ll paint with linseed oil. Do you know what that smells like.

No.

Have you been in an artist’s studio?

You are not my mother, are you?

They were standing facing each other in the middle of the hut, with the kitchen sort of behind them and the big open door in front, and there was sawdust everywhere around their feet. Dial squatted down, to be his height.

I knew you when you were just born, she said. I bathed you, she said. You were all slippery with soap. I was so scared I’d drop you.

Were you the babysitter, Dial?

She was crying but he did not care. You were only little, she said. You had an expensive knitted jacket your grandma gave you and I burned it with the iron.

The tears frightened him, the strange red twist they gave her face.

That’s why you talk funny, he said.

He had meant to be mean, and she walked out on the deck and he heard her blow her nose.

She is my grandma, right.

Yes.

Grandpa is my grandpa.

Yes, of course.

So why did you steal me, he said and saw how he made her wince.

I did not steal you. I was taking you to see your mama.

He felt a huge angry power to hurt her, like he could do anything and not be stopped. You stole me, he said. You brought me where no one could find me.

She reached her hand for him, and although he would not let her touch him, he allowed himself to be persuaded to the cushions. She sat beside him. Her eyes were red and deep beside her great big nose. He thought the nose was ugly and he could hurt her any way he liked.

I didn’t steal you, she said.

You lied!

He waited for her to reach out her arms and catch him, but she just hugged herself as if her stomach hurt. Her lips were cracked and parted and her brows pushed down.

My mommy’s dead, he said.

He watched her shrivel.

Your mommy wanted to see you, but that was against the law.

You nearly got me run over by a car.

Your mommy did that, yes.

You nearly got me killed.

Your mother was underground. Do you know what that means?